Kauthar Read online

  I’ve turned on the tap and water runs over my hands. They are shaking. The alcohol from last night is still in my blood. I am drinking too much. Each night a bottle. And since I turned thirty the drinking has started to take its toll. From the corner of my eye I observe Rabia.

  She puts her right hand underneath the thin stream of water, the palm cupped to catch some of the liquid, which she then pours into the palm of her left hand. She turns the right elbow outwards and leans slightly forward over the sink. The water is now running down her elbow and lower arm. Her left hand strokes twice from her right elbow all the way to the end of her fingertips. I look away, rubbing soap into my hands. I don’t want to spy on her, it must be embarrassing for her. It is embarrassing for me.

  But the next moment I stare again, spellbound, and can’t avert my eyes, like a child who has spotted something beautiful and wants to copy it.

  I turn off the tap and shake water from my hands forcefully as proof that I actually don’t care, that I have my own business to attend to. I turn around and walk past Rabia’s back to the dryers on the wall. While the hot air is blowing I stare out of the window down into the small, shadowy back yard. Then I lift my eyes to the black tarred roof terrace surrounded by black railings on the opposite side. I hear a helicopter. Rabia is now parting her hair. She slowly draws a line with the three middle fingers of her right hand from the top of her head across her face down to her chin. She bends forward. She has slipped out of her shoes. She places the middle finger of her right hand between her big toe and the long toe of her right foot and then strokes with her palm upwards across the instep. She repeats the movement along the left foot. I see every detail. Her actions are slow and controlled, a perfect little performance undertaken by herself for herself. She straightens up, lifts her head and catches my glance in the mirror. She smiles. Instinctively I want to turn away, pretending that all the while I have been drying my hands, with my thoughts elsewhere.

  And then, as I have already started to turn, I stop. And return her glance in the mirror.

  ‘Hello,’ I say with a smile.

  She returns my greeting. We chat briefly. I tell her that I am working at the library, she tells me that she is working on a PhD thesis. She picks up her wedding ring and slides it on to her finger. Then she starts putting her headscarf back on.

  ‘I’d love to talk to you about your religion one day,’ I say, and my heart begins to race as if I am scared that she will deny me that wish.

  ‘With pleasure,’ she replies.

  The following day she is not in the library. In my break I linger by the shelves with the books on Islam and pull one out every now and again, all the while listening for my colleagues. I don’t want anyone to see me looking at books about Islam. That’s also the reason why I can’t borrow them. If it were books about Buddhism, Hinduism or even Judaism, it wouldn’t matter. But Islam is different. On Saturday I go to Edgware Road. In an Islamic bookshop I buy a Quran and an introduction to Islam. I stuff the plastic bag containing the books into my shoulder bag and don’t even dare to take them out in the underground because someone I know might see me. At home I leaf through the Quran as if it’s any odd book, study the prayer position in the introduction, imitate the movements and remain on my knees with my forehead on the floor. It reminds me of the child position in yoga. I enjoy being on my knees, with my forehead touching the floor, hands by the side of my thighs. The deep breathing calms me and I can imagine that it must be good for anyone to perform these movements a few times a day. The prayers in the book are in Arabic, with English translation and transliteration. I repeat the first two words aloud, Allahu akbar. Allah is the Greatest. The Arabic letters resemble beautifully drawn loops. Chaos at first. Only after further scrutiny does the perfect, sublime order becomes apparent. I try to copy the letters on a piece of paper, drawing first from left to right until I remember that Arabic is written from right to left. As a child I spent hours copying stories from magazines. I decorated unblemished white paper with entwining flourishes. And now, as I try to draw Arabic words for the first time, I remember how important and meaningful my work appeared to me back then. How I lived in the moment of seeing the pen travelling across the paper. How I lost myself in the drawing. Even today, when I speak on the phone or sit alone at my kitchen table in the evenings, drunk, I paint letters, ideally with a fountain pen. Lines in wet ink, entwined, decorative ornaments, patterns that start off with a letter, then slowly turn into chaos – or so it appears – the more loops and hoops, twirls and twists I develop from that letter in one unbroken line, without ever lifting my pen. Until suddenly the line returns to complete the letter. From there it moves on to the next letter and a word appears.

