When Muslim Marriages Fail - Divorce Chronicles and Commentaries 2010025166, 9781590080641

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Divorce Chronicles and Commentaries

0

FOREWORD BY

MOHAMED RIDA BESHIR

amana publications

r

r

hen Muslim Marriage Fails

Divorce Chronicles and Commentaries

Suzy Ismail

FOREWORD BY MOHAMED RIDA BESHIR

amana publications

First Edition (1431AH/2010AC)

©Copyright 1431 Al 1/2010 AC amana publications 10710 Tucker Street Beltsville, Maryland 20705-2223 USA Tel: (301) 595-5999 / Fax: (301) 595-5888 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.amana-publications.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ismail, Suzy. When Muslim marriage fails : Islamic chronicles and commentaries I Suzy Ismail ; foreword by Mohamed Rida Beshir. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-59008-064-1 (alk. paper) 1. Marriage—Religious aspects—Islam. 2. Divorce—Religious aspects—Islam. I. Beshir, Mohamed Rida. II. Tide. HQ525.I8I835 2010 297.5’63-dc22

2010025166

Printed in the United States

of

International Graphics 10710 Tucker Street, Beltsville, Maryland 20705-2223 Tel: (301) 595-5999 Fax: (301) 595-5888

Website: igprinting.com

America

Table of Contents FOREWORD by Dr. Mohamed Rida Beshir

Introduction

viii

Abuse and Power Struggle 1 Her Story ..................... 2 His Story ..................... 15 Commentary by Salma Elkadi Abugideiri ... 21

Unfaithful 25 Her Story ............................................ His Story................................................. Commentary by Faraz Khan ........... Commentary by Dr. Shadee Elmasry Culture Clash 53 Her Story His Story Commentary by Amro Mosaad

Embers to Ashes 75 Her Story His Story Commentary by Dr. Ibrahim Buker

Stress

26 37 45 49

54 64 70

76 86 96

101 Her Story........................................ His Story .................................... Commentary by Sumaiya Beshir

Final Reflections

102

112 121

125

»___

Foreword Dr. Mohamed Rida Beshir'

t a time when divorce rates among non-Muslims and Muslims alike are sadly soaring, it is high time for a book of this nature. In this book, author Suzy Ismail tackles a taboo

issue with a transparency and forthrightness that must be commended. For it is only by having an open, honest conversation about divorce that we can truly get to the bottom of this mounting trend. Instead of sweep­ ing an embarrassing issue under the proverbial rug, Ismail finds a creative

and original way of addressing this topic and pinpointing the themes that seem to come up again and again in divorce cases. She presents us with

five well-written narratives that deal with the most common factors contributing to divorce among Muslim couples. Though the characters and settings may be fictional, the problems are most definitely real. Every

story is written twice, from the husband’s perspective and from the wife’s perspective. This in itself is an important reminder that we as Muslims

must never pass judgment on an issue without first hearing both sides of the story. No matter how obvious the matter may seem, there is always

another side to the story.1 Interestingly enough, the two accounts detailed are sometimes so different that you might find yourself wondering if the two characters are really telling the same story. This dichotomy of expe­

riences between the husband and wife highlights a critical point, namely, the importance of communication in a marriage. Undoubtedly, the common thread that laced all the stories in this book is a stark lack of communication between the spouses. They failed

to communicate well before the marriage, and they failed to communi­

cate well during the marriage. To exacerbate the problem of lack of communication, the couples in these stories often entered their lives 1 See explanation of v21-v26 of Surah Sad, chapter 38

v

Foreword Dr. Mohamed Rida Beshir ’

t a time when divorce rates among non-Muslims and Muslims alike are sadly soaring, it is high time for a book of this nature. In this book, author Suzy Ismail tackles a taboo issue with a transparency and forthrightness that must be commended.

For it is only by having an open, honest conversation about divorce that we can truly get to the bottom of this mounting trend. Instead of sweep­ ing an embarrassing issue under the proverbial rug, Ismail finds a creative

and original way of addressing this topic and pinpointing the themes that seem to come up again and again in divorce cases. She presents us with five well-written narratives that deal with the most common factors

contributing to divorce among Muslim couples. Though the characters and settings may be fictional, the problems are most definitely real. Every

story is written twice, from the husbands perspective and from the wife’s

perspective. This in itself is an important reminder that we as Muslims must never pass judgment on an issue without first hearing both sides of

the story. No matter how obvious the matter may seem, there is always

another side to the story.1 Interestingly enough, the two accounts detailed are sometimes so different that you might find yourself wondering if the

two characters are really telling the same story. This dichotomy of expe­ riences between the husband and wife highlights a critical point, namely,

the importance of communication in a marriage. Undoubtedly, the common thread that laced all the stories in this

book is a stark lack of communication between the spouses. They failed

to communicate well before the marriage, and they failed to communi­ cate well during the marriage. To exacerbate the problem of lack of communication, the couples in these stories often entered their lives 1 See explanation of v21-v26 of Surah Sad, chapter 38

v

When Muslim Marriage Falls

together with two very different expectations of marriage, and unfortu­

nately, never shared their expectations with one another. In the rare

instances where communication did occur, it happened so ineffectively and in such an abrasive manner that it left the spouses feeling a great deal of resentment toward each other, resentment that festered in their hearts

and ate away at their shaky marriages until they could take it no longer.

As a matter of fact, in most cases, the couple completely contradicted the

golden Quranic rule of communication that we always have to try to say “ those words that are the best.

Another problem that plagued all of the couples in this book was choos­ ing a marriage partner for all the wrong reasons. Without exception, the

couples failed to follow the valuable advice of the Prophet, peace be upon him, on the criteria for spousal selection. In fact, they seemed to do the exact

opposite and marry for beauty, wealth, family status (and even for a green card). They also failed to educate themselves on the rights, roles and duties of each spouse in Islam—clear-cut guidance from Allah, (SWT), that takes

all the guess work out of assigning roles and dividing responsibilities. Underscoring all of the problems faced by the couples in this book is

a general lack of Islamic knowledge. More often than not, characters seem to confuse religious injunctions with cultural customs and then striedy apply their cultures traditions as the law of the land. This is a

recipe for disaster, as unless the couple shares some sort of common belief

system, then every situation big or small has the potential to turn into a

crisis. To acquire this common belief system they must educate them­ selves about Islam. We are so fortunate to have a religion that teaches us

the intricate ins and outs of marriage through the example of the Prophet, (PBUH), with his wives and through the verses of the holy Qur’an.

Choosing to ignore this advice by failing to educate ourselves on marriage in Islam is akin to asking for a troubled marriage. 2 See Qur’an chapter 17, verse 53 vi

Io reword

It is my hope that this valuable book will be the first of many engag­ ing the Muslim community in a candid discussion on this sensitive sub­ ject. May Allah, (SWT), reward the author greatly for taking this initia­ tive and pioneering this important work. These powerful stories are an essential contribution to the literature on family health in North America

and have the potential to save many marriages from going down the heartbreaking path of a crumbling union.

It can be difficult to dissect a

marriage gone wrong and analyze it for answers, difficult but necessary. The difficulty multiplies if it’s one’s own failed marriage that must be scrutinized. And that is precisely one of the reasons the book at hand is

so valuable, as it allows us to take an in-depth look into other marriages and gain insights that we are often blind to closer to home.

Marriage is an investment, and a work in progress. If you do not

plant the seeds and do the work, you will never reap its fruits. May Allah, (SWT), bless the author for doing the work and taking a good look at the

cold hard truth so that someday soon, insha’Allah, divorce may once again be the exception and not the rule.

' DR. M. RIDA BESHIR is the author ofseveral best-selling family and parenting books

in North America; many of them have been translated into several languages. He is also

the recipient of several awards from die City of Ottawa, Canada for his volunteer services in the area ofeducating families and children of the community. Dr. Beshir is a

regular speaker at many of die conventions and conferences held in North America as well as internationally. vii

Among His proofs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves, in order to have tranquility and contentment with each other, and He placed in your hearts love and care towards your

spouses. In this, there are sufficient proofs for people who think. [30:21 ] > slam prescribes that the completion of half the religion is through

I marriage. Yet, in a perfect religion, the perfect union is not always

-A. the one that is conceived. Unfortunately, the incidence of divorce and separation continues to climb exponentially across the world, and the

Muslim community is not immune to this alarming rate of increase. While many tomes have been written regarding the initiation and sustenance of a

complete Muslim marriage, little has been documented on the marriages that

“just don’t work.” The topic is still considered unmentionable and quite an

embarrassment to the divorcees and their families. However, ignoring the problem, rather than identifying and accepting it, and looking the other way

does not make this difficult predicament go away.

First, an acceptance of the truth that divorce is happening more and more frequently in Muslim communities around the world is direly

viii

Introduction

needed to precede a frank discussion of the topic. Second, only once

an open dialogue is established and individuals begin to understand why

divorce happens can there be any movement towards a solution.

Ultimately, divorce is permissible in Islam; however, it is of the least loved of all permissibility in the religion. With this in mind, one must beg the

question, why then, has divorce become almost routine and often used as a first rather than last resort in our societies? Are the problems that

married couples face today so different from those of years past when divorce occurred at a much more infrequent rate? And why is this

problem of divorce plaguing both young and old couples alike? Finally,

what happens to the couples and the families once divorce is finalized and how can our Muslim marriages be saved?

This book attempts to explore these and other questions regarding the demise of marriage for many Muslims. It presents the stories of five different nameless couples in first-person narrative based on the singular

situations that led to divorce. Both the husband and wife perspectives are shown to gain a better understanding of where each individual feels the

insolvable problems lie. While the stories of many divorced couples were informally gathered for this compilation, the selections piece together the most common denominators that were categorized from the different viewpoints. The first selection showcases the neglectful and abusive partner relationship stemming from an arranged marriage, the second

presents the unfaithful partner relationship between a young couple, the third shows the effects of a broken marriage due to cultural conflict, the

fourth is that of a spark-less marriage of an older couple who’ve grown

apart, and the last selection explores a marriage that ends due to the stress

of finance, family, and day-to-day life. All of the individuals in the stories are nameless and fictional but the

characters themselves are based on a fusion of many different cases and

are meant to represent the generic categories most commonly attributed

Lx

When Muslim Marriage fails

to the end of Muslim marriages. As a previous doctoral student in the field of Communication, and not an expert in Islam, I do not attempt to offer any Islamic jurisprudence or religious interpretation of the case stud­

ies. Instead, the selections here are an attempt to uncover the hidden points of divorce that are so often impervious in our society. Each narra­

tive is followed by a brief commentary to share the observations and viewpoints of different individuals in a range of professions and in

various stages of their familial lives. The purpose of the narratives and subsequent commentary is to stimulate open discussion among commu­ nity members regarding this difficult topic. It is well known that there

should be no embarrassment when it comes to matters of our religion

and it is compulsory that we learn as much as we can about how Muslim

marriages end and the aftermath of divorce. Only when we create an open

discourse about divorce can we work towards finding a solution to address this growing crisis, insha’AJJah.

x

Abuse and Power Struggle

ABUSE

AND

POWER

STRUGGLE

FI er Story IT ALWAYS STARTED THE SAME WAY. Something would just

set him off. Sometimes it would be an involuntary glance from me. Or

maybe the way I responded to a question he asked. Or sometimes it was

the way 1 set the table or the extra pinch of salt I put in the food. It took me years to realize that he didn’t really need a reason to let his anger loose on me. Unfortunately, it was too many years after I left him that I was able to come to this cathartic conclusion and could finally stop blaming

myself for his violent predilections.

I know the tale sounds familiar, he fit the exact profile of the “typical” domestic abuser, whatever that might be, but I didn’t see it. Or

at least, I wouldn’t open my eyes long enough to see it. And when I did feel some inkling of discomfort, that this was not the way true Islamic marriage was meant to be, 1 had to look no further than my own parents’

constant power struggle to reprimand myself and continuously repeat that my marriage was fine and that my husband really was a good guy. I consistently chanted the victim’s mantra that “maybe if 1 change X, Y and

Z, then he’ll love me more, and he’ll stop hitting me.” Thinking back to the time we first met, I can honestly say that he acted the part of the “good guy” perfectly. I was a senior at the state’s

University. Born and raised in the U.S. to devoutly Pakistani parents, I embodied that common blend of South East Asian exterior and some­

what rebellious Muslim American on the inside.

Following some less

than ideal teenage years, I really found my niche in college and quickly

meshed with the large community of “others” just like me. I saw myself mirrored in my countless friends who could balance their external and

internal identities perfectly and with whom I felt utterly at ease. Although I’d been raised by parents who held very closely to Pakistani 2

Abuse and Power Struggle. Her Story

customs, I did not really discover the true beauty of my religion until I

entered the university. It was there that I began to explore the intricacies of Islam and to gain a better understanding of the elevated status of

woman by talcing courses such as “Women in Islam,” taught, interesting­

ly enough, by almost all non-Muslims. My own desire to learn more led me to continuous exploration as many of my parents’ cherished customs were added to my growing checklist of not-so-Islamic-but-oh-so-ethnic traditions. At the tippy top of my list was “arranged marriages.”

As my graduation date quickly approached, the topic of marriage seemed to loom over me like a didactic shadow that I just could not

escape. I had majored in political science in college without an honest clue of what I wanted to actually “do” in ‘real’ life. From when I was lit­

tle more than a somewhat verbal toddler, my parents had indoctrinated me into the school of thought that marriage was for good Muslim girls, and glorious careers in medicine, engineering, or pharmacy were reserved for each of my three older brothers. The double standard never really

bothered me as I was growing up. I always figured that I would marry a doctor, like my father, or some other science type who would whisk me

away to my 3,500 square foot suburban mini-mansion where I could cook biryani in my granite counter- topped kitchen and fry perfect little

samosas on my stainless steel range. I would spend my imagined halcy­ on days entertaining numerous friends who were, of course, the wives of

other doctors, and raising my two kids, (I already had their names and hobbies picked out for them by the time I was twelve), in a way that was

much more liberating than the ways of my own parents. So, it was with a shocking jolt that my little bubble-world popped of

its own volition when I first entered the realm of university. My parents allowed me to attend college with the idea that the “finishing school”

would increase my chances of becoming more refined and more likely to snag a good marriage. While they were not completely opposed to my 3

When Muslim Marriage Fails

intermingling with all different types of friends, they were not as liberal

as other parents of our ethnicity who really let their girls ‘hang loose’.

Interestingly enough, once word got out in our tightly-knit commu­

nity of some of the shenanigans that many of these girls were up to at col­ lege, most of their parents promptly whisked them off to Pakistan, mar­

ried them to the children of friends of friends and brought the girls back

home with broken spirits and reams of incomplete immigration paper

work to unite them with their overseas husbands as quickly as possible. Some of these girls returned to college with a renewed sense of purpose and a much more Islamic outlook. Many looked like dutiful wives com­

pleting their degrees with dreamy looks on their faces as they pined for the doctor or engineer that they had met and wed little more than a few weeks earlier. Still others had a more determined and defiant look about

them as if they could escape the trap their parents had set up for them. Invariably, the determined ones seemed to retreat in silent defeat once

they realized that their marriages really were a done deal.

Amidst this flurry of week-long marriage celebrations of friends and

acquaintances, my parents began to feel the pressure of constant ques­ tions, “Oh, when is your daughter getting married?

Ours is already

engaged to so and so from this and that family and she is two years

younger than your daughter,” followed by proud responses such as, “Yes,

of course he is a doctor! We wouldn’t think of having her marry beneath us,” and the classic, “You know they say a girl is like a rose. She reaches her full bloom only once and if she is not snatched up at the right time,

she will wither up and die.” As if these inane comments weren’t enough

to make me want to die on the spot! It was around this same time that I began to develop a horrible infe­

riority complex. While I had never regarded myself as a great beauty, I thought that I did passably well with my physical features. I didn’t wear

hijab (Muslim womens head covering); although I had toyed with the

4

Abuse and Power Struggle. Her Story

idea many times since several of my closest friends had begun to wear the

traditional Islamic attire shortly after we entered the university. I opted, instead, to wear a constant dupatta (long and narrow scarf) around my chest and to dress very modestly to fit the Islamic injunctions that my

parents had somehow instilled in me.

With all the wedding festivities that were taking place over the span of a

few months, I had started packing on the pounds all over, probably from the excessive eating at all the parties. 1 was also beginning to develop a serious case of acne, possibly from constant make-up application at these tiresome and

dragged-out events. My physical downslide really began to wreak havoc with my own quickly declining self-esteem. I began to question whether or not I

would ever get married as proposal after proposal poured out towards my

younger and more confident friends by numerous aunties trying to secure young brides for their sons, brothers, nephews and other distant relatives. Despair began to settle in and the contagious nature of despondency caught

on quickly to my parents. Although I was only twenty-one at the time, barely legal by the

States’ standards, I was already considered an old maid in the eyes of my

community. My parents were terrified that they had waited too long, or that they had been too passive in securing a good marriage for me, and that my

marriage ship had sailed. The thought of being stuck with me forever, an

aged and slightly overweight spinster, was terrifying to my parents as their status in the community greatly depended on the successful unions of their children. Without giving it much thought, my parents whisked me away

to Pakistan, where I hadn’t gone for many years and prompdy began their active search for a suitable husband.

The process didn’t really take that long. An American visa could trump looks and age any day of the week. And being a full American citizen was just the icing on the cake. I was a hot commodity in this country and arrang­

ing a suitable marriage took little less than a week. Less time, probably, than

5

When Muslim Marriage Fails

it would have taken me to finish reading one of my favorite romance novels.

Swept away by the extensive family attention I was getting, I heard all about my suitor through different family members, but was not permit­

ted to meet him until the day of our engagement. To be honest, though,

I did get a slight peek when my little cousin snuck into the sitting room

where my future husband was quietly sipping his heavily sweetened chai (Indian-spiced milk tea) a few days before our scheduled engagement, and

strategically positioned a small mirror on the opposite table so that I could catch a quick glimpse from the back room where I was confined.

Unfortunately, the mirror was tilted too much to the side and all I could really see were two sturdy-looking, doctor-like hands holding the china

cup and saucer in what seemed to me a very European and sophisticated way. In that second, I was completely smitten, as my suburbia dream

quickly reconstructed itself from the previously scattered ashes. We were married on a Thursday, I remember. A day that was unseason­ ably cold and gloomy in Pakistan, which, in retrospect of course, was a sign

of impending doom that I probably should not have ignored. Family filled

the rented hall and streets of my parents’ village. Family members that I’d never even seen before celebrated around me as I sat shyly with my head bent low beneath the weight of the ostentatious bridal ensemble 1 had to wear. Even though I wouldn’t dare to mention it to my parents, the nice frilly

Cinderella-like white dress was more often than not what I envisioned in my perfect marriage dream instead of the traditional heavily embroidered

wedding gear that I was actually wearing. As I mentally traced the intricate lines of henna that adorned my hands, I tried to sneak a glance at the stranger next to me who was to become my consummate husband in just a few short

days of seemingly endless festivities.

I was pleasandy surprised by what I saw out of the corner of my eye. My future husband was not a bad-looking fellow. Quite tall and lean, he seemed clean-shaven, well-groomed, and attractive in a kind of creepy oh-I-might-be-

6

Abuse and Power Struggle; Her Story

at-least-fifteen-years-older-than-you kind of way. I half-shrugged my shoul­

ders and quicldy dismissed the age factor as I diought of how the noble

Prophet Muhammed (PBUH) had married the honorable Khadija when he

was just 25 years old and she was already 40 and they had a blissful marriage

for 25 years. While I wouldn’t describe the next few days of my married life as

“blissful,” they were somewhat pleasant in an awkward way. My physician husband was actually thirteen years older than me with more gray hairs

than I would have expected in a 34 year old. The villagers all felt that I’d made quite a catch with this marriage. He spoke tolerable British English with a heavy Urdu accent, just as I spoke tolerable Urdu with a heavy American English accent. I figured we would get by somehow once we settled into a routine. Our so-called-honeymoon in the hills of Pakistan

only lasted a few short days because I needed to return to complete my exams and begin the paper-work process that would allow my husband to join me in the States. I remember standing awkwardly in the airport not

sure whether I should shake the hand of my new life partner or embrace him in an Audrey Hepburn-type move. Luckily I didn’t have time to do

either, as he quicldy moved in with a quick peck to my forehead and then enthusiastically hugged each of my parents with more fervor than I’d seen him display in our most intimate moments. During that pre-September 11th era, immigration paper work for

married couples took little more than a few months. Before I knew it,

I had completed my exams, graduated with Highest Honors and a Bachelor’s degree from the university and was ready to move in with my newly arrived husband. Back then, I naively had no doubt that my

suburban dreams of glory were all about to materialize and come true.

1 had rented an apartment for us prior to his arrival with the inten­ tion of securing a temporary abode before moving into my permanent

dream home. Since his parents were both deceased, I didn’t have to worry

7

r

When Muslim Marriage bails

about having my in-laws move in with me as tradition often dictates. For

this small favor, 1 was quite thankful. The apartment was in a run-down neighborhood since 1 needed to use what little money my doctor­ husband sent me to pay for the month-and-a-half of rent and the deposit.

My parents generously offered to pay for half of all the furniture in the apartment, which also meant that they pretty much had all the say in our

selection. Considering they had just paid an arm and a leg for my wed­ ding, I definitely appreciated the help. My part-time position as a bank teller really wasn’t raking in the cash and my husband’s “start-up money”

was quickly becoming scarce. It was a clear day in late July when I drove with my parents and my

three brothers to the airport to pick up my husband. If I thought my first

airport encounter with him was awkward, little did I know just how awk­

ward my second encounter would be. I barely recognized the man that

came off the early morning plane. His clothes were disheveled, his full beard looked badly in need of a trim, and he had a terribly clingy odor about him that could only be described as distinctly unpleasant. Where

exacdy had the dapper groom of my wedding days gone? I tried to put my repulsion behind me as my parents gently nudged

me towards him. Again, not sure what to do with myself, I leaned forward expecting some sort of embrace. This time, a slight pat on the shoulder was all I was rewarded with as my parents again received an

enthusiastic reunion. The long drive home from the airport was filled with great discussions between my parents and their new son-in-law as I

sat sullenly in the backseat trying hard not to inhale the pungent odor. That first night passed like many others as a blur of strangeness. As

we sat across from each other on the puke green couches that my parents had chosen, I found that I literally had nothing to say to this absolute

stranger.

I remember suggesting that I could show him where the

shower was, with what I hoped was somewhat concealed eagerness.

8

Abuse and Power St niggle: Her Story

Unfortunately, I think his interpretation of my broken Urdu was completely misunderstood as I suddenly found myself pinned beneath

him, gasping for clean air, for a total of three minutes as his passion was utterly spent. Only then did he stand up and silendy walk over to the shower. I was a

little confused by the interaction, which seemed nothing like what I’d read

about in novels or glimpsed in fast-forwarded scenes of rented teeny-bopper

movies. However, I attributed the strangeness to the novelty of our situation and thought to get up and put together some food that we could enjoy

together. Assuming that he was tired of the typical food in Pakistan, I had decided to assemble a veritable American feast that we could enjoy together

on our first night in our temporary home. Within moments of entering the

shower, he was back again with the same smell, fainter, but still clinging to his person. I really had to hold back die gagging instinct. That night, my roasted turkey and vegetable lasagna dinner did not go over too well. One look at the food I’d taken all day to prepare, had him

actually heaving in the bathroom. I went to Plan B, and fried up some

samosas (traditional meat or potato pies) instead. Being the frozen kind, though, they also didn’t seem to appeal to his sensibilities. I felt like I was

reenacting some cave-day drama as he pushed his food away and pointed at his feet, which he apparendy needed massaged. I knew this wasn’t right. I

felt with every fiber of my being, that we weren’t heading down the path of a true marriage in Islam, but I felt powerless to do anything about it. The first month of our consummated marriage passed in a blur of

drearily similar days. My husband’s hygiene was truly lacking, and our

conversations existed of my one-sided false chatter and his intermittent grunts and occasional rolling of his eyes. A month passed and my

husband was finding it difficult to have his medical degree accepted in the United States. Apparently, there were tests he had to take again and

fellowships and residencies that he had to complete before he could

9

When Muslim Marriage Kails

become a bona-fide certified and practicing physician in this country. In

the meantime, one of us had to work to support our needs.

