Mirrors and Mirages Page 2

Lynne and Mona, her two sisters, didn’t share her feelings. They went along with their mother’s lifestyle. It didn’t bother them. In fact they too loved to shop and to spend money on things they didn’t need and didn’t even want.

  Lama, lost in thought, heard her name. It was her mother calling.

  “Laaa-maa, will you come here, please!”

  Closing the door behind her, she went down the white marble staircase. An immense chandelier hung from the ceiling above. It lent the entry hall the majestic appearance of a five-star hotel lobby.

  The house’s first owner had been a bankrupt Italian building contractor. He had built the place himself, using Italian marble; the magnificent kitchen had an imported ceramic tile floor. Its combination of Mediterranean look and luxury had charmed Samia Bibi, Lama’s mother. It was the house of her dreams: it reminded her of her childhood in Kuwait, the country her parents had chosen after they fled the war in Palestine and the loss of their ancestral lands.

  Samia had always been accustomed to the good life. Her father was a physician, her mother a teacher. Her family never wanted for anything: they employed Sri Lankan maids, a Filipino cook, and an Indian chauffeur — whatever was necessary to lead a happy, peaceful life. But things hadn’t worked out that way for her. Her life was sad and melancholy, as was her elder sister Selma’s. Most of the time their parents were caught up in their work while their two daughters spent the afternoon with the servants, watching soap operas on television. So, when Samia first laid eyes on the beautiful house on a quiet crescent in the Ottawa suburbs, her mind was made up: This is where I’ll find my lost childhood, this is where I’ll find happiness.

  Ezz Bibi, her husband, wasn’t quite so sure. The house was expensive, well above his budget, but he couldn’t turn back. Buying the house would mean that he was an investor in Canada. He could establish himself and his family and they could become permanent residents. His wife had cornered him and he couldn’t refuse — it was then or never. In a few days the house was theirs.

  When Lama entered the kitchen, she could hardly believe her eyes. In the middle of the room stood Samia. Shopping bags lay strewn all over the dining table. Her mother was wearing a short, shiny gold dress, her arms spread wide like a snooty top model, her eyes glistening as if she were a little girl with a new doll. When she saw Lama, she burst out, “How do you like my new dress? Really cool, don’t you think?”

  Lama was speechless.

  “I bought it for Dina’s wedding. You know, Suzie’s daughter. Ah, I can hardly wait to see the look on Leila’s face. She won’t believe her eyes when she sees me!”

  Lama found her tongue. “But Mother, what are you doing with a dress like the ones girls wear to the clubs? Shouldn’t you be wearing something a little more conventional, a little more modest, like you’re always telling me to wear?”

  In a flash Samia’s expression changed from delight to indignation, and then to anger. “So I’m an old lady now, is that it? Maybe I should hide myself? And what’s immodest about this dress? Isn’t it better-looking than your ratty outfits? Let me remind you that it’s a party for ladies only, which means we can dress exactly as we like!”

  Lama opened her mouth to reply, but the battle was lost before it began. Her mother was going to wear the dress and it was her daughter’s job to encourage her.

  She turned on her heel and went up to her room. She had a paper on statistics due in a few days; it was time to get to work. Her sisters would look after complimenting their mother on her purchases. They wouldn’t criticize her attempts to look beautiful and modern before the other ladies.

  4

  It was raining. The drops drummed insistently against the window. Sally was seated in front of her computer, paying no attention to the heavy rain, or to the storm raging outside. A faint smile played across her lips as she read the message Sheikh Abdurrahman Bilal had posted on his website: It is forbidden for a woman to show her face; many scholars, may their souls rest in peace, are quite clear in this regard: no woman who fears Allah and the Last Day may display her face. If she does so, she will commit an unpardonable sin.

