Prologue: I want to give you some context for this true story. It takes place during the tumultuous period of war, in those rare moments of ceasefire and tranquility. Additionally, some of the events I'll be sharing unfold after the war has come to an end. Another thing, some thoughts in this tale might be shocking and even proclaimed by some listeners as not true… this is my story and my personal view.
Warning: This episode contains language that some may find strong from a conservative standpoint. You may not want to listen when with children and please consider whether the content is suitable for young adults or teenagers if they are with you. Otherwise, feel free to enjoy it on your own and immerse yourself in moments of vibrant youth.
It’s spring of 1985, at 11:00 in the morning, I walk on my way to my friend’s house, I feel the gentle warmth of a spring day, at each step of the way I see the streets of my neighborhood in Achrafieh, Beirut, come alive. I even start to hear and feel my stomach rumbling to the delicious fragrances and hints of Lebanese cuisine coming out of the open kitchen windows of the tightly packed apartment buildings on either side of the street, wisps of aromatic smoke, like genie's flames, wave their way into the atmosphere, and I think to myself, soon I will be home for lunch.
As the sun warm rays bestow a gentle caress upon the cobbled streets and the facades of the modest neighborhood buildings that surround me. Here and there, I notice sun curtains partially closed on a few balconies, with fabrics of various colors and shapes. I couldn't help but contemplate how chaotic it is to gaze at all these curtains, yet how mysterious it feels to speculate on the types of people living behind each pattern and how their life preferences are reflected in these sun curtains.
Nature itself joins me on this walk, in the celebration of spring, with JASMIN AND CYCLAMEN adorning the wrought-iron balconies, flaunting their vivacious fuchsia and white blossoms. On the sidewalks, I look at a quaint setup of 2, 3 or 4 chairs and a coffee table, where retired male neighbors and a few spirited youngsters engage in games of backgammon, all the while sipping on the robust Lebanese coffee. The only interruption to the inviting aroma is the occasional waft of cigarette smoke, suspended like traces of nostalgia between the fingers of the players.
And there, amidst this tapestry of sensations, I stroll through the neighborhood, heading to my best friend Rana’s house. The path is an upward slope, challenging but invigorating. Once I conquer this ascent, anticipation carries me effortlessly down the opposite descent, guiding me straight to Rana’s front door.
This specific day is engraved in my memory, because the events that follow will unfold in front of my eyes a bit by bit what is it like to become a woman in the Christian society of the middle east.
As usual, Rana and I we meet every morning on weekends and during school days off. It is second nature for me to head to her place, where we then venture outside for a leisurely walk toward her father's grocery shop. Rana is not only stunning, but she is also the daughter of 3ammo Fouad the proprietor of the most unique grocery shop in the Rmeil area of Achrafieh, Beirut.
People from all walks of life, both men and women, frequents uncle Fouad’s shop to purchase the finest fruits and vegetables available. 3ammo Fouad is incredibly sharp-minded, never needing a calculator. Customers would pile bags of produce in front of him, and he expertly weigh them, deftly pulling a pen from behind his ear to jot down prices on a scrap of paper before moving on to the next bag. In the blink of an eye, he calculates the final bill, earning a reputation as a mathematical genius.
But 3ammo Fouad’s charm doesn’t end with his math skills. He has a unique talent for making each customer feel like they are his most cherished and important patrons. I can still vividly recall the vibrant atmosphere emanating from his shop and spilling onto the surrounding street, creating an ambiance of vitality and camaraderie. His store is always our first destination...
While strolling towards her house, little I know that this morning’s visit to Rana is going to alter our friendship forever, as the news she shares with me marks the end of our childhood bond.
I vividly recall Rana’a striking beauty; her large, honey-colored eyes possessed a piercing intensity, her long, tousled, natural blonde hair invoked images of a youthful Brigitte Bardot, and her full, luscious pink lips curves into a smile, revealing her perfect, white teeth. Even at just 11 years old, Rana has the ability to turn heads, and her mother seems keenly aware of this fact, as I will later discover, she has grand plans for her daughter.
Arriving at her doorstep, I ring the bell, and there she stands in the doorway, wearing a broad smile that adorns her cheeks like two fluffy, pink cotton candies. Behind her, a few other women, presumably relatives of her mother, all women look very happy, they drink their coffee while I over hear them plan shopping trips, they are celebrating something of immense importance, yet I don’t know what it is.
Rana takes my hand, closes the door behind us, and with unbridled excitement in her voice, she declares, "Roula, ejetneh! Roula, I have my period! I am a woman now! this is the day I've been waiting for..."
