Divorce Islamic Style Read Online Free PDF

taking reality too much into account. My dream of becoming a hairdresser got bigger and bigger: a reference point of my existence, my reason for living. I dreamed of opening my own hair salon.
    A dream is like a plant that grows day by day and produces good fruit as long as you don’t neglect it. And I—I am very generous with my dreams. I give the best of myself. However, I did realize that the plan would be difficult to carry out in Egypt or any other Muslim country: with so many veiled women, where would I get my clients?
    Little by little, I convinced myself that my dream would have to take place somewhere else: in Europe or America. Paris, London, Rome, Madrid, New York—why not?
    I had no hesitation about choosing to study languages at the university. I threw myself into learning English and French. Luckily my knowledge of French helped me learn Italian when I ended up in Rome.
    I graduated without any difficulty: I had the right motivation and the necessary enthusiasm. Many suitors knocked at our door to ask for my hand. Of course, I’m not a blonde, but still I’m a pretty dark-haired girl, typically Arab. I uttered many “No, thank you”s.
    Among the candidates, however, a young man showed up who had emigrated to Italy but was from the neighborhood next to ours. His name was Said, he had a degree in architecture, and he said he was working as a chef in a big restaurant in Rome. An architect who works as a cook? It’s the truth. Anyway, when I became his wife I discovered two things: first, that he wasn’t a chef but simply a pizza maker. Second, that he’s called Felice—“happy.” In Egypt we say, “If your neighbor is happy, you become happy, too.” I’m his wife, not his neighbor, and yet I still haven’t seen all this happiness, at least not so far.
    During our brief engagement my architect revealed that he had been in love with me since high school. How touching! He had loved me in secret. And yet I did not remember ever having seen him before.
    I would say that he was rather lazy, what would it have taken to write me a love letter or send me a pretty red flower, remaining anonymous, of course. What a pity! Yet another secret love not returned.
    As for the engagement, among us things are different: fiancés are permitted to hold hands, to sit in a café and have tea, exchange romantic words of love, but . . . but no sex before marriage. Kisses? Better not, or confined to the cheek. Let’s be clear: to be engaged is one thing, to act like husband and wife is another. This I will not say again.
    To simplify, we might say that engagement Egyptian style, Arab style, Muslim style is something like making a reservation, obviously after you’ve paid some money for the fiancée’s
shebka
. This word refers to the jewels that are given to her, but it resembles
shabaka
, a word that means net, as in a fishing net. Now, the question is: who is the fisherman and who is the fish? What does the fiancé get in exchange? Well, he gets the right to publicly claim his future private property. Congratulations to the lucky beauty; finally, after years on display, she can leave the shop window. And, as the Italians say, “Good luck and may you have male children!”
    After two meetings in the living room of our house I agreed to marry the architect. Was it a marriage of convenience, an arranged marriage? Of course. And what’s wrong with that? Marriage can be arranged or not. There’s no third way. The ones that aren’t arranged have the same ending, anyway, with the refrain typical of all self-respecting soap operas.
    Here’s a taste:
    “I thought you were generous, faithful, sensitive, affectionate, et cetera, et cetera. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”
    “Don’t say that, I implore you.”
    “I thought you were the love of my life, the man with whom I’d raise children, travel, go shopping, grow old, and so forth. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”
    “That’s enough, please.”
    “I thought