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!
