Diary of a married woman

I woke up one day and I did not recognise myself; I looked in the mirror and saw someone else entirely. Who is this? What happened to me? I got married five years ago to a decent, respectable man. I have twin daughters, as cute as any mother could be blessed with. I have a house. It does not entirely suit my taste, but everyone else seems to like it. What is wrong with me?
I'm depressed, dazed and confused. My zest for life is gone, my passion for the world has faded away and my life is almost unbearably dull.
I sit on the sofa for days on end, thinking: is this married life or is it just me? I've been over every detail of my daily routine. Everything is good except for one thing and one thing only: my husband.
I've discovered that while I do like marriage, I don't like who I am married to. I don't like him at all. It wasn't much of a discovery, really. It was more of an awakening from a state of denial that I have been living in for quite a while.
Then I remembered some of my personal history, which must be pretty similar to that of many girls my age at the time. I was fun- loving, energetic and very active, especially when it came to travelling. That did not suit my family very much. The pressure soon started. "When do you plan to get married?"
I knew that none of the men I liked would suit my family. The pressure did not seem to let up, occasionally breaking out into bitter fighting. It was not that I did not want to get married. I just wanted to pick Mr Right out of all the Mr Wrongs hovering around. But my family would not stop and, frankly, I was not getting any younger.
Finally, I met my husband in the confines of an office. He carried himself well and was respected by our colleagues. He was decent and nice; came from a good family and had a promising career.
The traditional groom specifications were all there. I ticked all the right qualities off the checklist and -- for a while -- I thought I was doing the right thing.
I left all the arrangements to my family and his family, starting from my wedding veil to the furniture to be put in my new house to the wedding ceremony itself. Everything was done according to what they wanted and thought was "fit and proper."
I kept telling myself, "I messed up in my previous relationships, so I must have been doing something wrong. My family must be doing the right thing."
Big mistake. But I discovered that too late -- by the time I realised what was happening, I had already gotten married.
So I tried to be a good wife, and I was, but the way my husband neglected me was too much to bear. I was taking responsibility for everything. His job, it seemed, was only to bring money into the household. That's it. Nothing more. He is decent but cold, he is respectable but timid. All his promises of fun, travelling, sports and friends have vanished in a circle of laziness, drowned out by his snores on the living-room couch in front of the TV. Our life together seemed to be that of a 60-year-old married couple.
But I'm outspoken and frank, especially about how I feel. I spoke to him a thousand times, but to no avail. My words about "love and emotions" where met by his words about responsibilities and finances. Any emotional gestures I made would be met by sarcasm.
Well, anyway, I had been married for a few months by then. Everyone told me: "things will change once you have a baby." Doing the "right thing," I followed their advice and gave birth to my twins. Another big mistake.
But finally, the morning of my awakening came. I decided to get a divorce. I couldn't live like that. I didn't love him and there was a big difference between how I wanted to live and how he wanted to live. We were too different for life to continue peacefully. End of story.
Or so I thought.
In fact, the story was only just beginning. I asked him to give me a divorce. He simply refused. I begged my father to intervene and ask him to give me a divorce, only to be confronted with great rage. "How could you ask for divorce for such a minor reason?" he bellowed. But it's a major reason for me, I replied. I don't love him and I don't want to live with him.
That, it seems, is not good enough.
Does he hit you? No. Is he a womaniser? No. Is he a miser? No. He is a good man but he's not for me. What does the reason matter? I just want a divorce.
It's my God-given right to get a divorce when I ask for it, no matter what the reason. Second thoughts, and the fear they implanted in me, are what made me decide to give my marriage another chance. For the sake of my babies, if nothing else. For a couple of years, we tried and things turned from bad to worse. I started flipping out: I lost 20 kilos in weight and spent money on therapy. I just couldn't take it any more. I did not want this good man in my life. So, I asked for a divorce again and the humiliation started. Provoked, the "good man" existed no longer.
I was told to "leave the house and file for a Khul' case." That kind of divorce would mean I'd get none of my financial rights. It would also mean that I'd be taking the father of my children to court; a scandal.
Support from my family? "We will not be party to a divorce," they declared. "We will not help you destroy your life." But I hate my life and I can't bear it any more. Not good enough. But I'm not able to have close contact with my husband, we don't understand each other, we don't communicate, we have nothing in common and our life together is getting from bad to worse. None of this was considered good enough.
Meanwhile, life at "home" grew deteriorated dramatically. Fights, insults and, before long, new rules set down by the master of the house. Before long, the maid had more say in how the house was run than I did.
