Divorce Islamic Style (11 page)

Felice tells me a lot of details about the lives of Muslim immigrants, especially the observant ones. Many of them live in profound anxiety. The married ones, for instance, can’t return home every year. And they can’t have extramarital relations, because Islam forbids it. Bachelors, for their part, are also forced to be celibate, in expectation of marrying. And in the meantime they have to confront all the problems associated with sexuality, like premature ejaculation or even impotence. Felice also remarks on the Italian girls and foreign tourists who go around half naked, exciting the these wretched Muslim immigrants.

My first night as an assistant pizza maker went very well. Felice told me that I learned quickly. But I don’t go home with him, Damiano asks me to give the new dishwasher a hand cleaning up. Finally after another twenty minutes I’m heading home. All of a sudden a car shoots full speed out of Via Oderisi da Gubbio and stops a hairsbreadth away from me. Bastard! He almost hit me! Immediately I think of the Beast in the market on Viale Marconi and his promise of revenge. Should I run or challenge him? There he is, sticking his head out the window. But no, it’s not him.

“Get in!”

“Fuck! Are you trying to kill me?”

“I told you to get in!”

That shit Captain Judas! What happened? Why has he abandoned the usual precautions? We shouldn’t ever be seen here. Our next appointment was set for tomorrow morning in Via Nazionale. He’s going to blow my cover like this.

“I see you’re scared.”

“Fucking shit, you were about to hit me!”

“Truthfully, were you afraid of the Beast?”

“The Beast? I see that your colleague Antar has spread the story.”

“I was told that at the market you spoke perfect Italian. Bravo, congratulations.”

“I made a mistake.”

“You risked messing up your cover.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“The girl with the veil, do you know her?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“I swear.”

“Anyway you don’t have to worry about the Beast. We’ve taken him out of your way. It wasn’t hard to arrest him for dealing. At this very hour he is sleeping in the Regina Coeli prison.”

“You wanted to tell me that?”

“No, I came to give you some other remarkable news.”

“Please.”

“You remember the information about the explosives?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve received confirmation that the Goma-2 Eco is here in Viale Marconi.”

“Really?”

“You’d better get a move on, Tunisian.”

“What should I do?”

“You’re acting like a boy scout on a camping trip!”

“I’m doing everything possible.”

“So far you haven’t found out a goddamn thing!”

“I can’t perform miracles—my name is Christian, not Christ.”

“You’ll make me look like shit with my superiors, not to mention my American and Egyptian colleagues.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your colleagues. I’m sick and tired of this business.”

“You can’t walk out of it now, understand?”

I can’t find words to describe the reaction of this fucking Captain Judas. Whenever he decides to break my balls he succeeds wonderfully. I listen unwillingly to his preaching. The usual warmed-over crap. Finally he lets me out, at the Marconi bridge. I go home feeling destroyed and with my morale in the pits. I don’t have the slightest desire to sleep—maybe I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares. Damn terrorists, where have you hidden the explosives? When and where will you unleash the inferno?

I
close the bedroom door so I can listen to the radio without disturbing my architect while I get through the housework, even if it’s not that easy to wake him. He’s a really heavy sleeper. You’d need a band with trumpets around his bed to wake him up. Luckily he doesn’t snore. It’s not a small consideration. Giulia told me that there are couples who split up just because of it. And so? So what. I would say that in Italy people divorce for rather trivial reasons, or am I wrong?

I’m listening to a really interesting program on one of the RAI radio channels. It’s a discussion of domestic violence against women. It’s incredible: women are subjected to psychological, physical, and sexual violence not only on the street, coming home from work at night, or in underground parking garages but also, in fact especially, at home. Yes, at home. Who would have guessed? The guilty parties are called husbands, companions, fiancés, fathers, brothers, or sons. The guests on the program are mainly women who are involved in this issue.

But what’s striking to me is the statistics presented by the host: “In Italy more than six and a half million women have suffered, at least once in their life, some form of physical or sexual violence. More than sixty percent of such women are mistreated by their partner or a person they know, and more than ninety-five percent do not report the violence they suffer, probably out of fear of the consequences.”

To tell the truth, this radio discussion of domestic violence really stuns me. Why? I thought women were victims of violence in war zones, like Afghanistan or Iraq, or in countries where there’s racism, like some African Muslim countries, and where poverty and ignorance are widespread. But not in Italy! In other words, isn’t Italy still a European country, Western, part of the G-8, and so on, or am I wrong?

Around ten I go with Aida to the park in Piazza Meucci to take advantage of the sunny morning. There is no sign of my two friends—they’re not coming today. Yesterday I talked on the phone to Dorina, and she told me that Grandfather Giovanni isn’t feeling well, so he’ll read
La Padania, Libero
, and
Il Giornale
sitting comfortably in his living room, at least for now. Giulia, meanwhile, has an appointment with the pediatrician, because her son has stomachaches that won’t go away.

