Chapter 1

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. It was still early in the day, and the crescent moon hung low in a clear sky. The cooler fall weather had arrived, and it was the perfect time for this experiment. I peered at myself. I was the same and yet not the same. I had felt this split since forever. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when I had felt whole. There had always been a split between the me that was inside and the me that I showed to the world. Looking in the mirror always felt like I was looking at a stranger. I had grown up on a small farm in rural Nova Scotia. I was taught that mirrors were for vain people. My mother and father had strong views on things like "looks." If you put effort into your appearance you were somehow not getting what was really important. My father, for instance, never wore deodorant or worried when the hair on the back of his neck wasn’t shaved. My mother was taller than him and spent much energy trying to be smaller than her five feet nine inches. Flaunting your unique beauty was not something we valued in our family. I tucked a stray strand of hair under the large square of material I had wrapped around my head. I had picked out a beautiful cream with blue flowers. Somehow, even though the point of wearing the scarf was to cover our feminine beauty, our hair, I still wanted to cover it with something beautiful. I had always loved colour. It had scandalized my mother when I came down for breakfast one day when I was eight or nine years old, dressed in as many colours as I could find. My grandmother had always dressed in greens and browns, so Mom didn’t exactly have a role model there. I chuckled remembering my mother’s face. Was it wrong to want to appear beautiful? Modest but pretty—it must be possible, right? I felt doubt creep in. As I was growing up my parents had not actively put me down, but in those insidious ways that families are so good at, I had taken in the message that flaunting your beauty was wrong. I remember my mom saying, “Don’t wear that makeup, you will look like a prostitute.” So, I hid myself behind the persona of the good girl. Mom had bought me boys' jeans when I was twelve, saying that they would fit my body better as I didn’t have a waistline yet. I cringe thinking about it even now. I had wanted to die rather than wear those jeans to school when all the other girls had skinny jeans that showed their curves. If only I'd had the right jeans, someone would have asked me to the Grade 7 dance or even just wanted to hang out with me after school. I pretended I didn’t care. I had other things to do. I stayed in my room a lot. Taught myself to knit from a book. It didn’t matter. If I prayed hard enough surely God would listen. I spent hours imagining my knight in shining armour rescuing me from my isolation and sweeping me off to some faraway castle. In my vision I danced gracefully in beautiful dresses and was eternally adored. I didn’t worry about how unrealistic this picture was. I assumed the magic would happen at some point. The bridge between fact and fantasy seemed insurmountable for years, and I went through high school still feeling that I wasn’t sure how it all worked. It never occurred to me until much later that my fantasy life was what had kept me safe all those years. Safe from the pain of isolation, emotional neglect, and lack of connection. I finally rebelled at fifteen. I believed leaving home was the only option for finding my own way. I vowed to get out of my local high school and away from home. I spent hours researching, looking for a boarding school that fit my talents; by this time, I had outgrown my local music ensembles and opportunities. I finally found Interlochen Arts Academy in the US. I asked my dad to accompany me on the piano as I recorded a few pieces for solo French horn. A few weeks later I was offered a scholarship for music at the prestigious American fine arts school. Three years there passed in a whirlwind of growth and practice, culminating in the huge decision of whether to apply to top music schools for continued study. I marvelled at my friends’ ability to sit for hours a day in the small practice rooms in the basement of our dorms. I didn’t think I had that commitment. In one moment, while I was looking out the window and wishing I could go for a walk instead of practicing, I gave up the dream of becoming a professional musician. I didn’t realize then that I was still running away from myself. I thought maybe I would find more answers to life’s questions in the field of science, so I applied to University of St. Andrews in Scotland to study physiology and was accepted. But my fears of unfulfillment and intimacy followed me. It had been harder than I thought to break out of the "good girl" mould, and I ended up staying stuck in my parents' idea of style and my family’s way of being. “Can’t you wear anything nicer than jeans and T-shirts?” a friend asked with exasperation. Her comment about my clothes cut deep. The hurt I felt finally led me to crack open my "good girl" persona and rebel against the messages I’d received growing up. I had joined the trampoline club at the university and begun to make a circle of friends. My first party, I