Hurma Read online

  HURMA

  Ali al-Muqri is a Yemeni writer born in 1966. He has worked in cultural journalism since 1985, has published eight books including Black Taste, Black Odour, long-listed for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction in 2009 and The Handsome Jew, long-listed for the same prize in 2011. His work has been translated into English, German, French and Spanish.

  ALI AL-MUQRI

  HURMA

  Translated by

  T.M. Aplin

  Published by Darf Publishers 2015

  Darf Publishers LTD, 277 West End Lane, London, NW6 1QS

  Copyright © Ali al-Muqri 2015

  First published in Arabic as hurma by Dar al-Saqi, Beirut 2012

  English translation copyright © T.M. Aplin 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

  or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the

  publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in

  which it is published and without a similar condition, including this

  condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Translated by T.M. Aplin

  Cover by Luke Pajak

  www.darfpublishers.co.uk

  Twitter: @darfpublishers

  ISBN 9781850772774

  eBook ISBN 9781850772828

  Printed and bound in Turkey by Mega Basim

  Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire

  Side A of the

  Om Kalthoum tape

  Ask my heart when it repents

  Perhaps it will hold beauty to blame.

  He gave me the cassette six years ago, but it’s only now that I’m listening to it for the first time, having retrieved it from its hiding place in my old school bag. Back then the cover photo of the Egyptian singer, Om Kalthoum, and the title ‘Ask My Heart,’ were enough to stop me from even thinking of playing the cassette.

  ‘I don’t listen to songs,’ I’d said to Suhail’s sister that day, when she handed me the cassette, ‘They’re haram – they’ll make God angry!’

  But she insisted I keep it, afraid her brother would be upset if he knew I’d turned down his gift.

  Ask my heart when it repents

  Why did he give me this song? ‘Repent’ for what? Had Suhail repented? Is that why he rejected Laylat al-Qadr?

  It never once crossed my mind that anyone would refuse Laylat al-Qadr, ‘the Night of Destiny.’ But then it happened to me. ‘You’ll regret it,’ I told him, but he ignored me.

  Ask a sensible man for sensible answers

  But who could keep his wits in the face of such beauty?

  It’s obvious now that giving me the Om Kalthoum song – a song by ‘the Diva’ as my sister called her – was his way of flirting. But at the time I had no idea, because I didn’t listen to it. I don’t remember the last time I saw my body and my face in the mirror together. I look alluring, seductive. I’ve got a great waist, and what luscious lips! I don’t know anyone else with such full breasts, and a bum as plump and peachy – how can any man resist? My body is still youthful. In my sheer nightie my reflection in the mirror is like a warm ocean, promising pleasure for any man who plunges into its waters. But . . . there’s only me in the mirror.

  The nearest man is Suhail, the next-door neighbour. Except for on Laylat al-Qadr, I don’t think he’d ever seen me. Perhaps he’d caught the odd glimpse of me from afar, dressed in my long black coat or my loose cloak, my face hidden beneath my veil and headscarf. So the lyrics couldn’t have been meant for me – unless perhaps he saw me in a dream? Don’t some dreams come true, while most truths remain only dreams? Yes, that’s it. He saw me in a dream, and became convinced that it was his Laylat al-Qadr.

  If I were to ask my heart

  Tears would answer in its place.

  I was nineteen years old when he gave me the cassette. Apart from my father and brother, no male – boy or man – had seen me since I turned eight. Father had bought me a long black coat, a baltu, that covered my body from neck to foot, and a headscarf and veil with two small slits for the eyes. I was thrilled when I saw myself in the mirror: I had become a woman, like Mother.

  By the time I was twelve years old, however, I wanted my father to stop buying me baltus and let me wear the black cloak-like abaya instead, like the one I’d seen at my niece’s wedding. The girl I heard them call Adaniya wore an abaya wrapped round her shoulders and open at the front. It revealed her body so clearly it was almost as though she were naked. In fact, she would have been less alluring without the abaya on at all.