I am utterly perplexed by this revelation. Trying to remember if she ever mentioned that she is eagerly anticipating her menstruation day. I remain silent, unable to find the right words. If she is menstruating, means today she becomes a woman, what does this make me? We are both just 11 years old, she is a woman, I am a child, her announcement leaves me deeply puzzled.
I recall a queasy feeling churning in my stomach, accompanied by an inexplicable sense of envy. However, I cannot quite pinpoint what exactly I am envious of. I struggle to grasp the significance of Rana’s declaration about becoming a woman. While I do understand that women with periods could eventually become mothers, I find myself perplexed by the grand celebration surrounding the occasion.
I watch in silence, bewildered by the sight of these ladies—smiling, laughing, and seemingly indifferent to Rana and me— they are praising her mom for her grand plans… they are clearly offering unwavering support to her mother, who is evidently overjoyed by the news.
Then, in a sudden twist, Rana drops another bombshell.
Rana: HEY, I don’t think I will go out for our usual walks
Me: Chou asdik? Ma 3am befham
Rana answers impatiently: Surely you don’t understand, you are not a woman yet, according to my mom, this will ruin my reputation if I go out and hang out at the corners of the streets like common girls would.
Me: Ma 3am na3mel chi galat, we are just walking around in the neighborhood
Rana: this is exactly the problem, el chabeb will look and flirt, My mom wants me to stay pure for my future husband.
In this second, and before the word Husband even finishes, I am stunned, someone is pulling the rug from under me.
She explains that, as a woman, she has other things on her mind.
While pronouncing her last sentence, “Khalas, ana ba ba2a bent zghireh, ma 3endeh wa2et la 3l3ab” , she gently guides me to the front door… and I, still in disbelief of this entire situation leave her house and take the opposite challenging walk towards my house.
This time, I do not have a sense of the spring warmth around me, I am not even hungry anymore… I arrive home and go straight away to my mom who is, as usual, in the kitchen washing the vegetables she just bought from 3ammo Fouad groceries shop.
I walk to my mom and tell her every single detail of the past hour, while speaking to my mom, I see myself letting my body heavily drop on the couch and wait for my mother to answer my confusion.
Mama, despites that she is born in 1939 in Palestine and endured the humiliating life in refugees’ camps in Lebanon, with too little access to schools, mama barely finished 7th grade, and yet she speaks stunning English and has an open mind shockingly belonging to a very advanced and liberal fictive generation.
So then my mom says to me:
Chou hal hakeh bala ta3meh, she is still a child! Yet, she continues to share valuable information that hadn't crossed my 11-year-old mind. My mom confirms that Rana's mother is already searching for a husband for her daughter. She wants to marry her as soon as possible, before she starts growing up and becomes a troublesome teenager.
She follows this with the typical Lebanese expression: 'allah yestor 3alaya.'
Fast forward a few months later, I get my period. I know I should be happy, as it signifies something important. However, deep down inside me, I'm scared because I have a feeling that nothing good will come out of this period.
In my house, there is no grand celebration—just a casual 'Mabrouk' from my mom and sisters. Little I know that this casual “congratulation” means a serious goodbye to ' my freedom'
You see, having my period starts causing problems because now that I have it, my father decides there are very few places I'm allowed to go to. As time goes by, he goes out of his way to ensure that I don't speak, look at, or spend time with boys. It will take me some time to grasp the impact of mentruation on a girl's life in Lebanon. All this while, I'm pondering whether I'm living my freedom and exploring my sexuality in the wrong way.
It doesn’t take long to realize that this natural blessing is, in fact, a societal curse.
My brother who is 3 years older than me, comes and goes as he pleases, there is no one asking him where he’s at nor what time he will be back home. In my father eyes and the society, we live in, he is a boy, in contrary to girls, a boy virginity is a shame, and a boy freedom and independence is earned on the day his testicles see the world when channeling out of his mother’s vagina.
My life took a dramatic turn when I started menstruating. Little I know that, on this day, my identity will feel like it belongs to everyone but me. My every move becomes a subject of intense scrutiny by the neighborhood. Men weigh my actions for signs of sexual appeal, while women assess my worth as a potential, untouched daughter-in-law.
The moment I realize my actions are tethered to my anatomy; I resolve to transform myself into a 'Tom Boy.' I chop my hair short, shave both sides, and revamp my wardrobe with wide t-shirts and baggy jeans. I become 'Roland,' resolute in my pursuit of the freedom and independence that society grant to boys, I leave behind 'Roula.'
But my plan does not unfold as smoothly as I envision. My father, despite my appearance, still see me as Roula with a distinctive anatomy. After months of pretending to be free because of my resemblance to a boy, I face a bitter truth—I am losing both battles. I look like a boy, yet no boys are approaching me, and they are reluctant to include me in their circle because I am not as free as they are.
