“Sara, do you know anyone who’s looking for a flat? My flatmate’s moving out and I need a new one,” asked a girl at work who worked in our marketing team. We were stood in the staff kitchen making coffee.
“I’ll ask around,” I promised.
“That would be great, thank you.”
How about I take that second bedroom for myself? Don’t be crazy! Baba would never say yes.
I couldn’t stop thinking about moving out and finally being independent. I was getting anxious that if I didn’t act quickly my colleague would find someone else.
I tried my best to avoid Baba. I told Mum that I wasn’t feeling hungry at dinner time so I wouldn’t have to sit at the dining table with him and stare at my food for an entire half an hour in order to avoid eye contact. But after they were done eating dinner, Mum called me down to wash the dishes.
As I stood trying to scrub burned rice off the bottom of a pan, I felt Baba’s giant shadow looming behind me.
“When you’ve finished the washing up, come to the living room. We need to talk,” he said.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
I felt dizzy as I tried to finish washing up, knowing that it was pointless trying to delay things as I would have to face him eventually.
I dried my hands on a tea towel and walked into the living room, seating myself as far away from him as possible. He was reading one of his books on Islamic law over a cup of red tea. The giant hardcover book made a big thud as he shut it and put it down on the coffee table in front of him. Whatever he said, I wasn’t going to let it get to me.
In one ear, out the other, Sara.
“Do you really have no shame telling Heba I’d beat you?”
I tried to look anywhere except his eyes, which were full of resentment. Instead, I kept looking at the giant black mole that was hanging off his leg. It reminded me of the famous Austin Powers mole scene where Austin couldn’t take his eyes off a secret agent’s giant black mole instead of focusing on their conversation. Remembering that made me want to laugh, so I bit the insides of my cheeks.
“Do you think this is funny?” Baba asked, raising his voice.
I shook my head.
“I’ve sacrificed everything for you and your siblings. I brought you here to an Islamic country to give you the best life. I paid for you to go to good schools and universities. And everything you’re doing is the cause of my illness. My high blood pressure and diabetes are through the roof because of you. If I die, it’ll be your fault,” he said, clutching at his white vest with both of his hands.
I stood up. “No, you didn’t come to this country because it was Islamic, you came because you got a good job offer and you thought you were going to be the big boss. You paid for me to go to a private high school here but I hated it. You didn’t pay for me to go to university, I got a scholarship! And I didn’t cause your diabetes and high blood pressure, you’ve got those because of your crappy eating habits and lack of physical activity.”
Baba was speechless. I readied myself to get slapped. If he touched me, I was going to make a run for it.
But instead of hitting me, Baba sighed. “It’s a shame, Sara, a real shame. I used to be so proud of you. When you used to win Qur’an competitions and the teachers at Arabic School used to praise you and tell me how they wished they had a daughter as good as you.” Baba shook his head. “I don’t even want to look at you now. Another father would have killed you after everything you’ve done. If we lived in Saudi Arabia, you would have been called an adulterer and got stoned to death.”
I felt my eyes well up with tears. I couldn’t cry or he’d win.
“That day with that man in the tent, why didn’t you fight back?” Baba continued. “It would have been better for you to fight him, even if it meant he killed you. You would have died a martyr.”
And that’s when it hit me. He just didn’t care. He’d rather I was killed than raped. I wasn’t the perfect Arab daughter, but why couldn’t I have a father who hugged me and held my hand, who accepted me for who I was and who loved me unconditionally?
I wiped the tears away angrily. “I’ve had enough too. I want to leave. I have a female colleague at work who has a spare bedroom and I want to take it.”
“Go on yalla, leave. Ma’a salama, goodbye,” Baba said, waving his hand dismissively.
So the next day, I left.