On my way to Chicago, I stopped in London's Heathrow airport for a two-hour layover. This was the first taste of the West I had in years. I still wore my black Hijab and Abaya, but with all the Muslims in the UK, it was not too big of a deal. I remember when I was in the waiting area and I saw people reading books as an entertainment. Not books on Qur'an interpretation, or classification on Prophetic Narrations-they were reading about girls talking about shopping and guys, or how a detective solved a murder mystery. No guilt hung over them because they were doing something unrelated to God. They were living their lives.
I boarded the plane and arrived at O'Hare hours later. I was scared I would be pulled aside and interroagted. After all, I was wearing black, and came from Saudi Arabia! No one stopped me. I was hot and sticky and feeling tired. A relative met me at the airport and I stayed with them in a suburb an hour away from Chicago. As we drove through the surrounding areas, I felt.. nothing. No happiness to be home. It did not even feel like home. I was so disappointed. I did not feel I had a home in Saudi, and I did not have a home in Chicago. Where was my home? What is home?
I did not feel comfortable with my Catholic relatives. I was still loyal to Islam, and the pictures of Jesus and the pork breakfasts intimidated and scared me. This suburb had no public transportation, so I could not go anywhere. My relatives were always busy and I stayed around the house mostly. I was not used to houses in general. I always felt that they more vulnerable than apartments, or condos. I would sometimes walk to a nearby Walmart that was 20 minutes away. I looked at the different people and did not know if I wanted to fit in or not. I began to buy different colored shawls to wear instead of my black Hijab. I was slowly trying to figure out where my place was.
My relative was constantly talking about Islam and again, being loyal, I would constantly become defensive and angry. I could not handle the pressure just yet. I decided to leave. I had a friend in Dallas, Texas that I met in Egypt. She used to be Christian and became Muslim and we were really close. I asked if I could move in with her and she was happy to have me. I moved to Dallas and was a lot happier with my new roommate, Ashley. I did not have a car, and the public transportation is not as efficient as it is in Chicago. It would depress me when I could not go out, but Ashley did try and take me out as much as she could. I felt that this would be where I would stay for now.
Lesson Learned: Many people get defensive when you ask them a question about their faith. My experience has showed me that they get defensive when they do not know the answer, nor understand it themselves. By asking them, and forcing them to think and doubt, you threaten their beliefs that are and have been a part of them and their family. In fear of losing the "rock-hard faith" they supposedly have, they will defend it.
6.19.2011
Chapter 11: Anticipation (and 3rd Wife)
I walked into the embassy feeling nervous. Even though I had only been gone for a an hour, I kept thinking of the possibility that my family had found out and they would be walking into the embassy. Also, with Yusuf with me, I did not want to get in trouble with the Hay'ah. I waited to speak with one of the counselors. I finally did. I had an envelope with weak proof of certain things, like my father's reply to my letter. I talked with an Arab man who was unwilling to help me, but then a western woman, Lily, heard about the situation and decided that she would help me. Thank the Lord!
She took my passport and my situation and they went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Internal Affairs and the Prince of Riyadh. It was a difficult situation, given the fact that I had no visa at all. Little did I know that it would take over a month.
I stayed at random hotels (furnished apartments) that would allow me to stay as a single woman. If I felt it was looking suspicious, I moved to another hotel to avoid complications. I e-mailed with my mother and facebooked my sister. It was during this time that I found out my father married a third wife from Yemen. At this point I could hardly care. I was not going to let this stress me out anymore.
The embassy would pick up stuff at my house and bring them to me. It was a hard, but exciting time. With every passing day and no news, I felt that my dream would not come true, which caused me to act carelessly sometimes. I asked Yusuf to rent a car and tint the windows for me, and I learned to drive. I drove in the city and in the desert. I loved driving in the desert. I started to wear a different style Niqab and let my hair show a bit. I bought green contact lenses to cover up my brown eyes, and bought a new Abaya and new purse. I did not want to ruin my slim chance of escape by being recognized. My wonderful family in the States sent me money to help me stay at hotels and pay for the plane ticket back. I also did some translation work for money.
Finally, Lily called with good news: I had gotten an exit visa! I was able to leave! Lily came with another embassy representative to pick me up at the hotel and give me an escort to the airport and make sure no one, like my father, would give me trouble. As the minutes dragged on for the gate to open, tiny seeds of realization began to grow. I was not only leaving my family, but they would be in a completely different country, thousands of miles away.
I finally bid Lily and the embassy farewell and boarded the plane. I sat there, still wearing my Abaya and Hijab, but no Niqab. As the plane began to take off, I looked at the lights of Riyadh within the night. I was gone. God had sent help from all over and made it easy for me. I was 18 years old, beginning a new life for myself. I was returning to Chicago after an eight year absence. I was returning to what I then called 'home.'
Lesson Learned: If God wants something for you, He will make the path easy for you.
She took my passport and my situation and they went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Internal Affairs and the Prince of Riyadh. It was a difficult situation, given the fact that I had no visa at all. Little did I know that it would take over a month.
