‘Iman, sing for us,’ said Salma, still in a good mood despite not being able to drive as she wanted to because of roadworks blocking one side of the motorway. Iman started to sing. There was a yearning in her voice for a home that would be more than a physical space, carried in the ancient words and melodies all the way from the Euphrates. Usually this familiar song brought tears to Salma’s eyes but today she was carefree, heedless of the words, distracted by the other cars on the road.
It was Moni who suddenly felt choked. The longing in the song was spiritual but it manifested itself to her as a drowning person’s gasp for air. A necessity, a grab for freedom from pain. It reminded her of the times she had prayed for a miracle. The kind of miracle that would have Adam standing up on his feet. His illness was a test of her faith, but sometimes she indulged in fantasies. Fantasies of him doing well in school, opening a gift she had wrapped up for him, laughing out loud while watching cartoons or stomping off in a huff when she rebuked him. ‘Stop it,’ she snapped at Iman. ‘Stop singing.’
Iman stopped singing. Salma looked up at the mirror. Moni’s breathing returned to normal. An apology was due, or at least an explanation. She told them about how Murtada wanted her and Adam to join him. Iman said, ‘You must obey your husband.’ She tossed this sentence without the slightest turn in her seat, in the flattest of tones.
At first, Moni was too stunned to reply. The cheek of the girl! She thought Salma would say something, explain or take her side. But Salma was watching the road, acting as if she hadn’t heard. Moni took a deep breath in and started to speak. She outlined the complexity of the situation and the practicalities. She explained that ‘obedience’ was not a blind imperative; it was an acknowledgement of leadership, but still leadership could be challenged and interrogated. It had been a long time since she had talked at such length. Iman yawned and Salma didn’t comment. It suddenly made Moni feel lonely. They couldn’t possibly understand her situation.
Iman was distracted by a text from her husband. Where exactly are you? I could catch up with you. How far did you go? Perhaps there is somewhere nearby where we could have some privacy.
She texted back, I can’t ask Salma to stop. She added a sad face to the message and settled herself comfortably in her seat. Ibrahim had been opposed to this trip. Three women on their own gallivanting across Scotland – it was wrong and unnecessary. Iman had pleaded, pouted and sulked until he gave way. ‘I can’t bear you out of my sight,’ he said the night before she left. ‘What am I going to do?’ he wailed in his boxer shorts, punching pillows and slamming doors.
Iman’s husband was a young student from a conservative family. His scholarship, paid for by his home country’s government, was ample and reliable. Ibrahim had suffered from homesickness and culture shock when he first arrived and the imam of the mosque prescribed marriage. Ibrahim’s family back home disagreed and so, with neither their consent nor knowledge, he took as his wife the most beautiful divorcee in the local Muslim community. He left the student halls, which – with girls in close physical proximity to beds they should not, would not and did not share with him – were a source of torment, and moved with Iman into a small flat near the university. She was his saviour. The one who met all his needs so that he could settle and study. And he was her saviour too. Dumped by the husband who had brought her to Britain (not exactly dumped, but he had ended up in prison and divorced her as a courtesy), she had been unsure what to do next, how to proceed. ‘Do anything but don’t come back,’ her family told her. Because of the war, home was neither safe nor prosperous. Those who were lucky to be out stayed out.
Her ex-husband’s lengthy sentence was for grievous bodily harm after losing his temper with a fellow Syrian. Asked if he had beaten her now that his violent credentials were proven without doubt, Iman shook her head and answered no, but the truth was he hadn’t got around to it yet. So, she opted next for the peaceful, gentle Ibrahim. Of the string of suitors, he was the one least likely to lift a finger against her. Besides, when he said the magic words, ‘I will do everything I can to unite you with your mother,’ she was won over. His immaturity was endearing, his consistent lust for her reassuring. He rescued her from homelessness and from aimlessness. Closer to her in age than her previous husbands, she found herself loving him as a friend, someone she could cuddle on the sofa and play games with on the PlayStation.
Every morsel she put in her mouth, every piece of clothing, was provided for her by Ibrahim. The rent, the gas, the internet. She did not have to beg, borrow or steal. She did not need to get up at the crack of dawn, take orders from a line manager or clean up other people’s homes. Instead, she was as pampered as a racehorse and as busy as a geisha.
To what extent is marriage religiously sanctioned prostitution? Iman sometimes pondered this question. She had even discussed it with Salma on more than one occasion – as much as she was capable of discussion. Salma of course had been adamant that the two were completely different. Iman wasn’t sure, and the arguments Salma
