Noam Mor

In Paradise

Beautiful By Moonlight

I am from fields of cotton in the delta near Beni Suef, rows of flowering bushes with pale yellow organs, petals collapsing into flecks of white for the harvest. A fertile soil never in my hands, given to my brothers and their families, too many for the soil. Left to struggle for my portion of harvest torn from Cairo. So much of this country dust that there is no place within it that allows me to wish.
This couple must be lost, for they would not be here. Where is my desire? In the way she walks, an absence that drives me to Zahara’s* breath. [*See notes below for cultural references and Arabic terms.] The way in which a woman ripens. I am a thing who desires someone he can no longer imagine. My unfulfilled reaching a tangle of vines.
Humdulillah, God Is great, for they have come to me on such a day, my pockets empty. Husband and Wife walk about each other, know each’s place in their crossings. I used to walk with my Zahara, but now only follow those who walk with the ones they desire. Repeat, though I’m not even witness, my soul’s reduction. My feet falter like drizzle. A pretense without legs. Flotsam and words. I would take her deep in my lungs. Always in a state of hunger.
When will they accept they are lost? If only I. Strangers, I fall behind them, waiting till they become a little frightened, recognize. The wind tosses a bedsheet across the rooftops above our heads. Approaching her husband, she brushes his hand. They haven’t asked the way. Faltering headfirst without knowing. In an old place they cannot read. Fools. Both Husband and I look at his wife to be sure she is safe. There is nothing but waiting. Humdulillah, God is great, for we have only to walk on until the time is ripe. I will become their guide.

Though their story will end and my hunger remain, I reach for her from a great distance. Blasphemy upon our fathers! A single measure on the landscape, I try to leave two sets of footprints, be two clots of land, though I no longer own my story’s legs or roots. I have no grip. No satisfaction in the knowledge I call mine, my coffee stained gallabiya a shade of no consequence. The winter billows its long drape and I begin counting. Counting calms me. I reopen my eyes to look at her.
Her back is a map of my Zahara’s spine, from her thick shoulders to her wide hips, a wife that once fulfilled my hands. Locked in her eyes as they were joyful for me, gamillah de’lilah, beautiful by moonlight.
I hide in the crowd as she looks back.
Inshallah, the will of Allah, still remembering. We moved to the City of the Dead. Mourned for though she isn’t even dead. Her small hands had lain over me, a cat’s paws kneading. Can I remain with her?
Husband and Wife haven’t seen me. I wait for them to speak about being lost. Husband faces an alley blankly. Wife raises her palms upward, elbows bent.
—Do you know where we are? This isn’t on the map.
A barefoot boy jokes with him, asks if he wants a shoeshine though he wears sandals, but he doesn’t understand.
—Marhab huwagga. The boy laughs, sees me waiting and walks on. Without a decision between them, Husband points at a minaret and crescent.
—We should move on.
He then tells a girl who has begged he has no pen though he has one in his pocket. He slackens his pace to be beside Wife. She lets his arm take her.
—Just come with me, he tells her. Keep walking keep walking. He whispers. He watches the cinderblock buildings. The terraces bend over them as Wife walks in tight steps just ahead, her hands kept in her pockets and her shoulders hunched. A tide of people open before her and close around him, pilings thickening the space between them. Wrapping my kafiya tightly around my head, I watch her large hips, her exposed hair, a shiver in my current.
I held my Zahara.
I want to meet her eyes as she looks at him. Husband reminds me of a woman walking behind his woman, a drop of seed behind her. He watches her as if he is touching her. Men on scooters honk beside them, thick like sand, pressing them further into the street. She looks behind herself many times. Both stare at a woman passing. Her entire body hidden, sunglasses over her eyes and her hands in white gloves. Women begin to wail before a house nearby, wagging their tongues at high pitch. For Qasim, my son, many women keened, a swarm of indistinct bodies and heads covered in gallabiyas and higabs, calling to Allah and my son, who could hear no longer. I wanted to push them away, Locusts. Inshallah, my luck changed that day. The couple is drawn to the dirge. The women’s howls grew as they thickened at the door. Did they understand the sorrow? Her husband steps onto the balcony, yells that his children weep. I can no longer hear their shrill.
—My son wishes that you bless his mother into God’s ears, not like dogs. Stop and get to your homes! Go to her grave. Do not cry here!
Zahara wept, but was comforted by their shrill. I too must stop howling like a dog before Allah, who says all that rises from the hand and the mouth is evil. Stop my imaginings and accept my son is finally with Allah and my wife has sinned. Go to our tomb, sit smoking cigarette after cigarette too nauseated to eat, wonder, Inshallah, when will I forget this? What do I do. I dream of women, heads covered in silk higabs of purple, red, ochre and orange, embroidered with stars like mosque tiles. Beautiful birds, they move across the city, plentiful, an irresistible landscape of women. Zahara breaks off from the flock and enters a villa, her gallabiya a cotton field of white and pink flowers. I become Yusuf in a jacket of gold thread, rose vines circling my chest, my head surrounded in flame. In the first room, Zahara reaches out to me, just as the temptress Zulaikha, leading me through six more, reaches for seduction, but I will not stir. She has desired another man and though she is beautiful and the paintings of our consummation stir me, refresh me, I can no longer fulfill her. Zahara locks the door of each room until we are in the seventh. Humdulilah, God is great, just as Allah helped Yusuf thrust off the temptress Zulaikha, God opens the door for me so I can escape her temptation. I sway at the abyss beyond the doors. I feel her arms around me as in our earliest days. Zahara and I no longer know I care for her.

