Veiled PAGE

Email:   vulcan@anarchocat.com

21

Two weeks later:

Peterson:

The brothers had developed a new MC process that allowed Faizah and, of course, other women who were useful for us, such as doctors, programmers, etc., to interact freely with the public. We just reconditioned her in the madrasah. I was sitting with the imam over tea when she entered.

"Salam Alaikum, gentlemen, can I have some tea?" she asked quite frankly.

"You want to drink tea with us men?"

"Sure, what's the big deal", she replied sniffily. "Don't worry, I'm still on your side, but not so handicapped anymore. Now I have less fear of contact with strange men, but I am, Allah is praised, still a Salafist of the purest water."

"Then I will pour you a cup of tea, if you will permit me," I offered her.

"No way my master will serve me, it's always my job," she said. "Everything remains as it was. I want to be an obedient woman to you and serve you, and then I am also your happy wife. And of course, I will not drink tea with men."

She rose and went to the women's wing. She knew her place in life. I said to the Imam:

"Meiser has a problem with his second wife, Rabia. He thought he could start over with her again, but she had hurt him too badly in the past. Whenever he sees her, he gets angry, and that disturbs the family peace. He wants to cast her out."

"No problem, a brother from Afghanistan must marry a German woman at all costs. Otherwise, he will be deported.  

Rabia:

"I am so sad. I have given everything I own to my beloved master, but he cannot forgive my sins. I hurt him too badly. I don't deserve to be his wife."

"Bitch", he called me, "Come to me".

Quickly I hurried to him and threw myself to the ground in front of him, as he commanded me.

"I'm throwing you out! I cast you out! I am violating you! You sherd yourself to the Imam and never let me see you again. Get out of my sight, now! Get out!"

I ran out of the apartment as fast as I could. Then out of the house. I was standing on the street, alone, without the protection of a man, I was paralysed with shock. I was no longer Caroline Meierberg, the woman who got whatever she wanted. I was Rabia, a woman who served her master, who lived under the protection of his house and who never stood alone in the streets.

"You deserve that, bitch, you belong to what you are: filth." Full of shame I made my way to the Imam's home. I stood in front of his door and wanted to ring the bell. There it drove through me, and I am a dishonourable slut and a rejected woman, how can I face a man like the Imam? I collapsed. I came back to myself in Selima's room.

"Are you finally awake you unworthy?" a black ghost asked me. "I put out my old Niqaab and an old Abaya to you. Put this on so that you do not insult anyone. Then you gag yourself so that your voice does not offend and wait." It was like her words were whiplashes. Nothing sisterly, but most profound contempt lay in her voice. Whimpering like a dog, I covered myself as fast as I could and gagged myself. She pointed into a corner.

"Crawl away and don't disturb me." It was a tiny little niche between wall and door where I had to crouch down. When the door opened, it painfully squeezed me into the corner. Genna, Kamila and Djamila came to visit. Selima received them at the door. In pain, I squeaked through my gag.

"Shut up, bitch," she told me. The women ignored me. Selima left the room to get tea and pastries for her visit, not without ramming the door into my cross again and the same again when she came back. My master was right, and I belong to what I am: Dirt. Sometime later Selima said: "

You shall go to the madrasah. Hurry, they are waiting." Her biting words ripped me out of my self-pity, and I hurried to the Madrasa. As grateful as I was to Selima for her old veils, I would not have been able to take a step into the madrasah. So I entered quickly and huddled in a corner. The Imam came accompanied by a man I believed to be a good sixty years old man in Afghan clothes; as I would learn later, he was already eighty. He said:

"This is Adil. You will be his wife, and you will work your guilt off on him with total devotion through absolute obedience and subservience. Come with me! I followed him into his office and signed the necessary papers in the presence of a notary. " According to the Sharia you are now his wife, the civil wedding will take place in three weeks. Do honour to your husband so that yours may be restored soon". My new husband handed me a bale of blue cloth. It was a burqa. Gratefully I pulled it over me to hide the dishonourable bitch. Silently I followed him to my new home. It was a tiny two-room old building. It was to be the place where I was to serve my master and protector for the next few years and which I was never allowed to leave.  

Selima: "Today I want to ask Kamila if she wants to be my sister-wife. I had invited Genna and Kamila for breakfast.

"Well, Genna, finally you are also a Muslimah. I am so happy for Kamila. How often has she told me how much she desires to see her family united in the right faith."

"Yes, Islam has reunited my family. He saved my marriage and my daughters are closer to me than ever."

"They will marry soon, then you will be alone in your big house, like me. When there are no visitors, I often feel very lonely," I said. Genna took me in her arms and said:

"Forgive me, for us everything is still so new, and I don't like the thought of a second woman next to me at all. "You will see that very soon your attitude could change. What remains for you if your husband claims his right, you have to obey him. It would be your duty to love the new wife like all the sisters and to share everything with her because no one should be preferred."

"I know that you are right and I know that I will find myself in my fate as a Muslimah. I never want to give up this life again."

"That's why Ibrahim wants to take Kamila as our second wife. We got so close on the weekends and Ibrahim is happy when she is there. What do you mean?"

"But she is only nineteen and Ibrahim is hardly older than me. That's not possible at all," she shouted indignantly.

"Mama! Is somebody asking me," Kamila interjected?

"No!", Genna and I shouted at the same time. Then it was silence. We looked at each other and fell into each other's arms laughing loudly. We knew who it is, who decided whom Kamila had to marry in the end. No matter whether we fought or loved each other.

"Well, Kamila, what do you want to say?" Genna asked more conciliatory.

"Of course, as an obedient daughter, I will marry the man whom my father determines. If I were to become the second wife of Ibrahim Arslan, I would be deeply honoured," she said. I was very proud of her and said:

"Be always welcome, dear sister, and you know that you too may become a niqaabi as the wife of an imam. Maybe also your mother! After all, she is his mother-in-law." Genna said:

"Sometimes I think of the time before my conversion. If somebody had told me six weeks ago that I would dream of living a Niqaabi life, I would have laughed at him. I had no idea how happy that would make me. But it is decided, we will submit to our destiny."

Then we sat for an hour with tea and chatted about this and that, and then they had to leave. Shortly afterwards my master appeared:

"And how did they react?"

"They will submit, Lord! May I speak?" I asked submissively. Now that my Lord was in such a good mood, the joyful news of his early fatherhood should undoubtedly please him.

"Speak!"

"I am finally pregnant, Lord!" He said:

" Praised be Allah" and went.