I stayed at random hotels (furnished apartments) that would allow me to stay as a single woman. If I felt it was looking suspicious, I moved to another hotel to avoid complications. I e-mailed with my mother and facebooked my sister. It was during this time that I found out my father married a third wife from Yemen. At this point I could hardly care. I was not going to let this stress me out anymore.
The embassy would pick up stuff at my house and bring them to me. It was a hard, but exciting time. With every passing day and no news, I felt that my dream would not come true, which caused me to act carelessly sometimes. I asked Yusuf to rent a car and tint the windows for me, and I learned to drive. I drove in the city and in the desert. I loved driving in the desert. I started to wear a different style Niqab and let my hair show a bit. I bought green contact lenses to cover up my brown eyes, and bought a new Abaya and new purse. I did not want to ruin my slim chance of escape by being recognized. My wonderful family in the States sent me money to help me stay at hotels and pay for the plane ticket back. I also did some translation work for money.
Finally, Lily called with good news: I had gotten an exit visa! I was able to leave! Lily came with another embassy representative to pick me up at the hotel and give me an escort to the airport and make sure no one, like my father, would give me trouble. As the minutes dragged on for the gate to open, tiny seeds of realization began to grow. I was not only leaving my family, but they would be in a completely different country, thousands of miles away.
I finally bid Lily and the embassy farewell and boarded the plane. I sat there, still wearing my Abaya and Hijab, but no Niqab. As the plane began to take off, I looked at the lights of Riyadh within the night. I was gone. God had sent help from all over and made it easy for me. I was 18 years old, beginning a new life for myself. I was returning to Chicago after an eight year absence. I was returning to what I then called 'home.'
Lesson Learned: If God wants something for you, He will make the path easy for you.
Chapter 10: The Escape
I constantly asked my mother if we could leave; but she could not. She was blacklisted by her previous employer because when she resigned due to health issues, they asked her to come back for a bit until they found someone which she declined. They revoked her visa rendering her illegal. She could not even get an exit visa. She could not travel anywhere or register anywhere. They froze her bank accounts. Also, because my siblings and I were under my mother, we became illegal to. She has been in this situation for three years now.
I wanted to wait for her, but I could not. I was young and wanted to have a better life for myself. I decided to leave. I would find a way. I packed a suitcase and hid it for a few days until I could formulate a plan. I had a friend, Yusuf, who said he was going to help me. I waited until I overheard my mother making plans to visit friends. That was the day I would choose as my escape. I called the U.S. Embassy and theoretically explained the situation of my need to leave Saudi Arabia. They told me that without being legal and, more importantly, without my father's permission, they would not be able to help me.
The day arrived and my siblings and mother were getting ready. I told my mom I did not feel well and did not want to go. She kept asking but I insisted on staying at home. It never occurred to me that I would not be able to see my sister, brother or mother for a long while. She sat down next to me, looked at me and held the jade dragon figure on my necklace. She said, "you know that I love you." She kissed me and got up to leave. Until this day, I do not know if she knew I was leaving.
I waited to make sure my family was gone and got my suitcase. I went outside where Yusuf was waiting to drive me to the U.S. Embassy. I was still going to try asking them in person. This prooved to be one of the best decisions I ever made.
Lesson Learned: Do not give up, and if your reasons are well, do everything you can to make it happen.
I wanted to wait for her, but I could not. I was young and wanted to have a better life for myself. I decided to leave. I would find a way. I packed a suitcase and hid it for a few days until I could formulate a plan. I had a friend, Yusuf, who said he was going to help me. I waited until I overheard my mother making plans to visit friends. That was the day I would choose as my escape. I called the U.S. Embassy and theoretically explained the situation of my need to leave Saudi Arabia. They told me that without being legal and, more importantly, without my father's permission, they would not be able to help me.
The day arrived and my siblings and mother were getting ready. I told my mom I did not feel well and did not want to go. She kept asking but I insisted on staying at home. It never occurred to me that I would not be able to see my sister, brother or mother for a long while. She sat down next to me, looked at me and held the jade dragon figure on my necklace. She said, "you know that I love you." She kissed me and got up to leave. Until this day, I do not know if she knew I was leaving.
I waited to make sure my family was gone and got my suitcase. I went outside where Yusuf was waiting to drive me to the U.S. Embassy. I was still going to try asking them in person. This prooved to be one of the best decisions I ever made.
Lesson Learned: Do not give up, and if your reasons are well, do everything you can to make it happen.
Chapter 9: Moving On
We were finally moving. My father was actively looking for a new place. My mom and he went to see a few apartments, but he was getting tired of my mother not liking the places they saw. She looked for a place that her children and herself would be comfortable in. Being from the North Side of Chicago, owning her own big condo, she was used to a certain lifestyle. My father, being from the South Side of Chicago, with a house full of people had a different idea of home. Additionally, he had to be able to afford housing, food and expenses for his other wife and child. He came home one day saying that he signed a lease and we were moving. We didn't know what to expect, but we packed up and arrived at the new place. It was cleaner, it was newer but had one big drawback: it had no windows at all. My dear mother hated the fact that it was windowless. My mother deserved so much more.