Too close to Wife, they turn to me. I pull my kafiyah close, covering my face, looking up to the balcony. I am a man who has lost his son. Another wife also lost. I am he that reaches for other wives, averting his face, like a scabbed dog that retreats against his chain. It is best I look at my feet, but I cannot resist watching Wife hold her husband’s arm. My Zahara held me, no longer sure I wanted her. I imagine the warmth of her body, my paleness envious of her solidity. I am hobbled by how to be. What I am not. My indignities. I must catch her eyes as she looks at Husband. The minarets dominate three compass directions like buoys against the sky, a landscape of squat earth-brown homes around us. A young boy sits on a low bench beside a table before a dull blue wall. The boy smiles widely when Wife walks to him.
—Marhaba.
He waves his hand over wood carvings of geometrical designs.
—Abuya hamel’hum.
He picks one and hands it to her. As she looks, his father pays for his coffee and hurries over.
—Marhaba.
The woodcarver asks her how much she will pay. Everyone waits. Husband looks into the square. Wife asks him how much he wants, handing it to him, but he does not open his hand, asks her to start with a price so they can negotiate. She offers a small part of where he wishes to begin and he smiles politely.
—Offer me a fair price and I will give you the carving, just for the wood and a small amount for my work.
He puts his hand to his chest and she listens carefully, understands a little for she offers a slightly higher price for the carving and puts it on the table. Husband rocks as she bargains. The son wants to help his father, so picks up different carvings and tilts them toward her.
—My father made these. He smiles.
My son cannot. She smiles at this son and he looks away, scraping his foot over the ground, smiling for her. She looks at a mosque design of one six pointed star within another, enclosed in a twelve sided figure, one leading into another, producing an infinite series of the same until spilling outside itself. Husband gestures to her, then the street and carvings, touches his pockets gently like his skin, purses his lips. She puts her hand out, palm open and waits.
The woodcarver’s son runs to make change. He offers them some tea, but Husband will not have any, does not wish to understand the custom of a sale. The woodcarver points to the cafe opposite, at the carving she holds. They shake their heads but he still calls for three teas. He readjusts his kafiya round his head and neck in the light cast by the weakening sun. In these few minutes, Wife rubs her fingers across the table, quiet but for the sound of the wind flapping against two kites battling in the sky over the square.
—Humdulillah.
The woodcarver raises his cup, sips. He loses interest in them, squats on a badly stained pillow. Wife shivers and I feel cold in the lull. They do not try to speak with each other and we listen to the taps of woodcarver’s hammer. He begins to hum. Husband taps his fingers on his table. I sit at the cafe and watch the woodcarver's son run off.
Exhaling into a sheesha bowl, I listen to water mumbling, the time passing with our breath. Under my eyelids sunlight pulses like a veil. Inshallah, a man I have never seen spoke to Zahara. She touched her hair beneath the hijab, the tilt of her head like a kiss on her lips, obscured by the arch of a doorway and a twist in the alley. I almost felt the touch of her lips as she laughed. A closed door and no one answers. The story of a kiss spread. This man I will never be. A deep stain on our houses, the tombs of our forebears, impoverished end in shame.
I did not know I was happy until I pushed her aside.
I want her though she desires to kiss another.
When some time may pass. But how?
I fly with a little boy’s kite and exhale. Husband and Wife watch me bob in the wind. Be careful of my sharp string, I hear my son say to me, rubbing his string against mine. South, the silver domes and two sharp and high minarets of the Muhammad Ali Mosque cast a shadow on the hill behind it. Minarets float over the apartment complexes like bee hives as far as the horizon, the roofs covered in rubble or wash or bare, my makeshift shelter of sheets and blinds. My string snaps and I am spiraling in the muzzy sky, cut loose. I hit the ground, am absorbed by it only to be spit back, to look at Zahara as she was, her eyes bordered by a wide line of charcoal and her thick black hair loose and her lips just kissed. I open my eyes. It is poverty to smoke sheesha alone.