While I could have continued earning my meager wages at the bank, my husband wouldn’t hear of it. He decided to take a position working

as a busboy in a local deli. Embarrassed by his work position, my

husband slowly began to withdraw from our society. Soon enough, he was also forbidding me to see my friends and even to go out without him. The only time we had any socialization was with my parents with whom

he acted the part of completely devout and dutiful son-in-law. Little did they know that our home was like a gloomy prison. Even when I would

turn on the Qur’an CD to lift the shadows, my husband would run over and turn it off, citing a horrible headache. Prayer followed similar suit

as he no longer woke up for fajr (dawn prayer) or even tried to pray any other saJah (payer) during the day.

The first time he hit me, we had been married for exacdy three months. Finances were tight as usual, but I had decided to splurge a little with some

birthday money one of my brothers had given me. I had gone out earlier in the day and bought myself a pretty new top. I guess it was somewhat selfish of me to spend money on myself when the household could have used it.

But, I felt like I had been living in such despondency since marriage, that a litde pick-me-up seemed well-deserved. He came home late as usual that night, but I greeted him at the door with

my new top and what I thought was a dazzling smile. He barely noticed me

as he walked in, sat on the couch, and waited for me to begin the nighdy

routine of removing his shoes and socks and washing his feet in a basin of warm water. I’d grown accustomed to his scent and even wondered if I now

carried that same odor along with me everywhere I went. As I leaned over the

basin, I hoped he would notice me and throw me any sort of compliment

to ease the emptiness that I felt was taking over my life. Of course, he didn’t. He walked over to the table without making

10

Abuse and Power Struggle: Her Story

wudu (ablution) or catching up on his prayers, and waited to be served.

While 1 was really trying to please him with my cooking these past few

months, I had realized that the culinary arts didn’t really come to me as

easily as I had hoped. I’m not sure what started the chain of events exact­ ly, but I think my new shirt, my bad cooking, our stinky apartment and

so many other frustrations just suddenly burst out. 1 put my hand on his shoulder and began to tell him about my trip

to the mall and the new blouse. I think 1 probably threw in a few com­ plaints as well about our lack of money, my virtual imprisonment, and my hatred of our apartment and shabby surroundings. I didn’t really see

his fist coming at me. I think I felt the impact before I actually saw the

hand connecting with my jaw. The shattering sound still sickens me every time 1 think of the utter shock that washed over me at that

moment. As my hands instinctively went up to cover my face, the fists kept coming, on my arms, my legs, my chest and my stomach... over and over and over the pain hurled at me incessantly.

1 still remember how neither my tears nor my muffled shouts stopped the assault. It wasn’t until my vomit launched onto his face in a myriad of colors

that he finally came to his senses. He carried my mangled body towards the shower and bathed me with a tenderness I had never seen from him. All the

while he apologized and cried about what he had done. I obviously forgave him. I kept thinking that maybe I was to blame somehow for setting him

off. As my stubborn bruises refused to heal, he asked me to avoid my parents

for awhile.

He showed such remorse that I couldn’t refuse. After all, I

figured, we all made mistakes. He bought me flowers and chocolate for three

days after the incident, and I finally felt loved. We had more conversations and intimate moments during the week that followed the “episode” than

during the previous three months that we had lived together. Another quiet month passed and my bruises all healed. I had begun

11

When Muslim Marriage bails

to wear hijab (Muslim head-covering) because he had asked me to. His growing paranoia of other people looking at me, HIS wife, or talking to

me kept increasing. I grew apart from my parents and my few remaining friends in order to please him. I wanted to hold on to the tenderness he showed me in the wake of his beating and I wanted to make him happy. Barely two months had passed when the next beating occurred. This time

he was careful not to hit my face. He pulled my hair from the roots and tore my clothes apart with a violent fury 1 never would have imagined from my sullen husband. I suffered a slight concussion from the wall he

slammed me into. He loved me again afterwards and apologized over and

over with flowers and chocolates for another week. I had read all the stories about abusers and their victims, but I could­

n’t classify myself with that brand of, what seemed to me like, ‘lower-class’ wives. I was a Muslim from a prominent middle-class family. My hus­

band wasn’t abusing me. He loved me and didn’t mean to lose his tem­ per. The excuses I made kept coming as the periodic beatings increased

in frequency and intensity. For nearly three years, I hid behind the closed doors of our ram­

shackle apartment. 1 had long ago broken ties with my parents and all members of our once tightly-knit community. I devised arguments and reasons why I shouldn’t associate with anyone and always, always made

excuses for my “loving” husband. The house was always spotless, my

cooking was definitely improving, and I did nothing but try to answer to his every beck and call. Yet, somehow, I never seemed to get it right or to

do things in a way that was good enough for him. It was a few weeks after our second anniversary, which I’d celebrated

with another beating for going to the supermarket without him to buy

some fresh apples that I’d been craving. I had been feeling out of sorts lately and was vomiting early in the mornings rather than just after a beating, so I thought I might be coming down with something. I asked

12

Abuse and Power Struggle Her Story

my husband to take me to the doctor, which he grudgingly did, after

rehearsing with me explanations for every bruise on my battered body. At

the clinic, the doctor barely glanced at me, listened to my complaints, took a blood test and promptly declared me pregnant.

A mixture of emotions washed over me at that point, elation and fear being the two most prominent. I wished more than anything to call my

mother or an old friend and share the news, but I knew that I had purposely made damaging rifts between us that a phone call would never

fix. My husband was elated. He already chose a name for his son and began to talk about how everything in our life would change. I listlessly nodded in agreement.

My pregnancy was uneventful except for my husband’s restraint on his temper. I tried hard not to anger him, and he tried hard not to raise

his hand against me. I began to feel a growing love for this creature inside

of me and a greater security and belief that maybe life would get better. I guess the months of false serenity built in me an unfounded boldness

that I’d thought I’d given up years ago. We were quietly eating dinner one

night and I was rubbing my growing belly. I was about seven months along in my pregnancy and I’d shared the news with no one of conse­

quence, other than my husband. My thoughts often turned back to my parents and I secretly harbored the hope that the baby might be a girl

so I could name her after my mother, who I no longer spoke to. I motioned to my husband to place his hand on my belly to feel the baby kicking. He did so and gleefully shouted, “My son, my son! He’ll

be a strong one, just like his father.” Suddenly, something inside of me snapped. I didn’t want a child who would be “strong” like his father. I didn’t want a child who could be capa­

ble of the violence his father had rained down on me. I shoved his hand away and shouted, “No! My baby is a girl. She won’t have your horrible

temper or your mean ways. My baby is a girl.”

13

When Muslim Marriage Fails

That was all it took to fling me into oblivion. 1 vaguely remember the

sound of shattering glass as my body pitched against the apartment window. The fists kept slamming into me at diat point and I could feel the warm

trickles of blood running from the gashes in my face and rushing out from between my legs. The neighbors called the ambulance that night, since it was

the first time 1 screamed unabashedly. I lost the baby and almost lost die will to live. In some weird last ditch effort at dejected salvation, my would-

be murderer called my parents and asked them to come to the hospital to see me before the police took him away. Its been ten years since I buried my baby girl. I’ve returned to the folds of my family and just try to take tiny steps forward each day to overcome the hurt and dejection my brief marriage left me with. The

physical scars of abuse and ended marriage may heal, but I don’t think the emotional ones ever really will. I’m still plagued by nightmares of the

beatings and the slightest body odor will often remind me of him. I know I was lucky to be able to leave my marriage with my life still intact. While not all abuse victims endure the same type of cruelty, I do know that

many stay on because they don’t know what else to do or where else to turn. Stripped from identities, family and friends, the ultimate subjuga­ tion is in the emotional dependence the victim develops for the

abuser. I had felt hopeless like that at one time too. I was one of the

blessed ones, though. With constant prayer for deliverance, the cycle I’d

lived through finally came to an end. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to leave him, if it wasn’t for losing my child and not really

having a choice in the matter, I might have believed his apologies and empty promises again. With the guidance of Allah (SWT), I can only

pray that others who find themselves in this situation can find a way

out. For a marriage built on abuse and power struggles is not a Muslim marriage and getting out is really the only way to survive.

14

ABUSE

AND

POWER

STRUGGLE

His Story SHE ALWAYS ACTED LIKE SHE WAS better than me. From the

day we were married, it was as if she was doing me a favor just by sitting

near me. I could tell right away that she was going to have to be kept

in line.

I’ve always liked a challenge, though, and knew that I could

definitely face the challenge of being married to this American. I don’t know why she was so full of herself.

She wasn’t even that

pretty. While completing my residency in Pakistan, I had many more

beautiful nurses who would have paid dearly for the opportunity to wed

me. This girl, on the other hand, could care less for my status and my family name. Everyone in the village, though, told me: she was a catch.

She was my ticket to America where I could really make some money and enjoy life as only a doctor should.

My elderly parents had both passed away and my older brothers encouraged me to marry this girl. They didn’t know that she wasn’t like

their wives; docile and obedient. They didn’t know that she had a bad attitude and turned up her nose and her back on our traditions and soci­

ety. They didn’t know that she was really just a spoiled American brat. I

felt these things about her in the first few days we spent together, but I thought she would outgrow her childishness. I thought that when we closed the door of our home she would know how to act like a good wife.

I also knew that if she didn’t, then a little teaching would go a long way. She was first pointed out to me in the village market as a potential

bride. I didn’t really feel anything towards her at that moment, but the

America hook was a big one. I had been struggling to make ends meet as

a village doctor in the local clinic, and while I had plenty of respect, the money was definitely lacking. Leaving Pakistan and going to work in

Saudi Arabia or in one of the Emirates was an idea that I consistently 15

When Muslim Marriage Fails

toyed with. Now, out of the blue, here was America being offered to me on a silver platter. 1 will admit that 1 initially had some misgivings. There

was another village girl who I had my eyes set on for quite some time. But, for all her beauty, she was a financial dead-end since her parents were

poor and destitute and would probably bring us down to the level of pau­

pers right along with them. So, 1 hesitated. I didn’t immediately jump at the opportunity to marry

this American, but 1 was persuaded to meet with her parents. Upon first meeting them, I noticed that grace and prestige followed them around like a

glowing aura. 1 had never met such well-educated and refined people in our village before. I knew that America had brought this stature to them, and that I too could find myself in such an elevated class.

I came home from my first meeting with them utterly elated. This

was my way out, my escape from a drudging life of hard work and little pay. My eldest sister seemed worried, though, when I told her of my

impressions. She was the romantic of the family and still held out hope

that I would marry the young woman in our village for whom she knew I harbored feelings. The rational side of me clearly won out, though.

Since I cherished my sister and wanted her well-wishes and blessings, I tried to appease her by praying istikharah (prayer prior to decision-mak­

ing) and convincing her that I had a vision that this American was who I should marry. I had little qualms about my ‘white lie’ since I had already

made up my mind and simply meant to ease her worries.

It was during my third visit to her family’s ostentatious vacation home

in the village in Pakistan, that I slightly questioned my decision. I could

hear her loud laughter coming from a room hidden from view and I won­

dered what type of girl would laugh out loud like this when a strange male was in her home. She had sent out a young child to set a mirror before me so that she could probably glance at me without letting her parents know. I made a mental note to quickly correct these poor habits of sly-

16

Abuse and Power Struggle: I lls Story

ness and inappropriate conduct.

Our elaborate wedding passed much like many others. I enjoyed the well-wishes showered upon us as she just sat there in uncomfortable

silence. She seemed wholly out of place and awkward rather than like the

ethereal bride I had expected. Her demeanor simply confirmed for me

that 1 would have quite a bit of rebuilding to do from a socialization standpoint once we settled in. I sent her back to America with a nice sum of money to get things start­ ed for the life we would soon begin together. She took the money in a most

ungracious way. My assumption was that her brothers or father would han­

dle the financial matters, but apparendy she felt she had the right to get involved as well. Because of the great respect and love I’d developed for her

family, I forgave her pushy ways and again thought of how she would defi­ nitely change once we were away from the distractions of family and society.

My papers came soon enough and I was glad to be leaving the village behind me. I distributed most of my belongings among the less fortu­

nate of my family members, put on my comfortable common clothes, and packed my lone suitcase only with essentials. 1 knew that upon arriv­ ing in America I would soon have more than enough resources to buy

whatever I wished. I briefly entertained the idea of purchasing presents

for my new bride and her family, but I thought better of it because I knew anything I got from Pakistan would be ridiculed by the Americans. Surely, their quality must’ve surpassed anything that I could buy.

Of

course, once I made it big in America, there’d be plenty of time and

money for buying presents. The plane ride was ridiculously uncomfortable, being that it was the

first plane ride I’d ever experienced. By the time the long flight was over, I was longing for a wide open place to stretch my legs and I was more than ready to enter my new home. Upon my arrival in the airport, I was

dismayed to see my bride coming towards me in jeans and a casual shirt.

17

When Muslim Marriage Fails

Did she not know the etiquette of welcoming her new husband? She

stood there awkward, as always, unsure of what to do with herself. I greeted her, in a respectful way, and then turned my full attention to her parents. These were the people who truly deserved my affection and

respect.

Upon arriving at our apartment, I considered praying two sunnah

rakahs (Prophetic tradition of prayers) to bless our marriage, but some­ how her sullen expression and the ugliness of our apartment made me lose

sight of the salah (prayer). This was probably where our marriage might have first gone wrong. So far, America and everything in it was much

more desolate than I had ever imagined. The streets were crowded, and

the houses looked like they were falling apart. Our apartment had a hor­

rid stench and my strangely quiet wife was doing nothing to help allevi­ ate my transition. I thought that a little intimacy might set us both at

ease, but I believe it only made things even more strained on that first evening we spent together.

Not only was my wife uncomfortably morose, but she had cooked up the strangest meal imaginable. The mere look of the outlandish concoc­

tions made me vomit horrendously. Apparently cooking and keeping house were two more things I could not count on in my newly married

Life. As I looked around me that first evening, 1 couldn’t help but won­

der, ‘What on earth had this woman squandered all the money I’d given her on?’ The apartment was hideous and situated in a bad neighborhood

and there wasn’t even a decent meal on the table.

I will admit that things in our marriage quickly went from bad to

worse. I could not find a job in my profession anywhere without first having to jump through hoops and over hurdles. While I was struggling

to find financial stability to support my wife and her exorbitant spending

habits, she had the audacity to suggest supplementing my income... as if

I was not man enough to cover expenses myself. I am a doctor for crying

18

Abuse and Power Struggle; His SLory

out loud. The prestige of my profession alone should have been enough

for her to offer some respect. The first time I hit her, I just lost control of my temper. However, I do

believe she dramatized the situation quite a bit. I will honestly say that I did not recognize the strength of my own hand and the fragility of my somewhat chunky wife. While I will agree that the force of my hand may have struck

harder than I intended, I do not believe that the premise of punishment was out of line. When you have a wayward child, you must strike him or her

occasionally to ensure obedience as my father clearly taught his seven chil­

dren. A wife, too, needs to sometimes be reminded of her proper role in the family. Needless to say, my wife behaved in a much more docile manner after I made it clear to her that I would not tolerate her ill manner.

It was unfortunate that she could no longer visit her parents because her repulsive skin retained big marks that should not have been there.

However, it was for the best, because her parents were quickly becoming pompous busybodies who were constantly inquiring about my job search and when I would be taking my medical exams again. Her friends were also a blatantly bad example and influence, and I quickly stepped in and

forbade her from seeing them as well. After all, from an Islamic perspec­ tive I believe that there is nothing wrong with ensuring that my wife only

befriends those who will make her a better person rather than steer her

the wrong way. Since I had yet to meet a person who might be a good influence in this country, I decided she was better off without friends.

I may have hit her a few more times whenever she needed a simple reminder of how to act. I never intended to leave bruises, but her misbe­ havior often warranted a heavier hand. Life in America was nothing like

I had imagined and the downward spiral of our life seemed to be empha­ sized by the woman who brought me to this country. Every time I looked at her, I could not help but think of what could have been had I stayed

in Pakistan or travelled to an Arab country as 1 had initially planned. I

19

When Muslim Marriage 1'ails

often imagined having married the woman I truly should have married

back in Pakistan and simply grew angrier and angrier at this American

woman who made me change my path. In this country, I could no longer even pray because of the time spent at

work and the blatant lack of a muethin (person who calls people to prayer) calling the community to pray. The mosque was miles away and the people there were all snobby, practicing doctors and lawyers who clearly looked down

upon us and ridiculed me behind my back. We chose to live in our secluded misery, both growing more and more discontent with each other. Then, surprisingly, the good news came unexpectedly. I was going to be

a father. I decided that my son would live a much better life than I had and would have the chance to make choices 1 was never given. My horrid wife, unfortunately, decided to take even that one joy away from me as well.

The final beating 1 gave her was one she deserved. 1 was sorry that it sent her to the hospital, but her insolence had reached an unprecedented peak and

I really could not take it any longer. I handed her back to her parents so

they could deal with this ungrateful woman that they had raised. I was glad we lost the baby, because I no longer wanted to have any ties to her. After paying hefty fines, 1 fled this country and returned to my home. I married the woman I was meant to marry all along and am the proud

father of three boys and two girls. Occasionally, I keep my wife and children

in line, but they do nor need such a heavy hand as my vile ex-wife. I am a successfully practicing doctor and a respected member of our village. This is

the life that I deserve. I bear my ex-wife no ill-will and truly wish for her a good life. Our mar­ riage was not meant to be and Allah (SWT) always knows best. If I have hurt her in any way, then I am sorry. But, 1 am sure that 1 am nothing more than

a distant memory for her now and that she is a happily married woman living with someone who can tolerate her unkind ways and knows how to i

keep her in line.

20

Abuse and Power Struggle Commentary by Salma Elkadi Abugideiri ’ "TL j|ruslims can usually identify the core elements that form I V / I the foundation of the marriage (mawaddah — love and JL ▼ JL compassion, and rahmah — mercy), and know that the objective of marriage is for each spouse to find sakeenah (tranquility) in

one another (Qur’an 30:21). The many teachings in both the Qur’an and

the Sunnah (Prophetic traditions) encouraging men to be kind to women (4:19), and illustrating the principles of Islamic leadership through

shurah (mutual consultation)—(42: 37-37), collaboration, respect and

tolerance may also be known in theory. The challenge that many couples face is that they don’t know how to apply these Islamic concepts and how

to reconcile them with contradictory cultural values that promote the

submission of wives to their husbands, the superiority of the husband, and the acceptability of violence as a problem-solving mechanism. Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) not only treated his wives with love and gentleness, he also never used his position of authority (as a prophet,

head of state, or husband) to force any of them to do something against

their will, or to silence them in any way. He was a person who brought

happiness to his home. He was playful, and he shared in the household

responsibilities. When his wives expressed extreme discontent at one

point, he gave them the option to accept his standard of living or to be released from the marriage if they could not be happy. There is absolute­

ly no example for us in the Sunnah of the Prophet (PBUH) being harsh or insulting, and certainly no example of him beating his wives. In fact, he clearly advised women to avoid marrying men he knew to be physical­ ly abusive.

Before the couple in this story ever came together, there were already

some issues that should have been addressed. The young woman was 21

When Muslim Marriage Fails

exhibiting some symptoms of depression (weight gain, low self-esteem,

despair) that needed attention, preferably by a professional who could help her have a healthier outlook and ultimately enough self-worth to get

out of the marriage before the violence escalated to the degree that it did.

Her parents’ anxiety that she might not get married and their desire to conform to cultural expectations blinded them from seeing the risk fac­ tors that were present.

Spending some time talking to each other before deciding to get mar­ ried may have uncovered the husband’s hidden goal of seeing his wife as

a ticket to America, the assumptions that she would be a traditional wife,

the attitudes about wifely submission and his job to “keep her in line,” the unrealistic expectations of life in America as a new immigrant, and

many other issues that ultimately contributed to the chasm between them. With more time to know each other, her fantasies about marriage

may have been revealed, as well as her expectations of a husband who

would adjust to some of the American culture that had become a part of her identity. No time had been given to come to an agreement regarding

finances, respective roles of husband and wife, how to navigate cultural

differences, and even the deceptively superficial but deeply meaningful daily aspects of life like meals and hygiene.

Regarding the violence that occurred in this marriage, there are many lessons to be learned from this story that is more common than most Muslims would like to believe. The couple was at risk due to multiple fac­

tors: lack of proper preparation for marriage, the incredible stress affect­ ing the husband due to his change in social status and lack of ability to

provide for his family, stress related to acculturation, the husband’s even­ tual depression and despair, lack of coping and problem-solving skills,

lack of agreement on gender roles, the wife’s “non-compliance” with her role, the isolation and lack of support and perhaps most important, the

husbands belief that violence was an acceptable and even necessary tool

22

Abuse and Power Struggle: Commentary

to correct problems. His remorse and tenderness after the severe beatings are consistent with the cycle of violence that often (but not always) includes a period of tension-building, the explosive violence incident, and

then the “honeymoon” period. The cycle continues to repeat itself, fre­ quently with the violence increasing in severity each time. In this case, it ended with the murder of a child.

Abusers abuse because they can and because abuse effectively controls

the victims behavior. The attitudes and abusive behaviors are often passed

from generation to generation, as was the case of this husband. Abuse will

only end when we recognize its symptoms and risk factors, and refuse to be silent about it.

'SALMA ELKADI ABUGIDEIRI is Co-Director of die Peaceful Families

Project, an organization dedicated to educating Muslim community leaders

and members about domestic violence. Salma provides educational workshops and develops resources related to domestic violence among Muslims. She is a contributing author to several books and has co-authored a brief guide for helping professionals in Muslim domestic violence situations. In addition, she is associate producer of the video “Garments for One Another: Ending

Domestic Violence in Muslim Families." She is a member of the Interfaith Coalition against Domestic Violence, and serves on Faith Trust Institute's

Leadership team. She is also a licensed professional counselor in private prac­ tice in Reston, VA. She provides individual and family therapy for a wide range of problems, including mood disorders, anxiety disorders, trauma, abuse, and cultural adjustment issues. She has worked extensively with

Middle Eastern and Muslim families.

23

Unfaithful

U N F A I T H F U L

Her Story NO MATTER HOW PREPARED YOU MIGHT think you arc,

nothing can really ever fully prepare you for the true transition from sin­

gle to married. Its still quite a shock to have to go through that absolute

role-changing ceremony. And its an even bigger shock to have to go

through a divorce. While in preparing for the marriage, numerous friends

and families support you and cheer you on, dealing with the divorce part is very lonely. Denial, questions, and finger pointing are usually what

you’ll get from family. And friends, well, that’s an interesting dilemma. Some will pretend to sympathize with your plight while bad-mouthing you behind your back and others will cut you off completely for fear that

you might be eyeing their husband as a potential prospect now as well. As

for the community as a whole, the divorced woman seems to be just one

more forgotten commodity to be lumped into the reject pile. I married my husband straight out of college. Ours was the beauti­

r

ful love story so many naive girls enter college with the hopes of achiev­

ing. We met at the mosque at one of those youth conventions that real­

ly function more like a meat market—1 mean marriage market—for lots of FOB (fresh off the boat) bachelors looking for a quick route to citizen­

ship. We were there for fun, and to gain Islamic knowledge of course, but

mainly for fun... and for the social scene and the interaction. Growing up as the youngest of three sisters, my parents were super-

strict with me and usually needed a full report of every step 1 took and every move I made. And if I didn’t provide the report, they usually had

enough community spies watching me to fill any gaps for them. Islamic

events, conferences, and conventions were the only places they kind of loosened the reigns a little. Looking back at it now, I wish they had con­

tinued their strictness even at that particular convention.

