The gatekeepers notebook, p.7
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 7
Bashir was leaving. Off to start a new life and make a new family. In with the new, while kicking the old unceremoniously to the curb. Her anger boiled to the top at the stabbing realization that she no longer mattered to him.
“Fine!” she yelled through heavy sobs. “GO! Just get out of here.” Kalila, barely able to catch her breath, stumbled around the bedroom tossing small items at Bashir. “Here, don’t forget to take this, and this, and, oh—,” she flung a photo taken of them on their honeymoon. “This should give your Alexa a big laugh.”
“Nobody is laughing at you,” Bashir said, his voice drifting off.
“Liar!”
After zipping his bag closed, Bashir threw the strap over his shoulder and turned to leave. Kalila tried to block the doorway using her body.
“If you dare take a single step out of this house, you had better never ask to come back!” she threatened, her voice trembling in a high-pitched shriek; fury clipping each enunciated word. “Ya Allah, Bashir, if you do this, you’ll never be welcomed in my bed or in my life again.”
“Move out of my way.” Bashir’s face registered nothing but long-suffering impatience.
“We don’t need you,” Kalila hollered after him, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them; the rage too powerful to control.
“We?”
“That’s right, you heard me. WE—WE—WE!”
Bashir glared straight into his wife’s eyes. “Don’t play that game. Don’t ever threaten to take my son away from me.”
“It’s not a threat.”
“I mean it, Kalila. Don’t do this.”
“What will you do? Run off? Cry on Alexa’s shoulder? Tell her how mean I am to you?” She reached out to grab Bashir’s sleeve, but he was stronger and yanked it away. “Answer me!”
Bashir stood his ground. “Don’t do this.”
“Oh right. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Don’t do anything to interfere with your life.”
Bashir hesitated.
“How dare I stand in your way,” she snarled, her entire body shaking.
“Kalila—”
“Don’t ever say my name again.”
“Kalila—I never meant to hurt you. I thought you’d eventually understand.” He pushed his way past, ducking under her extended arms.
“Eventually understand? Eventually understand what? That I’ve been lied to? Manipulated? Replaced? Exchanged? Cheated on? Betrayed?” Hysterical at this point, Kalila shadowed Bashir’s every move, his every step; her arms waving erratically in every which direction. The urge to lash out, to make him feel her pain overtook her. She was out of control and knew it, but the fury imploding inside her now reigned, and she didn’t know how to reel it in.
“Wallahi.” Bashir threw his hands up in surrender. “That’s not what I am doing. This isn’t the end of us.”
“Oh, like hell it isn’t!”
Bashir rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
“You know what? Just get out!” screamed Kalila, growing madder as she watched Bashir cavalierly shoving his feet into his shoes.
Outside, the storm grew in intensity. Heavy rains continued to pelt the ground, coming down in sheets, whooshing against the home’s window panes.
“Get out,” Kalila sobbed, practically shoving Bashir out the front door before he could finish tying his laces; throwing whatever pairs of his shoes left on the shelf onto the wet, drenched lawn. Clipping him a few times on the back as he trotted down the porch towards his car, never once turning around.
“I never want to see you again,” she yelled, shaking, and rattled to the core. Hurt tears trickled down her flushed cheeks.
Come back.
Kalila didn’t want Bashir to leave, she loved him, but she couldn’t coax the words out of her troubled heart to make herself say it.
Bashir popped his trunk open and tossed his bag in. “We’ll talk soon,” he countered, using that galling voice of reason of his.
“We have nothing left to talk about,” she cried, wishing he’d turn around and come back inside.
Please don’t leave me.
Once Bashir pulled out of the driveway, Kalila slammed the front door, practically heaving, unaware of being watched from across the street.
“I hate you!” she sobbed, her one fist pounding the door. “I hate you,” she whimpered. “I hate you…I hate you…I hate you.”
