It was a live night: good food, company and laughter. At most gatherings, men and women are segregated, but since this was more of an intimate family and friend’s night, we sat together. The men cracked jokes and the women laughed. Being the only young singleton lady of the bunch I am usually target for their jokes. One of the husbands decided it would be funny to ridicule my tea-making skills. Although they laughed at my expense, I found it hilarious too and wasn’t shy to return the favor just as strong.

That’s when my mom gave me the “nudge!”

My mom would explain later, in the car, that I had to watch it when it came to married men–even if they are twice my age! I was a little surprised by what she said. I always viewed my friends’ husbands more like older brothers or an uncle type figure.

The rule seems to change according to the couple. One of my friend’s husbands runs If I happen to be in proximity. If we ever meet on the street, he won’t be able to identify me although I’ve been friends with his wife for years and have eaten at their house almost daily. One of my other close acquaintances insists that I avoid visiting when the husband is home from work, God forbid he will see and talk to me. On the other hand, another couple I know is open about inviting me over to cook dinner with the family while we share laughter and play with the children.

These mixed signals puts a single lady like myself in an awkward position. Recently I started working on a project with a few people which involved emailing and phoning members of the team. One of the team members is married. His wife isn’t active and shows no interest in being part of our team. When I do phone, I get the wife first. After hearing about her week and what she cooked for the day, she gives me the “all-clear” to speak to the untouchable husband on speaker phone. I know because I hear my echo sometimes and a cough or two from the wife.

The issue becomes even more intense when you are speaking to a married Sheikh. It’s almost impossible to go directly to the Sheikh without going through a filter of wives, daughters or sisters. Suddenly our Sheikh screen who could consult him on spiritual matters. By the time the wife or female relative delivers the answer, it’s tainted by the individual’s own thoughts and opinions. Is that really fair? Who has the training anyways, isn’t it the Sheikh?

I wonder sometimes, what people expect to happen from a brief encounter at a dinner party or a focused phone conversation. Will a husband from the first glance dump his family and fall for a single, much younger girl? Where is trust, faith and fear of God? I believe Islam established a fine system where we can all safely interact without need of awkwardness. We can–as slaves of Allah–maintain our piety while serving our respected communities. We need to start trusting ourselves more and overcoming these barriers created by thousands of years worth of cultural baggage.

As a woman in my society, I play many roles. Sometimes that role might include interaction with the untouchable married species. I will not have someone’s insecurity deter my efforts to better my community. Not all single ladies are husband snatchers, we’re on your side.

Courtesy Photo by Jahat.

I want to blame my mother, but nothing she would have said would have prepared me for the next three years of my life. He promised her that he would protect, love and cherish me. We were so perfect. Our union was for the sake of God alone. We pledged to build our new home on the teachings of Islam. We had dreams; we made promises. Happiness was in the air.

Ten hours post the marriage vows exchanged in front of my father and the respected Imams, my husband started beating me–in the name of God.

At first I pretended that nothing happened. Mother would call to see how her happy, newly married daughter was doing: “I am fine mom, we went out today. I love it here!” I learned quickly how to lie to my mother. I trained myself to hang up before I burst into tears and screamed for help. I always had a believable excuse on hand, “We are going shopping, Mom. Love you and talk to you later.” Mom believed I was happy; I wanted to believe I was too.

I can’t remember how it all started. I think I left the kitchen cupboard open by mistake. He slapped me on my face and reminded me that God created women inferior to men. And somehow I believed him. I remember running from the kitchen, thrusting my body on the sheets on the floor and crying myself to sleep. When I woke up, he was nice again. He apologized for his behavior and promised to never touch me again.

He would break that same promise for the next three years.

He grew out his beard, wore the Arab garb and said bismillah (in the name of God) with every sentence. Eventually the first slap turned into pushing, which later evolved into punching, kicking and verbal abuse. His dream was to become a Muslim scholar. He ordered me to work to support him while he studied the religion of God, Islam. His ultimate goal was for me to “better” my career so I would bring in more money as he slept all day. I could only obey.

If the food wasn’t ready when I got home after long hours at work, I was beaten and reminded that I could easily be replaced by a second, third or fourth wife. Sometimes when he had me in a headlock, and while I begged him to release me, I would pray that he would marry another. At least, I thought to myself, I would no longer be the only target for his blind anger.

I did everything to be the perfect Muslim wife. I listened to lectures, attended talks and sought advice of the knowledgeable. Nothing seemed to work. I cooked, cleaned, worked, studied and obeyed, yet nothing satisfied him. I adorned myself; I smelled nice. Yet with all the efforts, I was still a bad wife, a bad choice that he regretted. He compared me to every woman we knew; they were smarter, prettier and made better wives. The sad part, I started believing him. I blamed myself, could he really be right?

I prayed. But my prayers to God were all the same. I wanted to be a better wife for my abusive husband. I believed wholeheartedly if only I could become a more pleasing wife he would stop. We would be the perfect couple as the outside world viewed us. There would be no need to cover up the scars, the bruises or the broken dishes. I wouldn’t have to cry myself to sleep each night or endure the curses of the angels with every fight.

Eventually, I couldn’t handle it anymore. For once I gathered the courage to speak out, hit back, and push back. I had a speech ready. I had my demands on a list. I would threaten to expose him to the world that saw him as the pious, God-fearing brother of Islam. I wanted it to stop. Please make it stop. Anybody? The world. The neighbors. My family. Help.

But you know, it’s not that easy when you are beaten in the name of God. Who was to stop him anyways?

To be continued.

Photo Courtesy: Cindy A