  For months I dreamt of wearing an abaya, but eventually I became convinced I’d never own one.

  I was happy with the baltu and the veil when I was eight, but by the age of twelve all I wanted was an abaya. When finally Father announced he was going to buy me one, I thought it would be like Adaniya’s. I had no idea it would be so different until he brought it home, complete with headscarf and veil. Mother explained to me that what we were used to calling the baltu – my mother, sister and I all wore one – was also known as the abaya, and that the style of abaya worn by Adaniya was called something different altogether.

  That day, I felt weighed down for the first time. I no longer walked but rolled along, a black blob. Standing in front of the mirror, I asked myself: What’s the point of this body of mine?

  I hadn’t yet realised that others didn’t see me as bearing a burden; for them I was the burden myself, a burden whose presence continually bothered them.

  In my chest there is only flesh and blood

  Feeble now that youth has gone.

  I don’t know: have I lived my youth as I should have done? Have I even lived at all? Honestly, I don’t even know what youth means – is it the years that pass us by during a certain period of our lives or is it how we live during those years? I don’t have the answer.

  For years I couldn’t even ask a question. If I thought there was a question in a sentence, I was unable to indicate it with a question mark. Why did my teacher beat me for drawing a heart? That was the first question I asked. And why did Father beat me so hard?

  When he heard me asking Mother that in the living room, he stormed out of the bathroom and gave me another beating. He slapped me on the cheeks, and all over my head, yelling, ‘After everything you’ve learned you still ask why!’

  Even if hearts were made of iron

  Still none could bear what mine has suffered.

  I was in my fourth year of primary school when it happened. Before the Islamic education teacher arrived for class, my friend pulled a piece of paper from her bag. It was decorated with roses, and in the middle was what she described as a heart pierced by an arrow. Her big sister had drawn it to give to the boy next door – she’d written her name on the heart, and his on the arrow. My friend whispered to me that her sister didn’t know she’d taken it. She let out a loud peal of laughter, obviously intended to arouse the curiosity of our classmates. Everyone looked at us, including the teacher who’d just entered the classroom.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she bellowed as my friend stuffed the piece of paper back into her bag.

  ‘Nothing Miss, nothing,’ we both said at the same time.

  Even if hearts were made of iron

  Yes, Miss Om Kalthoum, even if. I, however, made a heart from paper and ink.

  I was baffled by my classmate’s fascination with her sister’s drawing. I didn’t understand her embarrassment or why she hid it away so quickly. Her whispering and giggling had stirred something inside me, making it impossible to concentrate on the lesson. I’m not sure why I tore a page from my e
xercise book and tried to draw the heart and arrow from memory. I don’t know what happened, but when I came around I found myself in the headmistress’s office, my head, chest and back sopping wet. The headmistress was standing beside the Islamic Education teacher, telling her: ‘Not like that, Miss. I’ve told you more than once to hit them on the hand, not the head.’ I felt my head and realised she was talking about me. It seemed the teacher had hit me on the head and knocked me out, and I’d only come to after they’d poured water over me.

  ‘Bring your children up properly!’ the headmistress told my father, having called him into the school. ‘This one has no shame. Drawing hearts, writing love letters, idle gossiping.’

  My father certainly got the message. That day, I learnt that ‘bring up properly’ meant ‘beat.’ But I still didn’t know what drawing hearts meant, or what the headmistress had meant about love letters and idle gossip.

  I wasn’t allowed to ask. From that day on and for many years afterwards I was no longer able to ask questions, or to even include a question mark in any of my assignments. In fact, I couldn’t so much as think about using one. Perhaps during those years I forgot what a question mark was. At the end of any uncertain phrase or sentence I would simply put a full stop to mute its uncertainty. Or I’d add a second full stop to silence it completely.

  When was it that I finally remembered the existence of question marks? Whenever it was, I began to add them to the end of every single line, whether one was needed or not.