The woodcarver’s boy returns as the sun falls low. He was better than me, even as a child. They count their change and we move on. I brush close to her, my Khafiya wrapped against her recognition, cornering her blue eyes.
Muttering—Shokran, Thank you.
Wife looks aside. Husband should keep a better eye on the woman of his family.
He asks—Had I?
Husband glances back often for his wife, yet hasn’t noticed me. Busy looking at so much he saw little. She wanders to a vegetable cart, denuded prickly pears and carrots on either side of red chile peppers piled thick in a pyramid. She brushes her cheeks with the trunks of a prickly pear’s thorns until her face is red. Husband turns against the tide of people, pushing against them. He leans beside her ear, touching her shoulder. Habibi, I imagine speaking into her ear.
Had Zahara kissed? I have called her many times, hoping she will explain. Zahara had wished to know my wishes, Inshallah, for a short while, but in my anger I no longer told her. Wife places her arm through his and chides him, comfort in the chiding. As Zahara would. If it would be so now if I knew the way.
Holding her arm, he focusses skyward, up at the laundry hanging from crumbling cement balconies, windows without glass but cloth, and gate lattices made of rebar. The dust of brown sand has settled on the paved roadways and cinderblock buildings. He points at a carved screen of a five pointed star, its design lost in a history of dryness and wind and attempts at repair with little money or skill. He enjoys the poor mashrabiyyah. I cannot find his pleasure in the worn carvings. He cannot provide direction, whispers and releases her arm. Offers her no strength. Lay? Why?
God be with them. A woman must support her husband even when he is a fool. A bedouin stands before her tent of filthy rugs, over her cooking fire, covered in a black burkha, metal trinkets dangling like silver coins below her eyes and bosom. Barefoot, her toes are spread wide before a pile of bricks in the open lot amongst the roofless remains of a building. Around the remains of a fountain, her goats and donkey eat. She shakes her trinkets at Husband and Wife, her walls reduced to rubbish in a patch of bright winter sun.
—Marhab!
Both finally sure they are lost. Wife looks for the street on their map, at most an unmarked line. I come beside her and take the map from her small hands, brushing her—May I help you? They do not answer, look to one another, Husband drawing closer to his wife—May I draw a line on your map where you go? I ask Wife. After a moment of silence, I point.
—This is where you stand.
—Have you followed us? Husband asks.
—I am a guide. My job is to follow people and lead them the right way. I must know where you are going.
—Metro, she says. I point west, to the Sultan Mu’ayyad Mosque, Turn left at that mosque and you will be near your destination. I gesture with a scalloped slice of my hand and a jerk of my head, but Husband shakes his head without understanding. I ask him for some money and he offers me little. Thanking him, I ask for more, but he refuses—La basheesh. Basheesh la. He waves his hands and head in a clear no, as if I do not understand Arabic—Ya’la! Ya’la! He tries to brush me away. I stop and wave my hand before my face like a slap, wish to smack him.
—You are the lost now. An uncovered woman walking before her husband in an unsafe place. You are in my country. You should observe the customs. No longer Alfath, The Conquerer. American? Ya'la Ya'la you tell me, though I know the way. How will you arrive from this darkness? You are guests and I am here to show you hospitality. To light you a way to a destination. This is my profession, Inshallah, I do not hurt you. I speak English good and can take you where you wish, for a modest price. When you are safe, you can go back to your hotel and me to my hovel. You are no longer a conqueror and I am no longer the banished, so I can show you the way and we can call each by our names. Man to Man. Wife secure and not touched by any harm. Trust me, do not let me go. Let us come to an agreement and you will not get lost in this darkness and can go back to your well lit hotel.
—Ana asif, I am sorry, Wife says and I thank her.
—Shokran. Let me take you to the Blue Mosque. Come this way. We are near. I do not tell him there is no metro at Aqsunqur. Inshallah, It was his decision not to increase the offering and the rest follows. They would not reach a new agreement. A man like him should become lost and so shall his wife, the way of things. It will do them good. I will leave them and they will go on after me. If I leave Zahara, will she go on without me, can I without her? I am the man losing his way.