hung out on the edge of the crowd, feeling like I didn’t belong. Everyone was drinking and I didn’t want to be singled out, so I got myself a glass and poured water into it, pretending it was alcohol. I made myself as invisible as possible, in my head judging all the other people for having fun. Deep down I was scared. Scared to lose control, scared that all the bad things my mom had told me about wild parties would happen to me. With trepidation but increasing courage, I went to a couple more parties and was surprised to find that even though people got silly drunk, nothing horrible happened to them. I let myself have a couple of drinks, and in a desperate attempt to fit in, I kept going to the club’s social events. Aided by the effects of beer, I cast off years of repression, although the guilt seemed to stick to me like burrs. It wasn’t long before I was invited to a party in the next town. I abandoned caution and decided to go. A first-year medical student named Tom also attended the party, and we ended up reading a book together on how to massage your partner. We were both interested and ended up spending most of the night working our way through the book, along with most of our body parts. I found touch a much easier way to connect than talking, and by the next day, we were officially dating. I remember my first kiss. Nineteen was old for a first kiss, but looking back, I don’t think I’d allowed anyone near me before that. We had walked back to Tom’s residence and were standing in that awkward way you do when you know you have to say goodnight but you don’t have a routine with it yet. He leaned down and softly put his lips to mine. It wasn’t a long or particularly intense kiss, but I remember the way the fire in my belly surged up, and I floated home. In subsequent years I experimented with wearing more stylish and feminine clothing, sometimes even erring on the provocative side. My favourite shorts had huge black buckles up the sides, and I frequently cycled around Bristol, where I had moved to do a foundation year of dance training, with a short dress and no bra, attracting many wolf whistles along the way. As I looked in the mirror, it seemed only yesterday I was sewing sequins on a bra for the circus show I had performed in, and here I was, months later, covering my hair with a scarf. I had decided that if I was going to dress as a Muslim, I would do it right. Maybe I was trying to redeem myself. Said had made subtle comments about my short dresses and colourful attire. I had bought longer skirts and looser tops since we’d been together. I wanted him to be happy with me, and by following Islamic guidelines, I made him smile. Doing things right was something that was applauded, recognized. People liked you if you did things right. If there was one thing the education system drummed into us, it was that doing things right gave you value. It had always seemed like a struggle to be accepted in my peer group, but I was very good at being good! As I positioned my headscarf some inner part of me recognized the irony that I was now outwardly hiding more of myself, but I shut down that voice in my head. I pulled the scarf tighter under my chin and pinned it on the side. There was definitely an art to wearing a scarf. My first couple of attempts were clumsy, and I ended up looking like I was wearing a pillowcase on my head. I could feel the pin digging into me already, and I felt a little claustrophobic. The corner that wrapped over the top wanted to stick out, and I had already used three straight pins in an effort to tame it into submission. I looked at myself again and sighed. I guessed I looked alright. Would people be able to tell it was the first time I’d worn the hijab in public? I pulled on my new green coat and buttoned it up. It fell down to my feet, which I had covered in black socks and shoes. I felt much older than my twenty-five years. Perhaps the clothes really do make you feel different. The only parts of me that were visible were my hands and my face. Just as it said in the Quran. I had picked up a copy of the Quran recently in an Islamic bookstore and was doing my best to read some every day. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what had spoken to me in the Islamic bookstore the day Said had taken me in a few weeks ago. The beautiful male voice reciting the lines of the Muslim holy text over the speakers had brought tears to my eyes. It was a deep feeling of recognition, of coming home. I loved the symbol of the crescent moon perched atop the domed roof of some exotic looking mosque. It gave the impression of a new beginning. Like there was more to come. I recognized the feeling of longing from my childhood. The haunting melodic chanting was calling to something that wasn’t quite visible or even knowable. I knew this longing intimately. The chanting and the crescent moon and ultimately the quest for spiritual connection spoke to me. I wasn’t sure I felt quite the same love for the piece of cloth covering my head and the long coat covering my body, but for now I was committed to fitting in as much as I could. I still believed this was the quickest way to feeling happy. Looking the part—in this case, wearing the hijab—was the fast ticket