Forbidden Love (14 page)

“Hello, Norma. Can you talk for a minute?” she asked.

“Sure, what’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“I’m worried, Norma. I’m really worried. Mohammed is getting weirder by the minute and now my dad is acting strange too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he came into my room a while ago to make sure I was keeping the Sala and performing my nightly prayers. Then he told me that I

wouldn’t have to make breakfast in the morning.” \020”That’s strange, but I’m sure there’s some explanation.” “I think they both know something. My father hasn’t asked me if I was keeping the Sala since I was sixteen. And what about Mohammed? He’s been avoiding me for two days. When we bump into each other, he gives me a really mean look. What’s all that about? I mean, we’re not really that close, but he’s never treated me like this before.”

“Come on, Dalia, relax. No one knows anything. Calm down and go to bed. You’re just paranoid and you haven’t slept for a week. Maybe Mohammed is upset about something and is taking it out on you and, who knows, maybe your dad just wanted to give you a break from your regular morning chores. I can tell that you’re very tired; I’m sure they’ve noticed too.”

“Norma, please. I’m not paranoid or crazy. Something isn’t right here, I feel it.”

“Dalia, come on, just relax and get some rest. You’ll see, it’ll all look different in the morning. We’ll talk about it some more tomorrow.”

“Oh, Norma, I’m really scared. I can’t sleep.”

“Dalia, you have to sleep. You’re worrying me and you’re going to make yourself ill. I’m sure it’s not what you think it is; there’s no way they could know anything. Please, just try to relax.”

“I hope you’re right, Norma, but something just doesn’t feel right. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Yalta, yagazallae, clear your head and go to bed and I’ll see you in the morning as usual.”

“In sha Allah, ya hilweh,” she said and reluctantly hung up.

As I went over the conversation, I jumped out of bed. I dressed hastily, neglected all of my morning chores, telling my family that I didn’t feel well, grabbed a light jacket and sat on the veranda staring in the direction of Dalia’s house. Suddenly I was filled with all the anxiety and dread Dalia had been desperately trying to communicate to me over the past two days. I kept looking at my watch, wishing I could will the next thirty minutes to pass. In a futile attempt to clear my mind, I tried to concentrate on the panorama of the city as it began its transformation from a ghost town to a bustling metropolis.

Amman was built on seven jebels (hills), but today it spreads across nineteen. From my house near the highest point of Jebel Hussein, I had a clear view of most of the streets below and of the surrounding jebels. I took in the entire view of the endless, hilly landscape dotted with hundreds upon hundreds of grey concrete square buildings, separated only by roads and minarets that towered above the lifeless-looking dwellings. The sun had risen a few hours before and had already begun its struggle to break through the sandy haze that

blanketed the city. A few

cars were heading towards the entrance ramp of Kings Highway, trying to beat the morning traffic. I could see housewives on their roofs, hanging laundry and shaking out rugs. Soon schoolchildren would fill the streets, their loud banter and laughter destroying what was left of the morning quiet.

I looked at my watch and was filled with anxiety. She should have been here by now, I thought, especially since she’s not making breakfast today. I began to wonder what could be keeping her. After our last conversation, I assumed that she’d have been in a hurry to leave the house and eager to talk. I became increasingly alarmed.

I began to pace the length of the terrace, stopping only to stare down Khalid bin al wa lid Road. Around eight forty-five, I began to think that every figure on the street, male or female, was Dalia. By eight fifty-five, I was frantic and every second felt like an eternity. I ran through the house and pounced on the phone as if it was my lifeline. I struggled to dial her number and, after two wrong attempts, I was able to steady my index finger long enough to dial correctly. The phone rang six times, with what felt like days dragging between each ring. Maybe no one is home and she’s on her way here… impossible… where would her mother be? Maybe the whole family went somewhere together. She’d have called to let me know that she wasn’t coming. Maybe she overslept and no one heard the phone. Unlikely, since she never misses her morning prayers. Maybe she’s sick; after all, she hasn’t eaten or slept all week. No, she would have called. Dalia wouldn’t forget to call. Any reasonable explanation I thought of dissolved when I realized that she would have called me to explain why she was late.

