Divorce Islamic Style Read Online Free PDF Page B

you were my ideal. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”
    “Eeeeeenough!”
    I have to admit that no one forced me to say the fateful “yes.” Luckily, on questions of marriage my family tended to keep a low profile, so there was no pressure or, worse, blackmail of the type: “You should marry him without thinking twice, otherwise you’ll find that you’re an old maid with no future.” Or: “Don’t you see, my poor daughter, that your cousins (all of them) and friends (really all of them) are married, and that you’re the only one who keeps looking?” In the case of advice I always say “Thank you.” In the case of pity I’m ready with a “Go to hell” instead. Clear?
    Basically I wasn’t happy about the idea of the marriage itself, but I liked the idea of going to live in Italy: the Mecca of fashion. It was a sign of
maktùb
. I saw myself already managing a hairdressing salon or working with famous designers like Valentino, Versace, Armani, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana . . . Why not?
    I was sure that I would be successful in Italy. I had reflected a lot on the fact that women increasingly resort to cosmetic surgery. Apart from the high cost, there are serious health risks when the surgery fails. I’ve often seen on TV remade women who look like inflated monsters, with horrible breasts and clown lips. I said to myself––“These poor women, they don’t know that the secret of feminine beauty lies in caring for their hair.” Hair is half of beauty! Come on, wake up, ladies!
    A few months ago I saw a show about the actress Michelle Pfeiffer on Channel 5. She was so beautiful in the film with Al Pacino where she played the waitress. But even she had had her lips touched up. In my opinion, she didn’t need to. She should have gone to a good hairdresser rather than the operating room of a cosmetic surgeon. And let’s talk about Melanie Griffith, who’s married to Antonio Banderas: it seems that that poor woman is always sick because of drugs and alcohol. So what? So nothing. I prefer not to say anything else. You don’t shoot at the Red Cross, or am I wrong?
    My euphoria didn’t last long. Unfortunately reality is stronger than dreams. A few days before the wedding the architect asked me to wear the veil.
    “What did you say? I didn’t hear you. Could you repeat that, please?”
    “My love, you have to put on the veil.”
    “Is this a joke? Of course, and here I almost fell for it! You’re a real Egyptian, what an actor. Hahaha.”
    “No, my love, I’m speaking seriously. This is a condition.”
    Put on the veil? Maybe I hadn’t understood. Were we going to live in Italy or Iran? Is the veil compulsory in Rome? Felice was not joking at all. A real low blow. A blow below the belt. If we had been in the ring the referee would immediately have given him a warning and I would have gotten some points. Maybe I would even have won, in the end. Are there rules of the game to be followed, or am I wrong? The real problem is that we live in a society where the male is both the opponent and, at the same time, the referee. We women—what can we do? Will we ever win in this situation?
    I tried very patiently to persuade him to give up his absurd condition, insisting on a fundamental point: the veil is not one of the five pillars of Islam and can in no way be used to measure a woman’s conduct. Basically—let’s be frank—the veil is just a bit of fabric. While faith is an infinite universe. In all intellectual honesty, I have to confess that that last sentence is not an arrow from my quiver. I don’t remember where I heard it, but I like it a lot and every so often I pull it out. Good, eh?
    I was like an impassioned lawyer, engaged to save an innocent child from the pyre: “I’ve done my five daily prayers ever since I was ten years old, I never forget to give the
zakat
, alms to the poor, I never skip a day of Ramadan, the only thing I haven’t done to fulfill the obligations of Islam is the pilgrimage to