Chapter 24
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 7 min read
ecember was hard. The panic attacks have been in full swing since
the last time I saw Ahmad and the dreams started immediately after.
Most nights, I woke up at odd hours drenched in my own sweat, unable to
breathe and my heart thumped like it would burst out of my chest.
As I scrambled into an upright position, I frantically tried to recite all
the prayers I could recall: a’udhubika min sharri ma sana’tu. La ilaha illa
anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz-zalimin. La hawla wala quwwata illa
billahil aliyyil azim. I clutched my chest in the darkness, muttering the
shahada over and over until it subsided.
The dreams always started the same way, and they felt real; so real that I
often thought Ahmad was there with me. Like most of my memories about
him, they were in dorm room or on his bed and the pleasure I could feel was
familiar. But when I woke up, I would be alone, aroused and wet. It was
like my body remembered and craved his touch. I felt like an addict getting
nightly reminders to get a fix from him.
It started the day he returned the jewelry. As I sat next to him in the
lobby, listening to him speak, I could not keep calm. I could feel the
familiar tightening in my chest and the quickening of my breath. My mind
kept wandering to now-deleted filthy texts, stolen kisses when we thought
no one was watching… but he was my milk brother. My brother.
Has God forsaken me? Why are my prayers not answered? God, please
since he is forbidden for me, take all the feelings I have for him away from
my heart. Why do I still feel the same for him, after everything I’ve done
during the summer to ensure that this feeling was removed from my heart?
I couldn’t bear looking into the pain in his eyes. He looked at me the
same way he did during our stolen moments of passion when he made me
feel things I’d never experienced before. But now, his eyes carried only
hurt.
I tried to leave, before he could see the effect he was having on me,
because he always knew but his hand stopped me. Before I knew what was
happening, he was kissing me. Two seconds of his lips on mine – that was
all it took to send me down this rabbit hole. The little progress I thought I’d
made all washed away as his cologne overwhelmed me. “Ahmad!” I
screamed as I pushed him off me. I looked around the almost empty lobby,
hoping nobody saw. I felt my eyes moistening up and tears began rushing
down my face. “Are you mad?”
“Fa’iza, wait. I’m sorry,” his hands went over his mouth. “It has been so
long, I – I lost control.”
If he truly loved me, he wouldn’t be here. This was not something we
could change, no matter how desperately we wanted to. It was something
written in the Qur’an. Who was he to fight that? What was he trying to
rekindle? Was I supposed to become his haram girlfriend now, and then his
mistress in the future? What exactly was he hoping to accomplish by
coming here?
“I’m so sorry,” his eyes were now reddened, “I wasn’t think –”
I put my hands together in front of my face. “Dan girman Allah, ka
rabu da ni. For the love of God, stay away from me.” I begged, my voice
shaking. I was falling apart day by day and all he came to do was kiss me.
That was all he was thinking of? I walked away angrily, moving past the
elevator and going up the stairs, trying very hard not to look back at him.
The next day, I couldn’t make it to my lectures or for the study session.
Ada came by the rez to find me when she couldn’t reach my phone. My
roommate must have opened the door for her because she came straight to
my room and found me sitting down on the floor in my pajamas, blowing
into a brown paper bag trying to calm down.
“Jesus! Fa’iza?” she dropped her bag and rushed to me, lifting me up to
help me sit on the bed. She opened the window behind my bed and started
opening my drawers frantically. “Where’s your inhaler?”
I struggled to catch my breath. “I am not asthmatic,” I gasped.
She stared at me. I’d told her I was struggling with the cancellation of
my engagement, but I didn’t give her details. I’d been acting like I was okay
all semester, so she was visibly shocked to find me in that state.
“You have to see a therapist.” Without waiting for a reply, she took out
her phone and started dialing the University’s counseling services.
“I don’t need therapy,” I managed to say, trying to steady my breath.
“Have you seen yourself?” she asked. I glanced up at the mirror and to
be honest, I wouldn’t recognize myself too – dark circles around my eyes
and stress acne all over my face. I was also a size smaller; I hadn’t gone to
shop for new clothes this semester, but I’d used safety pins on my skirts and
belts for my trousers.
Two days later, the counseling services referred me to a therapist’s
clinic after my initial assessment. As I looked through their website, I saw
someone in a hijab. She was the only non-Caucasian therapist on the list, so
I decided to reach out to her to book an appointment.
“Hello Fa’iza. I’m Dr. Na’ima,” she said, offering the couch opposite
her for me to seat. “Before we start, I want to let you know that everything
we discuss here is confidential and guided by the Canadian doctor-patient
privacy laws.” I nodded. “So, what brings you here today?” she asked,
opening her notebook.