I run ahead. I am surprised when I breathe it tastes like Zahara. I have survived on the residue of others, what I am allowed to hear, smell and touch. The few pounds I can tear away from others and the history I make from the little I am told. For as long as I watch these women, I am senseless. I believe I am fed. Sheltered, I sit in the archway of a building, the roof lined with mullions shaped like a row of pointed arrowheads, roll a cigarette and huddle to keep warm. Wait for them. Husband looks up at the evening, worries about the namelessness of the sky. I watch the narrow confines that surround them as his wife walks just paces behind him. I will look into her eyes as she looks at him, to remind me what still might be.
—Come—I press Husband and Wife on—You will know where you are soon. I cannot just leave you here—I will take them to the Blue Mosque and look for my Zahara. Husband waits for Wife to reach him and they begin walking side by side, but still does not take her arm. They whisper so I cannot hear them and continue their ambivalent walk. The muezzin’s call to prayer breaks over the streets. They listen to the singing of his name, still finding it wondrous. I am hardly awake. A group of children play a game of soccer around them kicking a flattened water jug. Wife stands still at a painted wedding announcement, hugs herself against the cooling sky. A bride in western gown, a triangle of face mostly dark eyes and mouth, her groom in black gallabiyah embroidered in gold thread. They stand in a rich oasis of bright yellow and orange sand, a pool of blue water fills the painting to the horizon. The rest of the house walls collapsed. Husband touches her shoulder as she wraps her scarf more tightly. She leans forward to ask for him. Again to her she brings his hand. He caresses her soft cheeks.
—This way, this way to your destination.
—What are your names? I am not answered, so I walk away from them.
Husband slows to be with her, walks beside her and she slips her arm through his, invites him to hold her. The sky just before darkness contains the moon. Wife stops and smells perfume; jasmine, hibiscus, rose and sandalwood, musk and rosewood in small glass bottles. She passes the perfume to her husband, thick with scent. The perfumer hands her a bottle, looks between them and laughs. She puts two drops of jasmine round her neck, gently chides her husband. He must smell the scent, my Zahara’s favorite. We have not had perfume in a very long time.

At the Blue Mosque, they find no metro. They struggle to see the pattern of five pointed stars covering the dome, the gold crescents of the minarets in the darkening sky. Husband’s voice rises, his hands small in the place they take in.
—Are we still lost?
From this distance, they can see tombs, domed and brown like the earth, scattered minarets, simple sarcophagi of stone dotting the blurry landscape. Wife points at children playing in the cemetery and a woman walking across it, not a visitor, but entering a tomb. A cab passes and they take it.
I look over The City of the Dead. In the northwest corner, obscured by the distance and the settling darkness is my Zahara and Qasim, dung brown and thick rope-like strands of stone forming our dome. They are home in our tomb. It is night for her, always for him. Gamillah de’lilah, beautiful under moonlight. My facts fall like rain. I reach to play with the warmth of her body. I hear a muffled cat in the distance, my son hidden in the dark wind. I lean over the wall, retch. Faith in me scarce. Hold me. Me. Me.

