Buthaina - tenth woman in her family murdered

Last night, Buthaina Abu Ghanem, from Ramleh, was murdered in cold blood. Buthaina is the tenth - yes, you are seeing the correct number - the TENTH - woman from her family to be murdered under similar circumstances.

Skimming through the media, I find the English edition of Times of Israel is using the term "honor killing." The Arab website Arabs 48 has reported that the Israeli police are incapable of dealing with these kinds of murders in what they refer to as "the Arab street."

To the term "honor killing" I say: NO. These are not honor killings. These murders have nothing to do with honor. These are gender-based murders. These women were murdered in cold blood simply because they were women, and simply because they attempted to live a normal life and to exercise their rights and freedoms. And to those commentators on the Times of Israel article who blame Islam, I also say no. Religion has nothing to do with it. These women were murdered because some men still think they have the right over women's bodies and the right to control women. Religions are not violent. If a person is violent, then his Islam/Christianity/Judaism/Buddhism will be violent. People are violent, not religions.


The names of the ten murdered women are buzzing through my head.
Buthaina
Naiefa
Sharihan
Dalia
Sabreen
Suzan
Zeinat
Amira
Reem
Hamda

Ten women from the same family. Sharihan was only 16 when she was murdered. Dalia disappeared at the age of 16 and to this day the police have not found her body. Reem was murdered because she refused to marry a man she didn't want to. Hamda was murdered because of too many phone calls.

I am sitting in the safety of my home, and my heart goes out to the women of the family who are still alive, and I cannot imagine the horror they must live through, not on a daily basis, but moment to moment.

ENOUGH KILLING WOMEN. ALL WE WANT IS TO LIVE IN DIGNITY AND FREEDOM.

the political is personal

The political is personal

My daughter, having grown up in a radical feminist environment of the Haifa Women’s Coalition house, mainly surrounded and supported by the community of Isha L’Isha – Haifa Feminist Center and Aswat, has grown up to become an assertive young feminist herself. It is a wonder seeing her growing up and forming her own opinions on different issues. I always learn from her, as she keeps reminding me in so many ways that there is not one feminism, but many feminisms. We have discussions on issues affecting women; sometimes we agree, other times we don’t.

The most recent disagreement between us reflects the disagreement within the radical feminist movement in general, and that is the use of our bodies in our struggles. Women have chosen to use their bodies throughout the years in different political struggles, which can be seen in recent years in the protests surrounding the Russian feminist punk rock protest group Pussy Riot and the SlutWalks.

My daughter took part in this year’s Haifa SlutWalk, and she decided to dress in a certain way, thus using her own body to make a political statement. For those who don’t know the history of the Slut Walk, it started in January 2011, following a remark by a “representative of the Toronto Police” who “gave shocking insight into the Force’s view of sexual assault by stating: ‘women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized.’” (SlutWalk).

When I saw what my daughter chose to wear, my first reaction was to try to persuade her not to dress in this way. Here I had to negotiate my own identities as a feminist and as her mother. Here I also realized that the feminist saying we always stress, “the personal is political,” also works in the opposite direction. In this case, the political became the personal.

Of course we both agree that women should have the right to dress whichever way they want and not be sexually harassed. Our disagreement was on the way we each choose to make our political statement. I myself don’t use my body in my activism, but I respect women who choose to do so. And thus, ultimately I had to respect my daughter’s choice. She is, after all, a grown young woman who received feminist education and all the tools to make her own choices. She is free to choose to use her body in her activism.

It was not easy seeing her during the SlutWalk procession as on the personal level I had mixed feelings about it. However, I was so proud of her. Proud of her courage, proud of her assertiveness, proud of her choice to stand up for women’s rights.

  

The recent case of the Israeli singer Eyal Golan reflects the sickening ease with which men use their power and fame to sexually exploit young girls. It is not the case of one individual, but a case of a whole patriarchal culture based on dehumanizing, oppressing, and controlling women.