  And while I copy Arabic words, the meaning of which I do not yet understand, I think how beautiful it must be to start all over again like a small child. To stumble with wide-open eyes into a knowledge that before was closed off. Arabic is not only a foreign language like German or French. It’s a different script, an unfamiliar way of thinking, another religion and culture, new laws and rules that I would have to learn like a newborn.

  In a few weeks’ time I will ask Rabia if it is permitted in Islam to make mistakes, and she will reply, ‘Of course. After all, making mistakes is only human. What counts in Islam is the intention, and as long as your intention is good and proper and towards God, mistakes are permissible and you will be forgiven and you will learn.’

  Now I am sitting at my table and I am again drinking wine, even though I didn’t want to, and I am drawing Arabic twirls, and I imagine that I will convert to Islam just because I love to draw beautiful Arabic twirls, and I want to learn to draw them properly. Of course I would have to give up the wine. But wouldn’t I be happy to do that? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to lose myself like a child without the influence of alcohol in the painting of letters and words? And I stop drawing and look at the pictures of the ablution before prayer. But without a body performing in front of me, these images are meaningless. I start to read. Islam is the Arabic word for submission and devotion, the belief in one God and His Prophet Muhammad. Muhammad was the final messenger. Before Muhammad there were other messengers, among them Adam, Abraham, Moses, David, Solomon and Jesus.

  Rabia will explain to me: ‘We believe in Jesus, peace be upon him. We also believe in the Ascension. But we don’t believe that Jesus was crucified or that he was the son of God. The Quran states clearly that God has no son and no daughter. Say, He is Allah, the One. Allah is Eternal and Absolute. He neither begets nor is He born, and there is none like Him. This is what it says in the 112th Sura, Al-Ikhlas, the Sura of Sincerity, which we recite each day in our prayers. And because He is One, He cannot be divided. And that’s why we consider belief in a holy trinity to be a sin. That is the single big difference to Christianity.’

  ‘And what happens to the original sin? From which Jesus is supposed to have saved us through his crucifixion?’

  ‘In Islam we believe that each of us possesses a personal relationship with God. We don’t need an intermediary. Allah forgives us our sins in the very moment we turn towards Him and ask Him for forgiveness. When we convert to Islam, when we embrace the act of submission and devotion to God, we are saved and delivered from evil and will be returned to Paradise.’

  Rabia teaches me how to pray, and I now pray at home in the evenings, but never in the mornings. And I only wear the hijab when I meet up with Rabia and her friends – before I head down into the Tube I have already taken it off. And I am still drinking wine and I am still not thinking about what I eat. But I am increasingly aware that I am not paying attention to what I put into my mouth, and that if I were a Muslim I would need to pay attention.

  One day we are sitting side by side in the bus, Rabia and I, and I am wearing a long skirt and a wide, long-sleeved blouse, both of which I always wear when I meet her to see what it feels like – I think it feels very feminine – and she suddenly s
ays to me, ‘You know, when I was a teenager and in my early twenties, before I returned to Islam – because we Muslims believe that we are all born as Muslims and as such the conversion to Islam means a return – I was convinced that I had to fight for my happiness, for my peace of mind, for my independence. But the moment I submitted to Islam, I realized how wrong I had been. The complete opposite was the case. I didn’t need to fight, to be defensive, aggressive, tear myself away. Instead I had to accept, to submit. To serve Allah. And as long as I serve Allah I am free, I have peace of mind, and know precisely in each minute of my life what to do.’