26

f

i

Unfaithful: Her Story

We were both in our second year of college when we met that day.

Dressed to the nines in my hijab and heels, I’d noticed him right away and seriously spent a good part of one particular session walking back and

forth past his seat with my friends in an attempt to get his attention. My friends and 1 definitely knew our limits of interaction with the opposite

gender, but this was as close to flirting as we had ever gotten. I constant­

ly play back that day, and often wish that I could have been smarter about things and just stayed in my seat rather than marketing myself in that way before what would soon become my future fiancee. But, the power of

groupthink is pretty strong among girls and a little part of me wanted to

somehow experience a ‘walk on the wild side,’ so to speak.

Well, the walking and flaunting technique worked all too well, because as soon as the session was over he came up to my group and

immediately began talking to me. I felt incredibly flattered for being sin­

gled out and I mistook this stroke to the ego for the Hollywood “love at first sight” concept I’d only dreamed of experiencing. It turned out we were both the same age (ok, so I was actually a few months older, but we

never really discussed that), in the same year at colleges that were not too

far away from each other, and studying similar fields of science (even though 1 was going into teaching and he was going into engineering).

I could almost hear the absolute “click” that my mind convinced me

was happening between us. By the end of the three day convention, I had met up with him several times between sessions, always with my friends of course, and was convinced that this perfect specimen was going to be

my future husband. We exchanged e-mail addresses and parted ways at

the end of the convention. I couldn’t get him out of my mind over the next few days. I kept

waiting for an online message from him to no avail. At the time, my friends kept telling me to give him my cell phone number, but I prompt­

ly told them that was completely un-Islamic and inappropriate. There’s

27

When Muslim Marriage 1 ails

something about the anonymity of e-mail that makes that type of com­

munication so much more “halal” (Islamically lawful) in my eyes than speaking to a guy on the phone. It didn’t hurt either that my spying par­

ents had no clue how to work the computer, let alone check e-mail, so my communications would be safe from them.

On the other hand, they

often went through my cell phone bill with a fine-tooth comb, even going

as far as calling back the numbers they didn’t recognize. While I was

proud of myself that 1 hadn’t given him my cell number, I was also anx­

ious as to why I hadn’t received an e-mail yet. In the days that followed, I composed a pile of e-mails to him, all saved in my draft folder that I did­ n’t have the courage to send out.

1 started to act like a love-sick teenager in front of my friends who

promptly advised me to Facebook him. That’s when I had another “Ahhah” moment. Facebook was even more anonymous and casual than e-

mail and if I Facebooked him, I could appear a lot more cavalier online than if I attempted to send him an e-mail. It was ingenious! I put my

plan into motion and immediately found him on Facebook and sent him

a quick poke. That way, I didn’t have to agonize over what I would type, but the poke would be a friendly reminder of my existence, and if he was

interested he could surely poke back. Looking ar his extensive friends’ list on Facebook should have given

me the first clue to his player status. He had over 673 friends as opposed to my paltry 149. Most of his ‘friends’ consisted of girls who seemed like

the unsavory type. Yet, to my inexperienced eyes, all I could think of was how I’d love to be touched by his popularity. And so I was. My friend

request was almost immediately confirmed and my poke was quickly reciprocated along with an online Facebook “gift” of a funny looking

troll. I was elated!

And so our relationship began. At first, our e-mail exchanges and

Facebook posts were very generic and innocent enough. We posted inane

28

Unfaithful Her Story

comments about the weather, our classes, and droll observations. Occasionally, Id receive an IM (instant message) or chat request while

online and Id jump at the opportunity to actually “talk” to him in real time. For some reason, though, I always felt a little guilty with the instant

messaging and would look furtively over my shoulder to make sure my parents didn’t walk into the room and catch me in the act.

Soon enough, the instant messaging evolved into “when can I see you” questions.

Even though I talked to guys frequently in college, I

never scheduled a time and place to meet with a guy or to hang out with

one. It was kind of like the difference between phone calls and e-mails. I could rationalize the accidental meetings that might turn into eating

lunch with a group of guys and girls together in the student center. Yet, I felt like it was a huge Islamic transgression to take things a step further and actually intend to meet a guy for lunch without the presence of

friends. Before I knew it though, I was breaking my own rules, and definitely

those of my parents by agreeing to meet up with him. Since I had a nagging feeling of doing something that wasn’t completely right, I insisted that we

meet in a quiet off-campus lunch place so that no one would see us. The first few scheduled “meetings” consisted of me nervously looking around and answering his questions with monosyllabic responses. He seemed amused by my fears and constantly made fun of me.

As I continued to e-mail and meet him, it became easier and easier for me to open the door to more and more interactions. Soon enough,

we’d exchanged phone numbers and we were in constant texting, IM-ing,

or e-mailing mode. What had seemed so wrong a few months ago now

seemed absolutely natural and not so bad after all. I didn’t realize at the

time that this is often how “haram” (unlawful or prohibited) actions are justified. You give an inch of your integrity and suddenly you realize that you’ve actually lost a mile. Pretty much my entire second year of college

29

When Muslim Marriage Fails

was spent in this pseudo-dating situation that I had convinced myself was “okay.” Marriage was a topic we had touched upon, but hadn’t really tackled in concrete terms.

Our illicit meetings were bound to be found out sooner or later.

Unfortunately, it was definitely sooner in our case. The summer of that sophomore year, 1 began to devise elaborate stories for my parents of how

1 had to meet this friend or that friend after work to help her with this or

that. Of course, they suspected something wasn’t right since I’d actually lost touch with most of my closest friends because of my obsessive and constant communication with him and him alone.

It was in a ritzy cafe that we were finally caught that summer. As we

laughingly wiped the foamy whipped cream from our iced coffee drinks off of our faces, we looked up just in time to see my Uncle staring at us

from across the baristas counter. I got up and ran out of the cafe in embarrassment.

My parents, of course, assumed the worst and wanted to find out

immediately who this boy was and how far I had actually gone with him. Their disappointment was harder to bear than their anger at my dishon­ esty. That same night, my father went to his house and demanded to

speak to him. The details of that conversation are something no one has ever shared with me, but I can imagine some of the things my formida­

ble father said. The next day, I came home from my part-time summer job at the bookstore to a full house with aunts, uncles, and cousins all hugging me

and congratulating me on my upcoming engagement. I couldn’t look up to meet my disapproving parents’ gaze as I knew they had somehow saved

me from the ultimate “fideeha” (loss of face) or shameful embarrassment.

I should have been happy at that point. Wasn’t marriage to this boy what I wanted? I wasn’t quite sure anymore since my parents seemed less than thrilled with the idea.

30

Unfaithful: Her Story

We were officially engaged at the start of our junior year but only with “qira’it ul-fatiha” (parental agreement of marriage) which meant I

was spoken for in the eyes of the community, but could not really be with my ‘fiancee’ without a “mahrem” (guardian who is an unmarriageable

kin). It seemed to me an awkward step backwards since I had already gotten to know him before we’d come to any formal marriage agreement, and now that we were to be married, I couldn’t be with him without a chaperone. My goal now was to simply get back into the good graces of my parents, so I tried my hardest to avoid the temptations to meet up

with him alone again as we used to do.

Our relationship seemed to mellow out a little as we lost that initial glow of novelty and secrecy. The weekends began to follow the monoto­

nous routine of having him come over with his family, who I had the

distinct feeling did not like me very much, as we sat stiffly at the dining room table trying to carry on a conversation closely supervised by all the

adults around us. I realized that we were both terrified of our parents, he more so than 1 even, and that we were walking on egg shells in trying

to avoid any major upheavals that might upset the carefully balanced equilibrium of peace. He’d decided to forego his engineering degree, which would have taken him another two years, and instead accelerated his course schedule

so that he could graduate with a general science degree at the end of his third year rather than his fifth. Upon graduation, he was already guaran­ teed a job at the photovoltaic company that his uncle was practically a

CEO of and that he’d been interning at for the past several months. This

meant that our marriage didn’t need to be delayed past this summer. 1 also

decided to delay the teaching certification program I had intended to

continue with and opted instead to double up on courses and graduate just one semester after our marriage.

Once we had made our graduation plans known to both families, it

31

When Muslim Marriage Pails

seemed like we were finally gaining their approval. A few months before our scheduled wedding day they agreed to our “katb el- kitab,” (literally meaning “the writing of the book”) which was essentially the legal and

Islamic marriage without consummation, in order to allow us to go out

together without a mahrem (guardian or chapcrone) and search for wed­

ding venues and an apartment. I think those first few months of being alone together in this married, but not yet fully married, state were both

the most exhilarating and the most confusing days. While we could be together, hold hands, and do all the romantic things I’d dreamt of, we had to know where to draw the line. Miraculously, we were able to navigate

through this time, but not without a few near misses.

Our wedding was an interesting affair with the usual arguments

about guest lists, food, and entertainment between the families. We had regained our comfort level and friendship with each other and were giddy

with anticipation about our honeymoon more than anything else. We let

the parents duke it out regarding everything from which china plates we should register for to what color the wedding napkins should be as we

focused on choosing the island vacation our parents were going to pay for as a wedding gift (along with splitting the cost of the actual wedding and some of our furniture). We had bigger and better things to think about

and were luckily able to seal ourselves off to a certain extent from these

constant spats. The first few months of our marriage truly felt like an extended honeymoon. 1 was convinced that we were made for each other, and

could easily disregard the little annoying habits I discovered my husband

had. Things such as never capping the toothpaste tube or forgetting to put away his dinner plate every evening were slight annoyances that I

didn’t mind overlooking. After the first few months, though, the novelty of constantly eating out, going to the movies whenever we wanted to,

munching chips in bed and a million other little luxuries we’d never

32

Unfaithful: Her Story

experienced with our parents, began to wear off.

Soon enough, the little annoyances such as dirty socks taken off and left on the kitchen floor and belching out loud after every meal began to

seriously grate on my nerves. His parents stopping by unannounced all the time or his younger sister calling every other day to give me a piece of her mind began to really wear down my patience as well. He seemed completely oblivious to these things and constantly attributed my

complaints to my own imagination. Even though I’d always hated my mom’s nagging, I found myself

following the same pattern. Every time he’d throw himself in front of the TV, I’d give him the long list of things that needed to be done around the

apartment or I’d try to start up an argument that we hadn’t resolved from the previous week just to get him to focus on me. He started going out more and more frequently with his friends after work and coming home

long after dinner had turned cold and I’d cried myself to sleep from anger and loneliness. It was after we’d been married for about seven months that I began to

notice the amount of time he was spending in front of the computer.

He'd come home late from work, tiptoe into the bedroom to ensure that I was asleep and then run downstairs and sit in front of his laptop for hours into the night. Of course, I was never fully asleep during those

times, but was too cowardly to get up and confront him. The intimate moments of our early marriage had completely gone,

and I was shocked at what an empty shell our union had become. After

a few weeks of this odd computer obsession, I decided to confront him and find out what was going on. He flew into a rage and insisted that he

was working late hours and coming home to complete unfinished work just to make ends meet. I immediately felt rotten for thinking the worst

of my husband and apologized profusely. A few more weeks passed and his behavior with the computer contin-

33

When Muslim Marriage Fails

ued. I contemplated turning on his computer and checking the history of his viewed websites, but I didn’t want to be that kind of spying wife. Or maybe I was just afraid of confirming what 1 was already pretty sure

of. When 1 finally got the courage to actually check his computer, I was surprised to see that the history was wiped clean and that nothing really

incriminating existed on his computer other than a few work-related spreadsheets and e-mails.

I cooked him a great meal that night and dressed up in one of my more alluring outfits with the intention of reigniting the spark in our marriage again. He didn’t come home that night until way past midnight.

His excuse, again, was that he was working late. Since the company he worked for dealt with researching and creating the material needed to make solar panels, I couldn’t really buy into the whole “working late”

concept. We both went to bed angry again and woke up with the same rift growing between us. I knew something was wrong, but I just couldn’t put

my finger on it. I decided that I had too much time on my hands and that

1 would go back to my part-time job at the bookstore just to get out of

the house. Even if I wasn’t necessarily working with my degree, it was better than staying home and thinking the worst of my husband. He loved the idea of my going back to work and I thought this might

be a step in the right direction.

Oddly enough, he started suddenly

“working from home” several days out of the week while I was at the

bookstore. Again, I had the same unsettling feeling that something was up. As I grew further and further apart from my husband, I began to

reconnect with some of my college friends. I thought that maybe if I

verbalized my fears, I’d see how silly I was being and I could get some affirmation that my marriage really wasn’t falling apart.

I called an old friend and she agreed to meet me for coffee at the ritzy cafe that had started the whole chain of events in my marriage. It’s funny

34

Unfaithful. Her Story

how the power of irony tends to strike when you least expect it. Walking into the cafe, I had the strangest feeling of dejavu. I stood at the barista

counter and looked over at the seat where I had sat with my husband a

few short years ago, practically expecting to see a younger version of me and him sitting there half in love, wiping foam from across our faces. I’m sure you can imagine the double-take I did when 1 saw my hus­

band actually sitting there, literally wiping foam off his face, and laugh­ ing with another girl! She looked like she was still a college student her­

self and maybe a younger, prettier version of me when I had sat with him in that same spot. For the second time in my life, I ran out of that cafe

without looking back. And for the first time in my life, I waited way past midnight for my husband to come home so that I could confront him.

I’m not going to tell you that I erupted in anger and our marriage dis­ solved on the spot after my confrontation. He had a million good excus­

es as to why he was with this girl. Although his story didn’t fit in all the right places, I was eager to lap it up rather than feel the hurt of rejection

and betrayal. Even though deep down, I knew that I didn’t really believe him, I accepted his story anyway because the alternative seemed so bleak.

I lived through another year of his unrelenting lies and obvious cheat­

ing. He began to grow confident and stupidly comfortable in my unwaver­ ing loyalty. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone about what our marriage

was going through because I felt like the ultimate failure. I kept thinking that

I was not pretty enough or smart enough to keep my own husband faithful

to me. I was confident that he had enough restraint and Islamic upbringing that he would not commit absolute adultery, but 1 wondered just how far he

would go before drawing the line. I knew that he was face-booking, e-mail­ ing, and texting more than one girl and playing the field like an unfettered

single man. Our intimacy had depleted to utter nothingness, so even my hopes of conceiving a child seemed like another empty dead-end until my

husband deemed me worthy enough to receive his attention again.

35

When Muslim Marriage Fails

Numerous arguments and ultimatums brought about nothing but

more arguments and tears. He didn’t deny associating with other girls; he simply attributed my fears to unfounded paranoia. I was getting to the

point where I began to question my own sanity. That was when I packed my bags and left him. I had an education, 1 had a family, and I had my

own self-dignity. I was not going to stand around and wait for him to leave me or to walk all over me for the sake of one of his new girlfriends. 1 can’t say I am a whole lot happier as a divorced woman, but I do

believe that I did the right thing. It’s hard to explain our divorce to the

people of my community since I am too embarrassed to admit that I was­ n’t good enough in the eyes of my husband. Somehow, he seems to be getting all the community support by acting like he can’t understand why

I would leave him after he gave up everything for our great love. What a mockery he’s made of the sanctity of Islamic marriage!

I’ve decided to go back to school and try to pick up the pieces where I left off. My parents still wonder about what happened in my marriage, but surprisingly support my decision.

I think they always knew that

he was not the right one for me, but they only wanted to do the “right” thing. Every night I pray to Allah (SWT) to forgive me for my transgres­

sions and to make the days ahead of me easier than those of the past. Sometimes, late at night I’ll here a little “ding” on my computer and

know that it’s him trying to IM me. I’m not going to go down that path

again. If nothing else, I’ve learned that one little misstep can lead to many more big ones. I don’t know if I will ever marry again, since I’m

considered “used and damaged goods” now. Either way, I think I have quite a bit of growing up to do in the meantime. I still have faith in Allah (SWT) that things will turn out okay... somehow.

36

U N E A I T H F U L

His Story THE FIRST TIME I MET HER, it was obvious that she had the “hots” for me. The girl was practically drooling over my good looks and kept tottering by with her high heels clicking behind her just waiting for

me to give her the time of day. My boys thought she was the bomb and that I should definitely go talk to her. My first instinct was that I didn’t do hijabees (girls who wear modest Islamic dress)... too high mainte­

nance and complicated. If I wanted to just talk to a girl and chill with

her, there were plenty of other fish in the sea who’d be easier to deal with and who wouldn’t get all hypocritically religious on me.

I knew my limits, of course, from an Islamic perspective. Other than a

little flirtation and friendly banter with a couple of girls, I never took things too far. I was shopping after all. Even though I wasn’t planning on getting

married for quite some time, there really was no harm in perusing the mer­ chandise before going in for the buy. Even though I wasn’t too keen on

checking this hijabee out, I figured I had to just throw her a bone and make her day by talking to her. The way her eyes lit up and her face blushed bright

red when I spoke to her made me feel rather heroic for giving her the time of day. By the end of the convention, I felt like I’d graced her with enough

attention to tide her over into a new sort of popularity with her giggly friends and I figured we could each move on.

I threw out her e-mail address as I walked out of the center since I had no intention of striking up any more conversations. She was nice

enough and had a pretty face and a nice figure, but hijabees were kind of like the untouchables for me. You don’t mess with them until it becomes

serious marriage time. Since it was definitely not that time for me, I was

going to steer clear. A few weeks later, when I’d virtually forgotten all about this chick, 1 37

When Muslim Marriage fails

got a friend request from her on Facebook. Always looking to increase my Facebook friend list, I immediately added her on.

It didn’t mean

much to me. Yet, I could practically feel her beaming on the other side of

the screen. I figured, “Hey, it can’t hurt to just chat a bit.” In no time at all, I suddenly found myself actually friends with this girl. 1 really wasn’t planning on it, but 1 started to enjoy her company.

She was funny and refreshingly open and innocent. I even started to like her a little more than I probably should have. We hung out between

classes on our different campuses and talked about everything under the sun. It was kind of funny how she always wanted to hide as if we were doing something terribly wrong. It really was no big deal though; we were

just hanging out as friends.

I wish I had known just how psycho her family really was before I ever

even got involved with the bunch of coo-coos. Her uncle caught us just chilling in a coffee shop one day and he went ballistic. Of course, she

took off like a lightening rod and hung me out to dry. I got the brunt of his tongue-lashing and figured that was that. Little did I know, the insanity was just getting started. Of all the girls I could’ve hooked up

with at the convention, I had to pick the one with a loony-bin household.

I swear her whole family was certifiable. After the coffee shop incident, I went home thinking it was no biggie

and I just wouldn’t see the girl again for awhile. I actually felt some pangs

of regret at that point, because I really was starting to like her. In my mind, though, I figured a little break would do us both good and

we could strike up our friendship again once her family cooled off a bit.

Boy was I ever wrong! That night, her dad came knocking on our door like a raving lunatic. I’d seen the guy before at the mosque and at some community events and

I always steered clear of him because he totally looked like someone you just wouldn’t mess with. I opened the door for him that night and he

38

Unfaithful: His Story

came stomping into our house with complete disrespect. I do have to

hand it to him, though; he seemed to quickly get his anger under control as soon as my mother and father walked into the room.

They greeted him warmly as I anxiously waited for him to explode and start accusing me of doing horrible things to his little girl.

The

violent eruption I was anticipating never came. He quietly drank tea with my parents and inquired so politely about the well-being of my brothers

and sister that I almost started to believe that he might have come over for a social visit after all. After the annoying Egyptian niceties were

exchanged for a good half-hour, I anxiously tapped my foot on the floor waiting for my parents to ask what brought this man here at this hour of the night. I was already forming in my mind my defiant denials of anything he

might accuse me of. After what seemed like an eternity, the man cleared his throat and began to speak in a serious tone. No sooner had he said “I

am here because...” than the computer automated adthan (call for

prayer) for ‘Isha salah (evening prayer) went off.

In the silence of the

room that was only punctured by the melodic words coming from the mechanical adthan medium, I prayed that what was to come would not

be too bad. As much as I enjoyed a little flirtation here and there, I

respected my parents too much to want to offend them or disgrace them. I was terrified of their reaction if this man made me out to be a player.

We prayed together, as usual, and after many more minutes passed of dessert offerings and polite declinations, her father began speaking with

a solemn tone again. He looked pointedly at me and proceeded to pro­ vide my parents with a dramatized version of how 1 had come to him and asked for his daughters hand in marriage. He continued with his blatant

lie by explaining how he and his daughter had accepted my proposal, but felt that they needed to meet with my family before moving forward. My jaw literally dropped to the floor as I listened to this crazy mans

39

When Muslim Marriage I ails

elaborate story. He gave all these made-up details of how I had seen his

daughter from a distance at college and had immediately begun asking about her family, (which in reality I could have cared less about). He then proceeded to tell my parents that I went to his home, drank tea with the

family, and presented my marriage proposal. He even started dropping

wild figures of the mehr, (dowry), that I had apparently offered and that he supposedly had turned down since he would not take another step along this path without speaking to my parents first. My parents were silently dumbfounded throughout his entire mono­ logue. I knew that I was beyond speechless by this exchange, but I was­

n’t sure what they were feeling or thinking at that moment. I could read

the hurt on my mother’s face since I had not spoken to her or even taken her with me on my imaginary visit to the bride-to-be’s house to propose.

My father’s expression was one of carefully concealed fury. I wasn’t sure who the fury would be directed at, but I had a feeling I was the main tar­

get. By backing me into a corner, I could only nod and smile as her father silendy challenged me to contradict his claims. I said nothing and just

waited for the facade to crumble. The rest of the night passed in a blur as my parents expressed their wounded disappointment in me at keeping my interest in marriage a

secret from them. Although 1 was upset to see them angry, I was confi­ dent that they would forbid this farce from moving forward and save me

from the mess I’d made. Apparently, though, they had other plans. They didn’t intend on cleaning up after my mistakes this time around. They

were surprisingly happy about the situation... once they moved past their shock. My mother rationalized that if 1 had found the girl I wanted to

marry and she was a good Muslim girl, (and of Egyptian background as an added bonus), then there was no reason why we shouldn’t move

forward. My father quickly saw things from her point of view as well,

agreeing that in this country, early marriage was the best way to vanguard

40

Unfaithful; His Story

the virtue of his son and make sure that I steered clear from any haram

(prohibited or unlawful) temptations. For me, confusion was the best word. I wasn’t really sure how I was feel­

ing. 1 had a few older Muslim friends who’d recently gotten engaged and they seemed to be loving life. They could go out on actual “dates” with their fiancees without having to sneak around, and they were finally able to hold

hands widi a girl. My active imagination made me think of all the things a steady couple could do and the visions definitely appealed to my romantic sensibilities. After all, my future bride really wasn’t half-bad. I liked her com­

pany and she wasn’t too horrible to look at. That’s how I kind of fell into our marriage. I definitely won’t say that

I was forced into it, because I’m sure that all I had to do was say the word

at any time and I could have called the whole thing off. Somehow though, I kept moving forward and the benefits of engagement contin­

ued to look more and more appealing to me.

Our parents were more than willing to help us out financially until we were able to support ourselves. I dropped out of my engineering pro­ gram since it seemed pointless to prolong our engagement when I knew

I already had a job lined up. From apartment shopping to honeymoon

discussions, I was beginning to really like the freedom and independence that came along with this engagement thing. I was sure that marriage would only make things better.