White Flower

—I am like the four birds, cut into pieces and cast over the land, mountains and valleys. Allah, in his wisdom, called and they returned, missing pieces of themselves. Will I find the tomb we live in, following the lights, buildings and passing shadows under the moon? Imagine it without our dead, a release. I stand at this ledge looking for you and our son, missing pieces, wonder if I can return. We sat by al-Alim's fire, but it has been extinguished, so we are now in darkness. I am foolish to remain here unmoving, not entering The City and reach home. I must take a path, illuminate the darkness, find one open to me in the Alamin. I must decide to begin again. A tiny believer calling you, Zahara, across our distance.
—I am the dry brown land you step on, lacking water, not a tree in sight. I am your land, waiting for you to return and forgive. I desire your pleasure and will be satisfied when we are pleased. I take hold of my knees, my head toward Mecca and finish this prayer. Keep to myself, watch. We used to go for walks in the evenings, would look at shops, point and talk as if we could buy things. Turning my cupped hand, I sit at at our doorway, Allahu Akbar, the washed rice pouring through my fingers into my purple plastic bucket, dry and ready for sale. The sun glimmers in their momentary fall. You should buy my rice. I will give you a good price! I yell until I am hoarse. What is it you want! The dust has settled into my skin. You search for tourists that you can show Cairo, small gifts from Allah. Sometimes, you help the tinsmith make trinkets when he needs. No work in the place we came from. I sold my jewelry to pay for our bills, electricity, water, for the schooling, for everything. Are you at your brother's apartment again? Do you not divorce because of poverty?
—As time passes, a wife becomes less to her husband. Have I also become less? Headstones of my family, our son, my throat narrows and thins. I scan the horizon, some obscurities in the distant night. Ar-Rahim, let me not go astray, but I cannot sleep in that tomb as he lies empty beneath me, all his gibberish in my mind. A Jinn's lips never quiet. Al-Nur had me pay a heavy price, but I should trust in His wisdom. I hesitate many moments in my life, sinning a moment, moments each day. Husband treated his wife like dust underfoot! He did not protect her, got lost where she could be harmed. He did not want my name, would not tell me his. Yelled that I should go. He did not recognize who I could be, though he has a need of me. He should have known I would not take them where he asked. Humdulillah, it is better this way. They took a taxi, not a train. He can afford her safety. We should do something for our women. And for you? Do you desire another man? I must be certain before I continue this path. You spoke with another, laughed, tilted your head as though kissed. I banged at the door that remains shut, and a woman told me to go. No man comes. But the crowd listens to who I scream. Even if there is no one, there is now a rumor. What makes you laugh now? We no longer kiss and laugh together. Did I imagine a kiss? Would you lie to me? Of course. I am empty and need to be filled with an answer. It takes little, as I am a small man. The knowledge that you are faithful, that you still love me. I pass my hands across my face in prayer,
Can we turn our eyes from His blessings? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women of Adam’s earth. He who gives us life.
Can we turn our eyes? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women of Adam’s earth. He who gives us the possibility of honor.
Can we turn away? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women of Adam’s earth. He who gives us the knowledge of disgrace.
Without fire or smoke, I rub my hands against my face.
—Rumor like rain falls on us and we burn, consuming each other. I am here for you, Habibbi. I still love you, still want only you, but you turn away and accuse me of desiring another. You believe in lies! Divorce me If you no longer love me. If you still do, then return and lie with me without hesitation. Take me you bastard! Spread your seed while it can still rise! Why do you wait! I want to be a mother again, be fat and blooming, to fulfill my purpose, not sit in this hovel, mother nor wife. You are a drought; only a heavy rain will make us rich. I cannot produce from nothing. Umm again. To be anew, like Hawwa, again. I dreamt a man beat my head into oblivion with a stone. He went to find more stones as each time my head would reappear. As he looked for another stone, I reached a sea and escaped, reaching another shore, but the man stood on the land each time I tried to get on shore. He threw stones into my mouth until I thought I would drown. My heart hardened, stones filled my belly. Finally, wanting desperately to be rid of him, I swam under water and came upon a garden. In the garden I saw a very tall woman, her head surrounded by clouds and her feet by children. I became confused, could not decide to go back into the sea or stay in the garden full of spring flowers and the sound of children playing. Or climb the woman, who was familiar, though her head obscured in the clouds. Then I thought I heard our son scream with joy and I remembered his voice and I looked for him. I did not know how he would be, split asunder or whole. Can you swim back to me, Yusuf, as I vomit your stones? Shall I climb to see what is above the clouds? In sujood, I touch the floor with my head, and pray that you return to me and we are fruitful. Glory to Allah, most high. I know you should join me, for that is why we are allowed to marry, to plant and bear children. It is our responsibility.
—I move and watch, take advantage of others' needs all day, almost a beggar. You are something I need, yet I stay away. It is very late. I want to believe there was no infidelity, that you are still pure. Eventually, I will; there is no choice. I look at some women and imagine them as wives, but they are not mine. These women are illusions. You are what is lawful. You are what fills them. How will I feed another child? How will I pay for clothes and school? A life beyond?
—It begins with Allah seeing us, our nights and days, our devotion. Rains give life. This is Ayat, proof of our existence, the night sky around us and the wind that cools us. Master of All, be praised, will you give us another son, another Paradise? We beg for a sliver of peace. Why else are we here? I pass my hands across my face in prayer,
Can we turn our eyes from His blessings? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. We are ships on the sea.
Can we turn our eyes? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. We are caught in a storm.
Can we close our eyes? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. We can perish in a heartbeat.
—Inshallah, please give us, Al Mujib, offspring. Hear our prayers, may we be Your inheritors. She is lawfully taken and treated as You demand. Do not let devils enter her womb and prevent our deliverance. I will come to you and will reap anew. I do not forget you are my wife, that we remain wed and will bear another son. Where can I go? We are bound to each other. Sick under my watch, yet I could not afford the care. Sick under my poverty! You did not watch him well enough and I was not there when he died. We were not enough! Only the two of us and no one to lead us into old age. What future? Our daughter cannot help us, as she has her husband's family. As-Samee, will this marriage promise another? If we are to have another, I must go home. Will your womb bare fruit, my Zahara?
—The heavens continue their spin, all the stars prostrate before Allah. You failed as a father. It was not I that did not watch enough! That is all I did. If we follow His path, we will grow another. Grow fruits, grow fertile palms, grow sweet smelling flowers. Is our path to live and die in this grave sonless! May Allah hear my prayers and bring you back to bury in my soil. The day has come that we can start another family. We are so made. I will be fertile, if I am still as I have been. We pray for another son from He that has provided the fertile stalk to feed our multiplication. I pass my hands across my face,
