The First Step on a Long Road

She ran her fingers over the expensive silk. It felt like water as it slipped through her hands onto the carpeted floor.
Just like her life was slipping from her grasp.
The silk had made no sound when it hit the ground. Just like her disappearance from this house would not be noticed.
She looked at the little heap of cloth at her feet, then she rose her gaze to look at her room, which seemed as distanced from her as if she already was gone. The white walls, mould beginning to creep to the surface, were partially illuminated by the evening sun that fell in through the yellowed curtains. Yet there was no warmth reaching her, not even the steam of the tea pot beside her could wake her from her wide-awake sleep.
It did not matter how often she would open her eyes, hoping it had all been a dream. She would not wake up. Her life was not a nightmare - it was reality.
A reality she couldn’t change. Even if she had been able to, she would not even know how she would. Her dreams held hopes of another world, or another existence, without knowing how either would be like - the understanding of what could be changed exceeded her knowledge.
She only knew that she yearned for that very change to happen.
Her reflection in the mirror was but a shadow, the light coming from behind her and coating her face in darkness. It seemed little different than how the world perceived her; a being who was there, but unnoticed and not standing out. Just a little fish in the large ocean.
The ocean that she so longed to see. To feel the water around her ankles, and to know that there would be freedom for her.
Yet what was freedom? She has heard of it, but what should she picture under it?
She knew that she yearned for freedom, without knowing what exactly it was.
Soulful green eyes looked back at her from underneath curved eyebrows and thick lashes. The same colour as the best of emeralds, her father had praised the colour of her eyes.
Had he boasted about them at Ebrahim Sahar’s table, too? Emphasized the glossiness of her rich mahogany curls, the smoothness of her caramel skin?
She would never know.
Even if she would, it would not make a difference. The contract had been signed and it did not matter what has been said to achieve this.
“Zakiyya, daughter, drink your tea before it is cold.”
She looked at her mother, and it took her a moment to realize she was being spoken to, and that a reaction was expected from her. Obediently she reached for the cup, drawing neither comfort nor warmth from the lukewarm liquid running down her throat.
The scents of cinnamon and cardamom did not reach her nostrils, and if it did, she could not perceive them.
“Darling Zakiyya, do not look so stern.” Fatima Halevi stroked her daughter’s hair and sat down beside her. “You will be very well married, and you shall not lack anything.”
“Mama...” She hardly dared speaking. It seemed so ungrateful to voice any complaint or worry. “What if I do not like him? Or he does not like me?”
“He has seen a picture of you and has been very well pleased by it. Your father mentioned your skills at cooking and keeping a household - He will have no reason to complain as long as you are obedient and dutiful as we have taught you.” The older woman’s tone was soft.
Yet it could not soothe her.
Somewhere in her heart, she dreamed of freedom, of love and change. Of neither did she know what it was; yet there was a certain picture of either in her mind.
All her life she had known she would be married, and she had also known she would be married young, and to a man she probably did not know. All that she had known.
Yet she had not been prepared for the despair that had overwhelmed her and still held her heart captured, the despair that kept her from sleeping at night.
She did not want to believe that it was her sole purpose of existence to be married and be an obedient wife, giving birth to her husband’s children. There had to be more.
“Karim is a very agreeable young man, Zakiyyah. He will one day inherit his father’s wealth and his important business, so it is a very good match.” Her mother’s voice was filled with pride, and she knew she should feel happiness at connecting her own family with one of the wealthiest of Pakistan, and gratefulness at her own fortune. Yet she felt abused; after all, she was nothing but a pawn on her father’s chessboard, to be moved as he pleased to his advantage.
“How old is he?” She dared to ask, at the same time dreading the answer.
“Twenty-seven.”
Eleven years older than herself. She should consider herself very lucky. Her friend Simin, who was the same age as her, had been married last year to a man of forty years.
She remembered Simin’s heart break, and how she had threatened to kill herself - Simin had intended to marry her childhood love Rahib, yet their plans were destroyed by her parents’ matchmaking and Rahib’s recruitment.
She nodded.
“He has a sister your age. She will be of great help and comfort to you, I would assume! Now get ready.” Her mother beamed at her as if her world were sheer bliss.
It was all but.
Her mother left the room again, and she heard voices downstairs; her father’s deep tenor, her sister’s squeaky soprano. Mingling with those of people she had never or seldom met, who did not mean anything to her but would celebrate her wedding with her nonetheless.
It did not even matter to her who was there.
She would become Mrs Karim Sahar in only hours, and the undefined hopes she had entertained of leading a different life than the one planned for her would be crushed. Her dreams of changing the prevalent rule would stay exactly that; dreams.
She would follow her female ancestors in obedience. She would live to please her husband, then she would die without being remembered, since there she would have done nothing to be remembered by.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and locked her freedom-seeking soul away, shut her out completely. Then she picked up the silken shawl and wrapped it around her. Just as the tea and the sun, the shawl, too, was unable to warm her.