25 November - International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women

25 November - International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women

Because we women have the right to live in dignity
Because we have the right over our bodies
Because we have the right to chose our partner
And we have the right to walk away from a relationship without fear of being murdered
It is our duty to raise our voice,
because there are millions of women caught in the vicious cycle of violence – 
violently silenced, unable to raise their voice.
Because it is our right to live securely and safely, and not fear any kind of violence – be it physical, emotional, psychological, economic, social, political, sexual, or personal.

khulud

(c) photo by khulud khamis

She lay in bed, unable to sleep because of the air heavy with humidity. It seemed to her she could actually see it dripping from the air. Her body was melting – she traced the wetness between her breasts, slowly moving down – circling her belly. The softness of it felt nice now. But it wasn’t always like this. Her body used to be an unrelenting enemy. Until Shahd came and helped her become friends with her own body. It was a long process of getting to know different parts of her body, accepting each part as a friend.

Growing up, her aunt had drilled into her brain that a woman cannot – under any condition – have a belly. When she was 17, that same aunt had told her she had crooked legs and thus mustn’t wear skirts unless “they reach way below your knees.” So she gave up on skirts. She hadn’t realised how much these seemingly careless remarks shaped her relationship with her body until she met Shahd. Until then, she didn’t even give it a second thought.

A fleeting image disturbed her line of thoughts: she remembered a day, back when she was still living at her parents’ home. They were doing some construction work in the house right across from theirs. It was early in the morning, and she went out to buy some fresh bread. Dressed in loose sweat pants and her father’s warm coat. Five men were getting out of a jeep, taking their work tools with them. She was invisible, passing them by. Air. Glad to pass by unnoticed. Got the bread, went back – again invisible. A few hours later, dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a tweed jacket, she went out again. Getting closer. The five men were sitting down to have a coffee break and a cigarette. As she was passing them, from the corner of her eye, she noticed the abrupt halting of all activity. Bodies that were swinging in conversation became rigid. Five heads turning all in the same direction – at the same time.She was visible all of a sudden when before invisible. Five pairs of eyes following her all the way down the narrow alley, until she turned the corner. The following morning, with the same loose sweat pants, the same oversized coat, she walked out of the house to buy fresh bread. Smiling to herself at her protection from invaders.

The obsession with the body what to wear how long it should be what it should cover why and for whom. Always self-conscious. Sometimes invisible sometimes air sometimes – the object of their masturbation she would feel how they were taking away – stealing from her – parts of her body to take home with them so that late at night, in their bed, alone or with another woman what did it matter – they could release that image of her and masturbate or imagine her while they entered another body. The obsession with the body – what to wear how long it should be what it should cover why and for whom.

Shahd. Asal. Honey. Three short letters. She carried her beauty carelessly – like it didn’t even belong to her. Her hair was either loosely tied with a long colourful scarf – about the only colourful item she would allow herself to be caught in – at the nape of her neck, or else it was set loose to the capriciousness of the wind. Her only makeup was black kohl that made the violet dots in her eyes even more pronounced and mysterious-looking. Still, with all that beauty, there was something boyish about the way she carried herself. Maisoon couldn’t make up her mind if she was doing it unawares or if she was purposefully teasing those around her. 

(c) khulud khamis, cut from Haifa Fragments - forthcoming by Spinifex Press in 2014.

We demand life

My stomach is turning. A father murdered his 17 year old daughter by burning her alive. The reason: she "sullied her family's honor" by being in touch with men on Facebook. After reading the article, my whole body trembled. When will our society realize that a family's honor has nothing to do with this?! My honor isn't between my legs. My honor lies in leading an honest life and in being true to my own values. Enough killing girls and women. Our gender is not an approval for murdering us. Nothing constitutes a reason to murder us! We demand life!

Links to the article: 
Ynet: "Indictment: Man set fire to daughter for meeting men online."
Haaretz: "East Jerusalem father charged with killing his daughter over 'family honor'."

