Had I Been Male

[Not Proofed]

    This story cries out against the fate of women in a traditional society in which marriage is supposed to be a woman's ultimate shelter and protection. Sometimes it can be a miserable exchange. Here a young orphan girl (for a fatherless child is considered an orphan in Arabia), for whom marriage should be a salvation, is imprisoned in the traditional "shelter," by her "protectors."

    You will wonder when you hear that my price was only three thousand riyals. It was paid in cash to my maternal uncle. One night a group of men met at my uncle's house and recited the al-Fatihah to end my freedom and my youth. This kind of meeting should have been held in our own home and my father should have been the one to receive my price, but fate had decided to relieve him of this heavy burden, 2 letting him die and disappear from Mother's and my life.

    In her poverty my poor mother had to eulogize the fact that I am female. Had I been male, my father's house still would have been open, and I would have relieved her of depending on the crumbs from my uncle's table.3 Had I been male, I would have become a wall to protect my mother from the difficult times.'

    That night's meeting was the first time that fury blossomed inside me merely because I am female. Now the hatred of my degrading femininity has sunk deep inside me. It is socially unacceptable for me as a female to work to save myself from the humiliation of needing the help of others. It is socially  unacceptable for me to stand in the sun and enjoy its warmth, because a fly might sting me; instead, I must stay in the decaying darkness where I am eaten away by the rottenness. They call this safety.

    No, I did not revolt. I stayed miserable and suffocated. Am I not a female?

    When that ugly old woman, a stranger to us, came to our door and asked my mother to sew an abayah, Mother sighed with relief. She welcomed her warmly and escorted her into the house, despite the fact that she doesn't even know how to use scissors. But my mother sensed who she was and what she wanted from a house where there is a young and pretty girl who could become a future bride for her son. All of this took shape quickly in my mother's head as she was welcoming the woman and sitting beside her with all the etiquette of hospitality. From behind the door I watched them curiously.

    Then I saw my mother rushing toward me. "Comb your long hair, put on a cheerful dress, and bring our guest a cup of coffee!" I quickly did what my mother ordered me to do, and shyly entered the room carrying a tray with a cup of coffee for the guest.

    The woman looked at me appraisingly and smiled. I modestly lowered my head. Her eyes became like a wicked cat's, examining me as if there might be something artificial about my body. Perhaps I'd put on some part like wooden or plastic fingernails, or pearl teeth?

    After she was sure that the merchandise was God-created and there was nothing artificial about my beauty, whispers between my mother and the ugly old woman closed the deal.

    It was socially shameful for me to overhear such an important conversation as the one in which my life was sold to a man

    What man? If he'd been her son, the woman's arranging might have been reasonable, or at least logical. But he was her brother, only two years younger than she, who had spent most of his life living like a Don Juan and now wanted to retire with a delicious meal that might return him to the good life.

    Nervously rubbing her hands together, my mother rushed to discuss this urgent matter with my uncle. "Oh my brother, lie is perfect. He owns a house and several shops. His income is quite reasonable. He owns a fabric store. He is an old man, mature and balanced, able to watch over her, since she is so young. He will take care of her and let her wear the silk she has dreamed of."

    My uncle seemed relieved to hear what she had to say and answered, "All right, Sister, since you liked him, I don't have any objection to the marriage." Then, pretending to think, he added, "Let's wait awhile and ask about him in the neighborhood. Let's see who knows him."

    My mother responded quickly. "There is no need, my brother; his sister told me everything about his life and character, and his income will enable my daughter to live a comfortable, even luxurious, life." My mother chose to believe her. "Isn't that what I have wanted for her all along?"

    The conversation finished quickly, more quickly than selling a small chicken to a man who will eat it during the 'id.5

    On the wedding clay I was not moved by happiness, nor was my heart gay as a bride's should be. I was miserable, and furious about being female. Had I been finale, I would not have been buried in this coffin they call a bride's gown, or celebrated in a funeral crowded with curious neighborhood women who were envying me for this rich groom. My spring of fifteen years would not lave been buried in a cold autumn bedroom that aged me abruptly.

    I soon discovered many things that the ugly old woman did not tell my mother. I discovered that there is a whip that destroys the meaning of being human whenever that meaning starts to take shape inside me. I discovered things my mother did not tell me, either: that my innocent breaths would mix with his rotten pantings, and that the stale crumbs from my uncle's table were a thousand times sweeter than the whole loaves that I must pay for every night by lying with a (lead body with fossilized eyes, enveloped in the smell of the grave . . . pay for with my life.

    One day when I could no longer endure it, I rushed to visit my mother to cry on her breast over the degradation of my femininity. "Rescue me from this man!" I begged her with the innocence of a girl and the suffering of a woman.

    My mother moved her hand over my hair as if she were adding to my bindings. "Be patient," she said. "Otherwise you're not from a good family. There is no other protection for ins, Daughter‑your louse is your only shelter and protection."6

    I cried and shouted out from inside, "Shelter? Protection? Did it liberate me from this prison to be sold to the first passer­by? You are oppressing me, my mother."

    She looked at me firmly and her look said, "You're a female. It is not my mistake, not my oppression. Nothing can be done."

Notes

1. Al-Fatihah is the opening chapter of the Quran; it is usually read during the formal proposal for marriage.

2. A sarcastic remark on the custom of bride-price.

3. Upon the death of the father, the "house" breaks up. The mother, daughters, and young sons must reside with the closest living male relative, usually the father's brother. When a mother (lies, how­ever, there is no change in the residence except that the father may bring in a new wife.

4. If the son is of age and financially able to support his widowed Mother, then she will stay with her son.

5. Marriage negotiations can be long, protracted affairs. The fact that discussions were finished in the length of time it takes to sell a chicken to a Hungry man, perhaps five minutes, indicates that the girl's welfare was not carefully considered.

6. Most women are not in a position to be economically produc­tive and must rely upon either their husbands or male relatives to support them.

Voices of Change, Short Stories by Saudi Arabian Women Writers, edited and translated by Abubaker Bagader Ava M. Heinrichsdorff Deborah S. Akers; additional translations by Abdul-Aziz A1-Sebail