After our wedding, which was more of a headache than worth think­ ing about, we went on the most amazing honeymoon ever, Our honey­ moon in the Caribbean was a great way to kick off the season—I mean

marriage—, since my parents’ idea of family vacations had always consist­ ed of visiting relatives either in the boondocks of the U.S. or spending a

mosquito-infested month in a ghetto village in Egypt. After we had our

fill of jet-skiing and parasailing on secluded beaches, we were both eager

to start our life together. It felt almost like we were playing house, but

41

When Muslim Marriage Fails

without any grownups to mess up the game for us. I was starting to grow more and more affectionate of my new wife and I was confident that our lives were on the right path. We both thanked Allah (SWT) for bringing us to this point. It wasn’t until we’d been in

our apartment for a few days that I finally woke up one morning before she did. My wife was generally an early riser, and by the time 1 rolled out of bed she would already be showered and dressed and in the kitchen

preparing breakfast. I turned over to look at my wife and did a double take. Her dry hair looked frizzy and was stuck to her pillow like the end of a mangled broomstick. Her face looked yellow and pockmarked with­ out a hint of makeup, her breath wreaked horrendously, and she had a

small line of drool trickling down the side of her cheek.

I turned away from her in repulsion. How could she hide this from me? Wasn’t it tantamount to the ultimate deception? She was like the ugly troll who looked like a princess during the day and transformed into

an ogre at night. She awoke shortly afterwards and didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. Had she gotten so comfortable in our marriage

that she didn’t think I’d care that she looked like a slob? Even after she’d showered and straight-ironed her hair, which I soon found out was her

sneaky trick to making her frizz look presentable, I still felt repulsed by the true image of her that I couldn’t get out of my head.

Still, even

though I now knew that she was rather ugly underneath her thick sludge

of makeup, I didn’t intend on holding it against her.

Her sloppy appearance continued as she became more and more com­ fortable in our marriage.

I couldn’t stand the messy hair, the reeking

morning breath, and the shoddy way she looked sometimes. Suddenly,

all the passion that I had once felt towards her was completely drained out

of me. It was like a switch had somehow turned off and my affection was turned out with it.

The nagging soon followed the slovenly appearance and her annoying

42

Unfaithful: 11 is Story

nature started to really get on my nerves. Honestly, the one bright spot during this time was the relief I felt from complaining about her to some

of my closest co-worker friends, both male and female. My wife was no longer the fun-loving woman I had initially married, so I tried to avoid

her as much as I could, just so that I could be spared her annoying “oh, why did I ever marry you” look. Several of my non-Muslim friends at work started to tell me about these free online sites where I could look at pretty girls when I was feel­

ing particularly disgusted by my wife, just to get my mojo back up again.

I started checking out the sites and clicking link after link to see more and more. I don’t think I was doing anything haram (prohibited). I was just

curious to compare, that’s all. The more I looked though, the more I realized what my wife was lacking in the appearance department. Just to avoid any issues of unfounded jealousy, I carefully erased the history of my web-surfing every night. Not like she would have noticed anyway.

She was always fast asleep by the time I got home, which was another source of her disapproving “mommy” looks.

I worked hard all day while she just sat at home and did nothing. I

was definitely entitled to an after-work outing with friends every now and then. I didn’t need her to start making up rules and curfews for me like

my parents used to do. I was a married man, and definitely had the right

to act like one. Her stupid jealously started to get really out of hand when she found out that some of my friends at work and outside of work were

girls. I really couldn’t see what she was getting all upset about. The nature of our life in this country is that we have to interact with members of the

opposite gender.

1 mean, if you get a cup of coffee with someone or

chat with them late at night, it doesn’t mean that you’re having an affair or anything, right? Of course, coming from such a twisted and strict

family, I should have figured that she had strange notions about friend­ ship. Her accusations became more and more ridiculous and I had all the

43

When Muslim Marriage Fails

more reason to avoid our depressing home and hang out with happier people instead. Even though we had our bumps, I was sure our marriage

was just fine. After all, my parents had been married for over 35 years and I don’t remember ever seeing them having a civil or light-hearted conver­

sation. 1 figured all women just morphed into crazy and ugly old “tunts”

(aunties) as soon as they assumed the role of wife. It would have been just

fine with me if she hadn’t walked out on our life. She didn’t even try to reach out and fix what she had broken. After she left, I kept the apart­ ment and the furniture and continued to live on my own. The life of a

divorced bachelor really isn’t so bad. I’ve got my freedom and I’ve got my

life back. Sometimes, though, late at night as I’m surfing my favorite sites, I’ll think of her. I’ll imagine the pretty dimple that used to appear so easily

in the cleft of her chin while she was laughing at something I said during our friendship and engagement. Or I’ll miss her voice singing in the house every morning as she more often than not woke up before me to

make breakfast.

I don’t understand why she threw it all away. Anyway, I’m sure it will be her loss since everyone knows I’ve done nothing wrong to deserve this type of treatment. Rumors have started in the community with all sorts

of reasons as to why she made our marriage fall apart. I just listen quiet­

ly and try not to say anything incriminating. After all, I know it’s her loss in the end. It’s definitely her loss.

44

Unfaithful Commentary by Faraz Khan ’

JT arriage is a social contract between two individuals who I V / I want to live their lives based on love and compassion. It

JL ▼ JL is analogous to a green, lush, beautiful, fruitful, and fragrant garden that could only benefit as long as there is commitment

and hard work or else, a wasteland full of weed, garbage, and toxins is the end result of negligence and misuse. Whether it is job security, education,

health, finance, or marriage, life is full of challenges. Essentially, marriage is complex but divorce is almost impossible to grasp, let alone blame people or issue a fatwa (Islamic ruling) for. Divorce

is not haram (prohibited). It is least desired due to its effect within a com­ munity. When wc hear of divorce, immediately we sense remorse and

anxiety. Whose fault is it? Why did it happen? What led to the disillu­ sion? Could it have been avoided? Where is the support structure? I do not pretend to know any magical formula that can glue two partners

together, but I will discuss a few relevant guidelines regarding this case.

The Qur’an declares the role of husband and wife “they are your garment and you are their garment” meaning a relationship that will

protect, beautify, and honor the spouse (2:187). Further it states, “Live with them in good manner”. No doubt, there is a code of conduct for sin­

gle and married individuals in Islam. However, the Qur’an sets a limit and advises believers to lower their gazes and guard their chastity when interacting with the opposite gender (24:30-31). If I had to write a pre­

scription for the “Unfaithful” narrative, this verse alone is full of wisdom

and reflection.

Many people justify their wrong actions and give in to their lower desires. Remember, haram only leads to harm. Many young people con-

45

When Muslim Marriage Fails

fuse lust for love. Initially, it often seems as “love at first sight” and a

doubtless “click”, which is often followed by obsession and withdrawal symptoms. It is part of the human psyche to have feelings for the oppo­ site gender and that “special one”. Seemingly innocent secret meetings

and unbridled romance can be a recipe for disaster. Post-marital affairs

often link back to pre-marital unsavory behavior. For this reason, it is so important to heed Qur’anic advice of guarding one’s glance and modesty. Gender relations outside of marriage should be with a clear purpose. Technology and social networks such as Facebook and texting are helpful

tools that should be utilized with proper etiquettes. Otherwise, the fact

that “I know my limits” cannot help an individual restrain his or her desires. Flirting is often hidden under ‘friendly banter’ and appears sim­

ple fun at first but could lead to a treacherous path. Modesty is essential to a Muslim life. The Prophetic advice is on the mark, ’If you feel no shame, then do as you wish” (Bukhari). When people lose shame, they lose everything.

Life is never perfect, and marriage is a component of it. Even the best of people, Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) also had ups and downs in his

marriages. In fact, the Qur’an is full of stories of good people who had

difficult family circumstances. People get married for many reasons: beauty, wealth, class, education, etc. Life is full of surprises — sometimes

good, bad, and ugly. Not surprisingly, whether one finds “frizzy” hair, a “yellow and pockmarked” face, a “thick sludge of makeup” or downright “ugliness,” the Qur’an suggests a way for believing men and women: “For

if you dislike something but in reality it may be that you dislike a thing but God has placed much good in it” (4:19). True love shines in marriage when the shimmer wears off. Indeed, love

conceals all faults. Thus, it is called blind. Lack of physical attraction in one’s partner is not a good excuse for despicable behavior. Prophet Muhammad

(PBUH) reminded Muslims in his farewell sermon, “You [men] have some

46

Unfaithful: Commentary

rights over your wives and your wives have some rights over you”. The prob­

lem of ugly behavior is much more serious and harmful than unpleasant physique. The Prophet affirms that “Surely God neither looks at your bodies

nor your faces but rather He looks at your heart (intention) and your actions”

(Muslim). Insolence and unkemptness is unacceptable but it could be corrected widi proper communication. An individual must show maturity and commitment by taking responsibility for his or her actions instead of try­

ing to find an excuse for un-Islamic behavior. The Qur’an affirms that “Those

who are saved from the covetousness of their own souls, they are the ones that achieve prosperity” (59:9). Divorce is usually not an overnight decision. It is a breakdown of

communication over a period of time. The Qur’an emphasizes “Say to my

servants that they should say only those words that are best. Truly, the devil puts dissentions among them.” One must resolve issues with tact and diplomacy before it turns into a messy problem. For example, inter­

net and channel surfing can be addictive and lead to inappropriate behav­ ior. In addition, husbands and wives must recognize that no World Cup

game, e-mail, website, Facebook friend, or cell-phone conversation is

more important than their spouse. Marriage is “half the faith” because it requires a commitment and

personal sacrifice - requisites for iman (faith). A Muslim must be vigi­

lant about his/her relations with the opposite gender especially with non­ Muslims at work. The fact is that most non-Muslims do not share the

same values when it comes to gender relations. Things can spin out of control very quickly. It is best to take precautions rather than a late night “outing with friends”. The Qur’an prescribes marriage as an honest com­

mitment not a free reign affair (4:24).

When a problem becomes too serious for a couple to solve, the Qur’an prescribes an arbiter from both sides to deal with the issue (4:35).

Many frustrations can simply be avoided by understanding the other

47

When Muslim Marriage Fails

spouses failed expectations. Whenever an impasse in a relationship

occurs, there should be an agreed-upon approach to solving issues. Whether serving a favorite dish or sending a bouquet, a discussion can start with simple idea of things he or she enjoys. The Qur’an affirms “If they desire amendment, God will make them of one mind” (4:35).

Lastly, the Prophet mentioned, “All of the children of Adam are sin­

ners. But the best of those who err are the ones who repent” (Tirmidhi). Everyone has a nagging and an ugly side, flirty and flawed traits. One

must learn to appreciate the little things and refrain from constant criti­ cism that only brings an individual down. However, even with all of the

faults we carry within us, we must do our best to mend our ways and seek

help from God. Divorce can be an ugly process but it is not the end of

life. In some cases, divorce is a sound decision and for this reason it is halal (permissible and lawful). God in His infinite wisdom has chosen dif­

ferent ways to test different people. If an individual is tested with divorce,

let him/her draw nearer to God through vigilance and righteous acts.

Again, it is a test that demands patience and much supplication. May Allah guide us to His pleasure and a place of eternal bliss. Ameen.

'FARAZ KHAN is a social activist: and a thinker who holds a MA in liberal arts

and a BA degree in Environmental Geology. He is a frequent speaker on Islam and Muslim-related conversations on various college campuses and mosques in

the Tri-state area. Aide from his professional career as a wedand scientist, his

interest lies in environmental ethics, Islamic law, and fine art. His work in the Held ofIslamic Studies and liberal arts is available online.

48

Breaking Modesty’s Seal: the Question of Khalwa and Email Commentary by Dr. Shadee Elmasry" TL

JT any commentators on Islam have spoken out against the

I V / I rigidity that occurs when believers give priority to the -A- ▼ JL letter of the law, without balancing it with the purpose of

the law. This is no clearer than in fatawa (religious rulings) that have

emerged in the past on email and khalwa. “Khalwa” is the idea of being alone with someone in a private and enclosed room. The Prophet peace

be upon him said, “No man should be alone (khalwa) with a woman even if she was the truthful Mary daughter of Imran, even if he was teaching her the Qur’an.” The most virtuous woman, the most virtuous deed, still

it is not an excuse to be alone. E-mail, say many jurists, is not khalwa because neither the sender nor

the reciever are in the same room. Such responses do not address the fact

that the entire question of “being” has been greatly challenged by the internet. The World Wide Web is a space that takes up no space. It is a

domain, and yet it claims no property. Should not this be taken into consideration when examining modern khalwa?

Many questions can be answered easily when we know the purpose of the Divine Guidance. The ‘rules’ of Islam are divided into two types: worship (ibadaat) and interactions (muamalaat). As for worship, discus­

sion about its rationale is futile, since the matter is spiritual and ‘discus­

sion’ is rational. Nobody will ever know exactly why we fast Ramadan, not Shaban. Why five obligatory prayers not four? However, when it comes to interactions—the guidance of how to deal with one another—

everything has a purpose (known as 'ilia). Those rules can be rationally

understood. The purpose, for example, of slaughtering animals has to do

49

When Muslim Marriage bails

with hygienics. Usurious financial interactions are prohibited because one party benefits from the other’s vice (defaulting on payments), among

other reasons. In the same vein, fornication and adultery have been

prohibited to protect from disease, establish stable families, and to guard bloodlines—to know who exactly is whose son or daughter. Sexual relations are unique in that they do not happen in a snap.

It takes time. The mood must be set.

Both parties must be assuaged,

comforted into it. It is also unique because once those things arc in place, it is almost impossible to stop it. The torrent of emotions and hormones

can only be stopped with a violent withdrawal that neither of the two par­ ties are likely to do to themselves. This is why Allah (SWT) says in his

Book, “Do not come near zina.” He did not say don’t do it. Rather, don’t come near it. Once that first step is taken, the second and third will follow and very soon the chances of remaining pure will be slim. The

question for us is, “would casual e-mailing bring unmarried people closer together or not?”

The answer is obvious. In the narrative above, e-mail was the gateway to entering into khalwa. The legal concept of sadd al-dharee’ah, (closing

off the means), dictates that the gateway to a wrong must be a wrong

itself. The obvious exception of business-related matters exists. But if a matter is a business one, then there should be no anxieties about includ­ ing a Cc. Extend this logic onto everything then: Myspace, Facebook, etc.

Cut ofFwhat leads to khalwa through the realm of cyber-space. But we should not limit ourselves to just textualism. Allah (SWT) in

His fairness, created us with our own internal mechanism of knowing

right from wrong. It is a wireless antenna called the fitra (conscience). A man once came to the Prophet peace be upon him. Before he could speak,

the Prophet asked his question for him: “You came to ask about right­ eousness (birr)?” “Yes,” the man said. “Find it in your heart. Birr is what

you feel good about and the wrong (al-ithm) is that which scratches

50

U nfa i th fu I: Com mon lary

in your chest and what you fear people will know about.” The fitra is

sensitive when it is healthy—when the person is righteous, close to God and nature.

It is important to remember that the fitra has to operate in tandem

with the textual evidence, the Book and the Sunnah. Consider the team­ work of a blood-hound and a detective. The blood-hound sniffs its way

left or right and the detective follows. But the suspect cannot be charged simply because a blood-hound sniffed at him or her. Once the detective searches and finds evidence, however, then they can come to a real

conclusion. If it weren’t for the blood-hound, the detective would never have known where to search. And if it weren’t for the detective, there

would be no evidence to support a case. Likewise, our fitra gives us a sense: ‘this feels right’ or ‘this doesn’t seem right.’ Then it is up to us to

see what Allah (SWT) and His Messenger (PBUH) say. By taking cues from the fitra, we are at least asking the right questions. Perhaps “light

upon light” in the Quran refers to the Sharia (Islamic law) upon the fitra

(conscience sensibilities). It is important to know that the fitra can be de-sensitized rather quickly with persistent sin and disobedience. At that point, it is no longer

a moral compass (too much metal throws its arrow off course). In fact, it

may command us to the opposite. Many people say, “I do this or that, but it feels natural,” and they therefore conclude that it must be okay. This logic is wrong, because we can only trust our instincts when they are

supported by the sources of Divine Law.

"DR. SHADEE ELMASRY is a student ofsacred knowledge and a graduate in the academic study of Islam. He has studied Qur'an, hadith (Prophetic

narration), Arabic, and fiqh (Islamic legal interpretation) through traditional

51

When Muslim Marriage fails

mumn (texts) with mashayikb (religious scholars) in the traditional fashion, and continues to pursue this study. Academically, his work has been published. He is currendy authoring a book on da'wa (spreading the word of Islam) in

Islamic thought, which was the basis ofhis PhD dissertation from the University of London (awarded 2007). He teaches at Trinity College in Hartford,

Connecticut where he resides with his wife and two children.

52

Culture Clash

CULTURE

CLASH

Her Story 1 WAS A COCKTAIL WAITRESS AT a classy restaurant, with my

low-cut blouse and short little mini-skirt when I first met him. It had

been a particularly long night with several older business men making crass comments and brushing their hands against me as I served them their meals. As the night grew longer and the alcohol 1 served them increased their drunkenness, their inappropriate attitudes also increased.

I just kept smiling between gritted teeth and reminded myself that the

more I let them have their way with me, the bigger the tip I’d get at the

end. By the time they were ready to leave, I’d been squeezed and prod­ ded in the most humiliating of ways. The embarrassing tip they left me

was barely enough to buy a cup of coffee. I plopped myself down on the table they had just occupied and

dropped my head into my hands. My feet were sore from waiting tables all day and my head was pounding from my degrading interactions with

the nasty old men. As I defied the rules of the restaurant and just sat there with my head in my hands, I heard someone lean in close to me and say,

“Excuse me?” I immediately looked up expecting to be berated by my boss for slack­ ing off on the job, but instead I found my gaze met by the kindest eyes I had ever seen. The man in front of me looked to be much older than my

mere twenty-one years of age, yet he had a distinct air of kindness that

emanated from his big brown eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked exhausted while serving

this table and I wanted to make sure you were alright.” His voice, with its slightly lilting accent, had the same note of kind-

ness that radiated from his eyes. I couldn’t quite place the accent, but just assumed he was Italian or maybe Greek. Either way, I liked his looks and

54

Culture Clash Her Story

quickly wiped away my running mascara and smoothed out my disheveled skirt.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Am I the waitress for your table? I hope I did­

n’t disturb you in any way. Would you like me to get you something?” I quickly jumped up and assumed my expected position as servile waitress.

I was flustered and agitated by our exchange because I realized that just one complaint about me to the new boss would probably get me fired. As much as I hated my job, the tips were usually good and really helped pay off some of my student loans, my apartment expenses, and the

constant repairs of my beat-up old Mustang that I lovingly called Matilda. The thought of having this guy complain about me and possi­ bly get me canned was enough to set my hair on end. a

“No, no, it’s fine.” He responded in his gentle tone again. “I was just

leaving, but I saw you looking sad so I thought I would make sure every­ thing was okay.”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine.” I could have just left things off as they were at

that point. I could have just turned around and walked away and I prob­

ably would have never seen this man again. But, something made me stop. Call it divine intervention or the trappings of destiny, but either

way, I felt a profound need to stand rooted to my spot, ignoring the tables

that were waiting for their extra bread or their chicken cordon bleu. “Have I seen you before?” I asked cautiously as an excuse to keep talk­ ing to this nice man. He told me he often came to the restaurant with

his client. Apparently he was some sort of hotshot advertising exec in the city and often footed the bill while courting his clients at this classy spot.

And that was all it really took. One tiny extra question on my end and the rest, as they say, was history. As I became more and more enchanted by the musical cadence of his

voice, 1 had to physically tear myself away from him just to be able to get back to the few remaining customers waiting for their late dinners. Our

55

When Muslim Marriage 1 ails

conversation had been nothing but niceties, but I sensed something more. I felt a sense of urgency while talking to him as if he was politely enter­

taining small talk but wanted to get to something much bigger and more important. He asked to see me again outside of the restaurant. Normally,

1 adhered to a strict rule about not dating coworkers or customers since I’d heard horror stories from friends who’d dated men that continued to treat them like menial waitresses throughout their relationships. I could­

n’t put my finger on it, but, it was as if something more powerful than my

common sense had taken over my tongue and I found myself telling him I could meet him for coffee tomorrow at noon before my shift at the restaurant began.

The whole way home, I cursed myself for agreeing to meet up with him again. 1 had just recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years

who was nothing more than a loser mooching off my income as I worked double shifts to support his bad addiction to name brand clothes he obvi­

ously couldn’t afford. As part of my plan for recovery from that lousy

relationship, I had solemnly sworn to myself that I wouldn’t hook up with

just anyone on the rebound. I rationalized to myself that the coffee meet­

ing wasn’t like a ‘real’ hook-up and either way I’d put an end to things before they even started. Hey, what harm could one cup of coffee do?

That cup of coffee wound up changing my life forever. Well, not the cup of coffee per se, but the time spent with the man with the gentle eyes while drinking the coffee. Our coffee date started out innocent enough

with another exchange of meaningless small talk. In the midst of our con­ versation, I decided to ask him what country he was originally from.

Expecting him to respond with somewhere exotic and beautiful but gen­ erally familiar, I was floored when he said “Palestine.” “You mean, Israel?” I responded in a slightly rude way. I had plenty

of Jewish friends, but I didn’t care too much for religion. I was generally

a good person and lived my life guided by morals, but wasn’t really into

56

Culture Clash- Her Story

the whole institutionalized religious thing.

“No, I mean Palestine. I am a Palestinian Muslim.” His deep brown

eyes twinkled with passion and the smile lines around his lips seemed to mellow out the fierceness with which he answered.

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” I remember being utterly shocked by his admission. I was not going to get involved with one of these terrorists.

The attacks of September 11th had just happened a few months ago,

and even though I wasn’t much of a news buff, I knew enough about

Islam and those Moslems to know that they were people you shouldn’t get involved with.

Fie must have read my fears and the disdain in my reaction, because he immediately changed the tone of his voice and began to talk to me about his background and religion in a much softer way. Reluctantly, 1

sat through the rest of the conversation slightly bored and not all that

interested in what he had to say. Glancing at my watch, I couldn’t believe

that I had stayed way past the time I was supposed to and was now going to be late for my shift. I rushed to get up and knocked my chair down

in the process. He jumped up to help me and then offered to drive me to work. I told him it would be faster if I just ran in this traffic. As I reached out to

shake his hand and thank him for the coffee, knowing that I wasn’t

planning on seeing him again, he handed me a thick leather-bound book. I glanced down at it and rolled my eyes because it looked like some sort

of religious text. 1 tried to decline because I figured it was a gimmick. I thought it was a clever way for him to ensure that I would have to see him again because I would feel obliged to return the book.

He seemed to read my mind again in that uncanny way of his. “Keep the book,” he said. “It’s a copy of the Qur’an and it might help you understand a little more about my religion. And here’s my number, if you

ever have any questions or anything just give me a call.”

57

When Muslim Marriage Fails

I quickly took the book from him, tossed it into my bag, and ran to

work. 1 had no intention of reading his book or ever talking to this guy

again. Boy was I wrong about judging a person’s character. As 1 got into work, panting and sweaty, I literally ran into my boss. She was a good­

looking girl, probably no more than four or five years older than me, but she had the attitude of a bull and scared even the huge 6’3 chef who’d

been with the restaurant for years. I didn’t even have a chance to explain. She fired me on the spot and handed me a list of infractions I’d apparent­

ly committed over the past few weeks while 1 was being watched by her

hawk-like eyes. No amount of pleading could change her mind. I sulked home and threw myself onto the bed.

I had no job, no

boyfriend, and no life at this point. I felt absolute despair. And that’s

when I began reading the Qur’an. I have always been a slow reader, but somehow I seemed to fly through the translation of this holy text that I

had heard nothing but negative things about in the past few months. I felt strangely serene as I read deep into the night thirsting for more and

more knowledge.

I wasn’t sure what was going on. I didn’t believe in this religion, in

any religion for that matter. What was making me stay up late to read this text? Over the next few days, instead of looking for jobs 1 found

myself online most of the time looking for information about Islam. I had finished my reading of the Qur’an but felt like I needed more.

1

wanted to learn more. 1 didn’t want to call the man who’d given me the Qur’an because I felt confused and wanted to figure things out on my

own first.

