harem

At the bus stop I noticed them. Six women, all buried under layers of black, struggling against the folds of clothing, and melting in the heat. The older man with them strutted, rooster like, ordering them around like chattel. It was clear that they were his harem. One woman glanced up and I met her eyes. Haunted and hurting with a pain beyond our western comprehension, I see her still. How did she get there? Once she was someone’s daughter. Was she treasured? Did she run and play, sing and dance? If she was given for a bride price at the accepted age of nine, those years were cut desperately short. Now a youngest bride, she would be the slave of the older women, catering to their every need, receiving at their hand all the spite they can inflict because she has become the newest plaything, while they are now less, having faced the ravages of motherhood. During the day she must serve the women. At night she must serve this old man.

Did she ever dream of being someone else, of going places, of receiving an education, of creating beauty, or having the freedom to be in open places? Harems are cramped and never private. Does she ever feel claustrophobic, overwhelmed, suicidal? Does she long for wide, green places and cooling streams and birds song? Or has she so stuffed herself away that, broken, she submits, as the word “Islam” means? Is she seeking to work out her salvation, doing all the good she can, in a desperate hope that Allah will allow her the rare mercy of attaining paradise, even though mostly only men go there?

Maybe she’s the mother of the child hiding between all the black robes. As a wife and mother she serves double duty. She must keep her husband’s favor personally, and raise a child that shows him unquestioning respect and one of whom he can be proud. It will be her fault if a daughter shames the family; it will be her sin if a son is disrespectful to his elders. She is frequently desperate to correct the children, keep the quiet, and faces the continual comparisons that are exchanged between competing wives. A wife who becomes irritating, or whose children are a burden can be easily gotten rid of.

The group moves on, shoulders drooped, feet shuffling after their master. His darting, beady eyes keeps their every move in check. Well they know how easily they can be beaten or starved, or even divorced, if he fails to be pleased with their demeanor. Trapped thus, in this black valley, how can I even imagine myself in their shoes, let alone actually touch lives like that with a moment of kindness - without putting them at risk for having mixed with an infidel? O Lord, show mercy to these, whose dim wicks will go out without your intervention.