(When we moved to Egypt, my mother sold her condo, given to her by her mother, and other things so she could pay for our tickets and housing in Egypt. She supported us completely for four years as we studied. She paid for good apartments and good food. She was never cheap in make sure we were comfortable and happy. Finally, when my father felt he had the ability to speak Arabic sufficiently, he got a job teaching English. He worked for a few months, but instead of making it up to my mother and her sacrifices, he married a second wife and drove a spear through my mother's heart.)
My family began to get over what I had done, and I began to teach privately again. I also went to school for Arabic with my sister and brother. I tried to be more religious and found practicing friends. I read more, memorized more and studied more. I even started a newsletter at my school, which I wrote for. My articles were liked and the newsletter kept me busy. I was even selling Islamic CD's for money to help with the newsletter. Deep down inside, I felt my life was going nowhere. I wanted a career, I wanted to see other ways of life. I was heading down a road where my only escape out of my house would be to marry.
My father made me very uncomfortable. When evening came, I would watch the clock, and when the time neared of his return from work, my sister and I would run to our rooms. His presence, his voice, and the sound of his key unlocking the front door made me sick.
One day, I could not take it. My father, out of the blue, invited us all to go to the bookstore. This was so rare and reminded me of when we went to Border's in Chicago together. We walked around the bookstore and each of us picked one thing, just like we did in Chicago. As reached the cash register, my father continued on to the front door without paying for us; and my mother remained with us. I asked her what he was doing, and she looked at me, with a look to ask me to brush it aside, and paid for us. When we were done, we walked outside and saw him coming from a supermarket next door with a bag of stuff for himself. He bought himself imported food. A carton of imported juice and one bar of imported candy or chocolate. I was disgusted that a father would take money to buy himself pricey imported food and not pay for his children and wife's books-especially when he initiated the outing. A few days later, I wrote a letter to him. I wrote six pages of how I felt about several scenarios and in general, and I even quoted the Qur'an on compassion and kindness. A few minutes later he gave me the letter back with a statement saying he started to read it but had no need to read past the first page. He informed me that we had problems because we are dissatisfied with Allah's laws and that it is not my place to question what he does. We got in a fight and he told me to leave, which I gladly did. My sister accompanied me and we packed up a bag and started to walk. My mother, afraid to anger him, would not do anything. To her, it is a sin to disobey the husband. We ended up staying at a family friend's house and that night my father divorced my mother blaming her for allowing us children to talk out of place. In Islam, once a man says he divorces a woman, he they must still reside together for a period of time. This ensures that he did not just say it out of anger, and if so, repair the situation. We came home the next day and the household was so different. My mother went to a meeting at a mosque and my father was getting ready for prayer. He needed someone to watch my brother. He knocked on my door, but since I was still angry, I did not open it. My sister was right there to help with my brother. He knocked until he was about to break the door down and I went to open it because if he had broken it down, I would have no door to close anymore to protect me mentally. He stormed in and tried to take my bedroom key from me (as doors we locked with keys from the inside). I defied him again, but I did not care. I would not let ANY man treat me lowly. He kept trying to get the key and I held it tightly in my fist, until he finally choked me so I could not breathe and losen my grip on my key. My key was not merely a key to a door, it was my key to a mental safety. In my bedroom, when I have the control to lock him out, I feel safe.
I called the police and they came. My mother called a Shaykh (older, religious scholar) to talk to us. The police would not help me. The main officer took me aside and asked if I was sexually abused. I honestly replied that I was not. He sadly told me that what my father did was wrong, but a daughter making an official complaint against her father in Saudi Arabia would not be looked on favorably by the society and it may cause trouble. He looked like he saw this situation often.
We went back inside, and my father, looking pleased that I could not do anything against him sat down with us and the Shaykh. We started from the day I wrote my dad the letter. The Shaykh saw it and asked what the problem is. My father kept repeating on how, no matter what, it was not my place to say anything. He advised my father to be compassionate with us as his children, and for me not to provoke my father purposefully. My father stood his ground and said that he does not have to act well with people who are disobedient to Allah. I knew then that there was no hope. I had to do something to save myself and my sanity. I would not sit there helplessly as most Muslim women do.
Lesson Learned: You should always pray and hope for someone to change, but do not dig your own grave and make a situation more difficult than it is. Be smart, and do not ignore warning signs. If you see the man likes power and begins to abuse it, do not move to a country where he will legally have that right!
(When we moved to Egypt, my mother sold her condo, given to her by her mother, and other things so she could pay for our tickets and housing in Egypt. She supported us completely for four years as we studied. She paid for good apartments and good food. She was never cheap in make sure we were comfortable and happy. Finally, when my father felt he had the ability to speak Arabic sufficiently, he got a job teaching English. He worked for a few months, but instead of making it up to my mother and her sacrifices, he married a second wife and drove a spear through my mother's heart.)