I remembered that I had once seen a booth with people who looked like Muslims handing out paper and information. There had been a sign hanging on it that said, “Dawah Booth,” and I decided to go check it out.

Lo and behold, standing behind the booth was the very man who had given me the Qur’an and that I had wanted so desperately to avoid.

58

Culture Clash: Her Story

Its easy to imagine what happened next. I learned all about Islam and

loved the religion. Within a few weeks of my introduction to Islam, I converted. It was as if I suddenly had a purpose in life. As if the short

skirts, bad boyfriends, and demeaning jobs were all leading me up to this point so that 1 could find Allah (SWT) and become a true Muslim. Islam

was the best thing that ever happened to me. A few weeks following my conversion, I married the man who had first introduced me to Allah (SWT). Unfortunately, he wasn’t really the best thing that ever happened

to me. We were married in a very quiet ceremony at the mosque. My fam­ ily and friends had all cut me off upon learning of my conversion. I did­

n’t care at that point. I loved my religion and felt like I would follow my new husband anywhere. And follow him I did.

I continued my studies of Islam and soon after marriage found out I was expecting my first child. I was ecstatic. In my zealous state of belief,

I prayed for a beautiful girl. I carried my first baby serenely and felt like all was right in the world. She was born exactly ten months from the date of our marriage and the true test of parenthood followed. Since I didn’t

talk to my own parents anymore, I did my best as a young mom to deal

with the colic, nursing, and frequent diaper changes. My husband seemed

oblivious to the baby. I wasn’t sure if that was because she was a girl or not, but either way I was elated with my newfound motherhood. He worked late hours and when he came home we settled into a civil routine. Although he had been enthusiastic to teach me about Islam early on in

my marriage, it seemed like his fervor had cooled somewhat. He wasn’t as

eager to engage in religious discussions with me anymore as he once was.

I just chalked it up to his exhaustion coming home from work late every

evening. Although I wanted to wait awhile before having my second child, my

husband was adamant that we begin trying again as soon as possible. My

59

When Muslim Marriage Fails

son was born exactly thirteen months after my daughter. That’s when my emotions started to run haywire. It was hard enough to raise my daugh­

ter with barely any support, but to be pregnant so soon after having my first was even more difficult.

I struggled to control my emotions but

often found myself frustrated and crying all the time. I missed my par­

ents and my friends and even the attention my husband showed me in the

weeks that led up to my conversion. That’s when I started going to the mosque more often and getting involved with a ladies halaqa (Islamic discussion) group. As nice as the

women were, I still felt like an outsider. I was the only convert in a group

of native Muslim women who had known each other for decades. I tried

to explain my feelings of loneliness and inadequacy to my husband, but his only response was that I was not religious enough and that if I increased my faith, then Allah (SWT) would make everything right. I

read more, I prayed more, and I tried and tried to increase my faith. But,

I still could not shake off my emotional ups and downs.

My third son was born two years after my second child. Less than five years into my marriage, and 1 was already the mother of three children

under pre-school age. My husband had insisted that birth control was haram (prohibited), although I kept reading otherwise. Allah (SWT) in his infinite mercy intervened. After having my children so close togeth­

er, complications in my womb forced me to have a hysterectomy. While 1 was initially upset by this, I realized afterwards that Allah (SWT) is truly

the best of all planners because without this medical condition I probably would have had to keep bearing children until I’d had at least a dozen.

As much as he wanted children, it seemed like my husband just rel­

ished the title of father of so and so rather than the actual acts that would help him earn the title of fatherhood. My husband had refused to enter the hospital rooms during any of my deliveries, insisting that this was not his place. He was embarrassed when I nursed in front of him and he had

60

Culture Clash: Her Story

absolutely nothing to do with night feedings or diaper changes. This definitely was not the type of father I expected him to be or the one that I

knew he should be. Everything I read about the rahma (mercy) and kindness that a good

Muslim husband should show his wife and children seemed contradicted

by him. When I tried to explain my view points, he invariably made me feel stupid and reminded me that I had only recently become a Muslimmah while he had been a Muslim his entire life. His parents and

siblings seemed to share this same perspective. They looked down on me and insisted on speaking only Arabic in front of me as an insulting way

to exclude me from their conversations. Invariably, I retreated away from them and focused on my children. Although I initially hated my husbands lack of involvement in our

children, I soon found myself wishing for that uninvolved approach rather than the strictness he began implementing once the children were

a little older. I knew that my in-laws put him up to things because he would always return from his parents’ house in an angry mood and with

a thousand new rules he wanted to execute in our home. He kept insist­ ing that the scarf I covered with was not true hijab (Islamic dress) and that niqab (covering the face, body, and hands) was the correct form of Islamic garb.

I tried to understand his views but kept remembering the words of

the imam (community and religious leader) of the mosque who had told

me Islam is a religion of ease, not hardship. I loved the deen (religion) as I had come to know it and I could not understand why he kept trying to complicate everything. That’s when he started in on our daughter. She

was just nine years old and he began insisting that she too had to start wearing hijab. While I tried to acquiesce in as many of his requests as I could, I had

to draw the line somewhere. That line was with my daughter. She had-

61

When Muslim Marriage Fails

n’t reached puberty yet and I knew that she did not have to wear hijab until after that point. After realizing that I knew what I was talking about in that area, he picked another fight. He decided our daughter could not

play soccer or participate in her gym class anymore because it was unIslamic. I couldn’t believe the things he was coming up with.

I looked around at all my friends’ husbands and did not see any of them being told what to do or having their domain, in terms of raising

the children, ever questioned by their husbands. His strictness grated on my nerves and his apparent embarrassment of me really began to wear me

down. As our problems grew, he started avidly talking about moving

back to Gaza in Palestine so that he could raise his kids as proper Muslims, with or without me.

Of course, I told him my kids were not going anywhere with him. I was not about to let them set foot in a country with bombs going off left and right. And why couldn’t he raise good Muslim kids in this country? Was I suddenly not good enough as a mother? Our arguments increased

over time and even our kids began to notice the barely concealed anger between us that was constantly simmering near the surface. 1 often wonder why he even married me. Was I like the lost lamb that

he just needed to save? And once he’d brought me to the path of redemp­ tion, did he feel like he’d done his job and now had others to conquer? Even though we both spoke English, we really did not speak the same lan­

guage of culture at all. His priorities were deeply embedded in cultural

tradition that he seemed to mistake for true Islam. I could see Islam with

clear eyes because I was unencumbered by the snares of a cultural back­ ground, but that seemed unacceptable to him. After our divorce, he fought for full custody of the children.

He

argued fervently with the judges at the courts that I was an unfit mother

because I did not practice our religion fully. Thankfully, the courts reject­ ed his claims and granted us joint custody. My kids are confused and can’t

62

Culturc Clash. I Icr Story

understand why their Baba (father) doesn’t live with us anymore. As

much as 1 try to explain, I don’t really have a good answer.

Their weekend visitations with their dad consist of them sitting in front of the TV at his parents’ house while their grandma tries to force Arabic food down their throats along with lists of Arabic words and

not-so-nice comments about me. I don’t know what is to become of us. It’s a constant fight to get alimony and child support payments from him

and I’m terrified that he will try to sell the house from under us or try to take the children away, just to spite me.

I can’t worry about the finances now though; the emotional well­

being of my children is what I need to focus on. With no family and a community that seems to have abandoned us, I’ve often felt like we have nowhere to turn, particularly in the weeks first following my talaq (divorce). I am now trying to reconnect with my family since I’ve learned

that I should not have severed ties with them just because they were not

Muslim. Slowly, I am hoping to build a bridge between my children’s

future and my broken past. I don’t regret meeting my ex-husband. There is a greater plan and purpose in this world for everything that happens to all of us. I am grateful because without him, 1 may never have found Islam, and I definitely would not have had my beautiful children. In the

end, I continue to find comfort in knowing that Allah (SWT) is the best

of all planners and He will provide for us as long as we continue on the straight path, insha’Allah (God willing).

63

CULTURE

CLASH

His Story I WAS MISTAKEN IN MY MARRIAGE to her. I misjudged her character and her integrity. I had watched her many times at the restaurant and always felt great sadness in thinking diat such a beautiful girl was not Muslim. So, I made up my mind that she would come to know Islam and would become a Muslim and then I would marry her. When I first saw her,

I knew that Islam could save her from the deep sorrow that seemed to follow her around like a shadow. I knew that if I could just have a chance to speak

with her, I could bring her into the light, so to speak. My work at the dawa

(inviting people to Islam) center helped form my passion for change and my ability to persuade people of the truth. After giving her a copy of the Qur’an, I prayed for her and soon

enough my du’a (supplication) was answered and the pretty woman came

to me at the dawa booth on the corner of 5th and Main Street. After the September 11th attacks, I knew that I had a job to do and that was to make sure people understood Islam the right way. It wasn’t enough for

me to talk about Islam at work and to just try to convince people of true

Islam. I knew that I could do more and that I should do more for the

religion I loved. It was with this new zealous attitude that I focused on conversion. If the missionaries could do it, then why couldn’t I?

The once-scantily-clad waitress converted and I married her, because I felt responsible for her life now that she had followed the path I presented to

her. I felt like she was my pet project and I couldn’t wait to see her flourish and grow under my nurturing care. She didn’t grow the way I wanted her to.

Even though she was a tolerably good Muslimmah, I knew that she could do more. Yet, she acted like she already knew everything because of a few books she’d read and a few sheikhs (scholars) she’d spoken to. The longer we were

married, the more she questioned me and my knowledge of Islam. 64

Culture Clash: His Story

She was an easy wife at first. Listening to me and taking my advice to heart. Then, she met my parents. My poor mother tried to be nice to her, but all she received in return was rudeness. When my mother would lean in

close to inspect my new bride with love and attention, my American wife would pull herself away and stand stiffly rather than opening her arms warm­

ly to hug the mother she should treat as her own. Considering her own par­ ents had cut all tics with her and declared her unfit to be their daughter, I expected her to come running to my parents. She didn’t. I encouraged her to call them and stop by and visit without me, but she stayed away and could barely carry a civil conversation with them. My parents could feel her negativity and were sorely disappointed in

my choice of bride. They would have liked to have chosen for me an

Arab wife, who would have known her place.

One who would care

for them in their old age rather than try to keep them away from me. As

disappointed as I was in her behavior, I tried to convince my family that my wife would come around in time. She was still young and a new

convert at that, but I was sure that I could change her for the better. My

family thought she was not good enough for me. It took me quite a few years to admit they were right. Coming from a large family, I knew that making sure she could bear children was a priority. She was also pining for something to do, so we

got started right away. A few weeks into our marriage, she found out she was pregnant. I was happy that she was with child, but I did not need to

know all the details of her pregnancy. She seemed determined to share with me every time she threw up or felt constipated. She insisted on giv­

ing me a clear description and play-by-play of what she was feeling when

it clearly did not relate to me nor involve me directly. She was the moth­

er of this child, what need did I have to know about her apparently aching back or the sciatica nerve that bothered her in her upper thigh? She kept trying to force me to read baby books about the child’s

65

When Muslim Marriage Fails

development in the womb. There are certain things that a woman should maintain privately, and what goes on inside her body during pregnancy definitely falls under that category. I had no idea how she expected me to look at her with desire again after she described her gynecologist visit in excruciating detail. I tried to explain to her the appropriateness of a wife’s behavior with her husband, but she seemed oblivious to my hints and

remarks. When she was ready to deliver, she succeeded again in disgusting me thoroughly by showing me how her water had broken and practically beg­ ging me to enter the delivery room with her. I couldn’t believe that she wanted me to see her in that state. If it was up to her, she would soon have me wearing an apron and standing in the kitchen cooking and fold­ ing laundry as well. Did she really not know that certain acts were dele­ gated to women for a reason? Child birth was definitely not something a husband ever needed to witness. The child, who turned out to be a rather cute little girl, was of course to be named after my mother, Zulaikha. My wife rudely suggested that this was an ugly name and that she wanted to name the baby Asma or Amina. She went so far as to express her dislike of the name in front of my parents. Although I put my foot down on the name, I conceded that she could nickname the child whatever she wanted at home as long as she was known to everyone else by her real name. 1 probably should not have even given her this one concession, because after this point she acted like

she could walk all over me and thoroughly took advantage of my concern for her.

Once she returned home with the baby, her crass demeanor contin­ ued. She would sit and nurse in front of me, fully exposed, with no shame

whatsoever. She complained about engorgement, soreness, and stretch

marks all over her body without any regard for my disgust at these incred­

ibly private details. She even expected me to change diapers and provide

66

Culture Clash: His Story

bottles for the child at night. Didn’t she know that I had a full-time job that kept this family clothed and fed?

I wasn’t her wet-nurse or her

nanny.

It was her job to clean the house, cook the meals, do the laundry and

care for the child, while I earned the money that helped keep a roof over our heads. Somehow, she thought that just having the baby earned her the right to kick back and do nothing while the entire household fell apart. I tried to make excuses for her since I could understand that her current lack of family was probably difficult. Yet, try as they might, she

would not even let my family get close to her and the child. When they wanted to stop by, she would always say she was too tired and would

inhospitably turn them away. Soon, my entire family swore off entering

our house because of my rude wife. I tried to spare her the details of my parents’ disapproval as I still held onto the hope that she would really one day change. Soon after our first child was born, she became pregnant again. Once

again, she acted like the world owed her something for accomplishing what she thought was an incredible feat. I couldn’t believe how spoiled

and self-centered this woman really was. Back in the villages of Palestine, my aunts and cousins would each have five or six little children hanging

onto their skirts, while pregnant with the seventh, and still cooking and cleaning and working in the fields with their husbands with a hot meal always ready for dinner at home. My wife, on the other hand, felt that

being pregnant entitled her to sit back and watch Oprah all day while eat­ ing bonbons and chocolate ice cream straight from the tub. It was utter­

ly disgusting and ridiculous! Our second child was a healthy son, named Abdul-Basit, after my

father, of course. Again, we had many disputes about the name, but this time I wouldn’t budge. Returning home with this child, my wife became nearly impossible to bear. There was constant whining about the little

67

When Muslim Marriage Fails

sleep she got, the difficulty of juggling two children, and what she called

my lack of involvement. I tried to call my wife’s attention to our many friends in the community and how most juggled a great deal more responsibility than merely raising two children. I was beginning to real­ ize that my wife did not have the stamina or the basic instincts of moth­ erhood that my friends’ Arab wives had. This is when the first realizations

of my error in judgment began to bother me regarding our marriage. She could neither cook nor keep house like my friends’ wives, and all I ever

heard from her were whiny complaints about the difficulty of her life.

However, I knew that I had to have patience with this woman for the sake of Allah (SWT) and tried my best to ignore her insensitive remarks and bad

attitude. Soon after our second child was born, my wife was again expecting. We had many arguments about birth control which I knew was akin to infan­ ticide or abortion. I did not care much for some of those more lenient fatwas

(religious rulings) that told women it was okay to block die natural path of

procreation and progeny. I knew my religion well enough to interpret tliat

the true way to sustaining the religion was through ensuring generations of young Muslims carried on the message long after we were gone. 1 don’t know how she did it, but in her sneaky way, she asked the

doctors to remove her child-producing organs after giving birth to our

second son and pleaded that it was a medical necessity. I lost all respect for her at that point. What good was a wife who could no longer bear me

children? I decided not to pursue the matter right away as she recovered from the birth of our child... after all our deen (religion) does state that

a husband must show rahma (mercy) to his wife when she is ill. Either way, I decided that when the time was right, surely a second wife would continue to provide me with the large offspring that was my right and

religious duty to bring into this world.

As our children grew older, my wife grew more and more disobedi­ ent. She refused to wear niqab (full head-to-toe Islamic covering) even

68

Culture Clash: His Story

though I could see men giving her blue eyes and wisps of blond hair peek­

ing from her loosely wrapped scarf appreciative glances even as we walked the streets together. Again, I did not push the matter since I decided she

would be the one to deal with the reckoning on the Day of Judgment. When it came to our first-born daughter, though, I was ultimately responsible and needed to ensure she stayed on the right path. Yet, even in this, my wife fought against me. She encouraged our chil­

dren to engage in play- dates and outings with their non-Muslim classmates.

She refused to speak to them in Arabic, the language of the Qur’an, even though I had paid dearly for personal tutors and a multitude of courses for her and the children. It was as if she simply wanted to defy me at every turn.

Our arguments increased on a daily basis, and I decided it was time to move our family out of this toxic environment, with or without her.

Again, she resisted adamantly and began to shower me with unbelievable threats about how she would fight against me and return to her family,

who had abandoned her years before, for the sake of her children. After nearly ten years of marriage, my wife’s true detestable colors were shining through. Our marriage was nothing but an empty shell and instead of

prolonging the farce, I decided to end our charade. My parents had been encouraging me to take a second wife for some

time, but from a financial perspective, it did not seem like the soundest investment. So, by invoicing the right of talaq (divorce), I released myself

and her from any obligations towards one another. Again, I must follow the deen as prescribed by Allah (SWT) in choosing the path that is least

painful for everyone involved. I am confident that I will also be able to take from her the rights of raising our children and delegate that to my mother instead, who will know how to raise them properly. I do not fight

for custody to hurt her, but only to find what is in the best interest of my progeny and to release her of the burden of responsibility. Only Allah (SWT) knows what the future holds for us all.

69

Culture Clash Commentary by Amro Mosaad'

F arriage is always more than just a union of a man and a IV /I woman. It is a joining of two families. It is a meeting JL ▼ JLand ideally a melding of two cultures. A man comes into a marriage from a certain background with certain expectations. The

same is true for the woman. Each has formed an idea of married life of spousal responsibilities based upon his or her upbringing. It is naive to

think that mutual attraction is enough to sustain a marriage, even if it be

more than mere physical attraction. In the case of this couple, though they met at the restaurant where the

woman worked and they seemed to find each other attractive physically

and even spiritually, they came from very different places. The man was raised in a traditional Arab family in Palestine. He expected that his wife

would serve a very traditional role tending house and raising children. Yet, he met his future spouse as a waitress in a restaurant.

The woman was raised in a non-Muslim family. She grew up in a

contemporary American context in which gender roles are very different from that in a traditional culture. Men and women are expected to share

the housework. Men are expected to be supportive of their wives at home

and in the public sphere. Women are not relegated to the home. The traditional culture in which the man grew up is very different

from the contemporary American culture in which the woman was raised.

It would be incorrect to view rhe traditional gender roles as ’Islamic’ and the other as ’not Islamic’. Men are required by God to provide for their

families, but women are not required by God to cook and clean for their husbands. Cooking and cleaning and other household tasks are negotiable in any marriage.

The culture clash between the two spouses contributed to a number 70

Culture Clash Commentary

of problems seen in the marriage. For example,

• the wife's hope to have a girl vs. the husband's hope for having a boy • the wife's disappointment that her husband neither attended her delivery nor helped with the baby

• the husband's opposition to using birth control • the husband's expectation that his wife wear niqab and that his

daughter put on hijab early

• and the differing expectations of how the wife should act with her in­

laws. All of these arc expectations that arc shaped by one's cultural back-

ground. These are exactly the types of issues that a man and a woman should discuss before marriage to determine if they are compatible,

Apparently, none of these matters were discussed beforehand. If there were matters where religious principles were violated, they

were the following: • the man marrying the woman without the involvement of a

guardian (wali or wakeel) • forbidding the use of birth control, when Allah and His Prophet did not do so

• breaking ties with parents, and the husband not encouraging her to reconnect with them. The first matter is of particular importance because a good wali (guardian) takes seriously his role of protecting the woman's interests.

When a woman becomes Muslim, if neither her father nor any other

male relatives are Muslim, she should choose a respected male in the Muslim community (usually the Imam) to serve as her wali. His job is to field any suitors and to help guard the interests of the woman under

his responsibility as he would guard the interests of his own daughter. It is possible that had the woman in the narrative a wali, she might have not felt the need to marry the man out of gratitude to him, or at the least, her 71

When Muslim Marriage Fails

wali would have considered the suitability of die match. A good wali would

have not immediately recommended that the new Muslimah marry, but rather he would consider her cultural background and the suitor’s back­

ground, and make recommendations to the woman based upon his experi­ ence. In the case of this broken marriage, the man saw himself as a protector of

the woman, but he did not fully embrace the role of husband, at least in the way that a woman raised in contemporary America would expect. There was too much paternalism, of the man viewing his wife as his “pet project”. In a

healthy marriage, a husband and wife are peers and they see one another as equals. Neither spouse should look down upon the other.

The two parties, the man and the woman, should be satisfied with one another as they are at the time of marriage. If a man would like his wife to

wear hijab (Islamic dress), he should not seek out women who do not wear hijab in the hope that he will convince his wife at some later time to wear

hijab. If a woman expects to live a luxurious lifestyle, she should not accept

a man who has modest expectations and no ambition for wealth. A potential spouse should be chosen based upon who he or she is and not who you wish him or her to be. Some might believe that Islam is enough of a bond between a man and

a woman. This is an overly idealistic view. As we see in this story and in many

actual marriages, a good Muslim man and a good Muslim woman may not get along. One's culture and expectations formed since childhood play a huge

role in the compatibility between the man and the woman. Traditional Islamic scholars recognized this and they referred to it as kafa a (equivalence).

In the present age, compatibility between cultural backgrounds is essential in

order to avoid a culture clash.

‘Amro Mosaad currendy serves on die Board of Trustees at the New

Brunswick Islamic Center. Previously he served as an officer of die Rutgers 72

Culture Clash: Commentary

University Islamic Society. He is an active participant and leader in several community Islamic initiatives. Amro is also a high school teacher ofmathe­

matics. He holds a Master's degree in Education from Columbia University and a BA in Sociology from Rutgers University. He currendy resides in North

Brunswick, New Jersey with his wife and three daughters.

73

Embers to Ashes

I

EMBERS

TO

A S H E S

Her Story I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO MY father years ago when he urged me not to marry him. The first time my husband came to propose,

my father laughed in his face and said: “You can take the doorman away from the door, but you can’t take the door away from the doorman.” Was he ever right! The man I married ruined my life. Everything bitter in my life came from him and the only sweetness was in the form of my chil­ dren, who he eventually turned against me. The alienation of my chil­ dren, the lack of intimacy in our lives, the mistreatment of my family, and the robbing of my youth and my future were all that I got from this mar­ riage. How different would my life have been if I chose a more worthy

suitor as my husband? There had been plenty of suitors for me to choose from. 1 was pret­ ty as a blossom before he swindled me into falling for him. Men from as far as two towns over came to court me and ask for my hand in marriage.

Even as my parents begged and pleaded, I invariably stuck to my stub­ born ways and held out for the man I was convinced was my “true love.” Now I know that true and perfect love for anyone other than Allah (swt) and the Prophet (pbuh) doesn’t really exist, but my young heart, influ­

enced by the romantic music and movies of those days, insisted on wait­

ing for the man who had promised me the stars beneath the balcony years ago. As the years slipped by and I felt my appeal beginning to fade, I had

more than a few moments of worry. He had already travelled abroad and I was terrified that he would find some beautiful American to marry instead of me. It took a great deal of prayer and patience for me to stand up to my parents’ marriage choices and insist that I would wait for my

“Prince Charming.” They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, 76

Embers to Ashes; I ler Story

and in his absence I imagined my future husband as the picture of per­ fection. He was everything that an ideal husband could possibly be and I was sure that we would have nothing but happi happiness when he whisked me away from the shambles of Syria to the golden-paved streets of America.