Can we turn our eyes from His blessings? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. Upon the spreading branches.
Can we turn our eyes? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. There will be every fruit in pairs.
Can we close our eyes? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. He will open the two gardens of Paradise, dark Green with gushing springs.
Can we never forget? Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. And man and woman will spread.
Without fire or smoke.
—Pushing my palms against my eyes, I am small, stink of smoke, too nauseated to eat. I stand in the darkness wondering, Inshallah, when will this be forgiven? You think of me and I become small. When I am home, you ask and ask for money. You and our son remind me of my failure. I shrink. I will be with you tonight my Zahara, but first I will go smoke shisha, meet with my friends, spend a little money because I have become so little. I have been punished by so few coins for a day's search and work, only a daughter, and a son gone. You have borne so few children. Al-Wahhab, grant me the bounty of another son. Why my first born?
—I am squeezing from a stone, sell rice and am alone, for you have forgotten how to provide, Husband. If only I could reach your smoke and catch a few coins from the sky. The neighbors are unhappy I sit by the door, long days on our steps watching. Amina passes with her meat, a husband generous and able. Ma bishufkish. I keep the house, in case you may visit. Washing, waiting, watching, washing our clean sheet. I need you, Habibi. We are like dust to each other, beside each other, but separated by a wind or the breathing of others. I came with only a bag, some clothes, a little jewelry, but I have given you, Inshallah, two children. We can have more. Tonight? Tomorrow night? In this dead air, our dust does not rise, only settles. Is this possible? Are you generous with your brother, as you are often there, eating and drinking his food? I imagine his wife says I cannot cook or keep house, so you stay away. I am better than this! May God give me a tomb in Paradise, or my body will never leave this place.
—I do not know how to speak to you any longer. The mistakes my words make. With a son, there would be someone to help us when we are old. Yes, I do not provide enough. Again, I cannot give this child what it needs. Yes, my brother's family is tired of me. Yes, you can be with child only when I am home. Walla, do not leave me without a son. I have lawfully taken Zahara In Your name and treat her as you wish within my poverty. Do not let Shaytan stay her womb and prevent your presence. Hear my prayers.
—Egyptians treat each others as less than fish. We are the offspring of fish, left to fend for ourselves, fleeing what begat us as they feed upon us. Floating at the surface or wandering without choices, I am always here. You only when your brother's wife yells too loud or your daughter's husband asks you to go home. Then you wander till late hours, saying you look for tourists, but smoke hookah with your friends. I found you there. My husband should be with me! I should not have to search for you! Threatened me with divorce in front of all those men. You screamed, Bitch and whore, go away! Go away. I do not want you! Go away or I will divorce you! I dare you! Do it if you can. You will have nothing. Am I filthy? Divorce me and I do what I will. "It is time to have another child. We are in pain!" The men listened, laughed and told me to go. You did not defend your wife. When we were young, I came to you as a stranger in this city, the tall buildings, cars and all the people, the noise. We drove past these and into the tombs. You give me so little. I sell rice and you sit and smoke our money away in the hookah! My money! My money! You know where I am.
There are three rules I now live by:
1: You and everyone lie. Do not trust those closest,
2: this life is a mask and
3: the more we let others in, the more hurt we are.
Rumors spread quickly and the Jinn are everywhere. It is not I that brought problems to our door. You become a stranger. We should have kept to ourselves, yet we screamed our secrets in the street. Qasim lies here in eternity though he dreamt of leaving. We are the ones who have less. In this place, we all know each other, like clay. A balad, I knew nothing. I had never lived amongst the dead, but you said it would be a short while. When you are here, you leave as the sun rises and come home in the dark, left in this hovel till your return. Our courtyard saves my life. The children still play, look over the wall. Others look from their windows. Sometimes, I imagine no one watches and I am alone. I am not the shadow of stones, rocks and sand, but of thin air. Stop wondering. You run from us, not the Jinn. You do not accept our son's fate. I have grown accustomed to him in the tomb. It gives me comfort to know he is here, the place he was as a child. Our baby in the walls; whenever there is a breeze it is he. Who is so angry with me, he cannot forgive me for what I have not done? I can forgive you. If I had a cow, I would slaughter it as a sacrifice for your return. Ahh, but we are poor. You strangle yourself blaming me. Like an old tree in a fierce wind, you become hollow inside. Once upon a time, I sold all my bracelets and wedding gifts so we could come here. We remain since, carrying our lives in the same place. Day to day, I think you blame me for his passing. I was once a mother, Umm, though now am silent. I remain a woman. Am I a wife? Am I your wife? I must continue. Will you? If you did not smoke the money away, there would at least be enough to eat. Just one room, but we pay. That's all there is in this world for a man and woman, always paying. I pray, Ar-Rahman, who taught us to spin with the heavens, I am prone before You. To have another son so that we may be united again under Your gaze. You were once a friend, but now I only have neighbors. They take from us, like thieves. Fuqara, bent under the weight, what comes upon us, what is taken from us. O Light, why my son? What was gained?
—If only my vows were a peace. Sulaiman was allowed to have one thousand concubines and wives. I can't imagine such, but one. I will never afford another; as it has been it will remain. I cannot let you go. We have no hurriya in our lives. You are my bone and we are of His dust and not free. We cannot follow our wishes; they are not what we are. It is hard to sleep above our breathless son, the shell that constrained him once. Allah, he is under your care. Protect him, Ar-Rauf , from punishments he did not acquire. Too many quarrels and fights scattered in the street, all that can hear have heard my failure to bring home enough, that we still hear our son. Is it a blasphemy? My shisha is the place I gain forgetfulness, not beside him. Our home cannot be this place, the storm between us since his death. I should fast out of piety for him. Can we raise another from the beginning? Who Allah leads will never go lost. We have no time for me to let go of this pall, this rumor strangling. I need a flood to crash open the doors of my heart, wash these things away, so I can find peace over my son's soul and you. I am not good for our family as I am. Edhina al sirat al mustaqeem, so that, Walla, I can be home with a strong mind.