  And she throws her head back, laughing. She opens her mouth, and she will talk, and she will give me answers, answers that I will recognize, that will show me the path beneath my feet. The path I am already on but that I have only now become aware of. I will stumble and fall, but I won’t remain on the ground. I will get up and continue on my way.

  Rabia and I visit Istanbul and we pray in the old mosques. We walk miles to the Fatih mosque, to the Eyüp Sultan mosque. We cross the Bosphorus to the Asian side and visit the Atik Valide mosque. We enjoy the peace and quiet in the small mosques, sitting on the soft carpets while a breeze gently caresses us. Rabia shows me how to use the prayer beads. Thirty-four times Allahu akbar – Allah is the Greatest. Thirty-three times Alhamdulillah – All praise is for Allah. Thirty-three times Subhan Allah – Glory to God. The words are no longer unfamiliar. Remembering them is easy now. Allah’s praise comes to my lips as if I had been born with this knowledge. In the past months I have learned more than ever before in my life. A new world has opened up to me, a new understanding that I can now grasp but to which I was blind and deaf until a few months ago. I was not ready to conceive it then, but now I have arrived – amazed, hungry, eager.

  And when I am lost and don’t know what to do, I can ask Rabia, my patient friend. She teaches me to enter a mosque or a room with the right foot first, but the bathroom with the left. She teaches me which parts of the prayers are obligatory and which earn you special merit. She teaches me the difference between partial ablution, and when it is permitted, and full-body ablution. She tells me not to wear nail varnish or make-up when praying, not to use perfume that contains alcohol, and that everything I do should be done with the intention of getting closer to God. My day now has a structure, a scaffolding. I imagine a parallel beam along which I can walk, a step at a time, across the day. I won’t slip, I can’t slip. The five prayers are the most important part of my day, giving it content, dig-nity, purpose. Because every day I serve Allah, and I know what to do and how to do it. When doubts assail me, I go to Rabia.

  At the beginning I fear the doubts, worried that they could destroy my belief, that they are proof that I am an impostor, a hypocrite. And each time Rabia wipes away my doubts: ‘Be patient. Indeed Allah is with the patient.’

  And I ask Rabia, ‘Isn’t Islam misogynistic?’

  ‘For Allah there is no difference between the soul of a man and the soul of a woman. We are all from Him and we will all return to Him. O mankind! Be careful of your duty to your Lord Who created you from a single soul and from it created its mate and from them twain hath spread abroad a multitude of men and women. However, there is a physical difference between men and women. And Islam and we Muslims accept and acknowledge this difference in our earthly appearance. But these differences are not meant to put one above the other. They are there so we complement each other. Girls and women – just like boys and men – have to learn, have to acquire knowledge. According to Islam, it is not allowed to marry them off against their will, they have a right to divorce, to their own wealth, to political decisions.’

  ‘Then why do Muslim women cover themselves? Wear a hijab?’

  ‘O Prophet! Tell thy wives and thy daughters and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks round them. So that they may be recognized and not annoyed. It really depends who you want to serve. We all have to serve, that’s part of being human. We can’t escape it. And I serve God. Allah. The hijab is a sign of my service to Allah. It indicates that part of me that belongs to Allah, and only to Allah, not to this world.’

  And I submit to Allah and to His laws and step outside wearing a hijab. And it appears as if I am covering myself, hiding behind a veil. But in actual fact I am revealing my true self. My self that can now glimpse the light.

  III

  Harb – War

  AFTER THE LETTER from my parents, I start wearing a cloak – an abaya – whenever I leave our flat. It makes me feel safe.