I was the envy of all my friends when he came back wearing his wealth in his fancy suit and shiny shoes. Not only was I marrying a rich

man, but 1 was going to be transplanted to America to experience things my cousins, friends, and neighbors could only ever hear about. I was on cloud nine during that time. Ecstatic as could be, I mapped out my prospects with my future husband. Everyone seemed to forget where he had first come from as the gleam of the dollar freely replaced their pre­ conceived notions of his family’s status. Only his parents and siblings acted as if 1 was a poor choice of bride. They should have been honored that I would even accept this man despite his initial station in life. The dislike I developed for his family continued even after I left the country

in direct response to the obvious disdain they unabashedly showed me. Once we arrived in America, I was surprised that the country looked rather ordinary and not much like the images I’d seen in my dreams. All the same, I was grateful to have the chance to experience something dif­

ferent, especially since 1 knew that this was just a temporary move.

Although we hadn’t clearly laid out the parameters for how long we would remain as immigrants in the U.S., I was sure that just as soon as we’d amassed a large enough sum to live comfortably in our native home­

land, we would return to Syria. I estimated that it would not be more than a year or two at most.

In order to speed up the process, I agreed to find a job to help

increase our savings. I accepted a position that was way beneath my sta­ tion in life as a cafeteria lady in a large public school. Besides the belit­ tling comments I had to endure from the students, my husband insisted 77

When Muslim Marriage Fails

on picking up my paychecks and only giving me what money he thought I should spend on groceries every week. Although I was annoyed at his

actions, I had no one to discuss this with to see whether or not he was right in keeping me in the dark regarding our joint finances,

He was keeping me in the dark regarding quite a few things, such as an ything related to bills, bank accounts, signing checks or any matter that might

have some rational thought involved. Even though I had only complet­ ed my education up to middle school back home, I knew that I wasn’t stu­

pid. Yet, as a high school graduate, my husband seemed to always dismiss my ideas or opinions as having no value. He never wanted to hear what I had to say, nor did he ever carry on a conversation of much substance

with me. It wasn’t until I met another woman, slightly older than me, at the

supermarket that my eyes were finally opened. The woman became my closest friend, and even today I only have her to stand beside me through

thick and thin. That day, I was horribly embarrassed to admit that I did not have an extra penny to spare on the fruits that looked so sweet,

because my husband had not included them on his rationed list. She was

shocked at this type of treatment and gave me a good talking-to about asserting my personality rather than having him walk all over me. It was

as if his years of poverty as the son of a doorman had taught him to yield a tight fist with his own household.

When I confronted him with the knowledge my new friend had given

me, he shouted and cursed like a true street-beggar and I realized that I

was just now seeing his true colors. Not only had he been taking my money and giving me what little he decided was enough, but he was also

sending more than half our earnings back home to support his lazy sib­ lings. As if it weren’t bad enough that he was reaping my hard earned

money as if I were his slave, he also insisted that my own family needed no financial help and he would not send them a single penny. I was out-

78

Embers to Ashes: Her Story

raged by his attitude, and began plotting all sorts of misery that I could

put him through as payback for his monstrous ways. I longed to go back home where any one of my brothers or uncles would have straightened him out for mistreating me. Instead, I was stuck

alone in this country with no one to turn to. I clung to my new friend

and confided everything in her. She gave me advice that continued to sustain me throughout my broken marriage. He would not allow me to go back to work after I threatened to keep all my paychecks and to spend

them on myself and my family. Although I wanted to rebel against his

orders, I was secretly pleased not to have to go back to that demeaning

position, but I also wondered what I would do with the loneliness of my

long days. He was used to leaving for work at dawn and coming home

late into the night to eat and sleep. Our weekends were spent in much the same monotonous way, only broken up with an occasional visit to a

distant acquaintance. Alhamdulillah (Praise be to Allah), I didn't have to worry for long, soon after I began to stay home, I found out I was expecting.

I was

thrilled that I would suddenly have something to do with myself. I also

knew that now was a good time for me to return to my home country to have the baby amidst family and familiarity. Again, my husband showed

his true mean-spirited nature and refused to let me go. I was devastated and he knew it, but he did nothing to try to alleviate my pain. In the long years I had to stay apart from my family, I made sure to call them consistently and to mail lots of pictures of the baby with long

letters of false happiness every chance I could. With pricey diapers and

formula added to our shopping list, I suddenly found that I had more leverage in making him increase my grocery allowance accordingly. I also

learned to clip coupons and save the extra little bit of grocery money under a loose floorboard in our tiny apartment closet. I really didn’t want to lie to him and hide money for my family, but every time I brought up

79

When Muslim Marriage Fails

the topic of helping my family out, he refused and insisted that we need­

ed monetary help more than they did. His unfair treatment of my fami­ ly as opposed to how he spoiled his siblings made jealousy and hatred towards him and his family flourish in my heart. Even though we had long passed the one to two year mark of tempo­

rary abode that I had initially envisioned, I still held out hope that I

would eventually be able to return to my home-land and raise my chil­

dren among friends and family. My husband was becoming more and more encultured into the American way, and I hated the feeling that I might also one day lose my ethnic identity. Hed become a total merce­

nary, always running after the next way to make a dollar. Yet, the extra money he earned was never spent on us. Whenever I tried to question

the household finances, he would jump down my throat and act as if I’d

crossed some immutable line and completely overstepped my boundaries. I decided that if I didn’t force him to spend money on our needs and

wants, then his siblings would be the only ones to benefit from what rightfully belonged to us. I began ordering lavish accouterments for the

apartment I had wheedled and begged him to buy for us in Syria. From the most expensive new furniture to the most up-to-date water heaters

and pumps, I wanted to make sure our home in Syria was worthy of my long years of exile, even if that meant skimping on the name-brand sneak­ ers my kids wanted or buying second-hand furniture for our small

American apartment.

After I delivered my fifth child amidst constant arguments and accu­ sations, we both realized that our loveless marriage really only had one purpose, which was to maintain some semblance of normalcy for the sake

of our children. Yet, I am positive that children, even from the youngest age, can sense discord and hatred between parents. I grew more and more bitter as the years passed and I found myself imprisoned in the country I always felt like a stranger in. As the kids grew older, it became harder to

80

Embers to Ashes-. I ler Story

imagine our return to Syria. My husband worked night and day like a dog and barely had a presence in the household. Late at night, we would each retreat to our own rooms with hardly any civility towards each other.

Although I would never admit it, years later, I longed for some sort of

intimacy or even one of his awkward embraces just to make me feel like

a human-being again.

It was as if the lack of intimacy I had with my husband had been inherited directly by each of my children as well, who all avoided hugging

and kissing like the plague. I loved my children much more than I had ever really loved my husband, but being home with them all the time was

draining. In retaliation for not letting me get involved with the house­ hold financial decisions, I decided that he would not be allowed to get

involved with decisions regarding raising our children.

He was not

around enough to know what was happening in their lives anyway. From

arguments about not wanting to go to the Islamic weekend school at the

mosque, to late night pleas of wanting to go out on a date or to the prom, I felt like I was losing control of my kids, but I would not let him step into my domain. At least in this, I needed to succeed alone.

The more entrenched in American society that my children and I became, the further and further thoughts of Syria slipped to the back of my mind. I still held out hope that at least one of my three daughters

would find a nice Syrian doctor back home who would put everything into the right order after marriage. What I hadn’t accounted for was the difficulty of marrying off five children who had grown to adulthood in a

sham of a marriage and had a very negative view of the entire institution. Because he had to be involved when suitors came to the door, I

grudgingly included my husband in our marriage discussions. Yet, his

only focus in questioning the proposing individual revolved around money alone. How much did this man make? How much was he plan­ ning to spend on the wedding?

How much did he have saved in the

81

When Muslim Marriage Fails

bank? How much? How much? How much? His obvious love of money embarrassed me and his daughters as the suitors all seemed to be scared off by his mercenary ways, never to return again. Soon enough, my daughters took matters into their own hands, each one choosing a com­ panion who was the complete opposite of what we were looking for, and insisting that this was the person they would marry. Although I felt like they were all falling into doomed unions, I was powerless to stop their downward spirals. Rather than putting his foot down, their father just stood by and let it happen. He could care less about the future of his chil­

dren, as long as he did not have to touch his precious money in the mean­ time. My sons fared no better in their futures. They had both sworn off our

help in arranging for a suitable marriage and moved out of the house to go to college and choose their own brides, without a backward glance. No amount of insistence could make them change their minds. Even now, I only occasionally hear from them. And when they do call, it is in a rushed and superficial manner on a birthday or Mother’s Day once or twice a year. My husbands horrible ways had turned my own children into individualistic Americans in the truest sense of the word. No ties to culture, home, or family existed for them. Yet, I knew that it was a moth­ ers job to continue reaching out, even though my efforts were consistent­ ly rebuffed.

My daughters all had children of their own. Even though I had pined for my parents during my years of solitary labor, my daughters refused to

even allow me to enter the hospital room with them during the birth of each child. I soon gave up even on travelling to the distant states each one lived in for the births of their children because they made it painstaking­ ly obvious that they did not want me to be there.

Throughout these ordeals that were tearing me up inside, my hus­ band, as usual, took a solitary and silent stance. He seemed unfazed by

82

Embers to Ashes: Her Story

what was happening to our family.

It was as if he was satisfied with

the job he’d done in financially supporting his kids, and no longer felt

any connection or obligation towards them. Upon realizing this, I felt a horrible emptiness envelope me. I no longer wanted to see my one

close friend nor attend Friday prayers at the mosque or even call the one

or two distant remaining relatives I had left in Syria.

It was at this lowest point that he decided to taunt me with some­ thing I’d longed to hear him say years before, as I felt my family slipping

between my fingers. He strode into my bedroom and said he was now ready to move back to Syria. I couldn’t believe the pompous pig! He had alienated me from my family and the people I loved back home for years, and now that they were all dead and gone, he was ready to return!

I

couldn’t believe his arrogant self-centeredness. I screamed at him and let loose all the pent-up anger that had been building over the past several

years. I hurled every imaginable insult at him with the intention of truly wounding him, but I’m not sure if the words even got past his thick skin.

Infuriatingly, he didn’t shout back, he simply nodded and smiled and told me he’d already purchased his ticket and if I was interested in joining

him, 1 should just let him know. I hurled a crystal vase at his head on his way out of the room, hoping that it would hit him hard. It missed him

by a mile and shattered in a million pieces all over the floor, as I crum­ bled up and cried. The shards of glass on the bedroom floor looked like

they had a better chance of being pieced together and transformed into a whole again, than I ever did. He travelled to Syria without me that year as I insisted that my children needed me near them. The lie sounded hollow even to my own ears. Yet, this scene of defiance made me feel like I had some semblance

of control over my own decisions. It was not up to him to decide to move

to Syria when it suited his purposes. I had a right to make decisions too.

I sunk deeper and deeper into a catatonic state of depression while he was

83

When Muslim Marriage Fails

gone. I’d devoted the best years of my life solely to the raising of my chil­

dren, keeping a clean house and laundered clothes for my family, and cooking meal after meal like the family housekeeper, rather than respect­ ed wife and mother. Now, what did I have to show for those wasted years?

Nothing! I had dreamed of finishing my education as my friend had, but he always stood in my way, telling me that I wouldn’t succeed and that it would just be money thrown away. His lack of encouragement always

made me shut down and change the subject right away. I never developed any hobbies other than my mediocre cooking skills and my great ironing.

But neither of these skills was actually marketable in a respectable job. So, I just kept pretending that the children needed me and that they could not survive without me. When, in reality, I knew that it was really the

other way around.

I didn’t want to return to Syria without my children, a broken old lady who gained nothing but heartache from the great country of

America. Yet, after a few visits to Syria alone, I could tell that something

was out of sorts. He began to take great care in the clothes he packed;

mostly packing pretentious outfits that still had the outrageous price tags on them. The stinginess in him usually caused him to dress like a pau­

per, buying only discounted clothes off the sales’ racks of department

stores. I knew that something must have been going on to instigate this new attention to his appearance.

When I confronted him, he insisted that he was meeting up with old friends and wanted to make sure that they could see his marks of success

from America.

I thought that he might actually be telling the truth

because I had seen how much care and thought he put into dealing with everyone other than his wife and kids. I had grown accustomed in the past to running into people he worked with while we were out with the

kids somewhere and he would take several steps ahead of us, never intro-

84

Embers to /Xshes: Her Story

ducing his family to the invariably American friend, and glance sheepish­

ly down as his coworkers used his made-up more English-friendly name rather than the name we knew him by.

His kindness and garrulousness towards these strangers always made me wonder what his true intentions were. Year after year passed unevent­ fully and I assumed that he displayed a split personality, but I no longer

had enough personal investment in our relationship to really care what he did at work. Maybe I should have paid more attention back then. Maybe

I should have realized that I was married to a philandering imbecile. ft wasn’t long before the harsh truth was ringing in my ears.

Although he denied it, I was sure that he’d known this woman in Syria and had become intimate with her, either in the halal (permissible) way of a second wife or otherwise. His ardent denials were nothing but lies.

I stood steadfast in my convictions and asked him for a divorce. His quick agreecment just confirmed my suspicions.

I’ve been a divorced woman for three years now and still feel miser­ ably alone. My husband, kids, and even friends have abandoned me with the advice that “time heals all wounds.” But I know that there are some

gaping injuries that nothing will ever mend. Thankfully, in solitude, even pain is sometimes a welcome and worthy companion.

85

EMBERS

TO

ASHES

His Story SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL, OVER THIRTY YEARS ago. As little more than a young man pining away with romantic notions, I used to ser­

enade her from under the balcony with absurd sonnets of love. She would shyly smile and hide her face, driving my desire mad. The first time I pro­ posed at age 18, her father promptly refused me. He was an arrogant man

who thought his oldest daughter could do much better than marry the son of the doorman in his apartment building in Damascus, Syria.

He

laughed at me and told me to return when I had enough money to feed

myself. After that first refusal, 1 was determined to win her hand and his

approval. 1 studied hard and gained the highest marks on my exams which gave me the opportunity to go to college... the first in my family. I could have gone to medical school or to the school of engineering or any

other state controlled university based on my high marks. However, as often happens with young love, I was blinded by my immediate ambition

to marry her rather than looking into the long-term benefits of a college degree. Years later, I often questioned my decision and my refusal to listen to my aging father who longed to see me as a college graduate more than anything else in the world. I entered the army instead of delaying my

draft injunctions because the paltry salary they offered looked like mil­

lions to my young eyes. I quickly distinguished myself in the army, all the

while thinking of my future bride. I knew that she was being pursued by many eligible suitors back home, but I was confident in her reciprocated love for me and knew that she would refuse them all.

My stint in the army led to several prominent government connec­ tions that eventually paved the way for my immigration from Syria to

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Embers to Ashes: His Story

America. I had heard about the ease of earning money in America and

was determined not to return to Syria until I could easily win the hand of the woman I loved. Upon arriving in America, I was blinded by the free-flowing money and love that seemed to pervade everything in the

early 70s. I worked menial jobs in fast-food restaurants and car washes but still earned more money in a few weeks than I probably would have

in a year as a doctor back home. 1 lived and worked in America for two years, hording every penny I

earned with the intention of showering most of it on my family and future bride. Just as I knew she would be, when I returned to Syria at the age of 23, 1 found her waiting for me. I had earned enough to relieve my

ailing father from his demeaning position, but he refused to touch a cent from what I gave him. He insisted my money was haram (Islamically

unlawful) and he would not take a single pound from me because I had earned this money without honor. He died later that year, after I had returned to America, still unforgiving of my decision not to enter college. This is a burden I have borne with sadness over the past several decades

and often wonder if I was not so hung up on the girl in the balcony, if my life would have turned out differently. Regardless, I know the word

“if” comes from the shaytan (devil) and 1 try not to dwell on the past too

much.

Her father could not refuse me now with my shiny wing-tipped

leather shoes and my one well-tailored suit that I had bought at Woolworth’s with my hard-earned first month’s salary. The lure of money was written all over his face as his eyes literally seemed to turn into dol­

lar signs when we talked dowry. He practically threw his daughter at me this time around and I marveled at the wonders money could buy. Her

parents could have cared less about my adherence to religion or even my family name anymore.

My future father-in-law was already mentally

counting out his cash from what he saw as a profitable transaction. Her 87

When Muslim Marriage Fails

mom was no better in the way she suddenly wanted to serve me anything

I desired, when just a few short years ago she looked like she wanted to

spit in my eye as she barked orders at me and my brothers and treated my father like her own personal slave.

Still, 1 had seen nothing but kindness from my young bride and this

is why my love for her continued to flourish throughout all those years.

We were married in a lavish wedding at her father’s request to show off

the catch he had made for his daughter. My parents refused to come to the wedding and only two of my brothers attended the ostentatious affair after I begged and pleaded. They all felt that I had married outside of my

class and had betrayed them by throwing away an honorable future for immediate gratification. I swore that 1 would make it up to my parents

one day. Unfortunately, my father died shortly after my marriage and my mother followed him soon after. I never got to see them again because I had already returned to the States. I knew that the least I could do in

memory of their name was to always provide and look out for my many

brothers and sisters.

Upon returning to the U.S., I began the paperwork to bring my wife

to join me. The immigration went smoothly enough in those days and I did not have to wait long for her to come. Although she had only attend­

ed middle school, she picked up English from watching television faster than I did and was soon fluent enough to start working at a nearby cafe­

teria. She was a hard worker and was not embarrassed or afraid of work­ ing in what would be considered a position beneath her, back home.

Initially, I was thrilled that she wanted to work to help pay our growing expenses. I would pick up her paycheck at the end of each week and

deposit it into my bank account to pay the bills, the rent, and our month­

ly expenses. I would also set a little aside every month to send to my impoverished brothers and sisters.

We lived in this state of married cooperation for several months.

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Embers to Ashes: His Story

Then, she met a woman at the supermarket who started to put terrible notions in her impressionable mind. I always gave her just enough money

to cover what we needed for our groceries. Knowing that women are not meant to handle finances, I would make up her shopping list along with

the prices of each item and give her the exact amount to save her from

unnecessary purchases or confusion at the checkout line. While at the supermarket one day, she met another Syrian woman who had been

living in the States for quite some time. The woman suggested she buy some type of fruit that happened to be sweet and in season. My wife

responded that if it wasn’t on the list I made her, she would not have

enough to pay for it. The woman went off on a rampage, belittling my wife for being kept on what she called “a tight leash.” Upon learning that

my wife worked but did not cash her own checks or handle her own

finances, the woman insisted that my wife was a fool and that she needed to wizen up a bit. This was the beginning of many more fights in the years to come. My wife came home demanding all sorts of things. She insisted that her

new “friend” had told her that a woman in Islam had the right to keep all of the money she earned and did not need to contribute to home expens­

es at all. When I asked her what she would do with the money, she told

me it was up to her whether she spent it on herself or gave it to her fam­ ily. I couldn’t believe that she would even consider paying her blood­

sucking relatives money that rightfully belonged to maintaining our

household. After that, I forbade her from working outside of the home again.

For years, we would fight on and off again about the same topic. I grudg­ ingly gave her a little more leeway with the shopping list, but did not see

the need for an allowance for her or her family. Sometimes I suspected that she would skimp on the shopping a little and save some of the gro­

cery money to buy presents for her family or to send the money overseas 89

When Muslim Marriage Fails

without my knowledge. I tried to turn a blind eye to these things for the sake of maintaining peace in our household.

Luckily, her nagging about wanting to go back to work ended fairly quickly when she found out she was expecting. A new problem arose when she began insisting that she return to Syria to deliver the child.

I couldn’t believe the selfishness of this woman. Here I was working two

jobs, a morning shift and a night shift at a toy making factory and at a deli, to make sure we had enough to eat and she wanted to blow several

months salary on an airline ticket so that she could thoughtlessly deliver her baby with her mother by her side.

She kept insisting that I had promised her that America was only tempo­ rary. That once we made enough money to live comfortably back home, that

we would leave this country and return to our roots. She didn’t want to raise a child here, in this hippie culture of pot-smoking, long hair and grunge­ wear. I tried to explain calmly that we didn’t even have enough to cover the

cost of her airplane ticket. But, of course, being a woman, I didn’t really expect her to understand the rational financial aspect of our arguments.

Our first son was born amidst many disagreements. The only person who came to visit us upon the birth of the baby was her supermarket

friend who had now grown very close to my wife as her most trusted confidante. I didn’t like this woman, but felt powerless to keep her away

from my wife. She trusted her implicitly and held onto her friendship like a woman drowning in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

We settled into a routine with the baby. My wife began to spend long hours on the phone with her family as if she was retaliating for my inability to send her back home to see them. I gave up on trying to convince her of

our financial situation as she continued to vilify me in the eyes of anyone who would listen. The nagging and complaining continued as the arguments

grew repetitive in nature. “You don’t like my family. You don’t treat them the way you treat yours.”

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Embers to Ashes: His Story

The annoying refrain was one that I would continue to hear over the next thirty years of our marriage.

Even as my ears grew weary from the constant complaining, 1 contin­ ued working hard and trying to make our life as comfortable as possible.

She befriended more Arabs and Muslims and began to find a group of

women she could complain to as often as she liked. The husbands would gather for tea and discuss the soccer matches or news from back home,

and the children would play, while the wives swapped verbal recipes and

complaints. It seemed like every penny earned was a penny spent as our family grew and more children came along. After we’d been away from

Syria for five years, I was able to afford a trip back home. Again, a new fountain of problems seemed to open up for us. Her

parents had grown older and greedier and expected an unbelievable

amount of gifts. Our eight allowable suitcases were packed to the brim

with fabrics and gifts for practically everyone we knew in Damascus. My wife had spent the past five years just accumulating massive amounts of

things that she could give away to prove her monetary well-being and worth in front of her family. I planned on distributing money in con­ junction to the gifts to my side of the family. I knew that her side really didn’t need any money since they were much better off than my brothers

and sisters could ever hope to imagine.

Chaos reigned on our trip.

Rather than enjoying our time with

family we hadn’t seen for awhile, I found myself constantly making excus­

es as to why so and so could not borrow whatever sum from me and patiently explaining over and over again that I was not a millionaire. My wife, on the other hand, seemed to flourish under the constant attention

and completely played the role of rich girl. Soon enough, she was com­ paring her own status with that of other girls who had married well in our neighborhood. She insisted that we needed to buy an apartment in Syria

to ensure that we would always have a place to go on our visits.

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When Muslim Marriage fails

1 could not see the rationale in purchasing a home that we would not live in. However, I gave in again, because I thought it might give her something to do rather than constantly bickering with me. Unfortunately, this concession turned out to be a very unsound financial decision on my part as all the money I funneled into her “little” project wound up being sucked away into some gigantic money pit. The empty shell of an apartment we purchased continued to be a source of anger and accusations for many years to come. As the children grew, so did her desire to pick fights with me. It seemed that anything that could go wrong in our family was always a direct result of my actions in some way. She took no responsibility for her child-rearing or constant yelling as a possible reason for the children’s rebellion during various stages of their lives. She insisted that the source of all our financial worries was the paltry sums I sent to support my sib­ lings. She constantly reprimanded me for everything from eating my

meal in silence to the Arabic skills our children lacked. After our fifth child, I moved out of the bedroom. Intimacy had become nothing but a chore and I felt abstinence was the best way to avoid having anymore unexpected children. Either way, I was sure this would at least help tone down her complaints about my snoring or her inability to sleep next to my cold feet. As I should have guessed at that point, she found a million other things to replace her complaints about my sleeping habits. Throughout the years, I often tried to remember what it was about this woman that made me want to marry her. It was difficult to recall sometimes, but I needed to have a reason to keep being patient and

to hold onto my temper. I continued to maintain some semblance of family life for the sake of our children, but in reality, all feelings I had once had for this woman had all but fizzled out.

She constantly reminded me that I was the son of a doorman and

regardless of how I moved up in positions here in the States; she made

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Embers to Ashes: His Story

sure to stress the situation I had originated from. I hated coming home

from work and took to staying out with friends as often as possible or

sometimes even napping long hours in the car to avoid the empty hours filled with complaints that I was sure to meet at home.