—The smoke and wash of our lives nowhere to go but in our bones. I hoped for you and in that way myself. But hope is a thing for the young or the wealthy. Our son eventually took my heart and ear as soon as I knew him. Since his passing, it is difficult to hear you. I show my devotion to our family. Though you will not lie with me, I will keep my faith, love you and always tell the truth. As-Samee knows these things. You do not stand with me. Though you have not come to me, deep down you care for me. The tombstones of your ancestors scattered like the clothes I hang amongst them, dry. Many days alone in this wreck, even when there is no work to keep you away. I wait for your kiss that I have not received in many weeks, not even a small caress of your lips. Some nights you come so weary and only sleep. Fifteen years in the tomb, forgotten in this dung colored island of the dead. Now I pace the courtyard for air and a view of the stars. Hope is a thing that often fails. We moved into your family's tomb until we could afford better. This we will not see. You used to build things for me. Humdulillah, we have a phone. Call me if you won't return. I am your wife! You become poison. Only our daughter calls, when her husband is not there. She is angry you come to his house so often, when you cannot go to your brother's. She wants you to stop. Your own daughter can't say, Do not come my father. But you do not care. I call my mother. She tells me to stay the course, there is no other way. They do not ask for an invitation to this hovel and outhouse! That is all you have provided, a shame before our neighbors. We are hard dirt and brown stones. The Jinn hate knives, so I put a knife in our son's tomb. He will protect himself against them. You will never make enough for us to leave here! If I could leave you behind. There is no other place to lay my head but the street. Not enough money to feed another yet I dream of another. Passing my hands across my face, I pray The Cow every third day to keep them at bay. I'm sure they would harm us, so I keep a knife by our bed. I smell the Jinn. We do not give to the mosque, but Allah knows I have nothing. How can a person with nothing give? If you spent less on shisha, came home and loved me, we could give a small pittance. It is no sin to be with your wife and so you should plant in my soil, provide a new blessing. We must do this devotion to Allah, for ourselves, to beget for He who creates all. Or do you want a divorce? To throw me away? Ask if you want.
—We should be joined in bed. Sawa sawa, and have another son.
—Grant life, keep my son firm in Islam in the other world. I shall not forgot my kin, this son of my womb! Not he that will not fulfill me. I will take you back if you kiss my feet, kiss my lips, kiss my neck, until I am content. You built a toilet and shower in the courtyard between the tombstones, where we can squat and wash. Even today, you must collect our shit from this hole in the ground between the dead! Even today! If I could imagine my future, I would leave you. But I cannot. You can barely afford to keep me here. I trim all my hair and make your house. Allah wants you to come and have your wife, this marriage begat at only fifteen, a start of hardship that has never ceased. I dream of other worlds. Passing my hands across my face,
In Paradise, open your heart. Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam's earth. We will have two sunrises.
Open your eyes and ears. Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. He provides us a path to embrace.
Do not forget. Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. Without fire or smoke, he creates all our worlds and the one we conceive.
I am honest with my neighbors, never deceitful. Inshallah, a believer keeps his duty to Allah. Fear him and speak only the truth. He will give us another path. When you, as I, obey, we are His slaves. Then we have achieved a great thing, even if we live in this filth. All our sinful thoughts will be forgiven. Hate will be forgiven.
I watch all my neighbors and family.
I watch you, deceitful. Because I am pious, I do not find a lover. I am a slave, so I can only watch. One day, in Paradise.
—In Paradise, I dream a flock of birds fly across the sky. Beautiful women, heads covered in silk higabs of purple, red, ochre and orange, embroidered with stars like mosque tiles, ululating an irresistible rising. I am an acacia tree and my branches swirl, listening for you, my feathered leaves weaving in the wind to gain your attentions. You perch on one of my limbs, avoiding my thorns, and become Zulayka. Your abaya of white and yellow flowers spread across all my limbs, covering me in your sweet fragrance. My canopy bursts into flame and I descend, Yusuf in a jacket of gold feathered leaves, a circling vine of roses across my chest, my head still alight. I follow you into the first room, you reach out to me, a temptress leading me through six more. I fall into your arms and am stirred. You guide me, locking the doors of each room until we are in the seventh. Humdulilah, an eighth door opens for me. I sway at the abyss, for I must decide to accept your embrace or escape. You had desired another man and though you are beautiful and the memories of our consummation hold me, I falter. I can't yet forget I care for you, that I must return to you. I feel your arms around me, as in our early days, both our flames submerge. I hear, deep in your shrill of excitement, the grief we have for our son. How will I know the road? Inshallah, I beg You in the name of Zakariya, do not leave me without a son. Hope a risk I won't grasp willingly, too many failed. Remember the prayer we said together, our vows? Haish Izzay! A daughter and no son. We must bear another son. If this marriage is to succeed, I must carry our share. You have carried yours. I tried to carry mine, the weight of my life too heavy. Please carry another. Make us stronger. In Paradise, I will live by my vow and we will bear another. I pass my hands across my face and pray for the strength to travel between the seven worlds, will feel the memories in my heart and the ruin, find peace. I can hold on to you.
—Paradise is a small village, each soul caring for each soul. My home in Paradise will have many rooms, one for our daughter, a husband, our sons. Full of breezes and surrounded by green. No more need of tombs, as all of us are souls. Habibi, come and lay your head beside me, remove your clothes and wash. I shall find you, so come home now. Allahu Akbar, He will provide for my devotions. I run through the white bolls of cotton in the sun growing from my family's soil. The clothes hang still drip, the smell of smoke and burnt meat from years of cooking on the blackened grill you made of cinderblocks, beside the latrine you built. In Paradise, you still build things for me, still love me. I am your garden, the young flower that is my name, though we are poor and life is hard. We must believe in Al-ghayb. We met three times, spoke only twice, but that was the way of things. We were engaged at thirteen and married at fifteen. I can have more children and run our home. You are the only man I have let into my heart, and I am in your heart. You called me Zulaikha as when we were young and you desired me. A miracle. A new son. Return home! We must stand together, our hearts together, fulfill our desire together. I have fulfilled my duty, kept a home so that we can have a future. Before we are too old! Alluha Akbar, build for me and you will have a home in Paradise. Hear me and I will give you this for your return to my bosom and loins. Heed me and we will have another child.
—From my heart, I look for you over a great distance. I am a fool to be here so senseless. A cat's cry scatters in the wind and I must go or return, but cannot remain. Home should be my sanctuary, someplace I can escape. I hear our son in his rest breathing, feel your questions rising and then hear them spoken. In Paradise, I am a father again, Abb. His assembly listens to what I do, each thing multiplied a hundred times for Allah, my sins wiped away. Inshallah, I am a man that has strength. I will walk to you my wife, my flower.
—You will be the man I once hoped for in Paradise. I ask for what you were and it emerges. You will again be the coolness in my eyes. Humdullilah, in Him we find refuge from the Jinn. We are home. Accept His blessings,
Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. A world rich with fruits and dates.
Do not turn away. Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. A world in your wife's garden, chaste and beautiful.
Do not forget. Allahu Akbar, molded all of clay, women within Adam’s earth. My hyman torn in love making when we were bound in this world.
Without fire or smoke.