My family began to get over what I had done, and I began to teach privately again. I also went to school for Arabic with my sister and brother. I tried to be more religious and found practicing friends. I read more, memorized more and studied more. I even started a newsletter at my school, which I wrote for. My articles were liked and the newsletter kept me busy. I was even selling Islamic CD's for money to help with the newsletter. Deep down inside, I felt my life was going nowhere. I wanted a career, I wanted to see other ways of life. I was heading down a road where my only escape out of my house would be to marry.
My father made me very uncomfortable. When evening came, I would watch the clock, and when the time neared of his return from work, my sister and I would run to our rooms. His presence, his voice, and the sound of his key unlocking the front door made me sick.
One day, I could not take it. My father, out of the blue, invited us all to go to the bookstore. This was so rare and reminded me of when we went to Border's in Chicago together. We walked around the bookstore and each of us picked one thing, just like we did in Chicago. As reached the cash register, my father continued on to the front door without paying for us; and my mother remained with us. I asked her what he was doing, and she looked at me, with a look to ask me to brush it aside, and paid for us. When we were done, we walked outside and saw him coming from a supermarket next door with a bag of stuff for himself. He bought himself imported food. A carton of imported juice and one bar of imported candy or chocolate. I was disgusted that a father would take money to buy himself pricey imported food and not pay for his children and wife's books-especially when he initiated the outing. A few days later, I wrote a letter to him. I wrote six pages of how I felt about several scenarios and in general, and I even quoted the Qur'an on compassion and kindness. A few minutes later he gave me the letter back with a statement saying he started to read it but had no need to read past the first page. He informed me that we had problems because we are dissatisfied with Allah's laws and that it is not my place to question what he does. We got in a fight and he told me to leave, which I gladly did. My sister accompanied me and we packed up a bag and started to walk. My mother, afraid to anger him, would not do anything. To her, it is a sin to disobey the husband. We ended up staying at a family friend's house and that night my father divorced my mother blaming her for allowing us children to talk out of place. In Islam, once a man says he divorces a woman, he they must still reside together for a period of time. This ensures that he did not just say it out of anger, and if so, repair the situation. We came home the next day and the household was so different. My mother went to a meeting at a mosque and my father was getting ready for prayer. He needed someone to watch my brother. He knocked on my door, but since I was still angry, I did not open it. My sister was right there to help with my brother. He knocked until he was about to break the door down and I went to open it because if he had broken it down, I would have no door to close anymore to protect me mentally. He stormed in and tried to take my bedroom key from me (as doors we locked with keys from the inside). I defied him again, but I did not care. I would not let ANY man treat me lowly. He kept trying to get the key and I held it tightly in my fist, until he finally choked me so I could not breathe and losen my grip on my key. My key was not merely a key to a door, it was my key to a mental safety. In my bedroom, when I have the control to lock him out, I feel safe.
I called the police and they came. My mother called a Shaykh (older, religious scholar) to talk to us. The police would not help me. The main officer took me aside and asked if I was sexually abused. I honestly replied that I was not. He sadly told me that what my father did was wrong, but a daughter making an official complaint against her father in Saudi Arabia would not be looked on favorably by the society and it may cause trouble. He looked like he saw this situation often.
We went back inside, and my father, looking pleased that I could not do anything against him sat down with us and the Shaykh. We started from the day I wrote my dad the letter. The Shaykh saw it and asked what the problem is. My father kept repeating on how, no matter what, it was not my place to say anything. He advised my father to be compassionate with us as his children, and for me not to provoke my father purposefully. My father stood his ground and said that he does not have to act well with people who are disobedient to Allah. I knew then that there was no hope. I had to do something to save myself and my sanity. I would not sit there helplessly as most Muslim women do.
Lesson Learned: You should always pray and hope for someone to change, but do not dig your own grave and make a situation more difficult than it is. Be smart, and do not ignore warning signs. If you see the man likes power and begins to abuse it, do not move to a country where he will legally have that right!
Chapter 8: The Deepest Hole in Life
One day, while my father was still away, I was using my secret phone in the bathroom and forgot it there. As I was leaving the bathroom my mother rushed in after me to use it, and that is when I remembered that the phone was still there. The phone was my only outlet to the outside world. Without it, I would go crazy; and I started to go crazy. She opened the bathroom door and looked at me. I went bonkers and tried to commit suicide. I could not deal with more isolation, more punishment. All I wanted was people to talk to about other things besides religion!
The first person my mom called was a Shaykh (older, religious scholar). He informed her to call someone who can help right there and then: the police or the ambulance. They took me to the hospital to make sure I was okay. They then took me to a psychology hospital where they wanted to make sure I wouldn't do it again. I stayed there for two days. There were only three people there, including myself. It almost drove me crazy just being there. They determined there was nothing wrong with me. I knew they thought I probably wanted attention, but officially stated I had an Adjustment Disorder. They gave me mild anti-depressants which my mother, the psychologist, encouraged me to take daily.
(Adjusment Disorder:"Adjustment disorder is an emotional and behavioral reaction that develops within 3 months of a life stress, and which is stronger or greater than what would be expected for the type of event that occurred." Quoted from Pub Med Health: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001928/)
Lesson Learned: It is good to have faith in God, but have common sense! What is a Shaykh going to do if your daughter is trying to kill herself? You must have faith in God, but take action yourself.
