Pick Your Poison
Hidaya couldn’t decide what to do. She could rebel against her husband who had placed upon her an unfair request, or she could comply with his demands and be over with the ordeal once and for all. Two poor choices with equally unpleasant consequences.
Even though his lifestyle pained her, there was only one person Hidaya could confide in. But her eldest was seldom at home and when he was, she was often asleep. She turned under the weight of her quilted blanket for hours that night waiting for the sound of Ahmad’s gentle footsteps creeping through the front door towards his room.
“Psst. Ahmad,” Hidaya whispered, startling the boy.
“What?”
“Come here.”
He stood at her bedroom door, maintaining his distance, afraid the perfume he put on hasn’t completely masked the smell of that which he wishes to hide. She explains, withholding the finer details, that his father wants her to make a complaint about another man at the police station tomorrow, to claim that he assaulted her when he didn’t. Ahmad frowns, annoyed by the question, the moral ambiguity becoming increasingly obvious the longer he takes to respond.
“Did he assault you?”
“No.”
“Then?”
The two remain motionless in the darkness of her room, the tight-lipped son and his troubled mother. A pair of familiar headlights pierce through the large windows of the master bedroom and Ahmad takes that as his cue to leave. A burst of guilt strikes her as his shadow rushes down the hall, reminiscing about the time he would stay up all night waiting for his father to return home from work, and carrying him to bed in her arms when he finally lost the strength to wait any longer.
Hidaya paces around the kitchen, the sleeves of her abaya rolled up to her elbows while the flour used to knead the malawah scatters across the ground. She listens to the morning adkhar through the left ear of her damaged earphones while the other earpiece dangles, as it’s knocked about, her mobile phone held tightly between her hip and the waistband beneath her abaya. The moment her daughter wakes, rubbing the corners of her eyes, dragging her feet along the timber floorboards, Hidaya rolls her sleeves down, over the dark purple bruises on her arms and stops pacing.
“Hey, sweetie. Can you get your brothers? Breakfast is almost ready.” Aida turns around and sits on a chair a few paces from her, ignoring her mother’s request. Fortunately, her brother Ayman hears his mother from his room and rushes into the kitchen, eager to set the floor so they can eat.
“Where’s your brother? Go get Ahmad.”
“He left.”
The drive to the police station was silent. Hidaya spent most of it staring at the side of Ferid’s oval-shaped face, trying to comprehend what he wanted to achieve from this complaint whilst trying to ignore the generous spread of Vaseline that made his brown skin glow. Ahmad had always told her there’s no point trying to understand a crazy man, and those words echoed in her mind for the length of the journey. She follows Ferid into the police station and stands behind him at the front desk.
“We want to file a complaint. A man assaulted my wife,” claims Ferid.
“Okay, please come with us.” The policewoman ushers the two into an adjacent room. She looks over at another policewoman and shakes her head.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“This man assaulted my wife. His name is Mustafa. M. U.”
“Is that what happened?” The policewoman stares blankly at Hidaya.
Hidaya looks at her husband. “Ah, y-yes.”
“Can you explain what happened? In detail please.”
The policewoman opens her tired laptop. Hidaya takes a moment. Even though she was prepared to lie before she arrived, she’s disappointed in herself for being in this position. A fusion of embarrassment and disbelief plagues her. She considers the idea of forsaking her long-standing abidance and turning Ferid’s accusation into a farce, prepared for the physical repercussions that would follow once they return home, her imagination finding it all tragically humorous.
Growing impatient, Ferid continues. “This man, Mustafa.”
“No.” The policewoman raises her hand to suggest he stops speaking. “Not you. Your wife.” She turns to Hidaya who can see how offended Ferid is by the gesture and wonders whether it’s the gesture itself or the fact that a woman is ordering him to stop speaking. Hidaya shrugs her shoulders in response and the policewoman takes that as an indication to change the questioning.
“Ma’am. Do you want to be here?”
Hidaya is silent. She turns to her husband.
“Of course, she wants to be here. What kind of question is this? A man assaulted my wife!” shouts Ferid.
“Sir, could you please step outside for a moment.”
“Why should I step outside? Why don’t you do your job properly! Who do you think you are, huh?”
“I need you to step outside for a moment.” The policewoman remains composed the whole time. Hidaya’s impressed. Not a flinch from the policewoman. She instructs another officer to remove him, and finally, Ferid’s removed, the officer saying anything to mend his damaged pride and convince Ferid there’s some kind of personal benefit to him for complying. His large ego smoothed over by the male officer.
“This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to file an intervention order for you. Do you have a place you can stay tonight, or is there a place he can stay?” Hidaya nods. “Wonderful. Read over this document.” The policewoman places the document in Hidaya’s motionless hands. “Have you read through it all?” Hidaya looks up slowly, nods again. She looks over towards where Ferid was taken but she cannot see him. “Please sign here.” Hidaya signs the document, her subconscious taking control of the moment. “Okay, you can leave. I’m going to speak to your husband separately. Do not answer any of his calls from this point on. He won’t be allowed to return home as well. If he does, please contact me. We see this kind of thing all the time. It’s not acceptable. Do you have any questions? None? That’s fine. Can you find a lift home?” The policewoman hesitates for a moment, concerned that she may have overstepped, hoping Hidaya can give her a hint of reassurance that this was the right thing to do.
“Thank you. I will call my son,” whispers Hidaya.
“Wonderful. Use that door to leave. Don’t go through the front.”
Hidaya turns her head several times before she gets out of the police station. She turns a few more times, worried that Ferid will be right behind her waving a sledgehammer. She can’t help but imagine how enraged he must be right now. He must think she planned the whole thing. Hidaya walks along the main road for a few hundred metres before turning into a service station looking for a place to sit down.
She calls her eldest son. “Ahmadi, can you pick me up?”
“Where are you?”
Hidaya enters the car slowly. Her movements slow and tranquil, expecting to wake up from this fascinating dream any moment now. “What are you doing here?” asks Ahmad, looking to confirm what he’s already assumed. She tries to speak but covers her face instead. A wave of emotions rush through her. Hidaya thought this would be the moment she would burst into tears, unable to hold back her unsightly weeping in front of her son’s judging eyes.
“I went.” She stops, unable to complete her sentence.
“Where’d you go?” asks Ahmad impatiently.
“I went to the police.”
“You went to the police station!” She nods. “Are you serious! What happened?”
“They took.” She covers her face again. “Ahmad, they took him.” Hidaya releases a repressed, unbelieving laugh, her emotions wavering from one extreme to another.
“Did you report the man like he asked?” Hidaya shakes her head no, unable to speak without chuckling. “That’s good then.” Ahmad said, finally.
Hidaya finally stops her laughter and takes a deep breath, looking out the car window. “Gawwa. Stupid. He brought it upon himself,” whispers Hidaya, underneath her breath. Ahmad hearing her, smiles to himself. She continues to laugh in sudden but restrained bursts, trying to hide her excitement, the idea of a life free of a person that has caused her distress for so long, seemingly possible now.