Divorce Islamic Style (2 page)

He said to me in a serious tone:

“Signor Christian Mazzari?”

“Yes.”

“Hello. I’m Captain Tassarotti from the SISMI, military intelligence. I’d like to talk to you.”

The word “SISMI” didn’t scare me. In three years of work at the court it often happened that I worked with the antiterrorism squad. In particular I’d been asked to translate telephone wiretaps and propaganda flyers.

Together we left the court. We got into a waiting car, and the driver immediately headed toward the sea.

The captain’s way of proceeding impressed me. He got to the point immediately, without beating around the bush; maybe he was in a hurry or maybe he had intuited my great need for coffee in order not to fall asleep. He started off with a sentence that left no room for doubts: “Signor Mazzari, we need you for a mission.”

He took a piece of paper from a file and asked me to read it carefully. I noted that the document, printed on letterhead and marked by various stamps, had many blacked-out lines. The letters, however, appeared to have been written on a typewriter.

Subject: Operation Little Cairo

Our services have received reliable information from American and Egyptian colleagues, according to whom a large-scale attack is being planned in Rome. Two terrorist cells seem to be involved in the operation.
XXXXXXXXX
up to now we have succeeded in identifying only one of them.

The subjects gravitate around Little Cairo, a call center in the Marconi neighborhood. The place is managed by an Egyptian citizen, xxxxxxx, and frequented by many foreigners, especially Muslims.

This information confirms the contention of the Western intelligence services that Al Qaeda has changed its strategy with respect to September 11th. Today it no longer relies on terrorists arriving for a mission but is taking advantage of the presence of Muslim immigrants in the West to commit attacks.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Al Qaeda has changed its strategy with respect to September 11th. Today it no longer relies on terrorists arriving for a mission but is taking xxxxxxx

The attacks of March 11, 2004, in Madrid fit into this new criminal design: the terrorist Jamal Zougam and his accomplices were for the most part Moroccan immigrants, apparently integrated into Spanish society.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbe no risk to my safety, because the operation would take place not in the enemy’s camp but at home, in Romexxxxxxxxxxxx

We are obliged to use all possible means to defend ourselves from these new terrorists “made in Italy.” In the current situation we do not have sufficient operatives available to evaluate the structure and modus operandi of this terrorist group. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There are numerous questions: are the two cells in question autonomous or affiliated with some international terrorist organization like Al Qaeda? What are the perceptible objectives chosen in order to strike Rome, capital of the Italian State and home of the Vatican? xxxxxxxxxxxxxx the answers to all the questions that occurred to me. So, after a few minutes, I knew about the mission: I was to be a xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx ab.

Yet we have known for a while that they have targeted: the Colosseum, the Jewish ghetto, the Basilica of St. Peter, the Termini station, the subway, and the United States Embassy on Via Veneto.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s likely that the first cell on Viale Marconi functions as a cover, that is, providing logistical support to the other. It is suspected besides that there are suicide bombers ready to act to cause the maximum number of victims. For this reason an emergency plan must be put in place under which help can be provided to thousands of wounded. In the light of all this, we consider it indispensable to prepare public opinion for the worst, at the risk of causing alarm.

At present we are working to identify the elements of the second cell. To accelerate the time frame of Operation Little Cairo, we have decided to xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Garibaldi? To tell the truth, the word “country” gives me shivers only when I hear the national anthem at international xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

 Rome, April 21, 2005

I didn’t need any more details; the official from SISMI had the answers to all the questions that occurred to me. So, after a few minutes, I knew about the mission: I was to be a spy, infiltrated into the Arab Muslim community in Rome, with the purpose of preventing terrifying attacks and saving many human lives.

This captain of the 007s repeated several times that there would be no risk to my safety, because the operation would take place not in the enemy’s camp but at home, in Rome. “Signor Mazzari,” he said, “don’t worry, we will always be nearby.”

At the end of the conversation he gave me just a few days to make a decision. When we said goodbye he shook my hand firmly.

“Signor Mazzari, remember that Italy, your country, needs you. We are at war, a war against terror, the ‘War on Terror,’ as our American allies say.”