As die kids grew older, one by one, they married and went their separate ways. Each marriage was a struggle, fraught widi arguments and disagree­

ments. I could only pray that each child would find greater happiness in his or her marriage than I had in mine. Once our youngest son was also married

and moved out, my wife and 1 were faced with emptiness.

Not the emptiness filled with mundane concerns that we’d lived through the past thirty-odd years of marriage, but an eerie emptiness filled with silence and self-loathing. I almost wished that she’d pick up her

arguments again, since that at least gave us something to talk about. Our

children seemed to avoid us like the plague, always pleading that they were too busy with their spouses or their own children to come home. I still wonder whether or not the unhappiness of our home while they were

growing up left a permanent blight on their views of the family. Now that we were unencumbered by children or even any difficult financial situations as we had been in the past, 1 proposed to my wife that

we move back to Syria. I thought that this was her ultimate desire and that my words would bring back some form of life to her apathetic existence.

Surprisingly, it brought her back to life, but not with excitement or joy. She immediately started talking about my selfishness and how I did not care about our children. She insisted that our children needed her and that she could not possibly think of abandoning them to go to a

country which she could not even call home anymore. Most of her rela­ tives and her parents had passed away in between her visits to Syria over

the past three decades. She no longer felt any connection with the coun­ try she had fought so hard with me to maintain another residence in.

I could easily identify my wife’s ardent desire to feel needed. I knew

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When Muslim Marriage fails

that she was holding on to her children, who clearly had no wish to linger,

just for the feeling of having someone to cook for, and care for, and clean

up after. We had built the greater part of our lives and our marriage around these children, and it was hard to accept now that they no longer

needed us. While I could eventually admit to this reality lity and move on with other interests such as playing backgammon or enjoying the cafe

atmosphere in Syria, my wife continued to act as if she had nothing, if she

didn’t have her kids. There was clearly an addicting dependence in the

way she had lived her life solely to ensure the well-being of her children.

It was noble in a way, but also rather sad to see that my wife was little more than an empty shell colored only by the personality of others.

As she stayed home pining for the comfort of the little hands and hearts of our infrequently visiting grandchildren, I could see her sinking

deeper and deeper into a toxic depression that I feared would spread to me. To save myself, I began travelling to Syria alone. She had no inter­

est in joining me, yet before every trip she would erupt in tongue­ lashings reminiscent of her old self, accusing me of things left and right.

I had long ago grown accustomed to her vitriolic language and went ahead with my travel plans anyway. It was on one of these trips that I met a wonderful woman, several years

younger than me who showed interest in sharing my company. Where my wife gave me nothing but negative comments and made sure to point out all

my flaws, this woman insisted on extolling my virtues and seemed oblivious to any faults. Her positive nature was refreshing and I basked in the glow of her compliments like a love-struck teen instead of the old man I knew I was.

As I began to confide in her the miseries of my married life, I could

feel a definite connection. I weighed the pros and cons of taking her on as a second wife and decided that the financial aspect of actually marry­ ing this woman would be more of a burden than her companionship was

really worth. It was shortly after my personal revelation that I was sitting

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Embers to Ashes: His Story

at a cafe in Syria with this lovely lady, fully intending to make my objec­

tives clear to her, that I looked up to see my wife’s supermarket friend staring at us. One look at the expression on her face was all I needed to

know that no good would come from this busy-body.

Just as I suspected, I returned home to America to the wrath of a scorned woman. Accusations of my infidelity were hurled at me by my aged wife who

definitely seemed to snap out of her depressed, introverted state.

Like a

screaming banshee, she accused me of cheating on her and committing all

sorts of un-Islamic actions. Deep down, I was sure she didn’t really believe her own accusations, but I think the woman had finally snapped.

She began calling up all of the friends we’d made in our community

over the past thirty-some years to decry my character and complain about my infidelity. They were torn between whom to side with and ultimate­

ly just shied away from both of us. Although I had not given the topic much thought over all the long years of misery that I’d lived with her, in

her mad fits of rage she began telling me to divorce her. It was easy, real­ ly, and I wondered why I hadn’t complied with this request years ago and

avoided so many decades of ego-bashing and criticism.

It’s been three years and I don’t regret divorcing her nor do I regret ever marrying her. Marriage changes people sometimes. My optimistic

side says that it’s often for the better, but I think the realistic truth is that

it’s more often for the worse. I don’t need to look any further than to the broken marriages that most of my children are struggling through now as

proof of my theory. Is it a lack of faith in Allah (subhanahu wa tala) or a lack of love for one another that made my marriage fail after so many

years? I don’t know the answer to that question. To be honest, though, our marriage was doomed to failure from the start, and I don’t think there is anything I could have done to stop it. It just makes me sad to think

that after all these years and all these struggles, both of us will die alone.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better.

95

Embers to Ashes Commentary by Dr. Ibrahim Bilker’

W t is never enough in Islam to simply enter into the covenant of I marriage and expect that you are completing your deen (religion).

JL It is required that a further step be taken as exemplified in the

authentic hadith from the Prophet (PBUH), reported by Imams AtTirmithi, Ibn Hibban, and Ibn Majah which states: ’’The best among you

is the best to their family, and I am the best one to my family."

In the narrative, the disturbing trend of older couples seeking divorce after years of a discontented marriage is clearly evidenced. The way th e marriage begins often has as much reflective bearing on the success or failure of the Muslim union as the actual participants’ efforts. In the case of

the narrative situation, it was obvious that the kafa’a (equivalence) or compatibility was not at first defined. As the Sahih Hadith (solid narra­ tion) of Bukhari and Muslim shows: “Fatimah bint Qais (May Allah be pleased with her) said: I came to the Prophet (PBUH) and said to him:

‘Muawiyah and Abul-Jahm sent me a proposal of marriage.’ The Messenger of Allah (PBUH) said, ‘Muawiyah is destitute and he has no

property, and Abul-Jahm is very hard on women.’ While compatibility does not lie in the financial state of affairs when

it comes to marriage, it is most clearly defined in the attunement of cul­ tural inclinations, beliefs, and upbringing to a certain extent. The oft-

quoted marriage hadith from Bukhari and Muslim states that the Holy Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said: "A man marries a woman for four

reasons: for her property, for her rank, for her beauty, and for her religion (and character). So marry the one who is best in the religion and charac­

ter and prosper". It’s important to remember that this hadith precludes

the assumption that the person who is initiating the marriage proposal is already strong in his deen (religion) and will find a match that will help 96

Embers to Ashes: Commentary

guard and further his own iman (faith).

Even though the marriage may have begun against the parents’ initial wishes, success could still have been attained had the couple shown for­ bearance, tolerance, acceptance, and long-term compassion towards one

another once the initial love/lust feelings had worn off. However, because

they married without both sets of parents’ consent and without kafa’a (compatibility), their marriage was fraught with different expectations and designed for failure. The lack of resolution in reconciling the in-laws

with the husband’s choice of wife, prior to the marriage, also created a rift

that grew into a chasm as the years of marriage progressed. The couple’s own children reciprocated the cycle of parental disapproval in their own marriage choices as well.

Another issue that led to the marriage’s demise came from the wife’s need for friendship and her immediate latching on to the one woman who seemed to offer her the compassion and companionship that she was missing at home with her husband. Had the husband provided his wife

with good companionship and included her in the decision-making process, (just as the Noble Prophet (S.A.W.) sought the opinion of his

wife, Umu-Salamah, after the peace treaty of Al-Hudaibiyah), she may not have felt the need to gobble up the friendship of the first person who

offered a sympathetic ear. Not only was she pushed to befriend and look up to the first person who gave her a modicum of attention, but her blind

need caused her to confide marital problems and heed the advice of a non-specialized individual, who did not base her counsel on any true reli­ gious or therapeutic foundation.

The friendship in the narrative stemmed from another common pitfall in many marriage dissolutions with younger and older couples alike. There is no doubt that the man is financially responsible for his wife and

his household, including his parents in their old age. The Qur’an clearly

states that “Men are the qawwamoon, the protectors of the women”

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When Muslim Marriage Kails

(SuratAn-Nisa’verse 34). It is agreed by most scholars that this refers to

the financial obligation and responsibility a husband has to provide for his wife, children and household.

Yet, this responsibility is tempered

again by the understanding that the husband cannot be stingy and the wife cannot be excessively extravagant and must strive to guard the house­

hold expenses in the way that is best for her family as exemplified by the following ayah from Surat At-Talaq: Allah (SWT) says: “Let the rich

man spend according to his means, and the man whose resources are restricted, let him spend from what Allah has given him. Allah puts no

burden on any person beyond what He has given him...” (Verse 7).

In the past, a woman’s money was generally inherited and thus the husband would never expect her inheritance to be spent on maintaining

the household. The women of that long-gone era worked vigorously within the household for the maintenance of the family necessities with­

out any financial compensation. Today, however, with more and more

married women entering the work force, the concept of full financial responsibility falling on the male is often reexamined. As with all matters

of dispute in marriage, true faith and open communication can help the individuals work towards a viable solution. Both the man and the woman

must want what is best for the marriage in order to ensure that the mar­ riage will succeed. This golden rule should be no different in financial matters as well.

The final elements that pushed the marriage in the narrative towards

the point of divorce began with the couples lack of companionship and common ground that revolved around more than just their shared chil­ dren. The lack of intimacy, the constant reprimands and denigrations, and the hormonal changes as the partners aged, all led to the marriages

eventual downfall. Marriage is a continuous building relationship. If

there is no basis of strong faith, common ground, and compatibility, then there will be nothing to build upon in the future. Marriage bonds are

98

Embers to Ashes: Commentary

truly tested once the couple finds themselves devoid of young children to care for and to link them together.

If couples never take the time to

understand and truly get to know one another as husband and wife before

getting caught up in the mother and father roles, then they will have a difficult time adjusting to life without the childrens presence. Not only

do couples need to take the time to respect each other and truly love one

other for the sake of Allah (SWT), but they also need to get to know themselves as individuals and develop identities that are not solely

dependent upon their parental or marital-defined roles.

DR. IBRAHIM BUKER is a practicing surgeon in Central New Jersey. He

previously served as die Imam ofseveral masajid in various areas in NewJersey.

Dr. Buker has given numerous presentations and commentaries on different

aspects of Islam at universities and at a range of conferences. He is actively involved with many youth initiatives throughout the Muslim community.

Dr. Buker has also officiated the marriages ofnumerous couples and serves as a key mediator in many marital disputes. He currently resides in Holmdel, NJ with his wife, his six children, and several grandchildren.

99

Stress

STRESS

Her Story I’VE WASTED SEVEN YEARS OF MY life, and I will never get that time back. Before marriage, I often heard people say that the first year of

marriage was the hardest, and that if you could survive that initiation time, everything else would fall into place. I kept repeating that phrase, hoping that it would become a reality, but it never did. No one ever told me that marriage was just another euphemism for

indentured servant. I hadn’t risen to the top of my engineering class and

excelled in my Master’s program just so that I could stand in the kitchen cooking, cleaning, and meeting all of his needs. I didn’t sign up for that

part of the marriage. I guess our first year wasn’t so bad. He annoyed me with his passivity around his parents and his disgusting habits of leaving his dishes unwashed in the sink and his dirty socks mixed in with my delicates in the hamper, but for the most part, things were pretty fun. Our marriage allowed us to join the exclusive club of “young and hip married couples” and we spent a majority

of our time at board-game parties and in couples’ outings. We even took a

few spur of the moment weekend getaways with various friends. I made it clear at the start of our marriage that I was NOT going to be the overweight housewife who did nothing but menial chores all day

long. I was an independent woman and planned on staying that way. Of

course, blinded by love at the start of our relationship, he convinced me

that if he really wanted someone to cook and clean, he would just hire a

housekeeper instead of marrying one. Oh, how quickly had he forgotten those fake words.

I’d grown up accustomed to certain comforts that simply meant I didn’t

have to deny myself the little extras that might make me happy.

As a

working woman, I surely deserved to occasionally treat myself to a nice 102

Stress: Her Story

name-brand bag or to a slightly over-priced pair of shoes. Apparendy, my husband didn’t think so. Even though he’d left the finances to me, the ingrate decided I wasn’t doing good enough of a job and changed all the passwords

so that he could take things over. I didn’t really care at that point since all the unpaid bills were getting way too tedious for me anyway. I’d lost all respect for him by this point, because he obviously didn’t

have the skills to manage a household. Rather than embarrass my fami­

ly, I kept plodding forward and sticking with my marriage. It’s not like we didn’t ever have a happy time or a few laughs over the past seven years,

but somehow, in retrospect misery tends to overshadow the fleeting moments of comfort and joy. The longer we were married, the fewer and

more far between the laughter and smiles seemed to take place. It’s not like I didn’t try to please him. He already knew that I wasn’t

the cooking and cleaning type, so I expected that somewhere along the

line he would offer to take over those duties himself or to hire someone

else to do it. This was what our pre-marriage conversation had clarified, wasn’t it? No such offer came from him. In the meantime, I bought cute little outfits to wear around the house and made sure my hair was stylish

and my make-up fully applied even when I just wanted to come home and bum around in sweats. He never even noticed. It’s not like I was

spending money on myself to please other men. It was him I wanted to keep attached. He never sent a single compliment my way and he

never seemed to notice when I was all dolled up or had gotten a facial or expensive new highlights just for him.

I was starting to grow tired of our busy, yet strictly routine, lives. It

annoyed me that he constantly made reference to his mother’s excellent

cooking and her ability to raise her kids in the best of ways. I wanted to shout at him that he might as well move back in with his mother if he

thought so highly of her, but I held my tongue. Instead, I began to hold a grudge against his mom and even though it was irrational, 1 had a very

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When Muslim Marriage Fails

hard time carrying on a conversation with her or even being civil because I felt like I had to compete with her for her son’s affections. What kind

of life was that? A few months after we’d had several arguments and I was beginning to question my own sanity and habits, I found out I was expecting. He was the most callous and uncaring father-to-be that I could ever have imagined. I was a few weeks into my pregnancy and 1 could barely sit

straight from all the nausea and fatigue. All he could think about was the

monetary blow that we’d experience if I stayed home. I was adamant that I was not going to work during my pregnancy. It hadn’t been my idea

after all to get pregnant before we were financially stable. We both had student loans we were struggling to pay off and our credit card debts just kept accumulating. Rather than being the supportive husband I imag­

ined he would be, it was like he didn’t think pregnancy was that big of a deal. He couldn’t understand why I lay in bed for most of the day gag­

ging and puking rather than enjoying life. I know this is terrible to say, but part of me thinks that he might have

been secretly relieved when I miscarried. He didn’t seem in the least bit

upset and shrugged the ordeal off as if I just needed to recover from a common cold. He wouldn’t acknowledge or accept the fact that I was in

mourning. Sure, I’d only been a few weeks along, but I’d felt something. I had a little someone growing inside me and now that someone was gone. The emptiness in my womb felt like I had been completely drained

of my personality as well. I grieved in my own way for the little being who was not meant to be born. It wasn’t that I felt the true bonds of motherhood or some sort of

yearning to have a litter of children; it was more a feeling of failure that I couldn’t accept. I had failed at something even the most uneducated and backwards of women did successfully on a daily basis. My body had

betrayed me with my incomplete gestation and left me wondering why.

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Stress: Her Story

Of course, I was religious enough to accept AJlahs (SWT) plan, but I couldn’t help but question my own role in the miscarriage. Was this punishment because I wasn’t really sure that I was ready to be a parent?

Was this some type of foreshadowing of future futile pregnancies? It was

like planting a peach tree, even if you didn’t like peaches that much, with the expectation it would eventually bear fruit, but then becoming sorely

disappointed upon finding it barren. I suffered my self-incriminating questions in silence, since my hus­ band had no sympathy for me.

I withdrew from friends and family

because I could not face them with the idea of failure blatantly emanat­

ing from me. I was determined to have a child as soon as my body had

recovered and set out full force to do what I could to make it happen. I read books upon books about the topic, bought charts to map my cycles, used high-tech gadgets to monitor my basal body temperature, and

pushed for scheduled intimacy with only one goal in mind. Even though

my initial post-graduation five-year plan did not include a baby in the picture, I’d revised it accordingly to incorporate giving birth to a child within the next twelve months. Determined, I set out to complete the

task in my detail-oriented way. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by work, or friends, or anything else at that point since I felt like a woman on a

mission. A few months into my campaign was all it took to become pregnant

again. I was relieved that I didn’t have to wait too long to be successful

this time around. Positive that I could see this pregnancy to the end, I

even began to do a little light house cleaning and meal prep to alleviate a

bit of the boredom I had been feeling. I think the glow of impending motherhood actually did touch me this time around as I settled into a

very serene state. Unfortunately, that phase didn’t last long since I miscar­ ried early on again.

Just as in my first pregnancy, my husband showed very little compas-

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sion. To his credit, he did seem a little sadder this time around, but his

sadness was nothing compared to my serious depression. Conceiving and delivering a child became my obsession. It was as if someone had present­ ed me a challenge that I knew I could meet if I just worked hard enough. I stayed up late every night making dua (supplication) for the eventual

birth of a child. I grudgingly returned to work, but could think of noth­

ing else but the baby that I had not yet conceived. I began to research farstretched ideas like surrogate mothers, in vitro fertilization, and even the possibility of adoption. I had lost sight of why I might want a child and could only focus instead on my elusive success in carrying and delivering

a baby to term.

Three long years of struggling to make it happen were finally over with the birth of my son. No matter how much 1 researched and how

much I thought I was ready, labor hurt way more than anyone had ever

told me. After the excruciating natural delivery that I had insisted on, to prove that I could handle the pain, I held the child I’d tried so hard to

conceive and carry. The baby that the nurses placed on my chest looked

nothing like the rosy cheeked cherub I had imagined. Instead of feeling the expected emotions of elation, I felt nothing

upon carrying him. This wrinkled, bloody, hairy specimen contradicted all my dreams of the perfect baby and instead looked like a smaller and

much uglier version of my husbands grandfather. I felt nauseated as I

held him and practically threw him at my husband who kept “oohing” and “ahhing” about our baby’s beauty. Were we even talking about the

same child? As if labor and delivery were not bad enough, nothing could have

prepared me for the pain of uterine contractions and engorgement that soon assaulted my already worn-out body. Fully expecting my husband to

spend the night in the hospital with me, he insisted that he had to go home and get some rest because of a big meeting he had at work the next

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day. In his place, he sent his mother over to help me in his absence. Not only had he refused to participate in Lamaze classes or to even help coach me though my labor, my husband seemed completely disinterested in

the fact that I had succeeded in bringing a child into our marriage. Even after we returned from the hospital, he only had eyes for our son. Not even

a figurative pat on the back was given to me as he rolled his eyes at my bodily complaints and insisted that it was apparently all in my head. He went back to work a few days after our sons birth and I found myself utterly alone with the baby. His mother had offered to stay, but I had had enough of her lectures and criticisms and practically begged her

to go home. I was still completely unfamiliar with this child and felt

totally incompetent in trying to change his diaper, rock him to sleep,

nurse him or give him a bottle. My body was exhausted and the child seemed to constantly be hungry or upset. I felt fatigued in the worst way and could barely keep up with diaper changes and nursing sessions. By the end of the first

month, I needed to end my initially self-imposed solitary confinement. 1 loved my newborn son, but just could not see the point of constantly

changing, rocking, feeding, and burping.

My husband would come

home from work filled with stories about his day, while all I had to report was how many times the baby had pooped. In a weird way, my husband found this fascinating and wanted to know every detail. After the baby hit the six week mark, I realized that I had to get out of

the house or I would truly go insane. I had already lost my girlish figure and

felt that if I sat around craving chocolate and soap operas for one more day, I was sure to balloon into a huge elephant. I craved adult conversation

and interaction and I needed to be more than just “Mommy” again. So, against the advice of my husband, parents, and friends, I decided to go back

to work. It’s not like I wasn’t worried about the baby, I just thought I could

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When Muslim Marriage Fails

It wasn’t like I wouldn’t be thinking about him at work all day; my

leaky chest wouldn’t allow me to forget. While my husband was blissful­ ly oblivious to the aches and pains that accompanied being a parent, my body gave me constant reminders. I didn’t want to be a “bad” mom. I’d

read all about the benefits of nursing, so I refused to give my son formu­

la. Instead, I carried my pump around work with me and had to find a hideaway to express my son’s next meal every chance I got. At night, my

husband snored beside me as I blindly woke up and struggled to stay

awake nursing the baby all night long in our rocking chair.

All this effort was lost on my husband, parents, and in-laws. They seemed to think that 1 was neglecting the baby by going back to work

so soon. That wasn’t it at all. I needed some “me” time. Some time away from home where I could think and be successful and be recognized for

success. With the baby, I felt out of control. I couldn’t predict a good night from a bad one. I couldn’t gauge when a poopy diaper was about to happen and I felt like a failure at trying to implement some sort of

sleep schedule. No one commended me when the baby looked clean or well-fed. No one said “good job” when he burped out loud, obviously

satisfied from my milk. Instead, they all expected me to be with him 24 hours a day. I figured the night shift was more than enough.

I wanted my husband to spend more time with the baby so that he would know what it felt like. I wasn’t about to ask for help though, and

admit that maybe I couldn’t handle parenthood. Instead, I began going

out after work once in awhile and staying slightly longer hours. I missed

my son, but I also felt that it would be good for him to bond with others

during that time. As the baby grew older, it was easier and easier for me to leave him and go out. I knew he was in good hands with his father or

his grandparents and I figured I was doing them a favor by allowing them to bond and share quality time with my son.

By the time his first birthday rolled around, I felt like I was finally

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getting the hang of the whole “mommy-hood” thing. I was even some­ what able to tolerate my husband again. Ever since 1 became pregnant with our son, he’d put on more baby weight than I had. Where once he

could pass for merely “big-boned” as he liked to say, he was now easily at

least fifty pounds overweight. His slovenly habits had also gone from bad to worse. He never cleaned up after himself and his penchant for pasta just kept adding to his waist line. I tried to steer him in a healthier direc­

tion by buying only frozen “lean meal” dinners, but my efforts went

unnoticed as he accused me of being lazy around the house. Just a few

short months after my son’s first birthday, I was shocked to find out I was expecting again. During my pregnancy with our second child, my husband accepted a promotion and began to travel for his job. Every other week, he was going somewhere new. I envied him the ability to have the best of both

worlds. I continued to work my long hours, but had to come home to a

screaming baby, swollen feet, and angry stretch marks glaring up at me all

over my swollen body. He had no clue how difficult it was to juggle it all. I wasn’t one to complain, though. I tried to be the perfect parent, but I often felt like a single mom. When he came home from his trips, his

son ran to him as if he were the best father in the world. I hated that

betrayal and put my foot down about him not travelling anymore.

He said the only way he could stay put was if he accepted a lower position at work. I didn’t care; I just needed him to be home to help me.

By that time, our relationship had disintegrated to the point where I couldn’t even tell him that I needed him or that I missed his company. Instead, I just accused him of being a horribly selfish father and husband. He took the pay-cut and feeling guilty, I decided to work extra hours

so that I could make up for lost income. By the time our daughter was born, I had worked my way up in the ranks of my company and felt con­

fident of my position at work. At home, it was another story. I felt like

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an utter failure with my kids and husband. I thought caring for one baby

was tough, but with two of them, I felt like 1 was at the point of collapse. 1 kept up a happy fagade in front of everyone, but it was killing me

that I just didn’t seem to be cut-out for the position of mother and wife. 1 saw my friends juggling three or four children and living happily and I

felt like a total defect. I envied them their husbands, their parents, their homes and even their children. I rationalized that they had better hus­

bands who helped them at home or quieter children who didn’t cry that often, or that they didn’t have demanding careers to juggle with their par­ enting duties or that their parents took care of the cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing for them. My list went on and on as I grew more and more

jealous of everyone around me.