It took four sessions for me to bring up Ahmad. I talked about
everything else – my insomnia, the loss of my appetite, and the panic
attacks. She made notes and asked questions. She must have known that
something was connecting all my problems together, but she didn’t push.
“I was supposed to get married this month,” I blurted out on our last
session before I went back home for the Christmas break.
She didn’t look surprised. “Why didn’t you?” she asked as she wrote in
her book.
I looked at her black hijab – something that made me feel like a fraud
whenever I wore it nowadays.
“Dr. Na’ima, where are you from?” I asked. I had always wanted to
know.
She made some notes again, dropped her pen and glanced at me. “My
parents moved here from Somalia when I was five,” she removed her
glasses, “Fa’iza, why do you use avoidance as a coping mechanism?”
“I wasn’t avoiding. I’ve always wanted to ask,” I answered.
She looked through her notes, “You keep talking about this marriage,
you don’t say who he is, or what happened and when I ask, you change the
subject. Why do you think that is?”
I didn’t tell her the truth until the second session of the new semester,
after I’d come back from Nigeria. “I think I’m being punished for my sins,”
I said. As I used my fingers to smooth the fabric of my long skirt.
She didn’t write anything in her notebook. “Who’s punishing you?” she
asked gently.
“Allah.”
“And why are you being punished, Fa’iza?”
I chose a Muslim therapist because she would understand. From her
profile, I had read that she was an Islamic therapist who mostly worked
with Muslims, so I knew I didn’t have to explain the tenets of my deen to
her, since I was paranoid about going with a Nigerian therapist, scared that
they might know someone who knew my family and I was scared of this
aspect of my life finding it’s way to my family. Dr. Na’ima here would
understand the different levels of my error. For me to heal, I had to accept
everything that had happened with me and Ahmad and talk about it with
someone who could help because clearly, bottling it up was not helping.
“Because I committed Zina,” I said as the tears filled my eyes.
Dr. Na’ima must be in her forties and maybe she had a daughter who
was my age or close to my age. When I finally said out loud what had been
eating me up for months, I waited for the judgment, for the you-should-
have-known-better, you-should-have-abided-by-the-Qur’an look. A year
ago, that was what I would have done. She did none of that.
“Well, Allah is At-Tawwab, the acceptor of repentance. Do you believe
that?”
I nodded yes and broke down completely in the white-walled office on
the 3rd floor of the building. Only then did I begin to heal.
W
the last time I saw Ahmad and the dreams started immediately after.
Most nights, I woke up at odd hours drenched in my own sweat, unable to
breathe and my heart thumped like it would burst out of my chest.
As I scrambled into an upright position, I frantically tried to recite all
the prayers I could recall: a’udhubika min sharri ma sana’tu. La ilaha illa
anta subhanaka inni kuntu minaz-zalimin. La hawla wala quwwata illa
billahil aliyyil azim. I clutched my chest in the darkness, muttering the
shahada over and over until it subsided.
The dreams always started the same way, and they felt real; so real that I
often thought Ahmad was there with me. Like most of my memories about
him, they were in dorm room or on his bed and the pleasure I could feel was
familiar. But when I woke up, I would be alone, aroused and wet. It was
like my body remembered and craved his touch. I felt like an addict getting
nightly reminders to get a fix from him.
It started the day he returned the jewelry. As I sat next to him in the
lobby, listening to him speak, I could not keep calm. I could feel the
familiar tightening in my chest and the quickening of my breath. My mind
kept wandering to now-deleted filthy texts, stolen kisses when we thought
no one was watching… but he was my milk brother. My brother.
Has God forsaken me? Why are my prayers not answered? God, please
since he is forbidden for me, take all the feelings I have for him away from
my heart. Why do I still feel the same for him, after everything I’ve done
during the summer to ensure that this feeling was removed from my heart?
I couldn’t bear looking into the pain in his eyes. He looked at me the
same way he did during our stolen moments of passion when he made me
feel things I’d never experienced before. But now, his eyes carried only
hurt.
I tried to leave, before he could see the effect he was having on me,
because he always knew but his hand stopped me. Before I knew what was
happening, he was kissing me. Two seconds of his lips on mine – that was
all it took to send me down this rabbit hole. The little progress I thought I’d
made all washed away as his cologne overwhelmed me. “Ahmad!” I
screamed as I pushed him off me. I looked around the almost empty lobby,
hoping nobody saw. I felt my eyes moistening up and tears began rushing
down my face. “Are you mad?”
“Fa’iza, wait. I’m sorry,” his hands went over his mouth. “It has been so
long, I – I lost control.”