to acceptance. I smiled with satisfaction. I was only going out for a walk, a test run so to speak. I thought I’d slowly get used to wearing the hijab, work up to wearing it all the time when I was in public or had to be around non-related males. I had done my research, read the book on women’s modesty in Islam. I was determined to be an inspiring example of a devout Muslim. I wanted to please Allah, and maybe I wanted to please my new fiancé too. I had heard about Said before meeting him. His charm preceded him. In fact, the jealousy began when another girl training at circus school got to do some extra training with the acrobats from the Chinese State Circus. She had been allowed to train in both acrobatic and aerials, whereas I had been told to focus on aerials. Ostensibly this was because of my "potential" in trapeze, but in this instance that potential seemed to be a drawback. She got to train at the professional circus venue, and while she was there, Said hired her for the summer to work in a show in England. It wasn't fair. I knew I was better than her. I shivered slightly at the thought that in the end, I had won. Said had come to our end-of-year show and had liked me and my trapeze partner, Tony, as well. The day after finishing school, the three of us had gone to work in the show, my first professional circus job after finishing a year of dance training and another year of circus and physical theatre. Tony and I had embarked on the job with high expectations. We were full of dreams of shows and lights and action, so our arrival in Great Yarmouth was a bit of a letdown. The boardwalk looked rundown, and only a few scattered people strolled along the beachfront with ice cream cones and stuffed toys. We had driven up to the address they’d given us only to find the old hippodrome building all locked up and no one in sight. We had been told this was the place we would be training and performing in the summer show. We waited there for ages, looking at each other doubtfully. Were we wrong? Had we been duped? Was there even a show at all? Just then, an unlikely threesome approached. An older man with an old coat that was a couple of sizes too big for him, a young waif of a girl with a tight bun pulling back her thin, blonde hair, and a handsome, Italian-looking man who exuded confidence and charisma. Tony and I stared, transfixed, as they drew nearer. We finally stood up hastily as we realized they were indeed coming toward us. “You must be the new ones,” the older man said, and indicated we should follow him. He turned to the other man and said, “Let’s go to the café and chat about the show first.” “Okay.” The handsome one turned to us and grinned. “I’m Said and this is Basil, the director.” I waited expectantly for the blonde girl’s name but Said ignored her and swept on. “Welcome to the show!” he said, very much like a ringmaster. I smiled back shyly, noticing the muscles of his upper body through his fitted T-shirt. This was the famous Said I had heard about. I was a little awe-struck as we entered a nondescript seaside café and sat down, pulling a couple of tables together to make room for the others who had appeared to join us. “Coffees all around.” Basil waved his hand and commanded the waitress. “Let’s get down to business.” I found myself sitting next to Said and was feeling uncomfortably hot as I became aware of his body next to mine. I tried to keep my gaze forward and not turn to look at him, but it was hard to ignore his raw magnetism. The waitress had apparently noticed too, as she served him first, taking an extra-long time to set his cup down in front of him. Said gifted her his winning smile, causing a rosy blush to rise up her neck. I kept my head down and tried to listen to the talk about the costumes, the set, and all the myriad things that still had to get done before the show opened in a couple of weeks. Said kept his arm next to mine on the table and drank his coffee in a way that made me imagine how his catlike movements would feel if we were having sex. I blushed at the thought and kept my head down even more. After the meeting, Said asked if I had settled into the hotel already. I nodded, still finding my words hard to come by. “Oh, okay then. I have to go there to move into my room. I was just wondering if you were going that way.” “Sure, I can come with you.” The words tumbled out. “I still need to do a few things too.” “Great!” Said smiled straight at me. “It will be nice to have some help for once.” “Of course.” I let my breath escape. I hadn’t been aware of offering to help him move in, but I’d do anything to be around him for a little longer. I was smitten. “Come on, the beach is beautiful, we can walk that way.” He told Basil that he would be back in a bit and guided me expertly down to the boardwalk. “Don’t mind Basil, he is all talk and no bite.” Said walked beside me until we got to the sand and then ran forward a few steps and flipped expertly in a side somersault. “That’s wild tumbling,” he explained. “Moroccan acrobats are famous for that move.” “Oh,” I said, amazed and a little shy—we were now being stared at by many of the others on the beach. “That was really good.” “I’ll show you how to do that if you want. We can do some training between shows.” “Um, yes! That would be awesome!” I managed a few more words. “I’d like to learn to tumble, we didn’t learn too much of that in circus school.” “Oh pfft, yeah, circus school doesn’t know how to teach anything,” Said scoffed. “I’ll teach you properly.” I felt even smaller than I had at the café and wondered if I really was up to the task of performing in the show here. It didn’t feel as if I was prepared at all. Said was only six years my senior, but he acted as if he knew so much more about life. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it all,” Said added, as if he could read my mind. I was surprised that this handsome man had paid me any attention at all. The only boys that had ever seemed to really notice me were the class geeks in school. The type with cold, clammy hands, white skin from staying inside all the time, and no muscles at all. Said was the opposite of all that, with a quick smile and a body to die for. Surprisingly it had only taken a couple of weeks for him to put the moves on me. The other girls were insanely jealous. Said was the guy every girl wanted. Competition for Said’s attention continued the whole summer. I know he loved the fact that everyone wanted him. He had reminded me of this fact every day. “You are lucky I picked you. Look at all the other women that want me.” I had been so flattered he had picked me that I put up with his constant need for attention from the other girls as well. I worked the hardest, I trained the hardest, and in the end, I was the one who moved in with him. There was something satisfying in the proof that hard work does pay off, that prayers can be answered. I smiled smugly at the memories. I would make this relationship work however hard it seemed. I could feel the hard determination rise up in me, almost to my throat, next to where the damn pin was still sticking uncomfortably into my neck.

I swallowed and stepped out of his flat. I say “his” because I had only recently moved in with Said, and I didn’t quite feel it was my space yet. There were other women’s clothes still stuffed at the back of his closet, and photos of past girlfriends stood in frames on the shelves in the living room. I had spent a few evenings alone there, listening to his phone ring and, when it went to voice mail, hearing female voices asking where Said was and why hadn’t he called? My heart always flopped wildly as I pondered the idea of picking up the receiver and telling them to back off, I was living with him now. He had said we were getting married. There was only a small doubt about this that made something deep in my gut clench in anxiety. We had joked about getting married while waiting backstage at the circus show. One of my costumes was a white dress; I was supposed to be a Russian princess while I assisted the juggler with his act. Said played the Black Knight, and he fit his costume to perfection. He looked so handsome in his black velvet shirt, which was open enough to reveal his chest. He looked like a cross between a pirate captain and a gypsy. It made all the girls swoon. Someone walked past and casually mentioned that it looked like we were waiting to walk down the aisle. My heart leaped as I gazed adoringly at Said. I remembered my childhood fantasies of a knight in shining armour sweeping me up on his horse and galloping off. I knew Said had done trick riding in another show; it was so easy to imagine him in the role of my hero. I mean, here we were standing together in costumes that seemed fitting to my fairy-tale image. Maybe it was meant to be. “We could get married, you know,” I said, only half teasing. “Sure,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. I forced him to speak to my parents on the phone that night to break the news of our engagement. As we walked to the phone booth he didn’t seem as enthusiastic as I had hoped, but I forged ahead. He was distant as I chattered on happily, making plans for our life together. He stood at the phone booth, and when I handed him the phone he took it and talked to my parents. That was all I needed to bring my fantasy to life. It didn’t matter so much that he seemed a little too quiet. Never mind, I told myself, I can make this work, I can will him to fit the role I have created for him. A few days later, flowers arrived at the circus venue, congratulating us on our engagement. My glowing face crumpled when Said tried to hide them, saying to everyone that it was a misunderstanding. I shook my head in confusion. But now I was here, living in his flat. Things seemed to have worked out. A niggling doubt always stopped me from answering the phone at his place. I didn’t want to jinx it, mess things up. Something invisible held me back. I wasn’t sure. So, I kept quiet and tried to ignore the phone messages. I concentrated on learning about my new religion. I loved the Arabic words, the beautiful recitation, the piety and passion that Muslims seemed to have for their religion and for Allah. All my life I had felt like I was looking for something, some connection or meaning. Glimpses of a deeper beauty and peace had come to me now and then, fuelling my desire for intimacy with God. Islam called to my soul, and Said called to my child self, the one who