Forbidden Love (19 page)

“With all due respect, I believe that my only tie to your family was Dalia. As far as I am concerned, the only thing we have left to discuss is the salon. I’ve reached a decision about that. I do not wish to work there any longer, so I suppose that gives you and my father something to discuss. I would only say, with my father’s permission, that I’d like to go there and pick up my personal belongings tonight,” I said, looking at my

father.

“We can discuss that later,” my father replied with disapproval. I realized that he was upset that I’d voiced my decision about the salon publicly, before discussing it with him. But since I’d mentioned only ‘my’ connection to Dalia’s family, he had no cause to be angry. I waited a few moments before speaking again.

“That completes all I came for.” Then I turned to my father, “If you don’t mind, Father, may I wait for you in the car?”

Dalia’s mother stood up. “No, no, let me bring some coffee, you didn’t

even drink anything, please, sit down.” \020I politely refused the coffee, and turned to my father once again, my eyes pleading for a release.

“Yala, imsha, go ahead, I’ll be out shortly,” he said finally.

I started towards the door, but before I left the living room, Mahmood called out, “Actually, I have some questions that I would like you to answer before you leave.”

“I’m sorry, Mahmood, but as I’ve already pointed out, I no longer have any ties to you or your family, and so I’m in a rather difficult position. I’m not allowed to speak to men who are not related to me. I’m sure you can understand that, as I’m only living by the same laws you used to condemn Dalia. I’m afraid any questions you have will have to be directed to my father.”

“The questions I have cannot be answered by your father, they must be answered by you,” he insisted.

“Well, forgive me, Mahmood, but it seems as if you’ve placed yourself in an awkward position. I have no answers for you. Your daughter should have answered your questions before she died. You’ll have to bury any remaining questions along with her. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I said and continued towards the door at a slow pace.

“Abu Amjed, I must insist that you tell her to answer my questions,” he commanded.

I stopped walking and waited for my father. If he forced me to answer Mahmood’s questions, it would look as if he wasn’t sure of my innocence, which again would make him appear a fool. Behind this cool and formal exchange these two Arab men were sparring fiercely for their honour.

“I’m sorry, Mahmood, but I believe my daughter is absolutely correct. I have already guaranteed that she was not involved, and so I can’t imagine what questions she could answer. Therefore I must insist that you direct any inquiries to me. Norma, go and wait in the car.”

“Abu Amjed, am I to believe that you are protecting your daughter, helping her to hide the truth?”

“I’ve nothing to protect her from. I’m only insisting that she abide by my rules.”

“But I’m not convinced that she had nothing to do with this and I think she should answer some questions to prove her innocence. I’d imagine

that you would want the same thing.” \020”I’m not the one who doubts her, Mahmood. Your behaviour makes me question whether it’s my daughter’s innocence you doubt or your daughter’s guilt.”

As soon as I heard these words, I stepped outside. I knew that I’d won the first battle, but I also knew that the war was far from over.

I ran out and waited for my father in the car. I was positive that my father had protected me for his own sake, not mine. If he agreed with Mahmood, it would look as if he couldn’t handle his own daughter. My father was always the image of politeness when he was in public, and I’d never heard him use the tone he’d used this afternoon except in our own home. I assumed that he’d been insulted by Mahmood’s requests. Whatever his motive, I loved it.

At home, I locked myself in my room and tried to think of a way to go to Dalia’s funeral with Michael. I knew that I could rely on some help from my mother. Together I trusted we’d pull it off.

That evening, my mother came into my room carrying a tray of food and juice.

“You have to eat something. Why don’t you come downstairs?” she said.

“I can’t, Mum. I’m thinking of Dalia’s funeral, of how I can go and—’

“Stop now, I told you I’d help you. I’ve told your father I’m taking you to al Khather for the day, that I think it may help you to deal with Dalia’s death.” Al Khather is a religious site a short distance from Amman. My mother knew my father would never object to such a visit, in fact he encouraged them. “Forget it now and rest. Rest your mind before you’re too sick to go anywhere.”

“Thank you, Mum, but please do me a favour? Don’t say anything at all to Dad about the funeral.”

“I won’t. Just eat something,” she said and left the room.

