Where was the man I had married?
One of Abdul’s younger brothers, Faisal, a student at Seattle University, had a two-bedroom apartment and invited us to stay for a few weeks. Once we got jobs, we would look for our own home. Faisal was happy to see his brother again, and I was welcomed into the family. Faisal was taller and more filled out than Abdul by a few pounds. He was handsome, as I tended to find many Arab men. Faisal’s live-in American girlfriend, Shelly, greeted us cordially. She appeared younger than Faisal, but I had started to feel older and more mature than most in my immediate company. My five-year age difference with Abdul and the many years I lived on my own had started to produce a broader gap of maturity and responsibility.
Their apartment was modest, a basic student environment, and it was apparent that Shelly adored Faisal even when he was condescending and rude to her. This was painful for me to observe. She did much of his homework, housework, and whatever else he wanted. It was not the easiest place to live. Faisal’s arrogance did not impress me then or in later years.
When Abdul had attended college in Washington, he’d had a steady American girlfriend, as many young Saudi college men did. These girlfriends often helped them do their homework, as English was not easy for them. What was life like for these boys? I think of hormonal Muslim males leaving their own strict “covered” society to live in a country where girls wandered freely, without restrictions. These boys often explored a playboy lifestyle when in the United States. I remembered the culture shock I had experienced at the age of eighteen, when I had gone to live in Washington, DC. I could only imagine what it would have been like if had I moved from Saudi Arabia to America. There were stories of Saudi boys in the States who married and returned with a new wife and maybe a child or two, only for the new wife to find out that her husband was already married (of course, his Saudi wife would have to deal with this development, as well). In my case, I had married a man I met in Saudi Arabia who had recently returned from the States, and he had seemed pretty normal to me, whatever normal is.
Once again, as a registered nurse, jobs were available, and I immediately got employment at a home-health agency. Abdul watched Aisha while I worked, and his brother watched Aisha while Abdul had job interviews, which were seldom.
Aisha needed more involved care. When she was ten months old, we found an African American family not too far from our home, and they were able to provide day care. Aisha was happy at their home, and we were happy with their care. She learned how to play on a computer and expanded her world at this early age.
Abdul found a nursing home that provided a course to train him as a certified nursing assistant (CNA), and with this skill, he could find work. It was totally unheard of for a Saudi man to do this type of work. Even Saudi women who became nurses would be patient educators and hospital administrators; no bedpans for them. Abdul impressed me when he said he really loved working with the patients. For a brief time, he was becoming the soft, gentle, caring man I had met in Jeddah almost two years earlier. He didn’t seem upset or too proud to do this training. He said, “It will feel good to be able to help take care of and support my family.”
It had been a long year since returning to the United States. In September, I went to California to attend the birth of the son of my friend Alexa. Aisha stayed with her daddy. Abdul was very comfortable caring for her, and I was comfortable leaving her with him. To my surprise, when I returned to Washington, Abdul told me he had picked out a house for us to rent. It would be great to have our own place again. At times, I had felt like Abdul and his brother teamed up against me, and I did not like women being treated disrespectfully, the way Shelly was being treated by Faisal.
The rental Abdul had found was not at all what I had visualized for our next home. Being a bad pretender, I initially gave what was surely a startled look of disbelief, and then I heard my own vulnerable throat quiver when I replied feebly that I liked the home. Nothing in the tone of my voice would have convinced anyone. There was an intense silence in the room, and I felt Abdul’s disappointment in me. With a crescendo of nonverbal tension building, the drum in my head continued to pound as Abdul’s angry beat rose. Without a moment to spare, I gathered my composure and reined in my unfulfilled expectations. I expressed my appreciation to Abdul for what he did to find a home for us. I was grateful for the time he had taken care of our daughter so I could help my best friend, so I expressed my gratitude for that, as well. A bad scene was avoided, but that would not always be the case. Too bad we cannot rewind scenes in our lives, especially when they should never have happened as they did.
I adapted to our new home the best I could. It did have a lot of the things I had asked for, even if it didn’t fit my preconceived image. Our home became a social place, and when the weather was nice the patio was used to barbecue. Abdul was such a fine cook. We loved having new friends and family visit us in our tiny, cozy suburban home, even as the differences in our upbringing started to become more and more apparent.
At one point, Abdul’s older brother and his family came to visit from Saudi Arabia. I adored my sister-in-law and their three daughters, whom I had met when I lived with Abdul’s parents. I was stunned when their youngest daughter, six months old, started to cry and his brother took her over to the fireplace and threatened to throw her in. The brothers laughed. They thought this humorous, while my eyes bulged out of my head at their response. I was disgusted, sick to my stomach, at what I witnessed. I had heard this brother did not treat his family respectfully. His wife, raised in an open and very progressive household in Jeddah’s liberal society, never covered. Now she felt it to be the woman’s duty to Allah to be there for her husband, regardless of what it might manifest. It was her life lesson, she said, a concept I could not embrace. She was the most caring, loving woman. Why would a loving God want anyone to accept abuse?
Once Abdul had attended all of his CNA classes and finished his practical work experience, there was a test to complete the course. He studied with a group of people from his class. I was excited for Abdul. He seemed to enjoy what he learned and seemed to be happier than he had been for a while. Overall, life was going well in our new home. Abdul and I were tight again, sharing intimacy regularly.
