When you're twenty four, young, successful, ambitious, respectable and loved by many, you look forward to an engagement enthusiastically. You imagine spring days and hot summers spent with whom you cherish and breathe a sigh of relief that God has given you all that you've asked for.
When three months later your relationship ends because your ex refuses to certify that his apartment, your future home, is his, and instead documents that it's his mother's, you break down. What's wrong if the apartment is his mother's and not his, I wondered? Well, in the future, if your husband dies, your mother-in-law could have the right to throw you and your children out in the streets. If she is wicked of course, and in this jungle, you really have to take precautions of all the roads that diverge infront of you.
But you're just 24, so after the shock is over and after all the tears and sorrows are spent, you sit back and think of the long days ahead, of all the chances that will still present themselves in the future. You just know that you did nothing wrong, that the blame is not on you. That you are still fresh and lively and oh, how many young and presentable men would be interested in you. It can't be the last chance. There are no last chances when you are just twenty four.
The days go by and you are now twenty seven. You have lost hope of ever settling down. You will live and die a medical spinster. It has ended. It is all, all over now. Twenty seven year olds are too old and wasted to marry. Ripe and mouldable twenties and maximum twenty-ones are the cat's meow.
Until a familiar face arrives. A face you wouldn't have even dreamt would think of you. A dreamy, innocent face. A successful neuropsychiatrist, mind you his profession. You blossom again, you keep thinking; is it true, is it even possible, that I have found the love of my life? The love that would linger on behind a loaded and almost unbearable life? At last I will have a child of my own, to raise and pamper and adore and take good care of and die for!
Everything goes smoothly as it should be, a couple of arguments here and there but who doesn't argue? I believe that the lack of arguing is a problem. The lights are turned on, the engagement party is prepared, the few, intimate guests share little chit chats and heart-felt laughs, soft music is played...
'Dah benna m3a-ad...
w law w7na bo3a-ad...
akeed rage3 w law beny w ma beno bla-ad..'
You start preparing for the wedding, you choose the wedding gown and your tailor starts cutting and mixing...you gather bits and pieces of your future household...wrapping it up to protect it from the dust.
But you have arguements from time to time, naturally. You are hurt but you try to 'come on yourself ' because you want this story so much and cannot imagine that it could just end, and that your nights would return darker and heavier. You try, but you fail.
This, in short, is my sister's story. Today she broke off her second engagement. You know when tragedy occurs for a second time, you just suspend your belief for a while. You go through a phase of denial. It can't be true. She isn't going to go through another break-up - oh, no, she won't. But she went through more than just another break-up this past week or so, and the way I see it, for no logical reason. Her fiance had female friends whom he used to go out with and call frequently. When my sister objected telling him how this is unislamic and that she wouldn't accept this kind of relationship in his life, he replied saying...
'So, are you the one who is going to make decisions? Are you the man of the house or what?'
Imagine this! This is how an adult, educated, religious Egyptian guy thinks. This is how he thinks in the 21st century. That being the 'man of the house' means that you make orders, and that your partner or whatever armchair you are married to has to obey silently and that is that.
It doesn't mean that you make your partner feel safe. It doesn't mean that you forgive. It doesn't mean that you tolerate. It doesn't mean that you accept your differences, knowing that she accepts you as well. It doesn't, of course, mean that you enjoy those differences. No. Being 'the man' in a relationship means that I do what I see is right, and not take into consideration my partner's opinion. She is a woman. She lacks religion and mental abilities. It means that I choose to live our life the way I want, because, come on, I am the man. What would she want more than a successful, handsome and religious husband? She should just take it and shut the fuck up.
My sister is no angel. Yes, when she's angry she sometimes hurts me with her words. But as soon as she calms down she runs up to me and hugs me - a hug that wipes out any bitterness in my heart. A hug I never see except in idealistic TV sitcoms.
How come men lost the ability to tolerate? I keep imaging myself in my deathbed, and wonder how people do not imagine themselves in the same position. In my deathbed I wouldn't wish I had lost someone just because he was once rude to me. I was intolerable myself at times. Sure I was. In my deathbed, I would know that this human bond that ties me to all those I know is the most valuable thing I ever had, and ever will in another life. What with the tensions, what with normal everyday issues...they will pass. They will pass and love will live on.
How come people do not realise this fact and just find the easiest solution to abandon one another? HOW COME? Yes, my question is to men though I know there are same-minded ladies out there...but I want men to answer me. Why would you trade loyalty and comfort for sheer arrogance and control? What would happen when you eventually control your partners and turn them to speechless models of patience? Would you be happy then? Is this your way to paradise?
Whatever is wrong with you?