If he truly loved me, he wouldn’t be here. This was not something we
could change, no matter how desperately we wanted to. It was something
written in the Qur’an. Who was he to fight that? What was he trying to
rekindle? Was I supposed to become his haram girlfriend now, and then his
mistress in the future? What exactly was he hoping to accomplish by
coming here?
“I’m so sorry,” his eyes were now reddened, “I wasn’t think –”
I put my hands together in front of my face. “Dan girman Allah, ka
rabu da ni. For the love of God, stay away from me.” I begged, my voice
shaking. I was falling apart day by day and all he came to do was kiss me.
That was all he was thinking of? I walked away angrily, moving past the
elevator and going up the stairs, trying very hard not to look back at him.
The next day, I couldn’t make it to my lectures or for the study session.
Ada came by the rez to find me when she couldn’t reach my phone. My
roommate must have opened the door for her because she came straight to
my room and found me sitting down on the floor in my pajamas, blowing
into a brown paper bag trying to calm down.
“Jesus! Fa’iza?” she dropped her bag and rushed to me, lifting me up to
help me sit on the bed. She opened the window behind my bed and started
opening my drawers frantically. “Where’s your inhaler?”
I struggled to catch my breath. “I am not asthmatic,” I gasped.
She stared at me. I’d told her I was struggling with the cancellation of
my engagement, but I didn’t give her details. I’d been acting like I was okay
all semester, so she was visibly shocked to find me in that state.
“You have to see a therapist.” Without waiting for a reply, she took out
her phone and started dialing the University’s counseling services.
“I don’t need therapy,” I managed to say, trying to steady my breath.
“Have you seen yourself?” she asked. I glanced up at the mirror and to
be honest, I wouldn’t recognize myself too – dark circles around my eyes
and stress acne all over my face. I was also a size smaller; I hadn’t gone to
shop for new clothes this semester, but I’d used safety pins on my skirts and
belts for my trousers.
Two days later, the counseling services referred me to a therapist’s
clinic after my initial assessment. As I looked through their website, I saw
someone in a hijab. She was the only non-Caucasian therapist on the list, so
I decided to reach out to her to book an appointment.
“Hello Fa’iza. I’m Dr. Na’ima,” she said, offering the couch opposite
her for me to seat. “Before we start, I want to let you know that everything
we discuss here is confidential and guided by the Canadian doctor-patient
privacy laws.” I nodded. “So, what brings you here today?” she asked,
opening her notebook.
It took four sessions for me to bring up Ahmad. I talked about
everything else – my insomnia, the loss of my appetite, and the panic
attacks. She made notes and asked questions. She must have known that
something was connecting all my problems together, but she didn’t push.
“I was supposed to get married this month,” I blurted out on our last
session before I went back home for the Christmas break.
She didn’t look surprised. “Why didn’t you?” she asked as she wrote in
her book.
I looked at her black hijab – something that made me feel like a fraud
whenever I wore it nowadays.
“Dr. Na’ima, where are you from?” I asked. I had always wanted to
know.
She made some notes again, dropped her pen and glanced at me. “My
parents moved here from Somalia when I was five,” she removed her
glasses, “Fa’iza, why do you use avoidance as a coping mechanism?”
“I wasn’t avoiding. I’ve always wanted to ask,” I answered.
She looked through her notes, “You keep talking about this marriage,
you don’t say who he is, or what happened and when I ask, you change the
subject. Why do you think that is?”
I didn’t tell her the truth until the second session of the new semester,
after I’d come back from Nigeria. “I think I’m being punished for my sins,”
I said. As I used my fingers to smooth the fabric of my long skirt.
She didn’t write anything in her notebook. “Who’s punishing you?” she
asked gently.
“Allah.”
“And why are you being punished, Fa’iza?”
I chose a Muslim therapist because she would understand. From her
profile, I had read that she was an Islamic therapist who mostly worked
with Muslims, so I knew I didn’t have to explain the tenets of my deen to
her, since I was paranoid about going with a Nigerian therapist, scared that
they might know someone who knew my family and I was scared of this
aspect of my life finding it’s way to my family. Dr. Na’ima here would
understand the different levels of my error. For me to heal, I had to accept
everything that had happened with me and Ahmad and talk about it with
someone who could help because clearly, bottling it up was not helping.
“Because I committed Zina,” I said as the tears filled my eyes.
Dr. Na’ima must be in her forties and maybe she had a daughter who
was my age or close to my age. When I finally said out loud what had been
eating me up for months, I waited for the judgment, for the you-should-
have-known-better, you-should-have-abided-by-the-Qur’an look. A year
ago, that was what I would have done. She did none of that.
“Well, Allah is At-Tawwab, the acceptor of repentance. Do you believe
that?”
I nodded yes and broke down completely in the white-walled office on
the 3rd floor of the building. Only then did I begin to heal.
W