At one point, we agreed that I would leave everything to him, find an apartment and move out, in return for a divorce and custody of my babies. Of course, I had to find a job that would pay enough to do that. The search began, and the tension mounted. He would threaten to throw me out of the house. One time, I actually packed, took my babies and went to my family's house. I was hysterical, so they took me in for a week or so only to drive me out again.
My father kept haranguing me for what I was doing to my life, framing the whole thing as my mistake for not living "like everybody else." He would cite fearful examples of other women who had lost their homes, kids and lives by asking for divorces. There would be no help from my father, I finally realised. All I asked for was to be left alone. I am old enough and strong enough to handle my own life and live it the way I see fit, I said. Totally unacceptable words when uttered by a woman. So I was driven back into the hands of a man.
I started at my new job, and prepared myself to begin a new life. The life that would require me to get an apartment, furnish it, pay the bills, supply it with food and, last but definitely not least, take responsibility for a house and two kids. Very tough but, I insisted, do-able.
I knew I would have no time for myself and no entertainment, but then again, it seemed much better than living with him, especially with all the resentment we now had for each other.
I didn't expect what happened next.
When he discovered that I was actually going ahead with the plan, he went crazy. He did the unforgivable: he hit me. His heavy hands slapped me on the face several times, until my cheeks went numb. His eyes were crazed and bright with rage. His well-built body took on the shape of an ape and his huge hands came down on me like bludgeons. I was shocked, my whole body trembled and I couldn't move. I couldn't even cry. It was as if the tears were stuck behind my eyes.
My toddlers witnessed the incident. From within a dream-like state, I could hear their screams ringing in my ears like sirens of alarm. They ran over to me. I suppose they were trying to save their mummy from aggression -- but what could they do in front of a giant?
My "decent" husband resorted to violence because he had to prove his manhood and authority.
The first thing I did was call up his father, who had previously been alarmed at my insistence on getting divorced. He said, very plainly: "This is none of my business, file a Khul' case." So I turned to my own father, who said: "You must have provoked him, deal with it yourself, and not by coming here."
What had become of the first major criteria for getting divorced?
I started taking medication -- anti- depressants, anti-anxiety, or whatever they call those pills that stop you from throwing yourself out of the window. I gulped them down for a few days and -- of course -- I was forced to quit my new well-paid job.
Islam gave women the right to divorce their husbands and my newly religious husband now insisted that merely asking for divorce would take me to hell.
Now, my "devout" husband -- who only very recently started praying and reading books on religion -- decided that he knew all about religion and gave himself the authority and jurisdiction to interpret the Holy Book. By refusing to divorce me, he was "saving me from going to hell," he said. Hitting me was "using his right to enforce stability and respect," he said. By denying me my financial rights, he was "implementing the Khul' rules in religion."
So once again, I tried to talk some sense into him. The situation now is out of control, I would say, we have to find a way out. Agreed, he would say. But these were glimmers of hope that were only shattered the next day.
He decided I was not fit to be a mother. "You are a woman who goes out, stays late at friends' parties. I don't want my kids to be raised in a debased atmosphere," he yelled.
All of a sudden, I was adjudged morally inadequate to raise his children. All of a sudden, I was a woman who is unfit. All of a sudden, my friends were all wrong.
But I am the same person you married a few years ago. My friends are the same and my outings are the same. Who am I talking to here?
So then he threw another couple of options at me. Either I live with my family "under their control" or I stay in his house "under his control." At first, I refused vehemently. Thinking again, I thought, better to be with my family than here with the wife-beater, the wife- humiliator.
But guess what? My family would not take me. They would do anything, they said, they could bear everything -- except dealing with a "divorcee." They didn't seem to mind that their daughter was living in hell, losing her physical and mental health. Nothing else mattered but that she stay married.
"Shame on you," they cried, "shame!".
From my married friends, I usually get the "and who loves her husband anyway?" jibe or the "at one point or another, the man will surely hit his wife" wisdom.
The alternative, of course, is to file a Khul' case. But did you know that not all Khul' cases are accepted by the courts, let alone won. Can you imagine what would happen to me if I went through the procedure and didn't win? A good attorney might be the answer, but there is only one problem with him: he takes a fee of LE30,000. Even then, the case may not be won.
Even if I win, what about the scandal, what about the humiliation of courtrooms? And how can I face my daughters after taking their father to court? What if my husband, who has turned into a vengeful, violent, illogical person, files a custody case on the basis of me being "unfit"? What chance does a non-veiled independent woman, repudiated by her family, have of making it on her own in Egypt?
My husband now tells me that I have no choice but to live with him, under his rules. He says he will start reshaping my character, my ideas and my morals in the way that he wants them.
Of course, I know what will happen if I do not comply.
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