The first person my mom called was a Shaykh (older, religious scholar). He informed her to call someone who can help right there and then: the police or the ambulance. They took me to the hospital to make sure I was okay. They then took me to a psychology hospital where they wanted to make sure I wouldn't do it again. I stayed there for two days. There were only three people there, including myself. It almost drove me crazy just being there. They determined there was nothing wrong with me. I knew they thought I probably wanted attention, but officially stated I had an Adjustment Disorder. They gave me mild anti-depressants which my mother, the psychologist, encouraged me to take daily.
(Adjusment Disorder:"Adjustment disorder is an emotional and behavioral reaction that develops within 3 months of a life stress, and which is stronger or greater than what would be expected for the type of event that occurred." Quoted from Pub Med Health: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001928/)
Lesson Learned: It is good to have faith in God, but have common sense! What is a Shaykh going to do if your daughter is trying to kill herself? You must have faith in God, but take action yourself.
Chapter 7: Consequences
My father did not speak to me. In fact, he ordered my entire family not to speak to me at all until further notice. I was not to leave the house at all. They took my keys and everytime my family went out, I was locked inside. If my mother wanted me to do the dishes, she would slip a post-it note under the door. I began to sleep all day and not eat as much. I was told to do all the laundry as part of my punishment, and given that we had no washer and dryer, I had to wash clothes by hand. My hands began to get rough and I felt my life was going downhill. The relationship between Mustafa and myself was never really the same as his family was not pleased either. I still needed someone to talk to, especially since I had not been out of the house in so long. I still chatted and talked to people with my secret phone.
My father went on vacation to visit Egypt and the States. During this time, my mother tried to take me out and I was uncomfortable with it. The cars, the honking and the lights made me nervous; and I would cry constantly. I was locked up for so long with no one talking to me. The justifiable reason was because the Prophet Muhammad had once not spoken to his wife for over 30 days. I tried to think of Allah and pray, but I felt no peace. I felt that this life was unjust and the rules of man were only to man's advantage. I began to doubt the mercy and compassion of Islam. I began to believe that many men convert to Islam so they can feel empowered. I began to believe Islam was not for me.
Lesson Learned: Try not to do things behind your parents' back, if at all possible. Most parents would be much more happier if you talked to them and involved them in with your wants and needs. It doesn't mean they accept it, but you are still their child.
My father went on vacation to visit Egypt and the States. During this time, my mother tried to take me out and I was uncomfortable with it. The cars, the honking and the lights made me nervous; and I would cry constantly. I was locked up for so long with no one talking to me. The justifiable reason was because the Prophet Muhammad had once not spoken to his wife for over 30 days. I tried to think of Allah and pray, but I felt no peace. I felt that this life was unjust and the rules of man were only to man's advantage. I began to doubt the mercy and compassion of Islam. I began to believe that many men convert to Islam so they can feel empowered. I began to believe Islam was not for me.
Lesson Learned: Try not to do things behind your parents' back, if at all possible. Most parents would be much more happier if you talked to them and involved them in with your wants and needs. It doesn't mean they accept it, but you are still their child.
Chapter 6: Living in Riyadh
Not knowing whether you are coming or going is a stressful time. We lived everyday hoping that we would move to a better place. Throughout the weeks and months, we got to know the city. We did not have a car, and with my father being busy anyways, there would have been no man to drive it. We walked to catch taxis to malls, supermarkets and restaurants. It was a fascinating city. Quarter million dollar cars would be cruising down the street with men in tailor-made Thiyaab (plural of Thawb, a dress or long garment for men) and a Shmagh (head cover for men) with their women covered in fancy black Abayaat studded with designing crystals. So moden, yet so traditional.
Without a father, I craved a male figure in my life; I wanted someone I could talk to, someone to advise me and protect me. I bought a cheap cell phone with internet and began to surf the net for a man for myself. During this time, it was discovered that Maha, my father's second wife, had given birth to a daughter. She named her 'Maryam.' Though this may seem normal to many, it was psychotically disturbing for the ones who knew that my mother's name was also Maryam.
(At first, I didn't know why this was a problem. I thought to myself, "so what if they have the same name? Maybe Maha is trying to make peace." However, I finally asked a non-Muslim friend why she thought this may be offensive and she explained: "Most men connect similar traits of women to other women they know, i.e. her brother finds it hard to check out another woman who resembles her because he cannot look at his sister that way and it makes him feel uncomfortable. If my father was sleeping with a woman named Maryam (my mother), it would probably remind him of his baby daughter and make things difficult and awkward." I was stunned by this, and thinking of how my mother felt and still feels hurt me so much.)
Stressed out again, I felt an even bigger urge to have someone to cry to and found a boyfriend. He was from Syria, very good and handsome. He had dark hair and big blue eyes. He wasn't extremely religious, and sympathized with me about my family situation. We found ways to meet when I went out with my family to the mall or supermarket. I'd just walk away for a bit and he would meet me and we would talk really quickly and generally so as not to be caught by the Hay'ah (Islamic or vice police). Soon, I found a job teaching English to special needs children. I had had a few years of private tutoring experience from Egypt and I thought it would be a great opportunity. Soon, I found a way to meet my "boyfriend," Mustafa, after work. Instead of the bus taking me home, which usually took an hour and a half, I would spend that time with Mustafa and he would drop me home. At this point, I did not care about what I was doing behind my parents' backs. I wanted someone to be there for me.