  Sally jumped as the call to prayer sounded from the BlackBerry on her desk. She stood up and hurried off to the bathroom, where she whispered a short prayer, attempting to remember the right words in Arabic, which unfortunately eluded her. Uttering what she could recall, she began to perform her ablutions. Furtively she glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. How innocent her large black eyes and long eyelashes looked. Her straight black hair, gathered at the neck, made her look severe. As she came out of the bathroom, a few drops of water shone on her slightly protruding forehead. Behind her she had left the sink and the counter splashed with water. No time to wipe up — the prayer couldn’t wait. No matter. Her mother, Fawzia, would clean up after her, she was sure.

  She returned to her room and spread her little prayer rug on the floor. What a find, that rug of hers! She’d bought it via the Internet; she could fold it up into a small packet and take it with her wherever she went. At one end of the rug was a tiny electronic compass that showed the exact direction of Mecca every time she unrolled it for prayer. She raised her hands level with her head, according to the sheikh’s instructions on the website. Self-satisfied, like a pupil getting a high mark, she began to pray.

  Sally attended her classes at the University of Ottawa clad in an ankle-length black jellaba, or “jilbab,” her face covered by a black scarf that left only her eyes showing. Her mother, who covered her hair with a lightweight scarf, begged her to dress “normally,” but Sally wouldn’t listen. Her mother had bought her long skirts and handsome, elegantly decorated scarves in place of the black ones she wore, but Sally wouldn’t give an inch. Her heart was hardened, and not even her mother’s tears could melt it. Satan is crafty and vicious, she told herself. I will resist every effort, everything that leads me to destruction, to lose my soul.

  But there was nothing satanic about Fawzia’s actions. She was a believer and had always prided herself on her modesty. Her only wish was that her daughter turn away from this new kind of Islam. She didn’t know anything about it, so she ignored the new laws.

  When she finished praying, Sally sat down in front of her computer. She was scheduled to participate in an online chat session that was about to begin. The subject: women wearing pants. She’d chosen an attractive pseudonym: Technogirl.

  She was proud of her technological accomplishments. She could help her friends choose the right computer and install new programs that made it possible for her to communicate with people around the world. It was a heaven-sent gift, she liked to think. No one could accuse her parents, Ali and Fawzia Hussein, of ever refusing to buy her a device she needed or a computing manual she couldn’t do without. In fact they bent over backwards to make Sally happy, always ready to help her succeed in her studies and become a computer programmer, as they had always dreamed. Over the years, all their plans had come to pass. Sally was studious and serious and kept close track of the latest discoveries in the field. She spent hours in front of her computer, read everything she could. It hadn’t taken long for her to become an expert.

  Sally was the only child of parents born in Pakistan. Her father had a degree in electrical engineering but had never been able to find work in his field. For years after arriving in Canada he tried repeatedly to get a job with a Canadian company in the Ottawa area. But his applications were rarely acknowledged and a handful of interviews led nowhere. It was always the same old refrain: “We’re looking for someone with Canadian experience.” But how was he supposed to get that experience if no one would give him a chance to show what he could do, to display his abilities?

  Ali Hussein had begun to despair. Fawzia, his young wife, had just come to Ottawa to be with him. He could feel the pressure building day by day, pressure to find a decent job and start a family. He couldn’t afford to start his studies over again to earn a Canadian de
gree, and besides, there was no guarantee that he would find work in his field even then. A friend from his hometown who had also immigrated to Ottawa had an idea: they would pool their efforts and become taxi drivers, sharing the car and the profits.

  At first Ali Hussein held back; he didn’t like the idea at all. He, an engineer, the pride of his family, the ambitious young man who’d come to Canada to build a new life, plunge into the modern world, and improve his economic situation, was going to end up driving a taxi? What would his family in Pakistan think? And his friends? How could he show his face back home? What would be left of his self-respect when people found out he was a taxi driver? He shared his doubts and fears with Fawzia. She was a simple, modest girl from the same small town, and she didn’t care what people said. In a loving voice she told him, “There’s nothing wrong with working as a taxi driver. This is Canada, not Pakistan. Nobody is going to judge you here. It’s honest work — why shouldn’t you do it?”