Without Bashir there to scream at, to fight with, Kalila took her frustration out on the remainder of his belongings. Marching erratically from room to room, back and forth and around the house, mumbling and cursing under her breath. Collecting the rest of his items and dumping them unceremoniously in a pile.
If she wants him, she can have him.
Back in the bedroom on the side of their bed, Kalila bent over and picked up Bashir’s prayer mat, ready to toss it, when suddenly she clutched it tighter. A wave of something stronger than anger caused her to crash to her knees, overriding the blind fury that had controlled her only moments before. From within the deepest, darkest hole in her soul, she wailed. Pure unadulterated anguish filled the suffocating space surrounding her. Unable to stop, she crumpled the soft, well-used prayer rug and pressed it to her damp cheek. His lingering scent consumed every fragmented part left of her…
Kalila had just changed into a nightgown when her mobile rang. Diving for the cell, she half expected to hear Bashir’s voice telling her he was sorry and that he was ready to talk. She prayed he’d ask to come home to work things out like before, but instead, a strange, unrecognizable, detached male voice sliced through the airway. In abrupt, proficient speech, the person on the other end just kept talking, asking Kalila a series of questions, which now, months later, she could barely recall. Only a few intermittent catch phrases cleared the fog controlling her brain. Expressions like ‘extraordinary measures’ ‘airbags that failed to deploy’ ‘precarious road conditions’ ‘a car that careened’… ‘accidents do happen.’
Shaken, Kalila darted around the bedroom scavenging through drawers, throwing on anything easily accessible. Somehow, between the rush and churn of panic, she remembered to phone Walaa to ask her to stay at the house with Hamza until she could return.
—from the hospital.
In the aftermath of the accident, Kalila recalled very little. Almost as if her body intuitively blocked the ability to reason. At the time, she had needed to act.
Thinking would have to come much later.
Mourning would last forever.
Most of all, Kalila remembered arriving at the hospital in a frenzy and a daze, practically running through the halls, her shoes clattering against the tiled floors. Bolting out of the elevator, all eyes fixated on her as she tried to make sense of the erudite voice resonating from the person wearing a long, white coat.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rahim. We did all we could do.”
We did all we could do…
Kalila would never forget those words. How could she? Their very existence sealed her fate forever.
Chapter Six
A Guiding Light
STANDING OFF TO THE side of the road, Walaa and Nafiza moved a safe distance away from the fracas. This wasn’t their first go around with Amara. Small, innocuous squabbles that most people could ignore, became bigger ordeals with Amara—and if tensions between Amara and Kalila weren’t bad enough, now their petty squabbles had managed to trickle down to the children.
“It was bound to happen,” whispered Nafiza, deliberately out of earshot of her kids. “I’m just sorry that it did, astaghfirullah.”
“Me too,” Walaa mouthed discreetly behind her hand.
“But let’s be honest. Amara’s and Kalila’s boys aren’t entirely to blame. Their mothers have instigated this food fight from the start.”
“No, you’re right.”
“The kids are only repeating what they hear being said in the house, which isn’t at all acceptable.”
“I know, but what exactly is the problem between these two?” asked Walaa, and not for the first time. “I mean, obviously, they don’t like each other—fine, that happens, but seriously? Why all the extra drama? What did Kalila do to make Amara so, I’m sorry but bitchy!”
“Or vice-a-versa. We shouldn’t assume it’s one or the other.”
“True again.”
“I just think that some sisters rub the others the wrong way, although, to be honest, Amara seems to have a particular penchant for ratcheting up any conversation to new levels of absurdity and making everything about her.”
“You know, she always has to be right.”
“—even when she’s wrong.”
“Especially when she’s wrong.”