One day, Mustafa and I were at Starbucks. Restaurants in Saudi Arabia are separated into two parts. The 'Singles' section and the 'Family' section. The Singles section is only for men when they are without females accompanying them. The Family section is for women and families together, families include the males. The tables are set into booths with curtains and doors to add privacy so a woman can lift up her Niqab (face cover). Mustafa and I were, of course, in the Family section. This may be considered a very public place to many in the world, however there is no such thing as a woman being in the presence of a non-related male, whether in "public" or private if it is not for marriage or emergency purposes. Someone called the Hay'ah (Islamic police) and they came and took us away. I do not have many details on what happened to Mustafa, but I was held for a few hours. I was in a holding cell with other woman, some who had been there for months. Their charges ranged from overstaying their visa to prostitution. There was a large room, similar to a living room, with carpets and a television. There were bedrooms connected to this room. The bedrooms had bunkbeds with bedding and wool comforters that were much more accomodating than I expected. The occupants of each room were determined by where they were from. I did not fit into the Indonesian room, the Filipino room or the Ethiopian room, so I went to the Arab room. I got to know the women there and once in a while one would start crying. I was getting panic attacks. I was 16 years old and could not understand why sitting at a Starbucks was so wrong! I had called the American embassy, but they were unable to help me as I had broken a local law. I was interrogated by these religious men and told them I that I honestly did not see what was wrong.
As I cried myself to sleep, I heard the jailer call my name. My father, the one person I already did not get along with, had come to pick me up. I was not booked or officially charged. I had only been held a few hours. Mustafa had been held three days; but then again, he was Syrian and I was American.
(Many Saudi Arabians dislike other Arabs, especially those of the Levantine area.)
Lesson Learned: Respect the laws of the country you reside in. The consequences are rarely worth it. Do not underestimate the law.
Without a father, I craved a male figure in my life; I wanted someone I could talk to, someone to advise me and protect me. I bought a cheap cell phone with internet and began to surf the net for a man for myself. During this time, it was discovered that Maha, my father's second wife, had given birth to a daughter. She named her 'Maryam.' Though this may seem normal to many, it was psychotically disturbing for the ones who knew that my mother's name was also Maryam.
(At first, I didn't know why this was a problem. I thought to myself, "so what if they have the same name? Maybe Maha is trying to make peace." However, I finally asked a non-Muslim friend why she thought this may be offensive and she explained: "Most men connect similar traits of women to other women they know, i.e. her brother finds it hard to check out another woman who resembles her because he cannot look at his sister that way and it makes him feel uncomfortable. If my father was sleeping with a woman named Maryam (my mother), it would probably remind him of his baby daughter and make things difficult and awkward." I was stunned by this, and thinking of how my mother felt and still feels hurt me so much.)
Stressed out again, I felt an even bigger urge to have someone to cry to and found a boyfriend. He was from Syria, very good and handsome. He had dark hair and big blue eyes. He wasn't extremely religious, and sympathized with me about my family situation. We found ways to meet when I went out with my family to the mall or supermarket. I'd just walk away for a bit and he would meet me and we would talk really quickly and generally so as not to be caught by the Hay'ah (Islamic or vice police). Soon, I found a job teaching English to special needs children. I had had a few years of private tutoring experience from Egypt and I thought it would be a great opportunity. Soon, I found a way to meet my "boyfriend," Mustafa, after work. Instead of the bus taking me home, which usually took an hour and a half, I would spend that time with Mustafa and he would drop me home. At this point, I did not care about what I was doing behind my parents' backs. I wanted someone to be there for me.
One day, Mustafa and I were at Starbucks. Restaurants in Saudi Arabia are separated into two parts. The 'Singles' section and the 'Family' section. The Singles section is only for men when they are without females accompanying them. The Family section is for women and families together, families include the males. The tables are set into booths with curtains and doors to add privacy so a woman can lift up her Niqab (face cover). Mustafa and I were, of course, in the Family section. This may be considered a very public place to many in the world, however there is no such thing as a woman being in the presence of a non-related male, whether in "public" or private if it is not for marriage or emergency purposes. Someone called the Hay'ah (Islamic police) and they came and took us away. I do not have many details on what happened to Mustafa, but I was held for a few hours. I was in a holding cell with other woman, some who had been there for months. Their charges ranged from overstaying their visa to prostitution. There was a large room, similar to a living room, with carpets and a television. There were bedrooms connected to this room. The bedrooms had bunkbeds with bedding and wool comforters that were much more accomodating than I expected. The occupants of each room were determined by where they were from. I did not fit into the Indonesian room, the Filipino room or the Ethiopian room, so I went to the Arab room. I got to know the women there and once in a while one would start crying. I was getting panic attacks. I was 16 years old and could not understand why sitting at a Starbucks was so wrong! I had called the American embassy, but they were unable to help me as I had broken a local law. I was interrogated by these religious men and told them I that I honestly did not see what was wrong.