I watch my daughter playing with two little girls. She’s calm and serene. I’m sure that her childhood will be different from mine and my sisters’. I don’t know if she’ll be happy. Only God Almighty knows. Everything will depend on her
maktùb
. Yet I’m sure about one thing: she won’t suffer the absolutely worst kind of domestic violence, which is female circumcision. This is not a promise but an oath that I intend to keep at all costs. My little darling, your mamma will never let anyone hurt you!

Ah, the wounds of memory don’t heal with time. Where should I begin my story about the circumcision of girls? Good question!

Maybe before elementary school. In our neighborhood there was a toothless old hag who seemed like the incarnation of the wicked witch in the fairy tales. She was a specialist in the matter, and indescribably cruel. I’ve never hated anyone as much as her. Now she’s dead and I hope from the depths of my soul that she ended up in Hell forever. In Arabic they say, “
La tajuz ala al-mayyit illa arrahma
,” pity the dead. I’m not usually a resentful person. But that was too much!

My sister Nadia, the oldest, was the first to be subjected to this torture. I don’t like to say things in a roundabout way. Samira taught me an Algerian proverb about hypocrisy: “Come out naked and God will dress you.” It would be impossible to describe her psychological and physical pain. The pain lasted a long time and perhaps will continue for her whole life.

Then it was my sister Zeineb’s turn—she’s a year older than me. In her case, too, it’s reasonable to speak of torture, inflicted, what’s more, on a child of seven years old. It’s a true crime against humanity, worse than rape, because the instigators are the parents! And so? So what. I think the parents have a tremendous responsibility. Would female circumcision exist without the consent of the family? Zeineb almost died, because of a hemorrhage and then a serious infection. Luckily she was taken to the hospital right away, and the doctors performed a true miracle to save her. That evil toothless witch was not a doctor but a complete illiterate, so it didn’t even minimally cross her mind that she should disinfect the scissors, her tool for the job—or, rather, the weapon of the crime.

Zeineb remains traumatized. There is no hope of healing or of forgetting. The circumcised woman is a kind of invisible handicapped person, unrecognized. She doesn’t even have the right to complain, or to mourn her fate. In fact, she’s supposed to thank everyone who had a part in her circumcision for preserving her purity and protecting her reputation! The truth is that men fear the sexual power of women and the idea is to eliminate it through castration. To hell with purity and reputation. I know that I am a Muslim with a veil and am not supposed to curse (that’s for men only, at least among us that’s the case). I allow myself to say just one, though not in Arabic, so as not to feel uneasy: “Fuck you!” God forgive me.

The experience has conditioned Zeineb’s life. She got married five years ago, and had a child only after many difficulties. She always says to me: “I’m fifty percent woman.” She can’t have a normal sex life. Her husband is a good man, he says he loves her and won’t ever leave her. Is it true? Only God knows. Truthfully, I don’t believe in eternal love, it’s the stuff of soap operas—Egyptian, Brazilian, Mexican, Turkish.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you love me?”

“Very much.”

“When do you love me?”

“I love you in spring, I love you in summer, I love you in fall, and I love you in winter. I love you always.”

“My love, light of my eyes, sun of my days. I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you more than I love myself.”

“Our love is as pure and abundant as our mothers’ milk.”

“My love! Let’s live our love until death do us part.”

Words, words, words, as that Italian song says. Reality is one thing, fiction another. Unfortunately my sister is not a character in a soap opera. So far her marriage is solid, but it could crumble at any moment. Life is never predictable. The truth is that she lives in terror of being abandoned, rejected, replaced by another woman: by a hundred-percent woman.

Men are a rather complicated breed, which in my opinion hasn’t been sufficiently studied. People often speak of female moods. And what about male moods? Men whose attitude can change from one moment to the next. Today they say, “You’re the woman of my life.” Then they come back the next day and tell you, “I’m sorry, I’m going to live with another woman. Bye.” Is that normal behavior?

For my sister Zeineb circumcision marked the beginning of a nightmare. And obviously an early end to childhood.

When my turn came the situation had changed somewhat. Lucky for me. What happened? Was the circumcision of girls abolished in Egypt? Were those who actually performed the operation arrested and punished? Were the instigators—that is, our beloved parents—put on trial? No, nothing of the sort. Something simple happened, something quite banal. After the tragedy of my sister the family decided not to go to the horrible toothless witch. Looking for a replacement took some time.

My aunt Amina (my father’s sister, not to mention my guardian angel) had an ingenious idea. She suggested taking me to a friend of hers, a nurse who performed female circumcision. I trusted my aunt blindly and I knew that she wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. And in fact the nurse friend didn’t exist.

We went to Aunt Amina’s house to carry out the plan. First: no one touched my clitoris. Second: she stained my underpants with the blood of a hen that had just been killed. Third: I was to make an effort to cry. A river of tears. The success of the plan depended on my bravura performance. I gave it my best. Everything went smoothly. The next day, my mother discovered the trick, but she didn’t have the courage to expose it. She couldn’t, after the tragedy of my sister. My father and the rest of the family remained in the dark. For a few months my mother, my aunt, and I shared the secret. Then other people found out, all women obviously. Men prefer to stay out of it, this is women’s business and should remain among women, like menstruation.