Institutionalized human trafficking

Ok, I usually don't post links to articles, but rather write my own thoughts about what goes on here and how it affects me personally. But this time, I am just so outraged that I'm left utterly speechless. All I can think of is - this is pure human trafficking.

You can read about it in the article published today (09 July, 2013) in YNet, "Israel to Trade Arms for Migrants with African Countries" by Itamar Eichner:
http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-4402834,00.html

And for my Hebrew language readers, here's a photo of the article in the printed press

Excluded from Women's World Boxing Championship

This is the kind of news that makes me angry. The cover news of the local Friday paper features a picture of a young woman boxer, with the headline “7,000 shekel, baby.” It caught my attention, partly because of the all too common chauvinistic culture-made connection between the words and the image of the woman. If it were a man boxer, the word “baby” would never have been used. But this is just an aside comment.

The young woman is Yelena Shelkovin (ילנה שלקובין), three times Israel champion in boxing (in three different weights). She’s been qualified to participate in the 2012 Women’s World Boxing Championship in Qinhuangdao, China, to take place in May. However, Yelena will probably not make it. Why? She can’t afford to pay the 7,000 NIS (about $1,900 or 1,400 EUR) for the round-trip ticket and accommodation. In her interview, Yelena says that Sports Associations around the world usually fund participations of athletes in world championships. Of course, she received a letter from the Israeli Boxing Association that she will participate in the world championship, but that she has to fund her own ticket and accommodation. The interviewer quotes the response of William Shehada, chair and general director of the Israeli Boxing Association: “No need to make a big tragedy. This is a very expensive championship and the Association cannot fund it. She’s not someone who’s going to take the world championship, she’s not ready for it and she’s not worth the money, so she’s not going. She’s only Israel champion.”

I was quite surprised to read his response. She’s been Israel champion three years in a row. How can he say that she’s not ready? And what’s this “she’s not worth the money?”

I think there is exclusion and marginalization here on several layers: first, she’s a woman. So of course “she’s not worth the money.” Then, she’s a Russian immigrant, and she comes from a low socio-economic background. Yelena has made it on hew own. She immigrated to Israel all by herself at the age of 19, leaving her family behind. During the day, she cleans hotel rooms. She practices boxing after work.

I bet that if she were a man, there would be no funding issues. I bet that if she were born in Israel to Ashkenazi parents, there would be no funding issues. This is just another “small” example of the inequalities in Israel, and the rift between the different groups – women and men, ethnic groups, national groups, immigrants and those who were born here, different socio-economic backgrounds, etc.

No. There are no equal opportunities in Israel. Not if you don’t belong to the elite hegemony.

Israel's Citizenship Law - Families not Able to Live Together

I am copying here an email sent out by my activist friend Hannah Safran.

I must say that I am as outraged as she is by this reality.

Dear Friends,

This is a plea for help from Mr. Taiseer Khatib and his wife Lana from Acca in Israel. Taiseer is a Ph.D student in Anthropology at the University of Haifa, a teacher at the Western Galilee College, and a conductor of creative writing workshops for young adults in the Freedom Theatre at the Jenin Refugee Camp. The story of the plight of the Khatib family (as you may see from the attached material) was all over the media when the high court decision accepted recently the "citizenship law" of 2003.

Lana Khatib is a Palestinian woman from Jenin in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (oPt), she has a diploma in economics from Al-Najah University in Nablus, she has moved to Israel in 2005 to live with her husband in his home town Acca. They have 2 children (4 and 3 years) but her residency here is totally depended on yearly extensions of her permission to stay within Israel of the 1967 borders. She has no legal rights, social rights, health insurance and security. She is not allowed neither to drive nor to hold a job and is thus dependent totally on her husband Taiseer. This situation creates lots of frustration for Lana who used to be independent and worked for about 4 years in the health ministry in Jenin city. One could only imagine who deprived her life is.

With the recent High Court decision she can never dream to achieve a status of a citizen, and not even a permanent resident. In the best case, she might get a renewal of the permission that enables her only to stay with her family, if she is lucky, and won't lose the mere permission to live in Acca. This is the horrific reality of almost 25,000 families in Israel.