  No one can tell you about life’s hardships

  Like someone who has lost their loved ones can.

  Once, there were boys in my life: cousins, uncles, the neighbours’ children. They were my friends and loved ones. When I turned eight they disappeared as though they’d never existed. I am a girl, therefore I should not talk about them, or even mention their names. ‘Careful, my girl. It’s a sin.’

  I really wanted Mother to explain to me why it was a sin. I figured that stating this desire would be just that, a statement. But then I thought again and decided against it. I reasoned that the desire to understand was in fact a type of question, and I had no right to be asking questions.

  Nashwan, who lived close by, was around the same age as me. He was really good at making paper kites. Every child in the neighbourhood had a kite, but Nashwan’s was still the best. It could fly further and higher than all the others. He would chase after it, clutching the string, as the kite flew higher and higher. He flew his kite like an ace pilot. I never imagined that the kite would slip from his grasp one day.

  The last time we met he had the string wrapped around all ten of his fingers. Leaping and whooping, he raised his hands above his head and spread his fingers, letting the string unspool completely until he freed the very end of the string. I watched the kite as it floated off.

  ‘Why did you let it fly away from you?’ I asked Nashwan.

  ‘It hasn’t, I’m flying with it,’ he said.

  I wanted to ask him why he didn’t take me with him, but it was too late; Nashwan had already floated far, far away from me.

  Side B of the

  Om Kalthoum tape

  When I was in my first year of secondary school I learned why my brother, Raqeeb, liked to call me Ruza. One day he gave me a book called Love Letters. When I read the title, the headmistress’ accusing words from three years earlier came back to me.

  No one in the house called me by my name. Mother called me ‘Little Mama’ to distinguish between me and Lula, my older sister, whom she affectionately called ‘Mummy.’ I think perhaps she called her this to compensate for losing her own mother at a young age. Whenever I heard my father calling ‘Girl! Where’s the girl?’ I knew that he meant me. Lula called me ‘Pipsqueak’ and never ceased to find it amusing. That was the name I liked best, to the extent that if anyone asked me my name I would almost answer ‘Pipsqueak!’

  But my brother used to call me Ruza. ‘Be free and wonderful like Rosa Luxemburg!’ he would say, ‘Read her book and you’ll learn what really matters in life.’

  Love Letters was the first book Raqeeb gave me to read behind our father’s back.

  I didn’t really understand when my brother said to Lula, ‘I’m telling you, in the end socialism will prevail.’ Lula didn’t even try to hide her cynicism, telling Raqeeb that he was behind the times. ‘You’re completely deluded! Don’t you know the Soviet Union collapsed ages ago?’

  His message was a path to the light

  His horses rode forth in the cause of right.

  What does Om Kalthoum’s song mean?

  We didn’t have a stereo or a television at home. There was just my father’s old Russian radio. And day in, day out, he only ever listened to the same two stations.

  ‘It’s either the BBC Arabic Service or Holy Quran Radio from the honoured city of Mecca. What a joke. The irony of a radio made in the land of the Bolsheviks, the land of the great Vladimir Lenin, being only used to receive the transmissions of an imperialist state or a reactionary one.’

  Raqeeb would often say this kind of thing, but of course never in front of Father. Father would lock the radio away in a trunk whenever he left the house, along with the phone. If Mother ran out of something in the kitchen she’d have to wait until he got home before she could call the neighbour, Suhail’s mum, or Umm Nura – ‘Nura’s mum’ – as she was also known. Umm Nura would get one of her children to pass us what Mother needed through the door: an onion, a head of garlic, some salt or sugar.

  It seemed Mother wasn’t allowed to call out to her neighbour from the window. I only discovered why this was much later, when the Islamic Education teacher told us: ‘A women’s voice is as private as her face, and should not be heard in public, just like her face should not be seen.’

  Lula had the latest mobile phone, but I was the only one in the house who knew about it.