had imagined the handsome prince courting me gallantly. He was Muslim, tall, dark, and handsome, with that exotic look that drives white Western women wild. He had shared some of his love for his religion with me, and I could see the desire in his eyes. His words soothed me as he talked of settling down, raising a family, practicing his religion more. He painted a picture for me, and I put myself in the middle of it. The fact that his imagined picture and the reality of the present moment didn’t quite jive seemed but a small hiccup to me. I understood his dream, and I knew I could make that happen. Whether this was for me or for him, I didn’t yet question. I pushed all this to the back of my mind and set my steps toward the park at the end of the street. It was a damp, grey afternoon in Manchester, normal for this time of year. December could be a dreary month. I was used to seeing lights and greenery decorating the houses at home in Canada before Christmas, but here it was not so common. This part of the city had many immigrants, and Pakistani shops were more abundant than the quaint British butcher, baker, and grocers I had become acquainted with in Scotland. I wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas this year. Strange. I didn’t feel too bereft at that thought. I hadn’t been home for Christmas with my family in a few years now. Christmas on your own was a much more subdued affair. I thought maybe I'd call Mom when I got home. I was feeling somewhat sad. I hadn’t seen my parents or my brother since they had come to see the year-end show at the circus school, and so many things had changed in my life. It was hard to know how to explain everything to them. Would they be happy about my new plan to get married and become a Muslim? This might be the most challenging news I had ever presented to them. Maybe I could fit in a visit home before the holidays? Break the news to them in person? I felt better as I thought about this. It would be nice to go home and be with my family for a bit. I couldn’t help feeling a little lost as I waited for Said to find work in Manchester. I had pushed my family away for a long time, but lately my feelings toward them were changing, and I missed home. I wasn’t working now or doing anything really. It had been a couple of months since we had finished our contract for Ford, doing circus shows at the Birmingham Car Exhibition. It had been wonderful to be working with professional acrobats and dancers. To have a makeup artist and costume fittings. I had begun to feel beautiful and inspired with ideas for new acts. But when Said invited me to come back to his apartment, my inspirations faded in the glow of his vague promises that we would build a life together. I felt a slight pang of regret as I remembered performing in the circus. It had been fun and good money for a twenty-five-year-old. I had saved a few thousand pounds in only a few months and had felt like I might actually be making it as an adult. Said had suggested we send money to Morocco to build a house there. His family could look after it for us and we would have a wonderful place for holidays, even to live there eventually. It sounded like a grand plan to me. I had not really thought of having my own house anywhere, let alone an exotic place like Morocco. But if I kept with this path I was on now, my days of being onstage were over, maybe the money also. I had hoped to get more out of all my dance, voice, and physical theatre training. Now my days of being seen at all were basically over. A deep sigh escaped my lips, but as I breathed in the damp December air, I remembered my desire to become a true Muslim. It shouldn’t matter if I made money or not or ever made the big time. Surely pleasing God was more important than doing what I wanted. Only a year before, my life goal had been to see my name in lights. Broadway perhaps, the West End. A circus school friend and I had begun to plan our own circus show, a rendition of Peter Pan with circus acts, performed on a tall ship as the stage. Ideas and inspirations had flowed easily and bounteously. It had been almost too amazing to contemplate. But then that inner voice began its ruminations. What if? What if you never make it, what if you end up on the street, begging for handouts? What if you go from one audition to the next, only to be told you aren’t what they're looking for? Is it worth all that pain and rejection? The old patterns of doing what others expected surfaced with a vengeance. Being good was easy, living into my own greatness was not. Now the little voice in my head told me I would be rewarded for my persistence and piety, if not in this life, then in the hereafter. I let my breath out with a sigh. I had given myself permission to hide, and for now that felt better than the fear of my unknown greatness. I have known The Voice for as long as I can remember. I believe it started off as a comfort. The Voice comforted me when I felt lonely or afraid or was tired of hearing my parents argue in the other room. The Voice was my companion, he could play my handsome prince, my long-lost friend, my erotic lover. He could always be counted on to be there. So, I am not sure when his persona began to change. Somewhere along