Through Arabian eyes
Chapter 1
Starring out the window, I can see the statue of liberty. I had seen it so many times in old photos and torn magizines that I had hid in a little clay jar, but I never thought I would be this close, this close to freedom.
I sighed an antcy sigh as I thought about my home and how far away it was. I would deeply miss my friends and teachers that had been with me since childhood. They were the people that made me the person I am today. All of it would be part of the past, all would be buried in the dirt until it needed to be dug up once again.
I pressed the last letter I recieved from my brother to my chest. It would probably be the last time I would see those swiggly lines of love and goodbyes. He promised me we would meet again. If not in this life time, then in the next. No matter what it cost him, his own life even, he would find me.
I smiled at the thougt of his memory. I owed him so much, but how to repay him would be something I would spend my life doing. If it hadn't been for him, I would still be in Saudi Arabia right now preparing myself to get married to a man I did not love. He was an old friend of my parents. He had taken care of all their trade and expenses for twelve years. My father assured me that he was a very good man, honest, just and trust worthy.
He was twenty years older than me, but that wasn't uncommon. I was supposed to have gotten married at fifteen, but because their was so many suitors that wanted me, all of them acceptable with large sums of money, father made up his mind that who ever stood the test of time would be my husband. Time did past, four years infact and Kharashi was the only one that remained.
I was frightened. Never had I taken off my burqa infront of any man except my father. What if he was displeased with what he saw? What if he became bored of me and decided to get a new wife? I was so nervous that I lost alot of sleep and got myself sick. My (mother) was angry at me because I didn't go to school for a week, which meant paying my teacher for my education, eventhough I wasn't there to reciece it. My father was so angry with me that he wipped me until I was so sore that I couldn't sit without wincing. He hadn't like spending money being greedy as he was, so I had really "picked" at his pocket.
Kharashi came every day to our house on the hills. It was a tough climb, but as he put it, 'I don't notice the climb when I think of your daughter Khaled' and then he would wink at me and expect me to say something eventhough I never got the chance to because my father would eye me and shake his head. Kharashi would arrive all sweaty from a days work. He would then request my presence and expect me to serve food and pour drink. He's stench would penetrate my nose and make my eyes water, but he couldn't see them, thank God or else he would have slapped me for showing disrespect. This was one time I was glad I had a burqa on. It could disguise so much, hurt, pain, anger, happiness and satifaction. Kharashi would say nothing to me, but rather ate in silence. All women, were not worthy enough to be spoken to especially by men.
I watched him eat. I wasn't supposed to because even that can be taken as a bad sign, so I would hurridly look away and pour him more drink when it emptied. He wasn't an ugly man, infact, he was quite handsome for a tradesman. He had bright brown eyes that shined every single time he would laugh or look at me. He had curly black hair that rested on his soldiers, broad back, delicate lips and a striaght nose. He wore a plain white outfit that was similar to a dress with a gold collar that naped at the neck. His hands were smooth from effortless labor and his feet were dirty from the streets. He walked back and forth doing errands, but he was quick and often got dirty only when people kicked up the dirt. After he was finished with his meal, he would nod at me to get the basin of water to wash his feet. Usually the custom was the guest feet would be washed before the meal, but that's not the way he wanted it. Maybe he wanted to make me suffer with his stench, but whatever the reason was, he wouldn't tell, not even to my father.
I took out a clean white towel and began to rub his feet with it. The dirt swirled in tiny pools inside the water. I watched them for a moment, thinking that I resembled this dirt. I made people shrink away every single time I got them dirty. I was a problem that must be washed away. I sighed and continued to wash his feet. I could feel him staring at me, but I wouldn't dare look. He had this special ability to read right through me and this one time, I wouldn't let him. I rubbed a bar of soap on his swollen feet and watched it bubble in the river. This would be the soaps tomb. I let it sink to the bottom. It gleamed in it's whiteness and I was tempted to retrive it, but instead thought otherwise. I arose slowly and bowed low. His hand reached out and trembled. He wanted to touch me! He stared at his hand as if it wasn't his own. He wimpered and let go. His hand went back to his side and remained there. He let out a breath of relief, he had survived temptation. I was only too happy to bow again and walk out.
Back in my room, I laid on the floor, which was my bed, and faced the ceiling. Why had this man wanted me? He waited for such a long time and still, still he pursued me. He would smile at me behind my fathers back and would say kind words to me even when he wasn't supposed to and would bring me small gifts. By law of men, he shouldn't look at me, speak to me, acknowdelge me and yet, he did. I didn't understand. I knew it was a secret between him and me because he would always put his finger to his lips and make a shhhhhhh sound. What were his reasons? Maybe he was trying to be nice to my father, a favor or something. After all, father did say I 'picked' at his pocket way often than I should. Maybe it was the dowry he would receive once he married me. None of it made since to me. I would bring the question to ummî (mother). She was more experienced with men and understood a great deal. Yes, I would ask her. She would know.