I slept through the night, and most of Friday, getting up only to call Jehan and tell her that my mother had found a way for me to be at the funeral, and to warn her that it would be wiser if Michael and I didn’t appear together in case Mahmood was watching from afar.

On Saturday, I rose with the sun and dressed in black. Believing that my mother was taking me to al Khather, my father and brothers left the house at the usual time. They would return home at 3 p.m. I kissed my mother goodbye, reassuring her that all would go well, and left for my

final appointment with Dalia. \020Rajib is a tiny village in the outskirts of Amman, just off the road to Sabah. The village is so tiny that it can’t be found on any maps. The only reason it’s know to anyone beyond its inhabitants is because of an ancient legend associated with the place. The legend is mentioned in both the Bible and the Koran. Seven Christian boys were being persecuted, and escaped to a cave where they slept for over three hundred years. This ‘cave of seven sleepers’, or AM Al Kahf(cave of the people), is next to the main mosque in Rajib. Dalia would be laid to rest between the mosque and an old Byzantine cemetery five hundred metres to the east.

The place, as a whole, is bizarre. The two burial grounds,

one Christian and one Muslim, are next to a site both religions consider holy. I always thought that it was odd that Muslims, who spent most of their lives trying to avoid deep personal relationships with Christians, considered it acceptable to lie next to them for all eternity. I determined to see it as a sign of future unity between the two faiths, a time of religious accord. Holding on to that theory, I hoped, would make the desolation of the place easier to tolerate.

I arrived at the cemetery and watched Dalia’s burial from a distance. She would have no coffin-part of the harsh end for honour crime victims. Her body was placed into a freshly-dug hole by workmen, who shovelled the brownish red earth over her and then placed a crude cement slab on top. These grunting men were the only witnesses at her graveside. No flowers or tears were left on the unmarked grave, only the aura of shame.

When the workmen left, I walked to the site and stood beside her grave. Michael appeared out of nowhere and stood next to me.

“We shouldn’t be seen here together.” I said, looking around.

“I didn’t want to wait. And besides, I think she would want both of us at her side, don’t you?” he replied.

“Yes, but what if someone sees us?”

“Don’t worry, Jehan is looking out for us.”

But looking at Dalia’s grave, it didn’t seem to matter if Mahmood saw us or not. I stopped caring about what might happen and focused on Dalia.

I knelt beside her gave, my knees pressing into the sharp gravel, and reached out to touch the unmarked cement rectangle that covered the spot. Clumps of the red earth had spilled over the edges of her grave onto the cold grey stones. It was the only evidence that this grave

was new. Michael and I

knelt by her side, silently saying our goodbyes, mourning our loss, sharing our sorrow. We sat there for a long while, undisturbed, until he broke the stillness.

“Damn him for taking her from me.”

“I know,” was all I could reply.

“We have to do something about this. There has to be something we can do.”

“We will, Michael. I promise, we will,” I whispered.

The blistering midday sun beat against the rooftOpS of the city as I sat on the veranda, slowly sipping endless cups of coffee, alternately buried in a book and gazing in the direction of Dalia’s home. In the months since Dalia’s death, this was how I’d spent my days. Time seemed to have stopped. I hadn’t returned to the salon since the day Mohammed had picked up Dalia’s things and left me there to sort through mine. The rooms had looked so bare without Dalia’s possessions, and her presence. I had gathered my belongings quickly and left, locking the door one final time, cutting my link to the dreams and plans we’d shared there.

I was now a hermit, leaving the house only against my will or out of absolute necessity. I’d lost interest in everything but books, the only physical objects that seemed powerful enough to transport me to some other place and time. I hungered to escape, to visit different worlds, see other ways of life, and go to places where Dalia could have lived safely with Michael, or where I could more happily keep her alive in my mind. No

one here truly understood me, or my pain, though my mother tried. But a generation separated us. Seeing her less visibly upset than I was made her seem worlds apart.