Unfortunately, it shifted quickly. Feeling off, I went to the doctor to find out I had symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease (STD)—something not caught on a toilet seat. I didn’t want to believe my husband had cheated on me. When I confronted Abdul, he vehemently denied it. I also wanted to deny it. I yelled at myself and wanted to deny that this thing had happened to me. Nevertheless, I had proof: I had the papers that stated I had contracted an STD. I was treated, Abdul was treated, and hopefully his female “study” partner was treated, as well. My body, heart, and soul were violated. How does one profess his love for you as his has sex with another?
“You bastard, I so trusted you!” I screamed. I was torn apart with mistrust. I had worked so hard to make a happy life for my family. I left for work with a knot in my stomach and wondered where my husband would be that day. I came home from work with the same knot in my gut. How does one live in the same home and sleep in the same bed with someone who has betrayed her love? Something told me it was time to get out, but I did not know how. Thus began the days with my unfaithful husband and more lies. Where was the man I had married?
After Abdul had stayed with his brother for a few days, he pledged his undying love for me and for his family; he cried and asked for forgiveness. “It will never happen again,” he promised. I so wanted to believe him. We started couple’s therapy through a local church and were told our problems had little to do with our cultural differences, that we were having “normal” couples’ issues, that we were good at playing, but that we had yet to learn how to fight safely and make up.
I listened to my body and spirit and withdrew sexually from my husband. This led to a rocky and abusive home environment. Name-calling and physical violence became the norm for Abdul as his frustration escalated. It was not easy to be called names, to be threatened and hit, and then to be intimate with him, which was how he wanted to make up. Being numb became my coping mechanism. I did not know what to say or what not to say. Abdul called me names that tore at my heart, and he started hitting me more frequently, which made me withdraw even more. A vicious cycle had begun. The upbeat person and problem solver I had always been failed to emerge in this dark time. Infidelity introduced another level of dissatisfaction and misery to our relationship.
While working different shifts as a CNA in a nursing home, Abdul was offered a job by a wealthy older gentleman as his private assistant, to help him with daily grooming and dressing needs. He drove and escorted the man to doctor appointments, on errands, and so forth. Soon, this became Abdul’s primary employment. For a long time, Abdul carried around a wooden box with a huge, portable black telephone for his car, very unheard of in the US at that time, but very handy.
Because my salary far exceeded Abdul’s, my money paid the rent and the bills, including my student loans and a car payment. I didn’t know how many hours Abdul worked or how much money he earned; I did not see. I assumed he spent his money on things like gas and groceries, as little carried over to the family funds. One day, I was outside with Abdul as he got something out of the trunk of his car, and in the trunk I spotted expensive bottles of cologne, some new clothes, and other things he had hidden from me. I also heard he continued to borrow money from others. I became increasingly cautious and doubtful. I had lost my voice, and my spirit was broken.
Walking on eggshells became a familiar feeling, despite my attempts to make peace in the family. Abdul’s anger increased, and the verbal abuse got worse. Being called degrading names became the norm for me, and now Aisha was being scolded frequently by her father because she was too messy or too noisy. She was not yet one year old. It had been a long, painful few months that never seemed to end.
I had fallen in love with a special, caring man. Where had this anger come from? What had caused it? Moving to Washington had not helped. The constant turmoil behind closed doors got the best of him and of me. I was afraid and beaten down. Not wanting to let others know how miserable my life had become, I started to isolate myself. I had not listened to their warnings. We were falling apart; a villain had invaded the fairy-tale life I had dreamt of.
One of the things I had always loved about Abdul was the way he had treated me in Saudi Arabia. He was great to be with, respectful and gentle. Now he was increasingly aggressive, hitting me, pushing me, pulling my arms back, and threatening me. This was a strange place for me, one I had never visited; and I was paralyzed, both mentally and physically. Seldom was a raised voice or any name-calling heard in my upbringing. We didn’t hear it from my parents, and my siblings and I would have gotten our mouths washed out with soap had we tried. One parent hitting another was unthinkable, although we did receive some physical discipline as kids when we were younger, as my mom might spank or swat us for misbehaving with whatever was near at hand, as was common practice in those days.
Abdul was now upset and angry if I took too long to get home from work or talked to someone I shouldn’t have, or if I said something he didn’t like. I was in trouble all the time. His behavior left me frozen, unable to respond anymore, except to my daughter, who kept me going. I took one step after another, at a snail’s pace at times, to get through the day. Caring for Aisha saved my life but caused more jealousy from her father.
On the surface, around others, Abdul was still a charming, attractive, and supportive man. Friends and family liked him, but behind closed doors chaos bubbled, like a volcano about to erupt. Little did anyone else know the hell in which I lived. It was an utter shock to me, and I was too embarrassed to admit to anyone that it was happening. The fighting was getting uglier. One morning, when I was getting ready for work, Abdul threatened me with a hot curling iron. I had to forcibly push him away. I knew my breaking point had come, that it was time to get out of there. He yelled and insisted that I just get the hell out of the house and get to work. He insisted he would take Aisha to day care. I usually did that.
I tried to sort through the morning at work, but I was unable to cope. My employer was supportive of my intensely vulnerable situation. My fear of what would happen next to Aisha and to me was all I could focus on. My immediate thought was that I needed help and a safe place to stay until we had other options. I could not believe how low I was, and I didn’t have friends to help me. My closest female friends all lived in California, and my relatives who lived nearby didn’t know what my life had become. I felt too guarded to ask for their help. So I looked in the telephone book’s social services section to see what was available; a women’s shelter seemed to be my only option. I didn’t know where else to go. I slowly drove to the day care and picked up Aisha, never to return, and then, in a fog, I drove to the shelter. I could not believe what my life had become.