Shit, “country” and “war” are loaded words! And what was I supposed to do? Feel like the savior of the nation, a modern-day Garibaldi? To tell the truth, the word “country” gives me shivers only when I hear the national anthem at international matches; outside a soccer game I have trouble understanding the meaning of it. It’s banal, I know, but it’s the truth. Maybe in our imagination it’s hard to detach “country” from “war”—like Benito Mussolini, just to be clear.

W
hen you’re born you find a name ready and waiting for you: “Peek-a-boo, here I am, see me? I’m your name! Thank you!” Now, let’s say that the name you’ve been given is, for example, Karim or Gamil (“generous” or “handsome,” for a boy), or Karima or Gamila (“generous” or “pretty” for a girl). So far, everything goes smoothly, no problem.

Growing up, however, you realize that the name you find pasted onto you in no way matches your character or your looks, because maybe over time you’ve gotten stingy, or ugly. An insoluble conflict, or, rather, an incurable wound. You can’t be generous and stingy, beautiful and ugly at the same time. And so? So nothing. The name becomes a burden to carry on your conscience your whole life. For a lot of people it’s a real cross to bear.

No one can choose his own name, I mean first name. Let’s say right away that it’s not a tragedy; there are worse things in life, like children dying of hunger or women raped in wars. But for an immigrant the question of the name is fundamental.

The first question you’re asked is: what is your name? if you have a foreign name it immediately creates a barrier, an impassable boundary between “us” and “you.” The name says loud and clear whether you’re inside or outside, whether you belong to “us” or to “you.” An example? If you live on Viale Marconi and your name is Mohammed it automatically means that you’re not a Christian or a Jew but a Muslim. Right? Very likely you’re not even Italian because your parents aren’t. And so? So nothing. It doesn’t count if you were born in Italy, are an Italian citizen, speak Italian perfectly and so on. My dear Mohammed, in the eyes of others you are not (and never will be) a purebred Italian, Italian a hundred percent, thoroughly Italian. Let’s say the name is the first indication that we’re different.

There are always some clever types who choose a pseudonym, but, unfortunately, the problem is more complex, and can’t be resolved that way. It’s like putting on a mask to hide your face. Lying to others and above all to yourself doesn’t lead anywhere. Lies just don’t get very far. Sooner or later the mask falls and the truth is on the surface. It will happen the day you go to the records office to apply for a certificate. And who will you find waiting for you there? Guess. Your original name! It’s no coincidence—this meeting was scheduled long ago. And it will be enough to ruin the rest of the day. But if someone really insists on having a pseudonym, I say, no irony intended: please, help yourself!

In my humble opinion, parents shouldn’t be in a hurry to give names to their children haphazardly, they should wait until the child grows up and get an idea of his or her character, physical appearance, and so on. You pay dearly for a wrong, inadequate, improvised name, because it produces complexes. Tell me your name and I’ll tell you who you are and if you’ve got any psychological problems. Clear?

Often the name hides the parents’ frustrations. Every name has a story. In my case, Safia was chosen by my father without consulting anyone. Poor papa, he expected a boy and had a name ready: Saad, which in Arabic means “auspicious.” Before me, my mother had had two girls. With my birth the family had hoped for a shift, a reversal, a radical change, a biological revolution. The family motto was: a boy now! Unfortunately, desire is one thing, reality another.

Saad is a beloved name in Egypt. It recalls our great national hero Saad Zaghloul. Let’s say, like George Washington for Americans and Giuseppe Garibaldi for Italians. When my mother was pregnant with me, my father thought of nothing but his future heir, little Saad. My birth took everyone by surprise, throwing many people into despair, my father foremost. A newborn, and already I felt guilty. So I dedicated my first tears to my family. It was painful to see them in such a sorry state.

In other words, the situation was critical. Our family’s last name was in danger of disappearing, like a species of bird on the way to extinction. And was I partly responsible for this, or not? Their misery could be read in their faces. It’s not right: three girls, one after the other, without a break.

And yet I have to be grateful to everyone (God first of all) not to have been born in pre-Islamic Arabia. Before the Prophet Mohammed, the Arabs buried poor newborn girls alive. What? It’s true, really. I swear on the head of my daughter, Aida. Why did they do it? The reasons were ridiculous, utterly illogical.

My father, in a burst of pride and defiance, decided not to betray his political idol. He said to all the relatives who came to see the newborn, “This baby will be named Safia, like the wife of the great Saad Zaghloul.” Some consolation! Obviously I couldn’t say no.