  The war in Afghanistan and the expectation of war in Iraq fill the air. Premonitions that with each day race closer towards certainty. To start with, a rumbling beneath the surface can be heard, the ground under my feet begins to shift, still there but no longer fixed, a tiny movement at first, a millimetre or two, hardly noticeable. Almost a misapprehension, a flicker in the eye. The imagination playing games. But no, no games. This time we are not playing games. But Lydia – why is she back? Why has Lydia turned up again? I am Kauthar. Only because my mother insists that I am Lydia. Whatever. If she insists, let her. It’s got nothing to do with me. With Kauthar. But still, Lydia has turned up again. I know that it is Lydia who once again has understood nothing. Absolutely nothing. However, as always, she is convinced that she has understood everything. That she knows it all. And she nods with pride and satisfaction: it is all only a game. Saddam Hussein and weapons of mass destruction? A nice game, a funny game. Even Lydia gets it. A game with Bush and Blair as cartoon characters leading the way.

  Rafiq says, ‘They mean what they say. They will go to war in Iraq.’

  Lydia strokes his head, strokes the head of my husband. I know it is her. She has crept back and now sits between us.

  ‘No, no. Don’t be silly. They won’t attack Iraq.’

  Rafiq suddenly stands up. Lydia’s hand slides from his head and falls on to the sofa.

  ‘Don’t be so naive,’ he says, and walks out of the room.

  The door to the bedroom falls shut behind him. A few moments later it opens again. And Lydia, poor Lydia, is still sitting on the sofa, in the half-dark. She hasn’t moved, doesn’t move, while Rafiq puts on his jacket in the hallway.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Kauthar.

  ‘To Ahmed,’ replies Rafiq. ‘We Iraqis have to stick to­gether. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me.’

  Later she feels him coming to bed. She is lying on her side, still awake. But doesn’t stir. He moves closer.

  ‘Kauthar?’ he whispers.

  She hesitates. Should she pretend to be asleep?

  ‘Kauthar, are you asleep?’

  Then she replies, because she is lonely, and playing games is not her thing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am sorry I said that you were naive.’ He puts an arm around her from behind.

  ‘Do you think there will be war?’ she asks into the dark.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your friends, do they think so too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turns on to her back. They are now lying next to each other. Their arms touch but they don’t link hands.

  ‘I am pregnant,’ she says into the night. Kauthar says into the night. I say into the night. And I feel Rafiq’s face suddenly hover above mine, planting kisses on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, my lips.

  ‘Alhamdulillah! Praise to God. What wonderful news. Why are you only telling me now?’

  ‘I did a test this morning, but I wanted to wait to do it again. It’s positive. Twice.’

  He kisses me once more. ‘Alhamdulillah. I started worrying that we might not be able to have children at all. But I always thought I had to leave it up to you to raise the subject.’

  I am still lying on my back. I haven’t moved. Arms by my side.

  ‘Kauthar, habibi, what’s the matter? Aren’t you happy?’


  ‘I am afraid. What will happen to us if a war breaks out?’

  ‘What will happen? We are a proper family now.’

  ‘“We Iraqis have to stick together”, that’s what you said when you went to Ahmed’s earlier on. That didn’t include me. I am not an Iraqi.’

  ‘I didn’t want to exclude you. I’m under quite a lot of pressure at the moment and sometimes say things I don’t mean. Iraq will need us one day – you and me and our children. Here, we merely try to survive. We don’t belong here.’

  Two months later they bomb Baghdad. Circles of light flicker across the TV screen. Explode. Little toy bombs. They hit me in the stomach like real ammunition. I bend forward. I have to protect my baby, our baby, Rafiq and Kauthar’s baby. How is it possible that this can just happen and no one puts an end to it? Why did no one prevent it? No one seems to say, Well, this simply isn’t possible. Because in actual fact it is possible. Look at the screen. Look at what the cameras are seeing. And Kauthar is sitting in front of the screen – they have bought a TV. She is watching the news, like a movie, a war movie, and she thinks she is hit. But we can’t just drop bombs and then insist that nothing, absolutely nothing, has happened. Clinical precision. No one wounded. No one dead. Only heroes. And Kauthar feels Rafiq’s hand. She would love to hold on to it. A tangible reality. He withdraws his hand in order to pick up the phone, again and again he tries to get through to Iraq, to his friends, his relatives. But there is no connection.