By nine, I was a walking time bomb and in no mood to obey any rules. I scrambled past my parents to the door, ignoring my father’s inquiries and demands to stop. On any

other day I would never have dared to do such a thing. I knew better than to leave the house without receiving my father’s approval first. It had taken months of constant begging to get his permission to walk the few blocks to the salon with Dalia in the morning. Charging out of the house alone was a first for me. I think the only reason my father didn’t get up and stop me was because he was so shocked that I would even consider such a thing that it rendered him immobile.

As I headed down the street in the direction of Dalia’s house, the road seemed to double in length before my eyes. I could hear the remote sound of sirens, and the closer I came to her house, the louder they seemed. I turned off Nablus Street onto Khalid bin al wa lid Road and stopped when I saw an ambulance, its lights flashing, in front of Dalia’s house. My legs began to tremble and I felt as if they’d give way. A sick terror shot through my body, and I knew that my heart had stopped. My worry about Dalia propelled me forward, while me fear struggled to pull me back. “Please God, let her be all right,” echoed in my head, and I tried to convince myself that the emergency vehicles were at her neighbour’s house. As soon as I got to her house, the ambulance began to drive away, lights flashing and sirens blazing, telling me that it had someone inside.

Dalia’s front door was open and most of her neighbours were surveying the scene from their balconies. I glanced around and saw that none of the neighbours was visibly distraught. They looked curious, not concerned, and I knew that the passenger in the ambulance must have come from Dalia’s house. I rushed up the steps to her front door, going up two at a time. I burst into the family room, and found myself enveloped by a frightening stillness and a cloud of tension so thick that I could almost see it.

Her mother and four brothers were sitting there, all a distance apart from one another. Her mother glanced up at me and I noticed that her eyes were swollen and red. She lowered her head, covered her face with her hands, and began to sway back and forth, obviously fighting back tears. She was the only one who showed any emotion other than anger, which flashed from the men. The four young men I’d known all my life didn’t even bother to acknowledge my presence. Mohammed, who’d spent hours upon hours with us at the salon over the past six years, didn’t even glance in my direction. For an instant, I thought that something must have happened to Mahmood, Dalia’s father. I was about to start asking questions when Mahmood appeared in the doorway. As soon as I saw him and before I could open my mouth, my legs collapsed and I fell to my knees. I now knew that it was Dalia in the ambulance. I took a moment to gather my strength and absorb the shock. My mouth was so dry that I didn’t think I could talk, even if I wanted to. My hands were trembling and I felt dizzy and light-headed,

but I had to find out what had happened. Somehow I forced the words out.

“Where is she?” I asked.

The only person who responded was her father. “Where is she? Where

she belongs, that’s where she is!” he said angrily. \020”What do you mean? What’s happened?” I asked.

I waited a moment and when he didn’t reply I asked again, “Where is she?”

“Don’t worry, if I find out you knew, or helped her in any way, you’ll be following her shortly,” he snapped. The dehumanized way he looked at me and spoke those icy words told me exactly what he meant, but I had to press on. Had to know.

“Following her? Please tell me what’s happened. Tell me where they took her,” I pleaded.

“God’s will is what happened! What did she think? That my home is a house of whoredom?” he shouted.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“About her and that Catholic man, that’s what I’m talking about. How long did you two think you could hide it from me? How long has she been shaming me and dishonouring my good name?” he yelled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve made a mistake. Dalia never shamed you. She never would. Please tell me what you’ve done. Is she all right?”

“I’ve cleansed my house, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve cut the rotten part and brought honour back to my family name. From now on, no one is allowed to mention that name to me again. I never had a daughter! Understood?” he shouted as he glared, first at me and then at the rest of his family.

“Please, you’ve made a terrible mistake. She never shamed you; she will never shame you. Just tell me if she’s all right. Please, let me see Dalia,” I begged.

“There is no Dalia here! Now leave and don’t mention that name to me again.”

