The breaking of glass

I was young, barely 7. What I lacked in wisdom, I made up for it by a photographic memory that still haunts me well into my middle ages.

There was a wedding, it was in August; the warm breeze of the evening was unusually crisp and it sent shivers through my slim frame.  I was standing on a balcony overlooking the distant Libyan seafront; I was scouting for the arrival of the groom.

The air was permeated by the sea breeze and the smell of exotic frankincense being burnt to ward off the bad spirits on this joyous occasion; Naima is getting married, "so young and voluptuous, her face looked like a full moon" they would often say.

I could also taste the smell of fresh blood, that of the lambs slaughtered earlier today to feed the throngs of women and children still trickling in, past midnight, to witness the highlight of the evening.  Shot guns were fired, the groom has arrived and I was going to miss him meeting the bride, for the first time, and leading her to what will become their bedroom at his parents' house.

I ran, I stretched my pace at the expense of my delicate dress; I heard it being torn at the seam as I extended my limbs but I still ran to see the happy couple being marched to their bedroom with great fanfare. The singing was reenergized, the whispers were more audible, the synchronized ululations were deafening, the groom was drunk (now I know), the bride was walking by his side with a shy smile evoking the image of the little girl, that she was, being led to a surprise.  I was at the top of the stairs, I had a bird's eye view of the little lamb being led to his sacrifice, they were walking towards me and their room immediately under the circular staircase...little did I know then.

The door shut, the jubilation took another turn and the decibel of the cacophony was at its greatest at the top of the stairs where I stood.  I was transfixed in place, I couldn't move, the party was raging below me but the strain on the old ladies' faces was palpable and the guns went silent; they were being loaded with one single shot.

They say that a man satisfies half his religious duties with marriage and, standing there, I was happy to know that Naima was participating in this glorious and divine duty.  Naima's family is poor but this fact was not lessening her role in this all important mission; I was waiting to see the transformation first hand.

The door opened, the groom walked out undeterred and crisp, the same way he had walked in.  There was no hallow around his head, he did not imbue any divine aura, but he did have in his hands a handkerchief, the one earlier in his pocket, now stained with red.  The stained cloth was nonchalantly passed to a waiting elder; she was expecting it.  I was straining to understand the significance of that white cloth; its appearance magically wiped off the strained faces and imbued them with cheer joy.  I was missing something; curiosity defeated my restrains and the tomboy in me saddled the balustrade and was propelled in the midst of a wave of married women into the bedroom.  I was suffocating, the room was unusually hot, and only the cold corner of the blocked wall kept me from escaping this inferno.  I heard the single shot fired in the air and it was, as if a signal, the indication of a new era for Naima, a much respected married woman now, and her husband.

She won't be buried tomorrow by noon, the single shot did clear the air after all and, I am sure her brothers are being congratulated as was her mom back at home.  I was not there witnessing this scenario but it was screaming at me from my memories and mingling with the cries and whimpers of the still young but now disheveled moon-faced bride.  Once again, I had a perfect view, at eye level, but this
time I stood there in horror barely able to breath and comprehend the complexity of the scene and the juxtaposition of pure joy to that of the uncontrollable sobs of a little girl whose walk to a surprise was shattered by the brutal robbing of her virginity.  I did not know that then but I knew, immediately, that I had just witnessed the slaughter of the last lamb that evening.

The air smelled of blood, cheap perfume, and raw sweat. Naima was laying in bed, her face was covered by perspiration and tears, her hair was in disarray, her eyes were shut refusing the reality of the moment.  Her body was shivering unable to keep up with the tremors of her sobs and yet unwilling to release the last breathe of the living. She was there but the life and laughter that usually inhabits her soul had vacated the premises, in a hurry.

 I could see many hands working in absolute proficiency to erase the savageness of what had transpired; they were, like scam artists, intent on sweeping the shards under the rug.  They say that “glass, once broken cannot be replaced” but my elders forgot to mention that, in good times, when it is shattered, it will be done in public and with complete disregard to the human within.  Some were making the bed, oblivious to the throbbing of a wounded heart within its folds, others were fanning and slapping the moon-shaped face, some were busy wiping the sweat and tears covering the distorted face, while others were busy clapping in tandem and accompanying a chorus of songs and laughter that cut through the warm air like a northern front.
If not for the tremors radiating from the body, I could have sworn it was a status of the Virgin Mary being prepared for a parade. A few kind hearts were propping the bride and drowning her in sugared water meant to invigorate her spirit while others were rearranging the hair and dotting it with freshly picked, innocently white and tiny, jasmine flowers.  The specks of trembling white flowers, juxtaposed to their black background, reminded me of sheep caught on a grey, stormy and thunderous evening, out in open unprotected and in clear sight of the howling wolves.

 I was lost in the moment, lost in interpretations, lost in my own glass castle.  Naima was going through a transformation and I wanted nothing to do with it; I am not getting married.  I slithered through the folds of robes; the door seemed far away, and yet so close.  I was making progress through the sea of matriarchs but I was also being rocked back and forth, back and forth the the rythm of their songs, as if by seismic motion.  Fear was closing in, hope was fading, the door was disappearing, and I was enclosed by darkness and propelled only by my saving grace and survival instinct. I screamed as I broke free and I welcomed the first breath of the sea breeze back up on the balcony.

I freed myself but not my friend who was duped into believing.  I lived on, embracing my tom boy more openly; I wanted to be the Sheppard not the lamb.  I never did make it to see Naima again.  The flood gates remain shut if not for the occasional leak such as this one and that too will be sealed tight.  I am to live with the memories and I am to carry this burden until I can look at the age-beaten face of my childhood bride without tasting the blood and feeling like the scam artists of that day because this is what has happened as I progressed through life with a self-imposed polished imaged of a Saint.

I slipped through the cracks and I saw the unthinkable. Although I continue to roam this earth, a part of me is still there unable to escape the torment of a soul and the vivid images that refuse to die. I wonder if Naima, a divorced mother of six, was able to extract herself from this bottomless abyss in which she was pushed. I wonder if her girls have escaped the same fate or if they have continued the vicious circle of glass breaking.