the line, The Voice became not only protector, but persecutor. The comfort he provided became infused with thoughts like, “You don’t belong out there, stay here and be safe with me.” “No one wants to be with you anyway, why risk getting hurt?” “Other people won’t live up to your expectations, I will do whatever you want.” The Voice shows up whenever it seems like I am enjoying things a little too much. The Voice knows exactly how to squelch my budding enthusiasm for any new creative project. It has a nasal quality that makes it sound like it’s sneering all the time, making sarcastic fun of my ideas. Sometimes it seems that it is protecting me and keeping me safe, but at other times I want to punch it for being in the way of me really being free. It’s a male voice. I picture it as a tall, thin, reedy man with a sharp nose and dark eyes that look at me with disdain. The Voice is mean and I am too afraid to disregard it. I look to The Voice for protection; protection from some internal dread or fear. Like one of Bluebeard’s wives, I do what I’m told to avoid punishment. I sometimes wondered what I would find if I confronted The Voice. Skeletons? Evil? Annihilation? Yes, I think that’s it, complete annihilation. I would no longer exist. At least that is what it would have me believe. I felt the snugness of my scarf and coat; I was safe inside myself. I walked a bit self-consciously to the end of the street and checked for traffic as I crossed over to the park. It was usually quiet at this time of day, so I had taken to going out for a walk almost daily. Said left for his job at the pizza place around three o'clock, and the twelve hours he was out stretched long and tedious as I sat alone in his one-bedroom flat, in a city where I knew no one. Still, I told myself, it was nice to have so much time to do what I wanted. I had always prided myself on my ability to be creative and self-motivated. I stayed up to see Said after work, so we both slept in until almost noon every day, although I was usually a morning person. I would practice my few words of Moroccan as I lay in bed next to him. “What would you like for breakfast?” I said in the odd sounding Arabic syllables. I knew the words for toast, eggs, coffee with milk. That usually covered it. I would slide out of bed and shower quickly and prepare our breakfast. I enjoyed setting the tray on our round coffee table, pouring the coffee into mugs, and dipping my toast into the same plate of eggs as he did. It was convivial, sharing food this intimately. It was the Moroccan way, Said had said. I licked the yolk from my fingers and gazed lovingly at my handsome fiancé. I shook my head as I walked and almost laughed out loud. My life now was so different from only a year ago. So different from anything I’d ever imagined. My dreams and goals seemed to have faded now. Every day that passed in this new city, with Said, felt more and more removed from my old life. This was not the first time I had changed course and given up on a dream. I remembered my thought process as I practiced for my senior French horn recital at the arts school in the US. Would I ever make it as a musician? I wanted to pour my soul into the notes, touch people, make them feel joy, sorrow, angst, despair, ecstasy, but something still remained locked away. I couldn’t open the flow of my own heart—at least not as much as I wanted to. I also realized that much of the music and emotions I wanted to express were beyond my direct experience, and I couldn’t access that place inside me where I could create and feel everything I wanted. My fantasies remained firmly locked up. I could see them but I couldn’t bring them into my earthly reality. I glanced up from the path and saw a couple of young boys coming toward me, pushing their bikes. I looked down quickly. Dressing like a Muslim really did make me feel more modest, less outgoing, and not so inclined to chat to strangers on the path in the park. They were laughing and pointing at me, and I grew suddenly wary. As they drew up next to me, one of the boys reached out and grabbed my scarf from the back and yanked it down. They both squealed with laughter and hopped on their bikes to pedal away, calling back, “Do you have hair?” “Go back to your own country!” “We don’t want you people here!” I blushed with indignation. I wanted to call back to them that I was from here. That I was white just like them. And, of course I had hair! But I kept walking and didn’t turn around. Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes. I tried to fix my painstakingly arranged scarf, now all askew. I wanted to go back to the flat and lock the doors and stay inside. I tried to breathe normally. Should I finish my walk? No one else was around, and there was no one to see my embarrassment. I felt drained and exhausted, depleted from the outside and the inside. I was about halfway around the small park and decided to muster my dignity and continue around to the gate where I had started. No other hoodlums were lurking that I could see. In fact, the only other people at the park were a mom and her young child over by the swings. The voice in my head chimed in. The trials of this life would be rewarded in the hereafter, as it said in the Quran.