Noor III

written by: Kristalle
from Noor I and Noor II

Rashed introduced me to his elder brother who had been living in Europe for the past decade. The exchange of words seemed to be a mumble of some ancient unintelligent tongue, unlike any I have ever heard, and yet it was not a stranger to my nature; and I extended my hand. Did Rashed say ‘Hemood,’ is that what this beautiful creature is called? I do not think it was only his physique that stunned me, it was the arrogant self-assurance, the degrading, nonchalant stare. Neither repulsion nor attraction are correct words to describe the mental state I was in, it felt like two forces of evil battling together and the victor would have had the luxury of procuring the most damage. Such satanic defiling waves inexplicably over-washed my being, and I knew then that I would never be able to cleanse myself, and that the memory of his licentious eyes had burned and buried itself far too deep in my soul, in that instance, for me to be able to eradicate it. And today, light years later, his eyes are still with me inflaming my guilt and gnawing at my sanity.

Hemood presented a challenge to me, and I had this craving to know him in a way as even he did not know himself. I began spending hours talking with him, neglecting my dear dear husband and my home. Hemood preoccupied my thoughts at work, while driving, during every activity of my daily life, including whilst making love to my husband.

And I began to know him, and understand him. He was much more like me than Rashed. Although Hemood was very arrogant on the outside, I discovered that that was only a façade to hide a very indecisive person that lacks self confidence. But he was a gentle, very emotional person; he was deep, in the sense that he understood the complex nature of the human psyche, not like Rashed at all, who believed that there was a standard reaction to everything. I never succeeded in convincing Rashed that certain people react differently to the same thing. To him, there was a right way of doing things and a wrong way; of course, Rashed’s way was always the right way, and all people should have adhered to it. Hemood, on the other hand, accepted people for who they were, and he didn’t have this urge to change them in order to fit his notion of acceptability. When I spoke of the different expressions of love, Hemood understood; when I explained my fears, he did not mock and when I mentioned my friends, he did not sneer. To me he was the perfect friend. Little did I know that I was luring him to me, to love me; because I was to him what he had always wanted in a woman. Diabolically, I made sure that I was the embodiment of his every fantasy. Wicked; but I was the result of Rashed’s frigidity and neglect.

How many times have I tried to change Rashed, to make him understand that I need a person who talks to me, how many times have I tried to make him open up; but he would never let me in. Maybe he didn’t trust me enough, didn’t love me enough to tell me about his world. I needed so much to be at peace then, and to rid myself of that annoying silent voice – that was born from the impregnated silence between us - that promised doom. And I changed. My heart and my compassion stonecized and I became solely interested in pleasing myself. How foolish that decision was, for years later I realized that I had only hurt myself and the person whom I dearly loved. I have isolated myself in order not to feel pain or a short lived happiness anymore. To show Rashed that I was indifferent; that if he didn’t care, neither would I. But when one isolates oneself from others, he must also isolate himself from emotions and he freezes himself and he no longer becomes human, nor is he an animal, but an abdominal satanic creature. But is that ever an excuse for adultery, an almost incestuous relationship, I think not.

© COPYRIGHT KRISTALLE 2005

Noor II

Part 2 of Noor
written by: Kristalle

I will begin with my family. At the onset of my life, or what I recall of it, my parents seemed to be normal to me, it was the rest of my family that was eccentric. Because I did not mingle with my aunts and uncles, I did not come to know their nature till much later in life, but I was forced to speak to and spend time with their children, my hopeless cousins. As we were strangers in our childhood so we remained throughout our adulthood. Little did I know then that they were just replicas, miniatures of their parents; if I had known that then, it would have saved me a lot of time and effort trying to comprehend the complex way with which they solve their problems and how they decipher every day occurrences.

But let me start first with how the relationship that joined me with my siblings is strange. Sometimes there was no communication between us whatsoever; we were strangers that happened to live in one house. Sometimes days would pass without us speaking, not because we had a fight, but because there was nothing to say to each other except the pleasantries like “good morning” and “thank you”. We had nothing in common and on occasions when one did start conversing about a certain topic or issue, nearly all of us would have opposing ideas, and we would end up ridiculing the other’s mentality thinking him a moron with the brain of a donkey. I could then understand how sisters and brothers could hate each other. And at other times, if anyone of us was in trouble, we would all stand by him/her even if it meant defying our parents; and we would amaze ourselves with the amount and profundity of love we had and still have for each other.

My sister Fatmah is older than I am by 3 years. She is divorced and thankfully without children. How cruel of me to say such a thing, but in the society we live in there is no bigger stigma than that of a divorced woman with children. You must understand that it isn’t reputation – this stigma – but fewer chances of re-marriage; for to a woman in my society anything is better than staying single and nothing is worse than living without a man.

My twin brother Ali is younger than I by 13 minutes. Although we Arabs do not believe in the Western myth of 13 as an unlucky number, precious Ali was always a misfortunate child and adult. His whole life was a serious of bad events and he never got anything easily. I, for one, began to have my doubts concerning the validity of the myth. Ali and I shared a strange relationship, although we have a kind of telepathic link that bonds us together, we were always fighting and trying to prove to everyone else (and secretly to ourselves) that we were different from one another and that we always had our individual personalities.