Having a name like that is no joke. There are a lot of expectations. Performance anxiety is inevitable. Safia Zaghloul was called Umm al-Masriyin, Mother of the Egyptians. She was very involved in social issues, for example the education of girls. In history books she is recalled as the first Arab woman to publicly remove her veil. Also, she took part in the revolution of 1919 against the British occupation.

The name of Safia Zaghloul is often cited because of the role she played in her husband’s life, and to illustrate the famous saying that in Arabic goes: “
Waraa kull rajul adhim imraa,
” behind every great man there is always a woman. I’ve never completely understood what it means. I find it extremely ambiguous; it can be interpreted in different ways. To whom does the term “woman” refer? Grandmother, mother, daughter, wife, granddaughter, lover? And also: a woman who hides behind a man raises some suspicions: why doesn’t she go in front? What is she plotting? Does she want to stick a knife in the poor man’s back? Is she a coward? Or maybe just timid?

This is the short story of my real name, Safia. But ever since I’ve lived in Rome I’ve had another name: Sofia. Let me be clear: it’s not a pseudonym, in the sense that I didn’t go and look for it. It was given to me and I accepted it. Isn’t there a saying, in fact, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?

Why am I called that? I’m not entirely sure. Let’s say there are two hypotheses. First: people easily mistake (and without any malice) Safia for Sofia.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

“Safia.”

“Sofia! What a lovely name.”

It’s annoying to act like a teacher who corrects her pupils and is quick to clarify: “It’s Safia, not Sofia.” And then why take offense and make a scene.

Second hypothesis. For many knowledgeable Italians, I (without the veil) look a lot like a famous Italian actress.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

“Safia.”

“Sofia! Congratulations, you have a great name.”

“Thank you.”

“You know who you look like?”

“Who?”

“Sophia Loren.”

To tell the truth, Sofia is a name I really like a lot. Sofia Loren is a very beautiful woman and I’m fascinated by her story. She was a girl who was born into poverty and became a movie star. Of course, there are always envious people who say nasty things about her. Like that she married a big producer to help her career. The truth is that Sophia Loren is a great dreamer, and I’m like her. What meaning is there in life if you don’t have dreams? None. Having a dream to fulfill is the best reason for living. There are people who consider life a real curse, not a gift from God. What a shame! Because in spite of everything life is beautiful.

I don’t recall the exact year, but I couldn’t have been more than twelve. At that time we lived in Sayyeda Zeineb, a working-class neighborhood of Cairo. One summer afternoon Faten came over; besides being my cousin she was also my best friend. She was very agitated, and was hiding something under her shirt. She looked like someone who’d just left a department store with some intimate lingerie she’d stolen. “Close that door right away,” she said. “I have to show you something.” She pulled out a foreign women’s magazine full of glossy color photographs and in a disdainful tone yelled, “There’s your Marilyn Monroe!”

I glanced quickly at the photos and answered, in astonishment, “What do you mean? That’s not Marilyn. It looks sort of like her, but don’t you see that girl’s a brunette?”

“Exactly, Marilyn has dark hair, like us, get it?”

The pictures showed a very young Marilyn, before she became a famous actress. She was pretty, but she wasn’t beautiful—in other words, she wasn’t Marilyn with the golden hair, whom the whole world is still crazy about.

I was upset and disappointed. But it turned out to be not such a big deal, because a few years later I made a grand discovery: blondes are made, not born! Justice is done! Anyway, the difference between the two Marilyns, the blonde and the brunette, was obvious. There was no doubt about it. Marilyn was beautiful because she had blond hair. And so I began to take very seriously the Arabic saying that half of a woman’s beauty is her hair. In Italy they say, instead,
Altezza mezza bellezza
—half of a woman’s beauty is her height. Frankly I’m not so sure. Why? Imagine a pair of lovers walking in the center of Rome, she’s tall and he’s short. How’s he going to give her a kiss, or whisper something romantic in her ear? And so? So what. To solve the problem they’d have to go around with a ladder—there’s no alternative.