Notes:

The name Zahara translates to White Flower.
Humdulillah: Thanks be to the Lord and praise God.
Marhab huwagga: Welcome stupid foreigner.
Qasim means one who shares in Arabic.
Inshallah: As God wills.
Zulaikha was the beautiful wife of Potipher, Captain of the Egyptian kings guard in Egypt, who falls in love with the beauty of Yusuf and buys him as a slave, then attempts to seduce him.
Marhaba: Welcome
Abuya hamel’hum: My father made these.
hijab: Head covering worn by some Muslim women
Habibi: Darling
mashrabiyyah: Intricately carved wood screen
La basheesh: No payment or bribe
Ya’la! Ya’la!: Go! Go!
Alfath: Conqueror
Al-Alim's: The All knowing One
The City: The City of The Dead in Egypt
Alamin: Humanity and devils and angels. Worlds. All that exists.
Allahu Akbar: God is Great.
Ar-Rahim: The Most Merciful
Jinn: An evil or mischievous spirit
Al-Nur: The Light
Umm: Mother
Hawwa: Muslim biblical Eve
sujood: Bowing down in prayer, head touching the ground, as a sign of submission to God
Ayat: Miracle or evidence or a sign
Al Mujib: The Responsive
As-Samee: The All Hearing
Al-Wahhab: Bestower
Ma bishufkish: [Someone] that doesn't see me
Walla: By God
Shaytan: Devils
Balad: A country girl
Ar-Rahman: The most beneficent
Fuqara: The poor
Hurriya: Freedom
Ar-Rauf: Kind and compassionate
Edhina al sirat al mustaqeem: Show me the right path
The Cow: A surah, chapter, in the Quran
Sawa sawa: Are we OK?
Fear him and speak only the truth: Al-Ahzab, 33-70, Quran
Abaya: An abaya is a traditional robe like dress worn in muslim countries, especially the Middle East.
Zakariya: Zakariya was a prophet, descended from Sulaiman.
Haish Izzay!: 'Oh how?' in frustration.
Al-ghayb: The Unseen

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Noam Mor​

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In Paradise

Noam Mor