“And she doesn’t see it. Totally self-absorbed—”
“And because she doesn’t care how she makes anyone else feel, as long as she gets her shit off.” Nafiza took a deep breath. “Look, Amara lacks respect for other people’s opinions unless they align with hers. That’s why she name-calls, belittles people, questions their loyalty or friendship at the slightest hiccup. Poor Amara, everyone’s always out to get her…yet she doesn’t see how she pushes people out of her life; people who once really cared about her. And if you are her latest target, you either placate or agree with her because if not, get ready for the gaslighting to begin; which, by the way, are all signs of a toxic individual.”
Walaa searched in her bag for car keys. “I hope this doesn’t get any worse.”
“We are talking about Amara, right?”
At times, it can be challenging to have a genuine friendship connection with some women, even with those who profess to share the same faith. Community acquaintances are common enough, and often friendly on the surface, but close, ride and die friendships? Not as often.
Walaa and Kalila hit it off instantly. Besides sharing the same warped sense of humor, a love for good food, and a passion for decorating, both women were expecting their first child reasonably close together. The doctor calculated Walaa’s due date in late April, while Kalila expected her baby to arrive a little over a month later. Undoubtedly, this commonality helped forge an even stronger bond and one that happily continued to grow past childbirth.
Although already renting in the nearby area, once the test confirmed Kalila’s pregnancy, she and Bashir decided to make Pennsylvania their permanent residence. By happenstance, a lovely home down the block from Walaa in a quiet, gated community had gone up for sale the same week. A lovely brick colonial home sporting a tailored lawn, a cobblestone walkway, and a backyard already decked out with Amish wooden swings and a wooden play fort. The perfect place to raise a child. Two months after the first walk-through, Kalila and Bashir closed, moving in immediately afterward. To hear Kalila tell it, on the day of the move, Walaa had been almost as excited as she.
Because of Walaa’s outstanding taste in fabrics, Kalila deferred to her new friend’s palate without reserve, grateful for her help. Within months, the once lackluster shell of a home came together picture perfect. Sadly, the only thing left missing from the Rahim domicile was happiness. By then, small cracks in the marriage had started to show, but not nearly enough for either spouse to call it quits. Kalila just assumed the rocky start had more to do with Bashir’s stress about becoming a father, the increasing responsibilities of being a new homeowner, and the stressful demands of a career with long hours.
Throughout the pregnancy, Kalila played her perky mother-to-be role to perfection. Never once letting on to anyone—including Bashir, how miserable and lonely she honestly felt; imagining that while she wallowed at home with swollen belly and feet, her husband was out and about, eyes on the hunt.
As close as Walaa was to Kalila, she never suspected anything wrong. Only a few years after Hamza’s birth did the truth finally unveil itself, and even then, Walaa suspected her friend of holding back.
“I don’t get it,” said Walaa, honestly surprised. “All that time and you never said anything–even to me. Like why?”
Kalila poured her friend a cup of juice. “What should I have said? ‘Hey Walaa, guess what? My marriage is a sham. My husband’s a wanna-be polygamist. He’d decided to replace me with a newer model.”
“Don’t say it like that. You know Bashir loves you.”
Kalila carried a cake stand filled with a wide assortment of baked goods to the table. “He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“No. I just think he got caught up listening to those other brothers who’ve got him brainwashed into thinking he can pull it off.” Walaa sipped her juice.
“I thought the same, but this time I think he’s serious.” Kalila took a bite out of a cookie. “Want one?”
“I shouldn’t, but I will.” Walaa bit into one. “Oh man, these are delicious. Homemade?”
“Bakery.” Kalila refilled her own cup.
“When did you find out?”
“Bashir started dropping hints back when I was pregnant with Hamza.”
“Seriously? While you were pregnant?”
“Yep. I didn’t put two and two together at first, but you know what? I probably did but didn’t want to believe it.”
“Well, I never knew.”
“I never told you.”
“But why keep it all to yourself? You must have been so upset.”