The one person who understood and shared my grief was Michael. I knew, though, that it was growing increasingly dangerous to stay in touch with either him or Jehan. It was only a matter of time before Dalia’s father and brothers found out that Jehan was Michael’s sister. Once they made that connection, they’d assume that, since I’d hired her to work at the salon, I was involved in the conspiracy. Dalia’s father had started dropping by our house at least once a week. I could tell by his words and the tone of his voice that he was now determined to prove that I’d been involved. I knew I’d brought this on myself: he hadn’t liked my apology speech and was angry that my father had questioned Dalia’s guilt. I had to be particularly careful, but that was easy, for depression was pulling me further and further down and I

was no longer interested in seeing my friends. \020But Michael and Jehan were not willing to go away. Michael made Jehan call me almost every day, just to make sure I was still alive. After losing Dalia, he became obsessed with the safety of all the women he knew, and was particularly worried about me since he knew I was fully capable of speaking my mind. He constantly asked Jehan to warn me to keep my mouth shut. He felt it his duty to protect the one other person Dalia had loved as much as she had loved him.

In the first few weeks after her death I tried to support Michael and, for a while, I worried that he was the one with the death wish. The tables seemed to have turned now and he was supporting me. All his warnings and encouragement’s were wasted. The only thing that might have lifted me from my depression was a plan for revenge, or a report that

Mahmood had been the victim of a fatal or crippling tragedy. Nothing of the kind happened. Mahmood, I learned, had been released on bail after turning himself in to police. At his so-called trial, he was found guilty of a misdemeanour and sentenced to three months in jail, but immediately released because of the time he’d served out on bail-in the comfort of his own home-awaiting trial.

This particular Monday morning had started routinely enough. Cleaning the house, sitting on the veranda. I was lying on my bed reading a book about the ancient history of Greece when the phone rang. As I dragged myself down the stairs, thinking it was Jehan, I heard my mother answer, extend the customary formal greetings and wishes of good health, and ask the caller to hold on.

“Jehan’s on the phone, dear.”

“Norma, we need to talk,” a man’s voice burst through the

phone.

“Michael! What are you doing on the phone? If my mother finds out that we’re talking, she’ll kill me,” I whispered.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk, just listen. I’ve found a way to get you out of Jordan. I can get your paperwork done passport, visas, and everything else. I can get you a visa for either England or Greece. Before you start to object, listen to what I have to say. You must leave Jordan! Your life is in danger here! I know that you’re not fighting the way you did in the beginning, but your grief will turn to anger again, and when it does, they’ll kill you! They won’t excuse you this time. They won’t wait for an apology. They’ll kill you. Do you understand me? I don’t want to lose you too. You have to leave. I promise that I’ll keep trying to change things here. I’m working with the head of a women’s group, and we’ll continue to do all we can to change the laws. But I’ll feel much better

if you’re out of the country. All I need you to say is yes or no.” Michael knew that I’d vowed to work for Dalia’s dream of equal rights and freedom for women in Jordan and so he assumed that I’d refuse to leave the country. I thought about all the things he’d said and instantly knew he was right. The moment I defended Dalia publicly, spoke out in her defence, I’d be considered guilty enough to warrant an honour killing. I knew that to make any kind of difference, I would have to do it from thousands of miles away. I wouldn’t survive long enough in Jordan to be heard. I had to leave in order to be free to speak, and to be heard. He was right, the only solution was to leave Jordan.

Yes, I’ll do it. But how? I mean I think my answer is yes, but we have to discuss all of the details. I can’t say much now, meet me tomorrow at the Books Cafe at six,” I whispered into the phone while looking around to make sure my mother wasn’t listening, and then hung up. I went back to my room, carefully avoiding my mother, afraid that

she’d see that I was up to something. \020I spent that night perched on the edge of my bed, reviewing Michael’s words. They had resurrected the anger my grief and depression had been masking for the past few months. I’d done nothing to keep my promise to Dalia, while Mahmood had got away with murder. I’d promised she wouldn’t die in vain. I hew that Michael was right; I had to leave before I lashed out at either Mahmood or my father. I didn’t care where I went -anywhere by Jordan. But what would I do once I got there? I would be alone, with no Dalia, Michael, mother, relatives, or friends, no hope of returning to Jordan, ever. I was afraid of leaving the only world I knew. Afraid of the unknown. The months I’d spent living like a hermit had been in my