As I cried myself to sleep, I heard the jailer call my name. My father, the one person I already did not get along with, had come to pick me up. I was not booked or officially charged. I had only been held a few hours. Mustafa had been held three days; but then again, he was Syrian and I was American.
(Many Saudi Arabians dislike other Arabs, especially those of the Levantine area.)
Lesson Learned: Respect the laws of the country you reside in. The consequences are rarely worth it. Do not underestimate the law.
6.18.2011
Chapter 5: Moving to Saudi Arabia
After a while, my parents decided that they wanted to move to an even more Muslim-ruled country. They were trying to move to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. They were having a difficult time because my father did not have a college degree, and that is generally required in order to get a working visa. My mother, with a Bachelor's in psychology, ended up getting the working visa as our primary with my father, siblings and I under her. She was to be an elementary English teacher. I remember that when she got the good news her visa was approved, she cried out of joy. I cried out of disappointment. Things were already bad for us, why move to a country where men rule?
We arrived in Riyadh. We stayed at a hotel (or furnished apartments as they call it) which had bedrooms, kitchen and two living rooms. My father ended up being able to get a job at the same school as my mother and they both began orientation. They then moved us from the hotel into our new home: a small, dirty apartment with broken furniture and bars on the windows (which is normal for windows in Saudi) and peeling wall paper on the windows and balcony doors instead of curtains. The place was infested with cockroaches. We had no washer and dryer. We were told it would be temporary-but we were there for a whole year or more. We tried to make it as much of a home as possible, but with boxes and suitcases still unpacked, it was difficult to not feel that it was temporary. It was a misery for some of us.
Lesson Learned: Watch out for warning signs! If you are having a difficult time in getting something done, maybe God does not want it for you.
We arrived in Riyadh. We stayed at a hotel (or furnished apartments as they call it) which had bedrooms, kitchen and two living rooms. My father ended up being able to get a job at the same school as my mother and they both began orientation. They then moved us from the hotel into our new home: a small, dirty apartment with broken furniture and bars on the windows (which is normal for windows in Saudi) and peeling wall paper on the windows and balcony doors instead of curtains. The place was infested with cockroaches. We had no washer and dryer. We were told it would be temporary-but we were there for a whole year or more. We tried to make it as much of a home as possible, but with boxes and suitcases still unpacked, it was difficult to not feel that it was temporary. It was a misery for some of us.
Lesson Learned: Watch out for warning signs! If you are having a difficult time in getting something done, maybe God does not want it for you.
Chapter 4: A Difficult Time
Now, my father was gone every other day. He changed it to every two days where he would stay here for two, and stay at Maha's for two. My mother, sister and I began to dislike his presence so much that we kind of liked when he was gone. We could breathe.
At our apartment, our lease was ending, and our landlord was trying to raise our rent. My parents wanted to move, but every time my father went to "look for an apartment" that was in our price range and in the same area, he came back and said there was nothing at all. He wanted us to move near his new wife so he wouldn't have to travel as much. Shocked at how he would uproot his first family to accommodate his new wife, I took my brother, who was four, and walked for hours around the town looking for an apartment. As doormen of buildings looked strangely at me and quietly commented on how this was men's work and that a woman should not be walking around searching for a house, I found one right down the street from our current home. It was in our price range, and furnished. It was across the street from the mosque my father supposedly prayed at. Had he even been looking for a place when he said he was?
At this point, I was getting tired of doing all this work he should have been. I was the only one fluent in Egyptian Arabic and I was relied on heavily by my mother; however there were things a fifteen year old girl should not have to deal with. I remember a time on the weekend when my father woke my sister and I up and ordered us to go pay the phone bill. As I got dressed in my Isdaal (a long dress from head to do, which made it unnecessary to wear a Hijab since my head was covered) and Niqab, I wondered what my father was doing that made him too busy to walk to the telephone company to pay the bill. I saw him sitting on the balcony reading books. I walked with my sister to the telephone company, even hotter than my father would have been as we were completely covered. I waited in the line of men at the telephone company not understanding why I had to do this. I felt weird. This was not a female's chore. This was not even a child's chore.
Lesson Learned: Do not blindfollow. Raise your children to love God and understand him, not to just follow laws and have them deal with it. You will end up raising a hypocrite. If you truly love your child, you want them to be a true believer in their heart. Show them the love of good, and show them your love.
Lesson Learned: Do not blindfollow. Raise your children to love God and understand him, not to just follow laws and have them deal with it. You will end up raising a hypocrite. If you truly love your child, you want them to be a true believer in their heart. Show them the love of good, and show them your love.
Chapter 3: The 2nd Wife
My father has always wanted a second wife, ever since he became Muslim. My mother had went through the agony several times before this time in Egypt, but it seems it was now real. My father met his second wife through a terrible situation that was extremely disturbing to many.