Moreover, the Khatib's cannot choose to live in Nablus as Mr. Khatib is an Israeli citizen and according to the laws introduced after the Oslo agreement, Israeli citizens are not allowed to live in Palestinian cities which are within the "A" sections of the divided pTo. If one examine the “citizenship law” carefully its only aim is to create a “pure” Jewish state, empty from Palestinians.

If this situation reminds you of dark times in recent Jewish history please take action.

As someone who is outraged by this latest Israeli High Court decision I am sending you this personal story of the Khatib's family and urge you to protest in any way possible, to the press, to the UN, to the Israeli Embassy in your city/country and to Mr. Obama himself.

If you have more ideas or would like to help create an internation campaign please write back to Mr. Khatib or to me [hsafran10@hotmail.com]. To contact Mr Khatib please write to: taiseerk@gmail.com or become a friend on facebook: Taiseer Khatib.

With outrage and thanks,

Hannah

the Creating Safe Spaces Writing Project - ONLINE

we have an Internet platform!

Safe Spaces Writing Project

Please share, and send your stories.

The invitation appears both on the project's website, as well as here

we also have a facebook page so please help spread the word!

the first two stories are already online! read, share, tweet, comment, and send your stories.

The “Creating Safe Spaces for Girls and Women” Writing Project

An Invitation for Women from all over the World


This is an open invitation for women from all over the world to take part in a unique project of “Creating Safe Spaces for Girls and Women.”

Most of us have experienced some kind of a sexual molestation/ assault/ abuse/ attack/ harassment at one point or another in our lives. It could have been a single incident or an ongoing molestation. It happened on the street, at the pool, at a relative’s house, or in our homes. It was a family member, a family friend, someone from school, or a stranger. There are so many stories, and many of us carry them within ourselves. Many of us share our stories so that we could prevent these assaults from happening to other girls and women. But still many of us remain silent.

Yes, there are probably many websites, books, lectures, workshops on this issue. But still, we need more. In order to create safe spaces for girls and women, we need to tell our personal stories over and over, in all available forms.

I am inviting you to share your own personal story in any way you wish – it could be sharing a specific incident, describing your feelings of helplessness, fear, pain or guilt, how you cope with it in the present, how has it affected your life, how to transfer this knowledge to young girls, or any other thoughts you wish to share with other girls and women around the world. It can be as short as one paragraph or as long as several pages. You can focus on only one aspect of sexual molestation, or on several. It can be written in any style you wish: facts, poem, creative writing. You can remain anonymous if you wish, or you can tell us about yourself as little or as much as you wish.

What will be the final product? I still don’t know exactly, it will depend on the contents of the stories received. At the moment, I see it as a collage of stories from all over the world, women sharing their experiences in order to create safe spaces for us. In what form it will be? My initial thought is to have it all on an internet platform that will be accessible to girls and women all over the world.

Deadline? There’s no deadline for submissions. Right now, I think this will be an ongoing, long-term project.

Where to send your story: khulud.kh@gmail.com

Please help spread the word and pass this on to as many women as possible. To receive the invitation in a PDF form, please email me at the address above.

© this is an independent project initiated by khulud kh, January 2012

we refuse to be victims

(c) photo by khulud kh, 2012

She was maybe 27 or 28 when it happened. Right in the middle of having sex. She was high on marihuana and wine and it was all blurred in her mind. She only remembers the last moments of it. N was on top of her, and she was crying, “rape me, rape me.” He stopped in the midst of action and stared at her in horror. “Asmahan! Asmahan! Wake up! It’s me.” She stared at him with eyes full of fear. She covered herself with the blanket, and wept silently, her body contracted into a ball.

That was when she connected the dots. Her inability to enjoy physical contact without being high or drunk. And even then!