I’d read enough about post-partum depression to know that I had all

the classic symptoms, but I couldn’t admit it to anyone. I hated spend­ ing time at home because of how inadequate I felt and I avoided being

there at all costs. I was confused and felt so alone, because everyone

expected me to succeed in my family life just as I had in my career. My husband was the worst one of all. I could see his disappointment and

unhappiness nhappiness every time I looked at him, but I just didn’t know how to fix

it. Why did I have to be the one to care for the children, anyway? He had more time than I did to do laundry and cook a decent meal, but he never even thought to do so.

As our kids grew older, I felt myself growing more and more dis­

tanced from them. I had put on an excessive amount of weight and no longer could even enjoy shopping with my friends. I retreated away from

everything and everyone I knew. My work was the only thing that kept

me going. I still had the respect of my colleagues and was on the fast track to success in my job.

It took seven years and two kids for me to realize that my marriage

was a lost cause. I’d been miserable with him and was never any good at

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Stress; Her Story

the marriage thing. I truly loved my children and wanted the best for them, and I knew that living in such an unhappy household was not

the most ideal situation. Leaving him was not a spur-of-the moment decision. I’d thought about it many times over the past few years. For some reason, I’d always stuck around, just in case things would change for

the better. We were mismatched from the start and no matter how long we stayed together, our lives would have always been miserable. So, I took

the kids and left. I’m not a callous person.

I do worry about my children. They’re

young still and I’m sure they’ll bounce back, but I never really wanted them to be another statistic of children in a divorced family. I know they’re going to miss their father, but I don’t mind having joint custody.

I know it will be better for them to be raised between him and his parents and me and my parents rather than between the two of us constantly squabbling alone. It won’t be too much of an adjustment for

them since they have both grown up among their grandparents anyway. Could our marriage have been saved? Could things between us have

been different? I don’t have the answers to these questions and I don’t think either one of us had the time or the inclination to try to make it work. I feel disappointed that I wasn’t successful at marriage, but I think this was truly an unselfish decision. For the sake of my children and for

the sake of his happiness, I decided to leave him. I am sure that one day my parents, kids, and friends are bound to understand.

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STRESS

His Story 1 ONCE WATCHED A MOVIE WITH my then-fiancee called

“The Seven Year Itch.” It was a romantic comedy about a cheating couple realizing how wrong they were for each other after seven years of

marriage. We laughed our way through it, never thinking that the movie could have been a complete parody of our upcoming marriage that would end with an eerily foreshadowed seven-year clawing and scratching.

We met at the university in a fourth-year elective class. We were both

on the prowl for a spouse anyway as we neared graduation. I was surprised

we hadn’t met before in the Muslim circles that gravitated around the prime campus centers, but apparently she preferred to keep to herself.

The stars seemed to be aligned that semester and we both fell for each other hard. She was smart and sassy with a good head on her shoulders.

I was more of the dreamer and the sensitive romantic type, while she was focused and hard working. Where I was calm and collected, she was high-

strung and slightly on edge. Our friends chalked our quick engagement

and impending marriage to a typical case of opposites attracting. They were right to a certain extent. Yet as much as opposites can initially

attract, they can also repel each other when that initial fascination with

the differences eventually fades away. Our marriage started out in the most idyllic way. We had a grand wedding with plenty of close-knit family and friends. Both sets of parents

loved each other and got along splendidly and everyone gave two thumbs up

with full approval of our union. You couldn’t have asked for a more scripted plan for the ideal marriage set up. Somehow, though, in some way, our mar­

riage went terribly wrong very early on and continued to spin out of control

from bad to worse the longer we stuck it out. We spent freely on our European honeymoon since we’d both gotten

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great job offers upon graduation and were confident that we’d have plenty of funds to pay off our credit card debts once we settled in at

home. We were like two kids in a candy shop getting their first taste of

freedom. While our parents had advised us on all sorts of marriage mat­ ters, they seemed to neglect the very important ones of financial restraint and sound financial planning.

We were young and in love and everything seemed like a new adventure just waiting to be experienced. I should have noticed my wife’s excessive

spending habits during this first trip. She gobbled up purses and shoes that cost more than a few months of our combined salaries on the Champs-

Elysees in Paris and spent without reserve on expensive perfumes and gifts from Rome. In Brussels, she insisted on buying me a costly hat I knew I

would never wear and in London she accessorized herself with silk scarves and cocky berets that she purchased with utter abandon.

We began our honeymoon with what I thought was a good financial

plan. I purchased our whirlwind two week tour of Europe with all our

food and hotel expenses on my recently issued credit card. To balance things out, we decided that any purchases she wanted to make while we were there would go on her credit card. With this even sharing in mind, I didn’t try to stop her from purchasing the ridiculous items that seemed

to make her so happy. Our starting salaries appeared to be exorbitant at that time and as if they would easily cover all of our steep expenses.

When we finally returned to our newly rented apartment, we were

thrilled to see that our parents had made sure the furniture we’d

purchased on a store credit card was delivered and set up before our arrival. Unfortunately, we realized that their help had stopped there. Our

pre-purchased curtains still needed to be hung up. The sheets needed to be placed on the beds and our clothes and wedding gifts still needed to be put away. I felt slightly overwhelmed by what needed to be done, but

I knew that we would get it done eventually. In the meantime, my wife

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When Muslim Marriage fails

and I, still in honeymoon mode, left our to-do list for later and stepped

out to grab a bite to eat and watch a movie.

We both began work the next morning and the undone tasks around

the apartment remained that way. Our parents were anxious to visit and we had to keep coming up with excuses to delay their drop-in. Worried about our evasiveness, they stopped by unannounced a few weeks later and were utterly dismayed to see the sorry state of our apartment.

Between work and outings, we had neglected to do the basic chores

around the house. While I wasn’t stuck in the caveman era, I was grow­ ing tired of constantly eating out and was hoping my new bride would

eventually kick into wife gear and cook us a hot meal.

Unfortunately,

cold cereal had been my dinner lately and the pile of dirty cereal bowls

with sour milk continued to grow in the sink. I didn’t want to upset my wife by suggesting she take care of them, but I also didn’t want to give her

the idea that I would pick up the slack for her. So, the dishes just sat there in the sink, along with the accumulating laundry, the still unopened gifts,

and the un-hung curtains.

You can imagine our parents’ dismay upon entering the apartment and finding things in such a state of disarray. My wife had also begun

claiming one night a week as her “girl’s night out” and as luck would have it, that happened to be the night the family stopped by. I knew my wife

worked hard in her position as a civil engineer and I worked even harder as a technology consultant, so our busy lives just didn’t seem to leave

much room for the practicalities of keeping house. Within a few minutes

of entering the apartment, the moms worked together to right the mess.

Calmly and efficiently, they washed dishes, hung curtains, swept and vacuumed and even sorted laundry as I sat in embarrassment with my father and father-in-law.

Just as they were finishing up, I heard the key turn in the front door and my wife walked in. Rather than being pleasantly surprised by the

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visitors and the unexpected cleanliness of our home, her face fell and I could see that her reaction was not really going to be a good one. Her

mother and mother-in-law pounced upon her and really let loose about

her neglect of wifely duties. I felt bad for her, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do. They had already relegated me to the position of helpless victim, and I preferred to stand safely in this meek zone than actually enter the

battle and risk getting shot at. As soon as our families left, my wife turned to me with an expression full of venom.

“How dare you!

How dare you!” She sputtered with

seething anger. “I work long hours every day to help you pay the bills and

when I come home expecting to kick back and relax a little, this is what I get? You complained about me and brought them over here to clean up after your mess?”

I remember the angry tirade continued long into the night as insults of “you coward,” “you two-faced lazy scum” and all sorts of other terms I

never anticipated would slip out of her lovely mouth were pelted at me. I took it all in stride and sat silently while waiting for her diatribe to wind down and end. Somewhere in between the hurled words of abuse 1

offered her a bowl of cereal, which brought about another onslaught of insults. Deciding that I could not win, I called it a night and headed into

our only bedroom as she continued to shout behind me. I was sure that she would come join me in a bit and everything would work out fine.

But, she didn’t. She slept on the couch that night and didn’t rejoin me for

a full week.

I figured she just needed some time to get over her hormones or whatever was bothering her and left her alone during that time. It was with resignation that she finally came back to the bedroom. I did feel like

I won a small victory that night as she also cooked for the first time...

albeit rubber chicken and burnt rice... but at least she was trying. I was confident that we had just hit a little bump in our marriage road and we’d

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When Muslim Marriage I ails

be back on the right track in no time. Little did I know that my wife

could sure hold a grudge! We went back to our busy work schedules and soon realized that the

huge paychecks we were expecting barely covered the expenses of rent,

utilities, and our too many meals out. We still hadn’t made a dent in pay­ ments of any of our accumulated credit card debt and were quickly watching the interest compound on each purchase. Since organization

was never really my forte, I left it up to her to set-up our online bill pay­ ing system and to keep track of our expenses. Luckily, checking these

things online, she had a wake-up call in realizing we couldn’t afford eat­ ing out as often as we did. Frozen TV dinners became the meal of choice

every evening. Since she still got offended when I ate cereal, I tried to force the nasty goop she microwaved down my throat and complimented

her on her efforts. A year into marriage, we started to hit a more moderate routine. I still yearned for my mom’s cooking and tried to sneak back Tupperwares of her

leftovers every time I stopped by my parents’ house. The fights that erupted as a result and the accusations of my being a “Momma’s boy” just didn’t seem

worth the effort sometimes. Even though our expenses were tight, I was constandy tripping over my wife’s new Prada shoes or Coach and Louis Vuitton

bags. Although I had her deal with the organizational aspect of expenses, 1 wasn’t an idiot and had at least some inkling of what these products must cost. Since I disliked confrontation and the fights that invariably resulted, I tried to

skirt around the issue. Checking our online accounts, I was shocked to see

the long lists of unpaid credit card balances and late payments on phone bills, utilities, and even the rent.

I couldn’t believe that I had trusted her and she couldn’t even handle simple finances. 1 decided to take over the reins of the finances and she literally had a fit. She insisted that I was insulting her and just wanted to

take her hard-earned money away from her. Apparently, she had main-

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rained a separate bank account upon marriage and used her paychecks for her “personal” purchases as she put it. That was the first time 1 ever lost

it on her. She didn’t cook, she didn’t clean, and she didn’t do anything around the house. The least she could do was contribute to help pay for

our living expenses, and then if there was something above and beyond

left over, she could spend it as she wished. My honesty led to another week on the couch (but this time I was the

one who chose to sleep on the slightly sagging furniture). It was the first

time in our marriage that I had put my foot down, and it actually felt

good. With my new-found assertion, I decided I was going to stop the

nonsense of the past year and make sure to set her straight. I made a schedule of chores and meals that we could complete together. After all, I was a fair man and 1 loved my wife, so I knew that with her working

outside of the house, maybe it was time I got involved with household chores as well (even though it was contrary to my upbringing). I knew my mother, especially, would be appalled if she knew that I helped scrub toi­

lets and mop floors, but 1 figured what my parents didn’t know wouldn’t

hurt them.

Our arrangement worked somewhat well for a few weeks. Then, my wife found out she was expecting. I experienced a mixture of emotions

when she told me: surprise, shock, fear, and maybe a glimmer of excite­ ment. We had talked about having children but had intended to wait

until we’d saved enough to be able to afford the expenses of a child. Now, just a few months following our first anniversary, she was telling me that

I was going to be a father. She decided to quit her job at that point simply because her nausea

and fatigue kept her from thinking straight. Even though I tried to con­ vince her to just go our on disability or to request a longer maternity

leave, she stubbornly refused. Unfortunately, she miscarried just a few weeks after she’d found out about the pregnancy and just a few short days

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after she’d quit her job. Although 1 hadn’t really grown attached or even accustomed to the

idea that I was to be a father, she became obsessed with the whole con­ cept of motherhood. She refused to return to work and focused all her

efforts on conceiving again. After several stress-filled months had passed with my wife sitting at home feeling sorry for herself, she was thrilled to find out she was finally pregnant again. With her at home, the house was

finally beginning to show some sense of order. Her cooking still wasn’t really edible, but the fact that she was trying meant the world to me. She

was happy again and it showed in the way she greeted me and in every­ thing she did. This pregnancy lasted a few weeks longer than the first one,

and then she miscarried again. It took us three long years to actually have our first child; three years

of constant complaining, struggling to make ends meet and barely toler­ ating each other. When our son was finally born, she was thrilled. I have

to admit, the birth was a little anticlimactic for me since I’d waited for the

event for so long. Although my wife had shown no interest in returning to work during

the past three years, just a few short weeks after the birth of our longawaited baby, she suddenly couldn’t wait to go back to work. She quick­

ly found another job in her field and started right away. I was confused

by her behavior because now that she had a legitimate excuse to stay

home, she suddenly wanted to throw her son in daycare and return to work. It was almost as if she had just needed to prove to herself that she

was not defective and could actually have a baby. And now that she had accomplished that, it was one more thing she could check off of her over­ achiever check list and move on with her life.

She quickly returned to her old habits of working late hours, coming

home to a disheveled house and spending as much time as she could with­ out the baby and with her friends or out shopping instead. Dropping off

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Stress His Story

my son at daycare broke my heart, so when both sets of grandparents

offered to watch him, I jumped at the chance. Again, my acceptance of

their help led to another huge fight that 1 still can’t really figure out. Our marriage was back on shaky ground and I was terrified that our

son was going to get caught in the middle. As difficult as it was for us to

have our first baby, the second one came unexpectedly and easily. Our daughter was born two years after the birth of my son into a tumultuous marriage. My wife seemed overwhelmed by our two children and kept

insisting that she was ready to return to work less than six weeks after she’d delivered. Watching her emotional upheaval, I encouraged her to go back to work, even though I wasn’t sure whether or not the grandpar­

ents could handle caring for two kids at the same time. By this time, our finances were disastrous and just kept getting worse. I’d received a pay cut and was barely getting by. We developed a system of drop-offs and pickups for the kids and tried to instill some kind of

routine in our day. The stress of marriage, two kids, and work was taking a toll on both of us. My wife seemed to be able to find plenty of time to

hit the gym, go out with friends, chat on the phone, and even participate in volunteer functions, but very little time to actually spend at home with

me and the kids. I’d upgraded my cereal routine to pasta and now was feeding our son

a steady diet of frozen chicken nuggets and plain pasta for dinner almost every night. I can’t say my wife was a completely absent mom. She came home for the feedings and the diaper changes occasionally, but she looked

miserable and overwhelmed around her children. I couldn’t understand why she was so determined to have a child at first, but acted so distant

from them now that they were both here.

Our home could not have been more different from the loving

atmosphere I had grown up in. Where my mom had always been a self­ less mountain of love with her children, my wife was consumed with

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succeeding at work and competing in luxuries with her friends. I never

doubted that she loved her kids, but I just don’t think she realized that the best way she could show that love was by spending time with them.

Our weekdays were taken up with drop-offs, pick-ups, and coming

home from work late and exhausted. We barely talked to each other any­ more on the weekdays as we both sunk down into sleep with hardly

enough energy to change the kids into their pajamas. Our weekends were

not much better as we each ran our separate errands, usually with the kids dropped off at one of the grandparents’ homes. At night, we joined each other again for an evening outing visiting friends, which inevitably turned into a crying fest as all the kids competed for their parents’ attention. It was a few days shy of our seventh anniversary when we both kind

of just knew that our marriage was not working out and that neither of us had ever really been happy with the other. The kids were both crying inconsolably after we had picked them up and brought them home; we

were both in our usual state of exhaustion from work; and we had just realized that we had no milk nor chicken nuggets in the refrigerator. 1 had

assumed that she had done the grocery shopping over the weekend and she assumed that I had done it.

We didn’t erupt into any of our usual melodramatic fights or any­

thing; it was more of a sad feeling that this was not the way our marriage should have been. I went out to get the milk and something to feed the

kids and came back to an empty house. She’d left a simple note saying that she’d taken the kids and gone to her mother’s house and that she’d be

back in the morning to collect her things. There was no goodbye nor any sentimental words left to say.

We were seven years too late for any words now.

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Stress Commentary by Sumaiya Beshir

ut of all the narratives in this book, the couple in the “Stress Narrative” seemed to have the most chance of a successful marriage. Their families liked each other, they were raised in the same culture, and they seemed to actually take the time

to talk to each other and get to know each other before they got married.

In the words of the husband, they were “young and in love”. A match made in heaven...or not. They enjoyed a grand wedding and a lavish

honeymoon, but it all went downhill from there. The couple had spent

too much time planning the wedding and not enough time planning the marriage. One lasts a day, the other, ideally, is supposed to last a lifetime,

and yet most people plan thoroughly for the former and neglect to put the same deep thought into the latter.

Though on the surface it may have seemed that the couple was compatible and prepared for marriage, when we delve just a tad bit deeper, we find so many factors playing out and contributing to the

demise of yet another marriage. For starters, spousal duties, rights and responsibilities were never discussed seriously and agreed upon. The bride

was under the impression that being the busy working civil engineer that she was, help would be hired to take care of the more tedious and inglo­

rious chores like cooking and cleaning. Likewise, while he was a forgiv­ ing husband who endured week after week of dirty dishes and soiled

laundry, enough was enough. As basic as it may sound, household tasks and chores need to be organized and assigned because when you’re living

in an interminable pigsty and constantly scrambling to find a clean pair of socks, the little annoyances of life seem so much bigger. It may sound

unromantic, but when who’s in charge of what is clear and agreed upon,

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the romance is so much more likely to flourish.

With the increasing

number of working wives, the lines have been blurred, and it is even more

critical that couples clearly agree on their roles and responsibilities before marriage. Speaking of working wives, it seems women these days are under

some illusion that they can have their cake and eat it too, otherwise known as the “Superwoman Complex”. We need to alert our daughters,

friends and sisters of the realities of life and the limitations of human beings. We are human; we must eat and sleep in order to survive. Some

career mothers seem to lose sight of these small details. They think they can do it all. Maybe they can... for a while, but at the expense of their

sanity and their family’s well-being. The problem with the Superwoman misconception is that perception is reality. If a woman believes that she

should be able to do everything and she fails, she often falls into depres­ sion. We need to get a reality check and stop comparing ourselves to Um Ali down the street, who has 7 kids, works full-time and keeps a spotless

home with a stuffed turkey baking in the oven. Maybe Um Ali lives with

her mother-in-law and carpools with her sister. Maybe she has a part-time housekeeper. Whatever her secret is, she’s most likely not doing it alone.

We need to learn to ask for help when we need it. Living in the individualistic culture of North America has lured us into believing that it is somehow beneath us to ask for help. Why should­

n’t we be able to go through pregnancy and the delivery of a baby with­ out our mothers by our side? Because we’re human, that’s why. There’s a

good reason why thousands of generations of women before us made it a

point to support their women postpartum. Our main concern should be with pleasing Allah (SWT) not with one-upping Um Ali. The compari­ son game is exhausting and poindess. You and your friends are different

people with different life circumstances. We will only ever really find contentment and peace in our lives, when we make our actions sincerely

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Stress: Commentary

for Allah (SWT) and aim to please Him and Him alone. That should be

how we measure success. The other issue that is brought to light by the stress narrative is the

horrendous habit of overspending, or more specifically, spending what we do not have. We arc the entitled generation. We believe we are entitled to

whatever we want; whether or not we can actually afford it is beside the point. We see this in the story when the newly married couple, who both have well-paying jobs, dig themselves into a deep pit of debt before they’ve even settled into their new apartment together. Their ignorance in

financial matters may be scary, but unfortunately, it’s not uncommon. With the lure of credit cards and loans and all the other pitfalls of riba (unlawfiil interest), if young Muslims are not taught these matters out­

right, they eventually find themselves with lots of freedom and purchase power but no understanding as to the consequences of their decisions.

Many of the problems this couple faced could have been avoided had their parents discussed, taught and trained them in areas such as dealing with

finances, the roles and the responsibilities of the husband and wife and the realities of marriage and running a household. Hollywood certainly won’t

take on the task of representing these things accurately, so it’s up to parents and educators to burst the glorified love bubble and show our young Muslims that life is not a movie, or a television series or even a YouTube video. Life is

life, with all its challenges and trials. It requires a lot of hard work in a lot of different areas. Life is a test with the most brilliant reward for those who pass

it. And if we can grasp this concept then we can overcome virtually anything with the help of Allah (SWT).

SUMAIYA BESHIR was born and raised in Ottawa Canada. She graduat­

ed from the University ofOttawa with an honors psychology degree and went

on to study Teaching English as a second language. She compiled two books

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When Muslim Marriage Fails

of short stories for Muslim teenagers struggling with the challenge of maintaining their Islamic identity in the West. A few ofher stories have been

published in magazines and incorporated into public schools’ textbooks. She is

actively involved with (MAC) the Muslim Association of Canada’s youth

department. She currendy lives in Montreal, Canada with her husband and daughter.

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Final Reflections A ■ ^he stories

in these narratives may be sad, but the unavoidable

|

reality is that divorce is happening with alarming frequency in

A

our society today. Understanding the scenarios that often lead

to divorce should not be seen as a depressing foray into emotional mayhem, but instead as an uplifting message to help right the wrongs that often

cripple a marriage before they even happen. All of the nameless characters had the potential to succeed in their marriages, but only if they had married

with more realistic expectations and a greater willingness to work together.

Marriage is a constant work in progress. Inevitably, the combining of

two lives is bound to lead to some disruptions and ripples, but the key is

to communicate and to embrace each others differences widi patience, tolerance, and love for the sake of Allah (SWT). Prevention is truly the best medicine to combat the societal downslide of the marriage institution. The

sanctity of marriage is often lost amidst the stress of unmet expectations and our need for instant gratification. Successful marriage takes hard work on both ends but the fruits of a happy marriage are well-worth the work.

The perspectives of husband and wife were both displayed here to help show that the same situations can be perceived differently in each individ­

uals eyes. By opening up to one another and honestly sharing your true wants, needs, and desires, you can take one step closer to creating a success­ ful marriage. We still have a long way to go in finding a solution to the increasing number of divorces among Muslim couples in the U.S. today,

but recognizing that problems do exist is a step in the right direction. Undoubtedly, divorce affects more than just the two individuals

involved. Even if there are no children in the marriage, the breakup results in a split between families, friends, and community. Parents are left angry and embittered against each other and friends and acquaintances are left

uncertain who to side with. The very essence of community is crippled and 125

When Muslim Marriage Fails

crumbles as the foundation upon which Muslim society is built disintegrates through divorce. We tend to shy away from marital counseling, therapy, and preparation prior to marriage or even as a way to avoid the trappings of divorce. Yet, it’s not enough to admit that there are problems or even to wait

for the problems to appear before doing something about it.

It is our responsibility as a Muslim community to work together to bet­

ter prepare our youth of marriage expectations and realities and to continue to stand by them through the bumpy ups and downs. Counseling and work­ shops need to be prevalent in our societies along with social services that can

meet the needs of newly-weds, new parents, and even empty-nesters. By talk­

ing through our problems, we can begin to work towards a viable solution. Marriage is not an end. It is a means to gain the pleasure of Allah

(SWT) if we can succeed in creating lasting and loving relationships as the core of the family unit and eventually of the entire Muslim community.

Divorce may seem like the only option in an unhappy marriage, but while

it may be the easiest, it is often not the one that leads to the regaining of happiness. If individuals are not happy and secure in their selves and their deen (religion) prior to marriage, they will not be able to find happiness

within the parameters of marriage either. It’s important to recognize that certain situations cannot be resolved except through divorce and this is why Allah (SWT) in his infinite wisdom

and rahma (mercy) provides the halal (lawful) injunction of divorce. Yet, it is not to be taken lightly and used as a free pass out of any difficult situation.

No marriage is perfect and neither are people, but the religion of Allah (SWT)

is complete and the importance of marriage in Islam cannot be denied.

There is no perfect recipe for a marriage that works for everyone. Each couple is unique with no formulaic way to make their marriage work. Communication, understanding, and acceptance, though, are three steps that

can lead towards the path of a successful marriage in our modern Muslim

American society.

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