My father's American Muslim friend, Mahmood, was looking to get married to an Egyptian woman. My father, supposedly a good friend, accompanied Mahmood to meet prospective wives and their Mahaarim (plural of Mahram, which is a male relative that a woman cannot marry and who usually accompanies her on travels and approves who she can marry). One day, they met a woman in a distant city so Mahmood could meet her and talk to her. This woman, Maha, had taken my father's phone number as well, as he was also involved in the marriage. One day, Maha calls my dad with the reasoning that she is calling to ask about Mahmood and get more information about him from a third person view. They talked, and talked. They talked for hours and she called again the next day. She called often and they talked for hours, sometimes past midnight. This was utterly offensive to my mother and us as his children, at it was even more excruciating as he spoke in Arabic with Maha, which my mother did not speak.
The conversations went from Mahmood and his manners, to what books they are reading. My father and Maha progressed to meet to "exchange Islamic books." After the hours of talking and meeting, they decided to marry and Mahmood was out of the picture.
This time was a very difficult time of seeing my father gone a lot, to my dear mother crying often. It was one of the worst times of our lives.
Lesson Learned: The devil can use good things like God's laws to make you do bad things. This is one of the most deceitful methods of Satan. When he uses a good thing, it is more difficult to sense the evil in it and it ends up twisting into something very wrong. Beware!
Lesson Learned: The devil can use good things like God's laws to make you do bad things. This is one of the most deceitful methods of Satan. When he uses a good thing, it is more difficult to sense the evil in it and it ends up twisting into something very wrong. Beware!
Chapter 2: Cairo, Egypt
In moving to Egypt, my parents had specific ideas on how they wanted our family to live. We slept and ate on the floor. We had no television and no computer. We lived on top of a mosque, where the call to prayer always sounded loudly. My sister and I went everyday to the mosque downstairs to memorize the Qur'an. We later completed our registration at Al-Azhar University and we traveled many miles everyday to study Classical Arabic and religion. Soon, it was becoming too tiresome to walk for 15 minutes to get a taxi, and then sit in the taxi for 30 minutes or more, and reversing the process coming back home. We later moved closer to the University and closer to where more American Muslims resided.
Soon, my sister and I also had an Arabic tutor who focused more deeply on Classical Arabic and the grammar. We were well on our way to fluency in Classical Arabic and Egyptian Arabic. While in our new home, I reached puberty at the age of 11. I was now required by my father to cover my face, and not only my hair as I had been since I was 8 years old. I wore a long Hijab (hair cover), a Niqab (face cover) with my eyes showing and Abaya (long, long sleeved dress) of different solid colors. My sister started wearing Niqab, or covering her face, shortly after me at the age of 9.
We moved around a few times and continued to study Arabic and religion. My father then made the decisions that we should only wear black, cover our eyes too with a netting or sheer fabric and wear gloves. We did what we were told to do, no matter how dissatisfied we were of it.
Soon, we were experiencing a different vibe in the household and discovered my father was looking for another wife. Here we go...
Soon, my sister and I also had an Arabic tutor who focused more deeply on Classical Arabic and the grammar. We were well on our way to fluency in Classical Arabic and Egyptian Arabic. While in our new home, I reached puberty at the age of 11. I was now required by my father to cover my face, and not only my hair as I had been since I was 8 years old. I wore a long Hijab (hair cover), a Niqab (face cover) with my eyes showing and Abaya (long, long sleeved dress) of different solid colors. My sister started wearing Niqab, or covering her face, shortly after me at the age of 9.
We moved around a few times and continued to study Arabic and religion. My father then made the decisions that we should only wear black, cover our eyes too with a netting or sheer fabric and wear gloves. We did what we were told to do, no matter how dissatisfied we were of it.
Soon, we were experiencing a different vibe in the household and discovered my father was looking for another wife. Here we go...
Chapter 1: Who I am
I will not reveal my name here, but throughout the blogs, I will refer to myself as 'Nea.' I am under 25 years old. I have been back in the States for a little over two years now.
To begin, I am the daughter of an American father and Filipina-born American mother. They were born Catholic, and went to Catholic school. They met when my father was a supposed Skin Head and my mother was a Goth. They married and my father joined the U.S. Army. I was born a few years later, and a few months later my father became a Muslim. From that day on, and after my sister was born a couple years later, we were raised partly Muslim and partly not. We went to a private Muslim school in the suburbs of Chicago, but also celebrated Christmas with my Catholic family; however, when I was about six, my mother also became Muslim. At the time, I was jumping for joy, for at that moment all of my family was the same.
(Many Christians are in disbelief when they hear my mother became Muslim. I overheard her telling friends and family that she never understood the Trinity, Jesus drying for our sins, and what the use of Confessions were, which applied to her since she was Catholic. I will later explain how I took these areas of confusion and made sense out of them. The Trinity and Jesus dying for our sins were the two principles that led me to leave Islam and believe whole-heartedly in them.)
As my sister and I grew older, my parents felt the need to move to a Muslim country so we could grow up within an Islamic atmosphere. We packed up everything we knew, sold our condo, and said goodbye to all of our family and friends. We were headed to Cairo, Egypt.
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