She can’t remember exactly when it all started. She can only guess that it lasted maybe two maybe three years. Maybe more maybe less. Maybe from the age of 9 or 10 somewhere around there. Because when her grandfather died, she was 11 and it was going on for a while already. She doesn’t remember how it started, or even why.

He was older by two years. Two years is a lot at the age of 9 or 10 or even 11. To her, he seemed almost grown up. What she remembers is an amalgamation of hands forcing their way into places she knew were forbidden to him. Her hands resisting, failing. The weight of his body on top of hers. His breath – always garlic – when he forced his tongue inside her mouth. The bruises that stayed for days on those parts of body that resisted the most. The pain. The disgust.

She also remembers the day when she gathered some extraordinary courage – from where she doesn’t know – and stood up to him. “Enough! I am going outside to wait for my father, and if you touch me again, I will tell him.” He just laughed at her. But he never again touched her.

For years, she walked with this pain inside of her. She was sure that it was her own fault. That somehow it was her who was guilty of his acts. Then, slowly, the pain receded, was pushed into some forgotten corner. Psychologists call it repression.

Then, on that night, it all flushed her. All the memories of his hands tongue touch weight garlic breath. She didn’t tell N about it, but he somehow felt. He knew he couldn’t hold her to comfort her. So he gave her enough space – physical – to feel the pain all the way, with all its intensity.

Our mothers didn’t teach us. Anything that had to do with any touch between a girl and a boy or man and woman was taboo. We were never told that our bodies belong to us. That we have full rights over our bodies. That no man, woman, girl, boy can touch any part of our body without our full consent.

Yet, our mothers are not to blame. No. We can never judge our mothers for what they could or could not do. We live in a society with such twisted grasp over anything that has to do with bodies. They think that if we don’t talk about it, if they act as if it doesn’t exist, then it will never happen. Not in their family.

But the fact is – and I don’t need to quote from any research – that the more a community represses these things and sweeps them under the carpet, the more sexual assaults happen in those very communities. Within the family – usually by cousins and uncles. Less often by brothers.

Looking back at the terrifying ease with which he molested her, she knows – without the need to quote from any research – that it happens at least to 80% of the girls. In one way or another.

Today she also knows what she didn’t know then. Back then, she walked with the pain all alone. She was sure that this was something very private, happening only to her, because of her. Today, she knows her pain is just a drop in a big, collective vessel, containing the collective pain of more than 80% of the girls around the world.

What to do with this pain? She’s working on it. Not with any psychologist, no. Her partner doesn’t know. But he knows she has an issue with sex. She still can’t be with him in bed without being drunk. But she’s working on it.

But more important, we need to channel this pain into something positive. Talk to our girls about sexual assault. Teach them that their bodies are theirs and theirs alone. That nobody – not a man, not a woman, not a boy, not a girl – has the right to touch any part of their body without full consent. That they have full rights over their own bodies. Because we don’t need any more collective pain. Enough is enough. We refuse to be victims.

(c) khulud kh, 2012

body image (or: my magic training pants)

So I was again in this same group which made me want to scream last time. But this time we had a really good session. We discussed body image – what we like about our appearance, how important is it to us, the stereotype that all feminist women neglect their appearance, what is beauty and by whom is it defined, the perfect body and by whom is it defined, culture and society in relation to body image, and what not.
Anyway, as we were concluding the session, moving from our own private bodies to the public sphere of society and how it perceives beauty, I thought of one microcosmic example for how much society puts emphasis on external appearances.

They’re doing some construction work in my neighborhood, so it is literally teeming with young men bursting with hormones. I take the dogs out in the morning in my training suit and in my black jacket. I walk past the working men. I am air. Invisible.

Later on, I leave the house for the office – dressed in skinny jeans and boots. The same black jacket. My face and hair are exactly the same as in the morning, as I don’t use any makeup. So – practically the only difference is the clothes on the lower part of my body: skinny jeans and boots instead of baggy training pants and crocs. All men stop working. All heads turned in my direction, their eyes following me down the street. I am amazed how a pair of skinny jeans and boots can turn me from completely invisible to the center of their attention – for a few moments, at least.