The door handle’s temperature matched her hand’s as she opened it and quietly descended the stairs. It would be the last time she would walk down these steps, the last time she would look at her childhood home as an inhabitant.
She was so quiet that it took her family a moment to perceive her presence. Her father turned to her when she had reached the last step, and smiled proudly at her. She felt guilty that she could not muster the same joy at this marriage as he could. He had done his very best for her, and now enabled her to have such a well-suited marriage.... yet she was not grateful, but dreaded what lay before her.
“Zakiyyah, beloved daughter. Come here.” He held his arms open to embrace her, and she had to struggle not to cry as she felt her father’s strong and familiar arms around her. She had to think about how it would soon be other arms to hold her. “We are all very proud of you, my dear. You must promise us to be a good wife to your husband.”
“Of course, Papa. I shall give you no reason to be ashamed of me.” She averted her eyes to the ground and followed her father outside into the car.
The houses outside passed by without her realizing what was happening. She was still in her wide-awake sleep, and was actually grateful for it. That way she would not have to worry about the pain roaring inside of her.
She could hear her heart beating wildly as she walked through the mosque, knowing it would be only seconds until she would see her future husband. The man she would spend the rest of her life with, the man who would be in control of her life.
The man who would be the end of her hopes of freedom.
Then the moment had come and she stood beside him. He was young and handsome and smiled at her. Yet what touched her most, or mattered to her the most, were his kind eyes. A smile could be faked, used as a mask - but eyes were the doors to the soul, and she dared to tell herself that what she saw in them was kind and good-natured.
She was relieved not to find the brute she had dreaded, and during the ceremony her heart beat did not slow, but it did not hurt her ears anymore.
She let her husband lead her home. To her new home.
During the journey there no word was being spoken, but she felt his hand comfortingly stroking hers. She could not rid herself of her reservedness towards him, however, and therefore did not experience it as pleasant.
She barely perceived her new home. Maybe she did not want to see it, did not want to see the house she would be confined in for the rest of her life, with her hopes of seeing the ocean, of seeing the world, destroyed.
Through a haze, she saw herself conversing with guests, dancing with her husband, eating the food before her - but she was a spectator, not an actor. An actor was in control of the things happening, but a spectator had to watch, having no influence on the course of events.
It seemed days until the party was over, yet it only seemed to have been seconds.
“Come, Zakiyyah.” Karim, her husband, held out his hand to take her to their bedroom.
Inwardly bracing herself for what would come, she followed him, watching her feet as she did. Nothing in her education had prepared her for this.
Inside the dark room, she felt Karim’s hands on her shoulders and his soft kiss on her neck. Yet it was no pleasant contact for her. Suddenly she yearned for her childhood, when she had been free to run wildly through the garden, feeling the sun on her skin, the wind in her hair... when she had been allowed to dream and hope.
“Zakiyyah, do not be afraid.” Her husband stood before her, and she could again see that kindness in his eyes. Yet it was certainly all deception - he was just another man in her life who would take control of her.
She did not answer him.
Karim sighed, pushing down the wedding shawl from her head. “Zakiyyah, I do not wish to oppress you in any way. I know that this must be horribly hard and all so new for you, but I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make it easy and comfortable for you.”
She nodded her practised nod.
For the first time, however, somebody saw through her. “You do not believe me.” He said.
She dreaded he would strike her, but nothing came. Instead, he continued: “I am sure you agree with me that the Koran tells me to greatly value my wife, not to enslave her. I will treat you with utmost care, for your deserve the very best. Do not fear me, Zakiyyah, please do not.”
It was the first time somebody had asked her to do anything and not commanded her.
“I know you wish to make a difference, to change the world we live in - I want the same. Zakiyyah.”
Something had taken her reservedness from her, her fear, her despair. “Does that mean you will see me as your equal?” She did not know where the courage to ask that came from.
“Of course I do, Zakiyyah. I shall cherish your advice and support in every matter. I know that you did not agree to this marriage, but even if you might not love me, I do hope we will be comfortable with each other.”
“I think that I might love you, in time.” She said thoughtfully. Her life had taken another direction rapidly. Never would she have expected it to turn out this way... What would be possible now?
“It pleases me to hear that, and I shall be honoured if I deserve your love. I believe that together, Zakiyyah, we can take a small step towards changing the world how we want to see it. I wish to see our children free to do whatever they want to do, and to marry who they love.”
She could hardly believe his words, yet he seemed so sincere that she had to believe him. In that moment did she see that not the whole world was as bad as had feared it was, and that her life was far from being over - it was just about to begin. “You think that it is possible to change anything?”
“It is a big change we are asking for, Zakiyyah. Yet even on a long road, the journey begins with a first step, however small it might be.”