I have to admit that Marilyn didn’t have much to do with my obsession with blond hair. Poor Marilyn, they all used her and threw her away, including the Kennedy brothers. I wouldn’t have expected it of J.F.K. What a disappointment! By the way, I’ve always wondered: did Jackie know about her husband’s frequent betrayals or did she pretend it was nothing? I once read in a newspaper that Jack used to say, “If I don’t go to bed with a woman every three days I get a migraine!” He said “woman,” not “wife.” Probably Jackie was very busy being the First Lady. Poor Jack, he didn’t have any drugs available, he had to manage like a prehistoric male.

I was talking about my obsession with blond hair, right? The explanation should be sought in childhood, said Freud: perhaps the Barbie doll that my uncle Salem brought me from a trip to London bewitched me. For years I couldn’t go to sleep without hugging her. This is a plausible hypothesis. The only certainty is that even as a small child I envied blond girls for their silky-smooth hair. My hair, on the other hand, was long, black, and curly, and I yelped in pain every morning before school when my mother combed it. As soon as I saw the comb, I ran away, like a hen that’s about to have its neck wrung.

“Saaaafiaaa! Don’t make me angry! Come here immeeeediately!”

“Mamma, you’re hurting me.”

“It’s an order. Don’t act like a spoiled child.”

Me a spoiled child! No joking, please. It was my daily torture.

As time passed, my mania for hair didn’t diminish but increased. So to the classic question that every child is asked, what do you want to be when you grow up, all my classmates would answer “doctor,” or “architect.” I, however, with great assurance and no hesitation, would say, “I want to be a hairdresser.”

That’s right: a hairdresser. I wasn’t an idiot, I was a perfectly normal girl. I wasn’t interested in provocation. But it was something very strong that I felt inside. One day my math teacher complained to my father:

“Your daughter doesn’t apply herself enough in her studies.”

“Why not?”

“Because she wants to be a hairdresser when she grows up.”

“What? A hairdresser?”

“Yes, exactly. Just imagine! Hahaha.”

All hell broke loose. My father got angry not only with me but also with my mother, holding her responsible for my lack of ambition. (The word “ambition” is a trap for women, as my grandmother will explain shortly.) Fortunately there was always Aunt Amina to come to my defense: “Dear brother, you’re overdoing it with the child—it’s not as if she wants to be a singer, or an actress, or a belly dancer, or something else immoral!”

This experience taught me how indispensable it is to keep your dream safe, and hide it, until the moment you can fulfill it. Talking too much is dangerous. I agree with the French when they say, “
Ceux qui parlent ne font pas et ceux qui font ne parlent pas
”: those who speak don’t act and those who act don’t speak. So I decided to change strategies and convert to the collective dream.

“I want to be a doctor when I grow up, too. I’d like to cure children.”

“How sweet. It’s called a pediatrician. Bravo! Let’s have a round of applause.”

The most one can expect from a girl: a fledgling mother! All in order, nothing to worry about, the little girl is growing up in full obedience to tradition. A neighbor in Cairo, Uncle Attia, said, “Daughters are like hand grenades: it’s best to get rid of them in a hurry!” If anyone asked how many children he had, he would always say, “Three boys, four hand grenades (to settle somewhere, inshallah), and two atomic bombs (one unmarried and one divorced).” Is it a coincidence that the word “bomb” in both Italian and Arabic is feminine?

The truth is that I understood early on, even before I read some books on feminism by Nawal Saadawi, that our society doesn’t love women and above all doesn’t tolerate ambition in them. My grandmother always urged us, her beloved granddaughters, “Don’t get a swelled head, always fly close to the ground.” And if someone ventures to fly high? The family will take care of breaking her wings. Ruthlessly.

First rule of survival: avoid competition with males in every way. In exchange for obedience a woman can enjoy male protection her whole life: from father to brother, from husband to son, from son to grandson. An Arab woman has to get one important thing through her head: to avoid complications she has to live like a sheep. What? Yes, like a sheep, and preferably white, not black. Better to be a normal sheep, conformist. If she abandons the flock she does it at her own risk and peril. She won’t survive amid the herds of wolves! Clear?

In Egypt they say, “
Al maktùb aggabin, lazem tchufo l’ain!”
What’s written on the forehead the eyes have to see. No one can escape
maktùb
, destiny. When we’re born, God writes on the forehead of each of us what we will live until death. Someone will say: this is fatalism, the game is over, there’s no free will, Muslims as usual, obedient to everything, blahblahblah.