The next morning, I put on my training suit, black jacket and crocs – and head out with the dogs again. I walk past the working men. And I am invisible again. I smile to myself. My baggy training pants are magical, having the superpower of making me invisible – well, in certain situations at least and for certain individuals. But. Nevertheless.

(c) by khulud kh. all rights reserved (2012)

"What is feminism?" (or - I just want to scream)

(c) photo by khulud kh - all rights reserved

Just wanted to scream.
Ok so I’m sitting in this group. We’re all sitting in a circle. We start like in a feminist Collective with a round of names. Then there’s time and space for thoughts we had since our last meeting. The group is containing. Pleasant atmosphere. Some of the women are my friends. Others are new to me. Then we work in small groups, answering the following questions: “When did I discover I was a feminist? What was my first feminist act?” So I share my thoughts. My first feminist act – I don’t remember. But I do remember my most significant feminist act, which continues to accompany me. That of bringing my voice into the open. The transition from the private to the public sphere in my writing. And with this transition, the contents of my writing also changed from the personal to the political. And this is feminism all about – at least to me.

Then we went back to the group, and we were asked to share personal stories. I shared mine. Another woman shared hers. Her first feminist act was as a young teenager, when she took part in organizing and holding a demonstration. She stressed the collective power, the power to change, and the action in the public sphere. We were both talking about the same thing. From the private to the public – these are our first and most significant feminist actions.

Then, several other women talked, and as I was listening, trying to understand them and contain their different views of feminism, a silent scream began to form inside of me. While thinking of my feminist act, my independence or the fact that I am a single provider for my household, or the fact that I don’t cook – all these didn’t even cross my mind. But this was the main thing these women talked about. They talked about the importance of being an economically independent woman, but at the same time expressed clear antagonism towards feminism. One of them said that she took care of an old lady who never married and never had children, and that this old lady was very sad because she felt she had missed on life. What does this have to do with feminism? The focus of their talk was relationships, with cooking sneaking in every now and then. Oh, and burning bras.

So this is what feminism means to them? I thought and wanted to let that scream loose. None of them talked about social struggles, structural oppression, the rule of hegemony, acting in the public sphere.

This was yesterday. 24 hours have passed, and I am left with some thoughts. Yes, I am an economically independent woman. Yes, I am the single provider for my household. No, I don’t have a husband or a partner who lives with me. No, I don’t know how to cook. Now the question is – is this because I’m a feminist? I want to say no! These choices have nothing to do with feminism. But that would be not looking the truth in the eye. Feminism for me is a wide worldview and a way of life. So I guess the choices – personal or not – I make in my life are always connected this way or that – to the fact that I am a feminist.

But what I want to say is that this is not the essence of feminism, and never has been. Many feminists love to cook, many feminists are married and have children, and many feminists wear bras (YES).

So, what did I want to say? Oh yes, I just wanted to let that scream out and make clear the fact that my feminism is about the political. It’s not about cooking, not about bras, not about living (or not) with a partner. It’s about my right to be present and act in the public sphere. Mainly, for me, at this stage – it’s about my voice! About my voice having the legitimacy to be heard in the public sphere. There you go – I let my silent scream out.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

family matters

The following event succeeded in getting awed replies even from my friends here in Haifa who are well aware of these issues.

I was invited for a job interview at one of the largest Palestinian NGOs in Israel advocating for the rights of the Palestinian citizens of Israel. I walk in the room, and am greeted by the director (needless to say he’s a man), and the two deputy directors (both women). Before we start the interview, the director asks one of the women to make him coffee. Then the phone rings, and he asks the same woman to answer the phone. She picks up, and says that it’s for him. He doesn’t approach the phone, but rather asks her to ask the caller what it is, and then tells her what to reply.

