I dreamed a memory, and
the remains of it stayed with me in my body. I woke up terrified; my body felt
like a big sack of sand and my head had a buzzing fan that kept rolling until I
felt dizzy. I tried to pull myself out of bed; I could not move a limb; I stayed
there defeated and betrayed by my own body. The smell of smoke still permeated
my nose and lungs; I could even hear the hissing of fire; I tried moving my
head slowly to make sure nothing was burning around me despite the realization
it was only a dream of a memory.
I did everything to remove that stain; that
sooty misshaped stain bothered me like no other, not even the ink stain on
Salem's pants that triggered the first 'good wife sermon' only four days after
our marriage. He had forgotten to place the led on the pen in his pocket and I
failed to clean it. The stain in the corner of the kitchen sink brought all the
incidents back to my mind; I used every detergent, Clorox, steel wool, thick
and thin; nothing removed it. I never knew stainless steel could get stained,
and sometimes I was afraid the stain was only inside my mind, insisting to
appear in front of me whenever I came into the kitchen. It made me feel I was
going crazy and seeing visual hallucinations until Maha asked me about it a
month later. I was grateful I was sane; there was a real stain visible to
others; it was not a projection of my troubled mind! But then the doubt that
Salem had told her about burning my diary tortured me; I felt I was naked in
her presence, knowing that she had access to all my life. The smell of burning of the plastic pink
cover still invaded my nose from time to time, and the hissing of the burning
paper, fading away, line by line, word by word made me feel my whole being was
deteriorating, little by little. The flood of humiliations, the accusations I
was hiding things from him; keeping my life to myself and not sharing it with
him were fiercer. I never tried to hide it; it was always there by my books. I
was sure he had seen my diary before, many times, and read it perhaps. I
sometimes wished he would discuss it with me; I hoped he would understand how I
felt about everything, without having to tell him and be ridiculed for every
word and emotion. Up to that day I had never given up on our
relationship; I was patient and hopeful things would change to the better; I
waited for him to come back to me, wholeheartedly, enthusiastically and bring
me back to the real me. I did not keep a diary again until you and Salma were
born, but that was another story; nothing was about me anymore; there was no
trace of me; it was always about you two. I did not think he would mind it, but
I could not risk telling him. I kept it in the bottom drawer with the babies
clothes, securely wrapped in one of the little soft blankets.
My whole body shook with fear as Salem darted into the
kitchen with my diary in his hand in the same manner mother made her entry into
the balcony years ago. He was furious; I
could hear him breathing heavily as he walked towards me with threatening eyes.
I had just finished the dishes and was still cleaning the kitchen sink; I
turned to face him, leaning my back against the sink. I had started those
dizziness attacks and I could anticipate one so I wanted the sink to support me. He came nearer until he almost touched my
shaking body; I had to stretch my neck up to look at him as he shouted at me
while waving the diary to my face: "how can a married woman find the time
to write such stupid stuff? How can any respectable wife say she feels lonely?
What else do you need more than a husband? Am I a piece of shit in your life?"
He stopped to take a deep breath before
he resumed:" Of course, who am I to compare with your highness little
princess? I am not good enough for you; I am no match for the heroes of your
damned books! Are you still an adolescent? When will you grow up and act like a
respectable wife? How can I trust you to bring up my children if you ever had
the time to get children?"
My
tongue got stuck in my mouth; I could not utter a word; I wanted to tell him I
had always kept a diary, ever since I was twelve; I wanted to defend myself; I
wanted to tell him writing was my only way of combating stress; I wanted to go
as far as telling him I have no one to speak to because he hated my friends, or
even to talk to me yourself. But I just froze there, feeling cold to the bones
and dizzy and wet. He kept showering me with his accusations and then he started to tear the
notebook pages to pieces and throw them in the sink behind me. I felt relieved
that he threw the diary in the sink, not on the floor. Salem had two favorite
insults: the first was the word stupid which he used to describe anyone or
anything that did not live up to his expectations, the second being throwing stuff
on the floor when he got mad at me. Then I would have to take things away, and
put them back where they belonged. Sometimes, the process did not involve only
putting things away, like the time when he threw a dish of foul on the dining
room carpet because it was salty and I had to spend an hour to clean it. I felt
grateful then; I would have been more hurt by gathering the torn sheets form
the floor than by the actual tearing of the notebook I have been keeping since
we got engaged and entitled it "Best Years of my Life". Then he pulled me by the hand away from the
sink and turned me around to face it; the sudden move hurt my elbow and it was
swollen for two weeks. It never crossed
my mind then he would go as far as burning the diary, sheets and plastic cover
and all. The flames raised above the kitchen sink and I kept staring at them
until they faded away. Why did I stay in
the kitchen glued where he left me and took in all the fumes of plastic
burning? Why did not I open the window and go out of the kitchen and close the
door behind me? Why did not I turn the water on to stop the smoke that filled
my lungs and the smell that permeated my soul? See, Kareem? I was confused; but
now I can see I was responsible too, it was not just about your father hurting
me; I did hurt myself even more.
Later, it hurt so
much not to be able to remember what I wrote.
The thing that Salem never understood was that my mind functioned in a
totally different way from his; I was wired differently, my memory and feelings
and reasoning and all. Or maybe he realized it and tried to re-wire me to satisfy
his expectations! He had re-shaped how I dressed and talked and dealt with
people, why not change how I thought and felt too? No matter how important,
happy or traumatizing an event was, I might forget all the details, but never
the emotion or the wound it left behind. I kept asking myself what was wrong
with my memory and wondered why it failed me at the age of 24 when Taita Touta
and Gedo Mostafa remembered old and recent events until they died in their
eighties? Memory is a funny thing; some incidents slipped away instantly and I
could barely recall them an hour later. Others held tight, lurking in a corner
of my mind and popping out when I least expected them; fresh to the extent it
could reproduce the same feelings, sounds and smell