Was I very fortunate? Certainly. But it wasn’t just plain sailing. I went through childhood and adolescence afraid of being found out and having to suffer the same fate as my sisters. I had terrifying nightmares with the toothless old hag as the main character. Not to mention the sense of guilt of the privileged. Why was I saved and not my sisters?

I still remember the celebration when my brother Imad was circumcised. It was a really grand occasion. I often wondered: why is circumcision for males a celebration while for females it’s like a funeral, or anyway done in secret? And also: they say that female circumcision is an Islamic tradition, but I can’t find any trace of it in the Koran. Its supporters cite a
hadith
of our Prophet in which He doesn’t clearly forbid the practice, but, as everyone knows, not all the quotations are authentic.

Recently the religious authorities at Al Azhar University woke up. (Better late than never.) They stated that female circumcision is not a religious obligation, and that, in fact, it’s harmful to women’s health. So if that’s the case, why don’t they ban it immediately, as they did rape and drugs? Damn the devil! All they have to say is, “The circumcision of girls is
haram
.” Some time ago I heard on the radio that the Italian parliament is drafting a law against female circumcision, which is still practiced in some immigrant communities in Italy. I’m in favor. It’s a further protection for girls like my daughter.

Samira comes from Algeria, and in the Maghreb female circumcision doesn’t exist. Why are the majority of Egyptian girls circumcised? Why is it so prevalent in Egypt (even among Coptic Christians), in Sudan, and in the countries of the Gulf, but not anywhere else? This proves that female circumcision is not a religious obligation like prayer and Ramadan.

Maybe it’s more correct to speak of genital mutilation? Women who suffer the torture of female circumcision should be considered victims of war. I think female circumcision is like rape. There’s no difference. I have no doubts about this. What sense does it make to exchange traditions that should be respected for customs that are disastrous and dangerous to the religion itself? Of course we can always say that Islam has nothing to do with it. But what can we say about Muslims? Are they responsible or not? Are the parents of girls innocent or complicit?

Two years ago I saw a really good documentary on TV. It was about a French surgeon who specializes in the reconstruction of the clitoris. This is not cosmetic surgery. Many, many women, victims of the worst domestic violence, go to this surgeon to regain their dignity. It’s a simple operation, and there’s no danger to the woman’s health.

It would be fantastic if my sister Zeineb could have the operation. A wonderful dream that would put an end to the nightmare of the toothless witch. The operation is expensive. For my part, I’m doing all I can to help her, by saving some money. So I continue to cut hair secretly in Samira’s apartment. The architect knows nothing about it. I hide the money behind the couch in the living room. I can’t open an account in a bank or the post office.

A few weeks ago I saw the film
La Ciociara,
with Sophia Loren, for the third time. It takes place during the Second World War, and it’s very sad. Loren plays a young mother who flees Rome with her daughter because of the bombing. The two take refuge in the countryside. At the end of the movie they’re raped in an abandoned bombed-out church by a bunch of soldiers in turbans. Giulia told me that they were Moroccans. This scene makes me cry, because I identify, every time, with both the mother and the daughter.

Being in the park without the company of Dorina and Giulia is not the greatest. A woman in a veil sitting by herself on a public bench does not go unnoticed. I prefer to avoid the problem, so I leave.

I go to the Marconi library. Maybe I’ll find a movie in VHS to borrow. There aren’t many people here today. I take the opportunity to glance at the papers. What a surprise! What a pleasant surprise! From a distance I see the Arab Marcello, sitting near the window, reading a magazine. I can’t pretend I don’t see him. I have to say hello.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“I wanted to thank you for what you did the other day at the market.”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s a duty.”

“Sadly there’s always a rotten apple among the good ones.”

“Right. No need to generalize.”

“Not all Italians are ignorant or racist.”

“Luckily.”

“I don’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me at all.”

“I’ll let you read. Thanks again.”

“Not at all.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Why do I turn red? Damn! I forgot to ask him his name. But that’s not really a problem. He already has a name: the Arab Marcello. Where is he from? From his accent he doesn’t seem Egyptian, or Palestinian, or Lebanese, or Syrian, or Iraqi. I must say that he speaks like Samira. It’s true. And so? So what. He must be Algerian. I could solve the puzzle of his native country if I had a recording of his voice to submit to my best friend for examination. Samira always says: “I can tell if someone is Algerian with no problem at all, a word or a glance is enough.” I must absolutely arrange for her to see him. The sixth sense exists. And also feminine intuition, we might add. May I say that we women don’t miss anything, or am I wrong?

At lunch my architect tries to draw me into a dangerous discussion that is on the verge of turning into an argument. But I really don’t feel like arguing.

“You know Akram’s wife is pregnant?”

“Really?”

“Yes, Akram will be a father for the fourth time. Lucky him.”

“
Mabruk
, congratulations.”