With heavy eyes and a yearning to remain in bed, she reached out to stop the ringing of the telephone and hesitatingly lifted it to her ear. Then she heard a soulless electronic voice telling her: “This is your wakeup call. It is now five in the morning. We wish you a pleasant day!”
That was all! She put the receiver down as she said to herself: “Ah... today is the first day of the summit on ‘environmental protection’ — I wonder, are we going to light a candle at this summit? Or are we going to condemn the darkness as we always do? Afterward each of us will go back where he came from. Would that our efforts be blessed with the support of the United States. Would that the US should spend on environmental concerns a tenth of what it is spending on the war on terrorism. If that were so, this earth would be far safer, more peaceful and in much better shape.”
She got up from her bed clutching all men’s favorite gadget — the remote control, that small instrument that holds within it the very essence of manhood! The latest opinion poll showed that men’s attachment to that instrument, even for a few hours, gave them a feeling of bliss and pride. Some might say that this only applied to those broken and marginalized males who clutch at straws for the illusion it gives them of victory and domination for the rest of the day. The reality is that the study included all men and excluded nobody.
She turned on the television to announce to herself the beginning of a charged day and went back to talking to herself: “Hmm... what else? Let’s see what gifts and surprises men have in store for us today? Whose body parts will be sent flying like cheap shreds of broken glass and in which part of the world? Who will raise and brandish the flags of war? Who will snatch food from the mouths of the poor and needy and run away with it to any Western land to live in comfort and luxury? Which dumb ruler will lie today even more than he did yesterday?”
The questions crowd her soul as she switches channels and watches each for a few minutes. As usual she settled on the news channel and mumbled: “Oh I don’t know. Why do I burden my soul with the worries of a world in which I don’t have a place; the world is male in thoughts and leanings. I own no part of it. I am not there in its hours of victory and renaissance so why then do I demoralize and depress myself in its times of defeat and darkness? Where is the logic? What is wrong with me? Why this duality? This is the language of Third World governments when they are asked to assist in rescuing the dying earth. They always repeat the same old drivel. We did not pollute or soil this earth so then why are we asked to contribute to removing the filth and poisons thickening the atmosphere — a negativist attitude, even in improving their abode, this earth.”
She drifted off the subject a little while, gazing at the newscaster, noting her elegance and the artistic touches on her features. She distanced herself from the noise a little to think of how those powders have been oh-so-carefully applied to those delicate features. As usual, the newscaster appeared emotionless — as though she was outside the circle — what a job — it turns humans into pseudo-machines.
She left the television chattering and set about raiding her suitcases to prepare what she would need. First her bright green suit symbolizing peace and life; she placed it in front of her, then went back to searching through her luggage and suddenly became panic-stricken, worries flooding her from every direction.
She searched and searched but couldn’t find the multicolored scarf sweetened with the magical earth colors that so perfectly matched her suit. While these worries occupied her, she could hear the newscaster say: “The Iraqi president agreed to allow weapons inspectors into his palace.”
Everything inside her stood still — she was pinned to the ground, picturing that tyrant, that man who destroyed entire villages, who crushed and crucified and cut off heads that had yet to be born; her inner monologue shifted and she forgot her worries about the scarf and cried.
Yes, this man’s day has come — this monster who wouldn’t leave anyone alone. The coming days will see him humiliated and disgraced in front of the whole world. I don’t wish for war in that bleeding stretch of Arab land. I don’t wish for war anywhere or for anyone. But I do hope that some may taste the bitterness and humiliation felt by this miserable nation.
She again returned to her own worries... beauty products... nail polish... lipstick... eyeliner... and every few minutes, the broadcaster’s voice announced the lies of politicians, their common lies and there is the land of Palestine, emerging again with its blood and flaming ulcers and with each passing day, the blessed Israeli rape of the nation tears out the veins, destroys lives and demolishes the dreams of innocent children as though nothing had happened. Her pain grows distant only to reappear with pictures of more injured.
An explosion in Indonesia has killed some 180 people; it is said that Al-Qaeda is behind that heinous crime. She trembled with rage and felt that she was going to explode; she was sick and tired of the negativity that had overtaken the Ummah; she stopped and cried out.
This accursed Al-Qaeda has paralyzed us to an unbelievable extent. Why was it not a qaeda (base) of peace rather than a base of war? Why did its founders think that causing more deaths was the course to take to build an active society? Why did they not present people with flowers, drawing smiles from the faces of the weak instead of planting bombs between them and spreading terror into their hearts?
She turned a deaf ear to the gloominess and went off to wash herself and cleanse herself of her woes as she always did. She came out refreshed, her hair was wet and she began to dry it with the hairdryer — only to be stopped short by the report of a study conducted recently about women in Egypt. The subject was the views of Egyptian women about beating as a way of changing a woman’s behavior. The results of the study were that 86 percent of women see that beating is a correct method of dealing with a disobedient woman. The study included all levels of society — from ministers to university professors to peasants in the countryside.
After hearing this piece of news, she was dumbfounded; all sensation left her body and she felt as if she had been stabbed with a knife. She stood immobile, her throat dry and her eyes brimming with tears. She couldn’t move but kept repeating: “No this is a lie. I don’t believe this nonsense, not Egyptian women. There must be some mistake, perhaps a typo or a printing error or a mistake in reading the bulletin. Perhaps she meant Qatari women or even Bahraini women, but not Egyptian ones. Egypt is the fountainhead of the Ummah and is its beacon of light. Egypt is our older sister whose light other Arab countries, still flailing in the dark, follow. Impossible! Impossible! How could such a decline have occurred? Where did such a reversion come from?”
She turned off the television, astonished, a strangling desolation filling her with the results of the study. Then she remembered that she had a long day ahead of her and that there was no time to complain about fate or mourn or cry for some of the most beautiful and brightest of Arab women.
After dressing, she looked at herself and decided it would be better to powder her face and hide the marks of disappointment evident on it.
“Ah, those wrinkles, and spots — what can I do? They are all the harvest of time for a woman marginalized on this defeated earth. I must close the curtain on this evidence and quickly — these bright dyes are enough to hide women’s pains and broken parts. I will cover my features with elegant colors; lipstick will draw a beautiful smile, eyeliner and shadow will return some light to them, mascara will lengthen the lashes and transmit the magic of a tender language and pink blush for a note of happiness.
“Yes, it is by such simple feminine touches that I will be able to hide from my onlookers and myself. What lies hidden in the folds of my tired soul — the pains of this nation?
“My pain too — ah, it is time to turn over the page.”
(Wajeha Howaider is a program analyst at Aramco. She holds an MA in Reading Management from George Washington University.)