  One day, when I was in my third year of secondary school, a classmate slipped a videocassette into my bag. ‘We don’t have a video player at home, or a television,’ I said. The next day, she whispered ‘Did you like the cultural film? I know you won’t want to give it back.’ I didn’t reply. I just smiled and shook my head as if to say I definitely would be.

  Back at home, I said to Lula ‘A friend gave me a cultural video, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to watch it.’ She looked at me, horrified, and pulled me into the kitchen by my arm.

  ‘What? What? What did you just say, Pipsqueak? Be careful no one hears you! Are you trying to drive me out of my mind, Pipsqueak?’

  I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Then she added, in an angry whisper, ‘Father’s forbidden us from watching television because he doesn’t want us to see men on it, and you want to watch a cultural film in the house?’ She continued, her voice still rising, ‘Father said that seeing men on TV and hearing their voices is the same as being alone with them and is forbidden by God’s law and you . . . you . . .’

  ‘What should I do, Lula? My friend asked me if I’d watched the film and if I liked it. What am I going to tell her? Do you think I should I give it back?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s a cultural film?’ she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she decided: ‘Tell her you saw it and that it was good. It’s like any cultural film – zeet-meet.’

  I shook my head, puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you know what zeet-meet is? You know – sucking, licking, fucking. A man on top of a woman, mounting her. Or a woman crouching over a man and moving up and down on him.’

  ‘Uhhh . . . What? What are you saying? That’s what cultural films are?’

  She looked at me, and realised I had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Pipsqueak, after everything I’ve just said you still don’t get it?’

  She chuckled, and added, ‘Give her back her video and as soon as I get the chance I’ll take you to my friend’s house, where you can watch a cultural film and learn what zeet-meet is for yourself.’

  He taug
ht us how to gain glory

  So that we took command of the land by force.

  My classmate stopped asking me about the video and I didn’t attempt to return it. I kept it hidden between my exercise books so that it was always with me as I travelled to and from school. I hoped she wouldn’t ask again, at least not before I’d been able to watch it. The chance to watch the video seemed like the chance of a lifetime, one I just couldn’t afford to miss. I had the feeling that most of my classmates had already had that chance, or many chances, in fact. I guess it was obvious from the way they walked – sexy, seductive – so different to me.

  In the morning, straight after registration, or at the end of lunch before the teacher arrived for class, the girls would take it in turns to show off their moves. One girl would start it off, swaying her hips as she stepped into the classroom, gyrating her whole body like the dancer I’d seen once in an Egyptian movie. She’d slink between the desks and chairs until she reached the back of the classroom, and then sit down in her usual seat for another girl to take over and strut her stuff.

  At first I was terrible at it, but I refused to give up. Every day, I tried to imitate their movements, until eventually the other girls stopped laughing at me. In fact, I got so good their derision turned into something approaching admiration. There were two girls who stayed outside the flock, refusing to even spectate. We called one of them ‘Sheikh’ – like an elder, or a religious authority – and the other ‘Mujahid’ – as in one of the mujahideen. As soon as they set foot in the classroom, the other girls would all shout ‘Sheikh Mujahid has arrived!’ as though they were one person. But I never joined in. After a few days of this, Sheikh and Mujahid took to waiting until after the teacher had arrived before taking their seats. The girls’ jeers were replaced with barely suppressed laughter.

  Demands are not met by wishing

  The world can only be won through struggle.

  As he opened the front door on his way to work in the morning, we would always hear Father recite ‘O Fattah, O ‘Aleem, O Razzaq, O Kareem!’ This was the one prayer that would really wind Raqeeb up. Every time he heard Father reciting it, he’d mutter, ‘If God truly existed then He would provide for you and make you a rich man – not out of mercy, but because He’s so bored and fed up with listening to your prayers.’ Mother would angrily yell at him ‘God save your soul! Don’t you blaspheme! Have you forgotten who created you?’ I used to wonder what Father would do if he ever overheard Raqeeb’s comments.