Journal of a Saudi Arabian Woman's Children

My mother is dead.

And I am ashamed of her.

My name is Karida.  Her name was Zafira.  She was disobedient, rash, and I believe, as do some others, that she had a touch of insanity.  My father was forced to beat her constantly.  He tried to contain her ridiculous outbursts.  At first, she only spoke up in our home.  My mother would tell my father that she did not approve of his dominance, or any other man’s.  She was not so terrible when I was a little girl, but as I grew older, it seemed her craziness and fervor also developed.  I remember she began to blaspheme when I was about twelve-four years ago.  Thanks be to Allah that she did not say these evil phrases in public, and that our whole family was not punished!

            I, even as a small child, had always realized that my mother was…different.  My family and I tolerated it as long as we could.  If this woman kept her tirades and tantrums in our house, it could be easily dealt with by my father’s fists.  He thought she would be better taught by his hands than by the terms of the religious police.  The man was so thoroughly ashamed of his wife that the prospect of handing her over to the mutawa terrified him.  It gave him a sort of satisfaction when he could beat her into silence, so near to death, but not fatally so.  One day, my mother crossed the line that she walked ever so closely to each hour.

            My father, mother, brother and I were in the market-place shopping one day.  It was a rare occasion for all of us to be together but my brother had no school and my father decided that I should come along on this trip.  We ere walking by the shops when my mother saw a woman being, in her words, “oppressed” by her husband.  The man was merely holding onto his bride’s arm firmly and telling her to always walk behind him.  This is his right as a man, for Allah wills it.  However, my mother became inflamed with the passion she usually reserves for the privacy of our home.  The woman did something truly and utterly abominable.  She told the man to let go of his wife, to let her have free will.  When the man ignored the lowly, ill-mannered woman and held onto his wife, Zafira repeated her words with a volume that should never be used, especially from one of our gender.  What a wretched day!  The disobedient hag had shouted offensive words for all to hear!  The religious police could not be kept uninformed this time, though my father no longer wanted to keep them away.  What man would want his detestable wife to live longer than the time necessary to receive torture after she had cast shame onto all her family?

            Emir was presented with the opportunity to choose which punishment my mother would be issued.  Wrath welled up in his soul-rightfully so- and remained there long after Zafira’s death.  He yearned for humiliation to be brought upon the wayward woman.  My father told the authorities to hold a public stoning that would bring her within death’s horrid grasp, then send her into solitude until she could recover lucidity.  After this, she would be drowned by my father himself.  The thought process behind this plan of execution appealed to revenge and a sense of justice.  Zafira would be defamed and scorned in front of all, just as she had nearly disparaged my father.  The drowning would be a somewhat slow death.  My father believed this symbolized the gradual suffocation of our family’s reputation brought on by his wife.

            The stoning went quite well.  It was fitting.  Only one thing was absent that would have made the experience complete: Zafira’s groans of agony.  She made not a single sound.  Though this was disappointing, the ceremony was still satisfying.  My brother, Azzam, let fly the first rock.  It contacted her thigh with such force that the abaya tore under the sharp point of the stone and blood wet the cloth.  At that moment, I realized I had never possessed more pride for my sibling.

            The drowning was similar to the stoning in that my blaspheming wretch of a mother filled the time with complete silence.  I, in a moment of terrible weakness, found myself admiring her self-control.  Immediately the thought was replaced with a comprehension that such a lowly creature deserved no glory, even the fleeting admiration of her daughter.

 

 

Life holds no hope, no meaning, no purpose, no joy.

Nowhere can love be found.

I am Azzam.  I was always taught to believe in a better life.  I used to.  My mother, Zafira, would tell me glorious ideals during our times alone.  My heart was always light when we had these conversations.  Fierce dedication to all her principles lived in me, secretly.  She made it clear that I could not tell Emir or Karida that she and I knew these truths.  My mother explained that they would not understand or listen and would respond negatively.

            Before her violent, agonizing death, my mother was the most precious woman on earth to me.  I looked forward to each second we would spend privately going over our shared values.  She taught me how women were equal to men, even though our country declared otherwise.  Zafira instilled in me the repulsion for aggression.  Throughout my early childhood years, she patiently defined all of the important aspects of life and why exactly they mattered so.  Due to her gentle manner during my “lessons”, I was able to comprehend much as a young boy.   Now, none of it is relevant and none of it is correct.

            My gaze is attracted to the sharp blade resting beside me.  The privacy of my room allows for many things, such as the writing of this journal and the anticipation of eternal release.  My mother told me that I should live for love.  That I should marry only for love.  That she loved me.  That killing oneself displays no love at all.  I gave her all my love.  In her final hours upon this mortal place, she returned none.

            The instant she conceived the desire to speak against that man, she abandoned completely any love she held for me.  My mother knew she would ruin herself and leave me with no more than stale memories of our relationship and useless misconceptions about how I should conduct myself.  How dare she even think about jeopardizing her life!  She was fully aware that not only her life was being affected.  Because of this, all remembrances of her are defiled. 

            How dare she force folly on her son, merely to leave him with absolutely nothing when she passed on!  Did she not see that I would be unable to follow her rebellious footsteps after my own father and the people of my country treated her so harshly?  Not even the insane are willing to bestow that level of responsibility and hardship on their children!  My mother never loved me.  She only loved herself.