A few minutes later, we are all seated at a round table, the director looks down at my resume, and reads out loud “khulud kh____.” A short pause, while he tries to figure me out. “Where are you from originally? And are you related to so and so?” For about ten minutes, I find myself answering these questions that have nothing to do with me or my skills. He needs to know whose daughter I am, which village my family comes from originally, whether I’m related to the Kh who is a member of the Haifa city council, and if – by chance – I’m related to that Kh who married a Jewish woman. Of course he doesn’t ask me if I’m Muslim or Christian, but this is also important to him. He discerns this from the answers to the other questions.

I was accepted for the job, but needless to say that even before they informed me of their decision, I made up my mind. I will not work in a place where part of my job description is making coffee. I will not work in an organization where my family’s background is more important than my abilities, skills, and potential.

This incidence is an example of why I tend to drop my family name. I resist the labels people attach to me just because of my family name. I resist the preconceptions people have about who I am based on my family’s background. Yes, I share a collective history with my family. I’m not breaking away from them, no. All I want is to be accepted for being who I am, and not for being the cousin of, or the daughter of.

Family reputation here is of great significance. So if I come from a “respected” family, lucky me. But if I don’t? I don’t even want to go in this direction here – because this is not what matters to me. I am not trying to hide my family’s name and thus my family’s background because they’re perceived as “respectable” or “not respectable.” This is not the issue here. Just as I don’t want people attributing negative conceptions to me based on my family’s name, I also don’t want them attributing positive ones based on it.

I am a full, complete person with abilities, emotions, ideas, and my own political stance. I have my own goals and visions as well as my own challenges and dilemmas. In an ideal setting, I imagine meeting a person and introducing myself as khulud. khulud the individual, complex person.

Of course family plays a significant role in how I developed to be the woman I am today. But this is in the small daily interactions with my close family members. The fact that I’m related to someone who’s on the Haifa city council doesn’t count here. I don’t see how the very distant relative (whom I never even met) who married a Jewish woman has any effect on me, or the fact that two of my cousins are advocates. What’s that got to do with me???

A Woman's Place

Hanady's voice was barely a whisper in the night. A sad voice, a voice with no body attached to it... I could tell she had been crying before, for a sob escaped over the phone line, secretly inserted between her words. 'I didn't know who else to call, Khulud.' I could hear the screams of a baby from a distance, and another child sobbing and breathing heavily close to the phone.
I remember Hanady from the university. A young woman... no, barely a woman. A girl trying to be a woman. In the second year of our studies I noticed a thick gold band on her finger... an invisible shackle... but she didn't know it then. She walked the dark corridors of the university, an Arabian princess, unawares. Dark curly hair, big olive eyes, smiling eyes. Expensive clothes from her fiancé, and every now and then a new, thick gold bracelet or a necklace... more shackles, until her body felt too heavy under the weight, but she still walked the university like an Arabian princess... smiling, the whole world under her feet...
That's how I remember Hanady.
Her fiancé, I heard, was an important business man, something with importing or exporting or something like that. From Nazareth. Good family. Rich family. Did she marry him for love? Or for money? Or because she was twenty two and it was time? Or was it an arranged marriage?
Don't know, doesn't matter now.
Everything is gone now.
What's left is a house to clean, long hours alone in the dark house, a meal to cook from scratch, a bruise over the left thigh, another under the eye... the left eye or the right eye? This week it's the left eye, but last week it was the right one... a sore arm from hitting the wall... a broken bone...
Then, as if that were not enough, two babies... born one year apart. Teeth that hurt at night, one already pulled, more to be taken care of. A few white hairs that seem to multiply too fast. Hanady's hair isn't curly anymore... she has ceased to be an Arabian princess, unawares...
Hanady isn't even a woman anymore... she only breathes, and walks, and cleans, and cooks, and cares for her babies...
There is no Hanady anymore...
Hanady doesn't live here anymore... not in this house, not in this body...

p.s. I wrote this short piece a few years back, after receiving a phone call from a woman I studied with at the university. As far as I know, her husband still abuses her and she lives an unhappy life. She calls me about once a year to pour her heart out and to draw some strength to go on.