It was as if he was speaking a different language, but the words kept repeating themselves in my head. I understood that Dalia was dead, that he’d killed her, but I couldn’t accept it. I tried to be strong. I really did. I tried to detach myself from what was happening and pretend that I was just a spectator and not a participant, but I couldn’t separate myself from the horrifying reality. Although I knew this had always been one of the risks, it had been an abstract threat to us, and the power of our successes had pushed it back. We’d begun to feel invincible. I was not prepared to face the fact of it. I didn’t know how to handle it. A storm of anger gathered inside and broke into a scream.

“NO! I won’t leave! I want Dalia! Do you hear me?” I said Dalia! She’s your daughter! How can you deny that she exists? I won’t leave here without Dalia!” I shouted hysterically. Tears flooded my eyes and I began wailing, as so many centuries of grieving Arab women had before me.

Before I could control my sobbing, my parents arrived. I didn’t see them come in, but I saw my father standing next to Mahmood, shaking his hand, and heard my mother repeatedly saying, “Min isnaq ya siddi, min isnaq,” begging his pardon for my behaviour. I couldn’t believe what was happening-that they did not instantly run to the side of a distraught daughter. I was furious. I stood up and ran between my father and Mahmood, pulling their hands apart.

“Don’t shake his hand! He killed her! He’s a murderer! His hands are stained with innocent blood!” I yelled.

My parents, as well as everyone else there, were taken aback. My mother grabbed me and pulled me to her, apologizing and begging Mahmood’s pardon.

“Please, sir, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry for her behaviour. She doesn’t mean it. She’s obviously in shock and doesn’t realize the weight of her words. Excuse her, please,” she kept repeating as she tried to pull me towards the door.

My father remained where he was and I could hear Dalia’s father saying to him, “I’ve cleansed my house and I advise you to make sure that your house is clean too. I don’t know if Norma was involved in any of this, but I’ve done my part and told you that she may be.”

Before my father could respond, I wrestled free and ran back to Mahmood. I wanted to look him right in the eyes as I said what I needed to say.

“Dalia never shamed you, you shamed yourself. You’ve turned your home into a house of murder. The spilling of her

innocent blood has stained your name, your hands, and your soul forever. I will not rest until her death is avenged. You’ll pay for this senseless slaughter! You’re a murderer and there’s no honour in that.”

My mother ran towards me, all the while repeating her apologies. My father grabbed me by my arm, spun me round, and slapped me across the face. Then he pushed me into my mother’s arms and ordered her to take me outside.

I fully understood the gravity of what I’d said and I meant every word of it. I knew that, as a woman, I didn’t have the right to speak to a man in this manner, that I was inviting my own death. Hundreds of women had been killed for lesser of fences But at that moment my mind was focused on one thing: avenging the death of my best friend.

Out on the street I began denying that any of this was real. It had to be a nightmare. I would soon wake up. I had to see Dalia; I had to go to her. I tried to think for a moment and realized that the ambulance must have taken her to Palestine Hospital on Queen Alia Street, since it was the closest. I begged my mother to let me go, but she would not. She held on to my arm with all her strength and urged me to calm down. She kept saying, in a pleading whisper, “You could be killed if you don’t control your mouth.” I could see she was scared of what my father would do if she let me go, but I had no more patience. I refused to waste any more time begging and explaining. My father would have plenty of time to reprimand and punish me once I came home from the hospital. I knew he would, but right now I had to go. I tore my arm from my mother’s grip and ran towards Al Istiqlal Road to flag down

a taxi. \020The taxi came to an abrupt stop in the circular drive in front of Palestine Hospital and I bolted out of the car, yelling back

to the driver that he would have to wait and drive me home if he wanted to get paid. I grabbed the first nurse I could find and asked her where they took patients who were brought in by ambulance. I raced to the emergency room and gave the attendant Dalia’s full name, but I could tell by the grim look on her face that I was too late. She called a doctor over to talk to me and I was told that Dalia had been dead when she’d arrived at the hospital. There was nothing anyone could do, he said; Dalia had been stabbed twelve times in the chest. The image of Mahmood now merged with that of a bloody knife, driven in again and again, going beyond honour to the most primitive brutality, and I thought I’d be sick. Had I known then that, after the stabbing, he waited before calling the ambulance to make sure that she could not be saved, I think I would have killed him.