  It was the best advice Ali Hussein had ever received. It was as if the Night of Power stood revealed before him. From that day on he became a full-time professional taxi driver. In a few years’ time he bought his own automobile. He even bought Fawzia a sewing machine. With her nimble fingers she stitched together traditional Pakistani-style tunics and trousers, which she sold to friends and neighbours.

  Heaven had smiled on the couple, or so it seemed, except that no children had brightened their home. Finally, seven years after their marriage, Fawzia got pregnant. Sally became part of their lives, and changed those lives forever.

  The moment she was born, Ali Hussein vowed to give his daughter every opportunity to succeed in this great and vast country called Canada. He named her Sally, a modern, upbeat name that would help her fit in. His darling daughter wouldn’t have to face the obstacles he had had. He wanted her to be able to study, to work. He wanted her to be the engineer he couldn’t become. He didn’t want her to suffer from discrimination on account of her name or her accent. So it was that Sally — coddled, protected, all but spoiled — took her first steps in the world. Fawzia sewed her the finest clothing: not traditional Pakistani garb but lovely wool, cotton, or velvet dresses with Peter Pan collars and ribbon and lace trimmings.

  Today when Sally looked at photos from her childhood, she saw a little girl with smooth jet-black hair worn in pigtails or a bun, looking for all the world like a character from a fairy tale, a perfect model child. Sally attended English-language public school, spoke English, and felt exactly like her schoolmates — except perhaps at Christmas and Easter. Neither Christmas nor Easter was celebrated in the Hussein household. Her parents were Muslims and they made it clear to Sally that she was Muslim. They were observant, prayed regularly, did not eat pork, fasted during Ramadan . . . but not much more. Still, in their minds they were good Muslims. Sally didn’t ask her parents many questions; she did what she was told, but in her little girl’s heart she dreamed about Christmas and Easter. No matter how many gifts her parents gave her, she would have loved to receive one from Santa Claus, just like her schoolmates, or join the hunt for chocolate Easter eggs and bite into one.

  She had long repented of those inane, infantile ideas. She had found the true path. Allah had rescued her from the dark labyrinth. She wanted nothing to do with modern life and its superficiality. She had found belief — the real, pure belief. And all of it thanks to the Internet, to exceptional websites that seemed to pop up everywhere, speaking of the Muslim faith. What a blessing was technology! This was not the disfigured Islam of her poor parents but the real thing, the religion of the great sheikhs who preached on their sites.

  Before finding the straight path she had always wanted to be pretty, polite, and pleasing to her parents, her teachers, and her friends. She had wanted to become a computer programmer with a brilliant career. A crazy, stupid little infidel was how she saw herself now, now that she’d gained a new maturity in front of her computer screen, thanks to the learned texts of the Internet’s virtual scholars.

  5

  It was Emma’s last day at the women’s shelter. The day before she’d picked up some cardboard boxes at the drugstore to pack up the few belongings she’d kept after the breakup of her family.

  Her nine-year-old daughter, Sara, was at school. Her parents’ painful divorce had hurt her too. Before, she was a happy little girl with a smile on her face, always asking questions. She was like a little bird; her delicate features, her constant chirping, her startling agility, and — above all — her gaiety brought Emma constant delight. But the little bird had suddenly fallen silent, retreating into mute distress.

  Emma had met Fadi in Montreal. She was Tunisian, he a Lebanese Canadian. Born in Lebanon, he had immigrated to Canada with his parents at age four. The two met at university — Emma was enrolled in the computer engineering program at the Montreal Polytechnic Institute. She was an outstanding student, at the top of her class. On graduating from high school she had won a scholarship from the Tunisian government, which wanted more women with high-tech degrees to return home one day to work in the public service. The country would be seen as a liberator, an emancipator of Arab and Muslim women.

  But politics was the farthest thing from Emma’s mind. Honours meant nothing to her; she had no connections with any feminist movement. She only wanted one thing: to be successful in order to support her sick widowed mother. Leaving for Canada had been the hardest, most wrenching decision she’d ever had to take, but her mother, with her gentle and generous nature, had implored her to leave: “Go, my dear daughter. You need to learn about the world, to grow up. We’ll meet again some day . . .”