Kalila slumped in her chair. “You gotta understand. There I was pregnant, my body stretching in every direction, my emotions bouncing all over the place. But instead of empathy and compassion, Bashir started accusing me of not fulfilling his rights as a Muslim man. Everything I did suddenly wasn’t good enough for him. It was as if he was looking for any excuse to make his move. After that, we just kept arguing, one fight after the next.”
“That’s so wrong.” Walaa grabbed for another cookie. “That’s not even the sunnah.”
“Depends who you ask. As far as I know, he had the full support from the brothers.”
Walaa looked shocked. “Even Imam Abdullah?”
“Him, I’m not sure about.”
“Nafiza never gave me the impression he supports this kind of stuff. I mean, personally, I’ve never heard him speak about polygamy except to remind men to do the right thing.”
Kalila shrugged. “Define ‘doing the right thing.’”
Kalila had a point. There was no shortage of nightmare stories floating around about multiple households where equity hadn’t been applied. “Then what happened?”
“We fought and fought,” said Kalila. “Me crying all the time, him leaving rather than stay to argue. At one point, I even threatened to leave and take Hamza with me.”
“Kalila! You didn’t—”
“I sure did. And before you say it, I already know. I was wrong, out of control, but I was hurt. Angry. I wanted him to know how serious I was, but I wouldn’t have actually done it.”
Walaa wiped her lips with a napkin. “Then what did he do?”
“He ultimately dropped the subject, and everything went back to normal between us—for a while. Matter of fact, better than normal. The old Bashir returned. Loving, romantic…considerate again.”
“For a while.”
“Yes, exactly…for a short while. Then last year, out of nowhere, he started this polygamy nonsense all over again. The same madness, rinse and repeat. First by dropping innuendos and hints, then by complaining about everything I did. A broken record. Constantly criticizing and questioning my motives. Commenting on my looks. Little digs…you know the kind. When they say something about one thing, but really mean something entirely different.”
Walaa didn’t know. Talib had never treated her in this manner, but she nodded all the same. “And now?”
“And now, it feels different.”
“Different how?”
“Because in the past, if I got upset enough, instead of arguing forever, Bashir would eventually give in and drop the subject. Sure, we may have stopped speaking for a few days—exchanging only civil banalities, but eventually, everything would go back to normal like before.”
“But not this time?”
Kalila shrugged. “Nope.”
“Do you think he already found somebody?”
Kalila guffawed. “He swears no, but he’s lying.”
Walaa stared pensively at her friend. In a lowered voice, she asked, “What will you do if he goes through with a second marriage? Would you consider being a co-wife?”
“Honestly?” Kalila pressed a hand to her throat. “I don’t know. I love my husband, and I know he loves me. I don’t want to lose him, but the thought of sharing Bashir with another woman…I can’t even…the mere thought kills me.”
Walaa’s heart broke for her friend. While Kalila’s situation sounded all too familiar and entirely predictable, she certainly wasn’t alone. Quite a few community members appeared destined to board the runaway polygamy train.
“It could work for you,” said Walaa. “I mean, I get that it’s not what you want, but you may not have a choice if you want Bashir to remain in your life. And from what you’re describing to me, he seems pretty determined.”
Years back, tensions in their community had flared; this was before Kalila and Bashir moved in but over the same subject. At one point, a small but loud contingent of men had become so enthralled with the ‘right’ to take on another wife that the Imam felt obligated to offer a succession of Friday khutbahs, each expounding on the touchy subject in excruciating detail. The pros and cons. His fiery khutbahs generated so much interest on both sides of the disagreement that a call for additional discussions on the subject was announced. Meanwhile, the sudden clamor for speedy or ‘secret’ marriages performed at other more inclined masjids became the ‘in’ thing. One right after the other. Marriage–drama–community outrage–then divorce.
Most of the time, plural marriages took place without either the first wife’s knowledge or blessing, which in turn prompted an upsurge in hysterical requests by irate first wives, demanding a speedy divorce. Some families tore apart under the pressure while others endured, but just barely. Only a select few survived and thrived.