And finally Dalal. Dear little Dalal, she was younger than Ali and I by10 years, and my mother was always saying that she was a mistake. I always thought that that was the most inexorable thing to say; and it didn’t go unnoticed either, for my youngest sister always had a death wish and a hatred for life.

As I think of my family, my husband Rashed inexorably comes back to haunt my memory. What could have attracted me to him, as I look at him sitting at the end of this long narrow dining table. Although he was quite good looking, I knew it was not his looks for I have had more handsome men interested in me before. So, came the childishly nagging question – why him amongst all that were “available” – for lack of a suitable word – why him?

I sensed from the very beginning that we were completely different and I do not believe that humans follow the same rules of physics, when they say that opposites attract. On the contrary, in a married couple each has to be an extension of the other (in one way or the other), for them to lead a normally happy balanced life.

So, this rude impolite intruder of a question that desperately wanted to know the answer -why was I attracted to him; what attracted me to him? He was very practical, did not know a thing about being a romantic; he thought only of the present, and how many times his actions mirrored that very thought. We never talked on the same frequency or knew the other’s sacred rituals. Different tribes, different planets, different galaxies, we could not mesh.

And I knew all his faults; I knew the rigid, purely Arabic mentality, I knew the proud, stubborn, strict, money loving Arab within him. I knew his faults the minute I saw him. It seemed that the vitality of his ancestors were chiseled in his expressions, because he had the ancient, hard working features of Bedouins that refuse to fade, no matter how many inter marriages they have made. How truly miraculously heritage persists in persevering its existence? And I loved him then. I know now why I did and maybe still do. To me he was the embodiment of the original Arab. He was as elusive as the desert; barren and uncomplicated yet within the depths of its sands it holds the world’s secrets and mysteries.

Yes, he was what I have always wanted to be – an Arab Bedouin woman. I wanted to think and act and live as a typical woman in my society instead of being viewed and labeled as an outcast. He was my link to both – his world and mine. Did I love him because he was what I wanted to be or was he what my people said that I should be? I do not know. It does not matter anymore, because right now with him sitting at the end of this long narrow dinning table, I hate all Arabs!

© COPYRIGHT KRISTALLE 2005

Noor

written by: Kristalle

I would like to begin narrating what might be a tale, but the incidents that come to mind feel so real that I think most times the tale is not a tale at all.

My name is Noor, which means ‘light.’ It is a holy name because we believe God created the world from his ‘light’ as is mentioned in the Quran, my Book and the Book of my people. My age is not important for sometimes I feel ageless, as if I have existed before I was born, as if I am already existing in the future. I can remember nothing of my babyhood; my first recollection of myself is when I was ten. I became aware instantly that I was not like the rest of my friends. I did not share their same beliefs, nor did I have thoughts similar to theirs. I believed in the power of nature, I had no doubt it was the most powerful force, along with destiny, that controlled this world I live in. Many called me an atheist. I did believe in God, although not as a supreme power, and as for the Quran, I simply believed that numerous people contributed in writing it, as was the case with the Bible. Strange, after so many years, how absurd that idea now sounds.

Before I begin my story, I have to tell you about my people. What governs their thoughts, their actions and even their intimate feelings. I know that these people that surround me, those mysterious, mystic Arabs, have created a world of their own and have miraculously achieved to interweave and interact with the rest of the world.

As I talk of my people, my husband Rashed comes into mind, and as strange as it may sound, I sometimes recall my childhood as a dream that I may have imagined and only my life with him is real. And there are other times when I think that he is a figment of my imagination; that he is the illusion and all else is concrete. Strange how one human being can have such diverse effects. I do not know what Rashed wanted from me then, but now I have finally understood the constant, erratic opposition that I encountered.

I held, enfolded in my being, so much love for him, that his words were my life that he invented, his words were my self that he created. No previous notions or ideas of mine existed. No perceived hint of my former personality lived, after he entered the realms of my life. For many years, drunk with his scent, I spent my life as Rashed wanted me to spend it; for many years, I lived only for him. But that does not mean that all ran smoothly, for as timid as I wanted to be, I could not altogether rid myself of my childhood stubbornness; although I always succumbed in the end, I am proud to say that I never did so without a struggle.

Rashed had this unquenchable need to control me, he was as a person possessed to baffle me so that I would lose direction and run to him, my savior, for guidance, for advice. If I liked a particular dress or a play, he would strongly criticize it and would only end the conversation with a tone of disgust and disbelief that I, his wife, would have such indigent taste. I would then become very distressed and upset that I had caused him such discomfort and would apologize for such bad taste, always promising to improve. Idiot. A while later, and with a vicious smile, he would deliberately praise the dress and the play that just a month ago he had condemned. Is he a monster? How often have I asked myself that question and have not found an answer yet. What confuses me is that he has the ability to be as equally warm and generous as he is cruel. But I have rushed events and not started from the very beginning, when my people seemed to be as shallow as the remains of tea in a cup after it has been drunk.

©COPYRIGHT KRISTALLE 2005