  The first months in Montreal were the worst. Emma’s only thought was to give up and return home to Tunis. Every night when she went to bed, she buried her face in her feather pillow and wept. Classes were demanding; everyday life was full of stress; her classmates were cold and remote. And the competition was fierce — everyone wanted to come out on top. The native Quebecers stuck together. Emma couldn’t get close to them. It was as if a thick wall of ice separated her world from that of the students with the bright white smiles, the blonde hair, the milky skin.

  Emma made friends with girls from diverse backgrounds: Lebanese, Armenian, Vietnamese, Polish. Together they worked on projects. Their courses and programs were a constant subject of discussion, with problems to solve, assignments to prepare. They rarely discussed their private lives.

  She lived for her studies, in a room in the university women’s residence. Every Sunday she called her mother to hear the latest news from home. It was her only escape from the pressure of classes and from her own isolation. She and her mother chatted about everything.

  Zeina, their neighbour’s daughter and one of Emma’s former schoolmates, had gotten married. The wedding ceremony, the guests’ outfits, the pastries — everything was described right down to the tiniest detail. Emma listened with keen interest. “And Zeina’s bridal gown, what was it like?” she asked, with a touch of envy.

  “Simply magnificent! Embroidered with gold thread, done by girls from Nabeul — the best embroiderers in the country, as you know. And sweets that melted in your mouth, made with pistachios, not the usual almonds. A real wedding, with a real man, from one of the great families of Tunis. I know one of his aunts; she’s married to one of my cousins.”

  There was no stopping her mother as she skipped from one subject to another, pausing for an instant before picking up the thread of her story once more. For an hour, maybe more, Emma was transported back to the warm, heady atmosphere of her native land, swept along by the poetry of the words that her mother must have plucked straight from a fairy tale. And when her mother’s rheumatism got the better of her, she would listen as her daughter related what she’d eaten the previous week or described the unbelievable amount of coursework she’d submitted to her professors. No matter the subject of their telephone conversations, Emma looked forward to Sundays, when she could
pour out her heart and spin a fresh cocoon that would keep her safe and warm during the week to come.

  Through the window Emma watched the passing cars. The bus stopped to take on passengers, then drove off in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. The sky was turning dark, threatening. A storm was coming. Her life in the student residence was far behind her. The cocoon had fallen away and the butterfly had emerged, never to return. How would she cope with her new life, she wondered, without a job, and with a nine-year-old to care for?

  The cardboard boxes lay around her, open, half empty. Emma could hardly focus on what she was doing. Memories flooded her mind. She was happy to leave the shelter and move into a place she could call her own. But she feared her new life, feared how others would see her, feared the incessant calls from her mother, pleading for her to return home and try her luck in Tunisia.

  The metal bed frame creaked as she stood up. Atop the dresser sat a tiny radio-cassette player that she hadn’t yet packed. She pressed the Play button and all at once the melodious sounds of her favourite song filled the room. The hypnotic Arab harmonies pouring from the tiny box contrasted sharply with the dreary space, almost stripped bare of furniture and photographs. Emma walked over to the window as the song lyrics rang in her ears, telling her that all was well, and for an instant she felt happy. Standing there, eyes anxious still, she watched the cars roll by.

  Unexpectedly, she felt the urge to dance. Swaying to the rhythm of the music, she moved her hands and arms awkwardly while swivelling her head. The dresser stood in her way, so she shoved it aside. She was no longer in the women’s shelter; she had been transported back to Tunisia. She felt young again, and brimming with energy as she skipped like a gazelle across the sands of the Sahara. Then, with a click, the cassette ended.

  The song was over. Emma was panting. What am I doing? she asked herself ruefully, as though she had not been the young woman swept up in the dance. Her chest rose and fell; her slightly curly hair was dishevelled, strands that had slipped from the bun atop her head floating insouciantly about her face. I’m not going to let myself get carried away by that silly song, Emma thought, as if to punish herself for her musical escapade.