            I found a letter in my room from Zafira.  I am not sure how it came to be there, but it says this:

            Azzam,

My life is nearly at its end.  It has lasted longer than I expected it to, and I am so grateful that I was able to see you develop into a wonderful young man.  You have made me quite satisfied.  I am aware that my decision to share with you my beliefs will become, if it has not already, a wearisome burden.  I hoped to bear it with you for a much longer time, but not all can be as we hope, my son.  When I gave birth to your sister, Karida, I treasured the possibility that she would also follow my way of thinking.  I had greatly desired a daughter to share in my dreams of a more accepting society.  Sometimes I think women are the only ones who can cause any positive change in Saudi Arabia.  If they would just accept the consequences of bravery and unite, this land could be drastically improved.  This will not occur within my lifetime, nor will it in yours, or maybe not in your grandchildren’s time.  The only purpose of my life is to build my children up and plant the seeds of revolt in your hearts, so that these seeds can grow into a thing unimaginably meaningful with each generation. 

You have to understand that I would do no such thing if it were not possible and worthwhile.  Detestable is the notion of giving you such a weighty task, but the hope I store in my soul for the day that Islam is correctly followed and interpreted urges me to take such measures.  Know that I did not intend for you to do this alone.

Karida was to aide you in spreading truth.  As soon as she was able to speak I began instructing her in the way I instructed you.  I was forced to cease my efforts.  Your sister took an uncanny fascination with your father.  She was, and is, much like Emir.  Karida would disclose everything and it would be the death of me, the death of the future.  Unfortunately, because of her affection for her father, she came to hate me and my unorthodox views.  You were and are my only hope. 

A journal exists which contains the birth and development of my beliefs and values.  Please read it.  Allow your children and your wife to read it.  Tell them to have their children read it.  May your great-grandchildren peruse its contents and also their great-grandchildren.  Please enable my story to live on into the future so that my life was not meaningless, that the future may hold transformations not even the mutawa can extinguish. 

I love you dearly, my son.  Allah be with you.

 

                       Your grateful mother,

Zafira

 

 

            I read the woman’s journal.  I was stunned for a bit.  She had intense passion.  I was in awe of what she had attempted to do to Emir on their wedding day.  I still cannot decipher if I wish to deem her actions in that situation courageous or the cause of total mental instability.  I am sure of one thing, though.  Her journal and letter did reinforce my previously doubtful thoughts that my mother was unloving, selfish and I do believe she had a touch of craziness toward the end of her life.

            She expected me to create in the hearts of future people a lie.  She expected me to discard any sense of self-preservation so that I could devote my life to a hopeless agenda.  Women will always don full-body apparel at the beginning of each day.  They will forever be under men and accept their place in society.  The ways of the West are the ways of infidels.  It is atrocious just to suggest we become more like those who disrespect Allah’s name.  A man’s truth is the only truth and women will follow truth.  They will bear children and provide entertainment when summoned, but they are relatively useless for much else. 

            I once balked at the vision of throwing the stone at my mother.  Now, I am filled with jubilation because I threw the first rock; the object caused the woman pain; blood poured forth from her injury.  If only she were alive so that I could do it again!  She deserves much suffering for the offenses she performed against Allah and against her own family. 

            Reflecting upon Zafira and Emir’s wedding day, I find I sympathize with my father.  He showed great strategy and intellect in preserving her distasteful life.  How he could dwell in the same building as my mother all these years, I do not know.  I suppose striking her often assisted in easing his misery.  My poor father.  He had no idea what kind of woman he was marrying.  The father of Zafira should have told him!  But no, he just wanted to get rid of her so he could be at peace!  To think that such vile blood runs in my veins!

            My mother was right about one thing only.  Suicide is selfish.  I will employ my knife in a more suitable activity.

            My mother’s father was easy to locate.  He was a bit older than I had expected, but I would not label him elderly.  He received me well and invited me into his home.  He was with Cantara that night.  This seemed to be good fortune bestowed upon me by Allah, for Cantara is my mother’s mother.  She was asleep. 

            The attack was not difficult, almost at a disappointing degree of ease.  The man was no match for me due to his age and utter shock.  My left hand covered his mouth as the knife slid smoothly across his throat, beckoning the dark red liquid that I so abhorred.  He made only a slight sound, then the whole body relaxed.  His wife slept on.  I found her and watched for a short time.  She drew in short breaths, then exhaled at an almost painfully slow pace.  There was a period between each inhalation and the next in which her body was completely still.  A moment came where I seriously considered leaving without murdering Cantara.  She was so at peace and the rhythm of her breathing soothed me and abated my anger.  Then I remembered her daughter’s plea that I place women at a level equal to that of man and the rage overwhelmed me.  I shoved the knife into her chest and pulled it back so that I could feel the skin tear and sense the resistance of the body against the blade.  The feeling was so pleasurable I wept!  I repeated this a few times, just to feel, to experience, while the woman wailed in hopes that someone would help her.  The only one that could help her was me.  All I wanted was to feel the skin resist, see the blood run out of the wounds, feel the tears run down my cheeks and neck, and gain my revenge.

            Crying tears of joy, I returned home after Cantara was dead.  I found the journal and letter written by Zafira-how I cannot stand the taste of her name on my tongue!-and wiped the blood of her parents between the pages.  I took them outside and set the papers afire, yelling, “Praise be to Allah!” as loud as I could while I watched those sacrilegious words burn.  No woman in Saudi Arabia will ever gain a voice, nor will a woman ever be free.