Bensalem Himmich - A Muslim Suicide

When Maymuna had just been divorced, she complained a good deal about my brother; she used to lean her head on my shoulder and share her gripes with me: "My name was never mentioned. I'm an unlucky woman. How often did I beg Abu Talib to accept the fact that I was barren and let me stay underneath him. He could have married another woman or as many as he wanted. But what he craved was the wealth his new wife brought with her, not to mention her father's prestige, so he went along with her wishes and agreed to all her conditions…"

I used to give her advice that, she assured me, she was prepared to accept with good grace. I never said a bad word about my brother, even though I was well aware that he belonged to a group of degenerates who aspired to high positions, in the process collecting both promotions and the salaries to go with them. As far as I was concerned (and my inquiries proved the point), they were all merely fancies of this ephemeral world of ours. That is why the only thing I could do was to let him play in the mud along with all the others.

My sister was still a beauty, even though it lay concealed behind the deep wound that remained after her husband was killed at the Battle of al-`Igab* [Las Navas de Tolosa] in 1212, an event that was indeed "a punishment" ('iqab) for Muslims who had been relentlessly stabbing each other in the back and breaking up into separate fiefdoms. Still other calamities made the wound even deeper for her: in particular, she was devastated by the death of her only son as a result of an incurable disease. These days she was managing to overcome her permanent sense of loss and our brother's neglect of her by bestowing on the world a gentle, gleaming smile that never left her face. I still managed to provide her with some solace and consolation. Whenever we met, she would say, "God and yourself, that's all that's left for me."

Even though both women had been badly dealt with by fate and were postmenopausal, they still managed to spend their time on any number of household chores, on chat sessions that included a fair amount of joking and tall tales, and even on the occasional muted or raucous laughter-all depending on occasion and place. One of them complained to me once about a pain she had (which I realized was purely imaginary), so I gave her a potion that was actually a placebo, boiled in water and honey. She got better and thanked me profusely.

I always seek refuge at this estate whenever the number of pupils around me gets too much for me or politicians start to impinge upon my activities. This time, I have used the opportunity afforded by such isolation to read The Pure Good by Proclus* and parts of the Theologia* attributed to Aristotle (although I tend to believe that it's actually by Plato). In the past I also used to pore over The Beautiful Names of God by Ibn al-Mar'a* from Malaga and the notes he transcribed from his shaykh, Abu `Abdallah al-Shawdhi* from Seville; and over the compilations of linguists working on nouns and particles such as Al-Buni* and Al-Harrali*God have mercy on the souls of all of them! During these periods of seclusion I also used to peruse books on medicine, chemistry, and natural magic. My attraction to these particular sciences may have been amplified by my ever-increasing interest in trauma care and also in the cracking of secrets and riddles, among them-indeed the most significant of them all-being the disappearance of my manuscript and my subsequent loss of inspiration.

"There are ninety-nine aspects of pleasure that make a woman superior to a man, but God has chosen to make them bashful." Those are the very words of the Lord and Seal of all the Prophets. However, in this Spain of ours that has forgotten all about God, just as He has about it, that bashful trait is no longer to be found among Jewish and Christian women nor even among Muslim women and others as well. Things have now reached a stage where, if a woman finds a man attractive, you'll see her adopting a number of strategies and expedients to achieve her goals, ones that she alone knows how to implement and carry through.

On the seventh day of my stay in Raquta, I was visited by a young man, one of many who, in spite of my own diffidence, wanted me to be their teacher and counselor. Many of them are under twenty years old, and I am only a few years older than they. This particular young man was clearly the most aristocratic of all the ones I had met and showed the greatest proclivity for learning. After greeting me, he sat down. He looked flustered and awkward and apologized for coming to see me without any prior notice.

"How did you find your way here, Abu al Ali?" I asked him.

He now looked even more worried. "Master," he replied, "how can anyone led by his heart and possessed of both sense and tongue possibly lose track of you?"

"What is it you need, my brother?"

"I need your counsel. I don't know if you remember Rachel. She became available to me after she converted to Islam and recited the statement of faith. She took the name Fatima, and we were married in accordance with the practice of God and His Prophet."

He stopped talking abruptly, and I seized the occasion to congratulate him on his marriage. However, I also noticed that he seemed distressed and unhappy.

"God should not bless this marriage. It took only three months for me to discover that my wife had become a Muslim only superficially; she was actually still Jewish. I have proof and evidence for what I am claiming. Master, I am in a complete quandary as to what to do. I have abandoned the marriage bed to avoid any suspicion of hypocrisy on my part, which would make my situation difficult, if not impossible…"

A tricky situation indeed! What was I supposed to tell him? While I was preparing an answer, I asked him about Rachel's elder sister with whom I had had a relationship a while back. He told me that she was primarily responsible for the situation he found himself in; it was she who had incited his wife to go through the pretense.

"Put your trust in God," I told him. "He will suffice for you, and He is a good trustee. Allow your good intentions to control your bad ones. For the time being, stick with what is on the surface. However, if what lies beneath floats to the top and causes trouble, then marshal your intellectual forces and separate yourself at your own discretion. You possess such power and responsibility. As regards Sara, I hope to be talking to her fairly soon, God willing."

This follower of mine seemed pleased with what he had been told. Standing up, he said his farewells and left. He was trailed by my affectionate looks and the memory of a story connected with the girl who was in love with him. When I was living in my house in Murcia, she came to see me two or three times before her marriage to complain about how strict and prudish her husband was. Quite apart from the undeniable fact that the girl was extremely beautiful, she also spoke Arabic and had memorized poetry by the great Arab poets. No sooner had she come in and greeted me than she started describing the situation, using wonderful lines of poetry from the classical tradition, all beautifully rhymed and metered. I in turn recited some others and related to her tales of love and other similar topics, all in an attempt to offer her some comfort and consolation. There was one occasion-it was almost nightfall-when my house-servant informed me that this woman was at the door and her condition seemed serious. I allowed him to bring her in and stay with us. She was indeed a nervous wreck; her face was pale and her eyes were red from weeping.

"What's the matter, Rachel?" I asked after returning her salutation.

Sitting opposite me, she downed a full glass of water. After taking a deep breath as though to gather together all her strength before telling me something really serious, she seemed to calm down a little.