This revelation coincides with my growing passion for music and music videos. On national TV, 'Top of the Pops' is the rage, and through its stage, I catch a glimpse of how girls in the western world revel in their freedom. I know there is no turning back; I yearn to embrace my femininity and explore my own sexuality.
While pop music wasn't my preferred genre, female pop icons like Madonna, Cindy Lauper, Pat Benatar, Tina Turner, Cher, and others serve as my inspirations for freedom. They take center stage, dress as they please, wear colorful hair and their voices resonate in the ears of every boy and girl. Back then, I believe in what I see, I am unaware that these Western women, are also facing abuse, misogyny, and patriarchy.
In my eyes, they epitomize freedom. Yet, it wasn't just pop stars; I also admire Margaret Thatcher, Indira Gandhi, and Golda Meir. While I don’t know as much about them as I do about pop stars, seeing their faces on the news, knowing they were women leaders making significant decisions in a male-dominated world, is fascinating me. I love them for their power and independence, not realizing that they, too, suffer abuse, misogyny, and patriarchy.
My women pop stars and my women world leaders, they all menstruate, just like me.
These international figures serve as my guiding lights, propelling me toward the person I aspire to become. Even amidst the challenges posed by my menstruation, I'm steadfast in my resolve to transition from a goody two-shoes into a serial liar.
This is where my bubble of untruth begins, and my parents' dream of me becoming a wife might never come true, all while the smile on my face remains unchanged and the teenage hormones in my body are crying out to be released.
It takes me years to muster the courage and determination to claim my freedom. I think I am claiming it now, telling my story. Even as a teenager, with a strong opinion and a thirst for independence, I grant myself the liberty to embark on a journey of serial lies.
I regard my body as sacred and precious, knowing it's private and deserving of utmost respect. I exercise control over it, provide it with what it needs. It's here that I begin to select my boyfriend’s carefully.
I don't desire a husband, but I also refuse to tolerate mistreatment from a boyfriend just because he's intimate with me. Unfortunately, this is the norm for my generation in Lebanon. I yearn for a partner who recognizes that sexual equality is paramount for both boys and girls. And thus, the challenge unfolds.
Boyfriends – well, I'm not entirely convinced 'boyfriends' is the right term for the chaps I date. It often feels like they're moonlighting as goody two-shoes to appease their mothers.
I'm not exactly the darling of my boyfriends' moms. You see, I'm a free spirit, and my lips have been kissed by more than just my mother. Some of these mothers go to great lengths to pretend I don't exist when I'm next to their sons.
One memorable day, a boyfriend asks me to duck down in the front seat of the car so his mom wouldn't spot me. But, of course, I didn't oblige. Instead, I proudly flaunted my youth, my style, and the cigarette dangling from my lips, just to give her something to talk about.
All of this was a bit of a façade because deep down, I wasn't quite sure where I was heading with this rebellion. In my heart, I knew that my quest for freedom wasn't exactly being embraced back at home.
My middle sister, well, she's a bit obsessed with my vagina’s, whereabouts. It's as if she wants to know every step I take, every move I make. I distinctly recall one encounter with her.
I'm in my twenties—And then, she calls me. Demands to know my whereabouts. My Ericsson mobile phone vibrates. I'm at the summer apartment building owned by a boyfriend's father and his siblings. These apartments double as the family's summer house, and his parents are away at their winter house in the city. It's a common setup in Lebanon. We're tiptoeing around because, well, we don't want anyone to know he's brought his girlfriend home while his parents are away. I'm 20, and he's 21. So when my sister calls, I find myself whispering.
She asks, 'Roula? waynik?'
I whisper back, 'I'm here, with my friends... I’m trying to keep it low-key.
But she's persistent, wanting more details. She continues, 'What friends?'
Once again, I reply in a hushed tone, 'Even if I tell you, you don't know them. What do you want?'
She ignores my question, pressing on, 'Why is it so quiet where you are?'
By this point, I couldn't care less about why she's calling, and she's probably forgotten her initial reason for calling me. It's like she's losing control over my vagina... the whole whispering thing makes her uneasy. Well, she suspects I might be in bed with someone! And guess what? She's right! But there's no way I'm going to spill the beans to her.
It's just mind-blowing how everyone else is so concerned about my privacy and what I do with my own body. I feel like a phantom in the Middle East—just a walking sexual organ that needs protecting at all costs.
This telephone conversation with my sister happens in the winter of 1994, though, things that happens in the 80’s are even more mind blowing.
In the 80s—a time of war and rampant sectarian divides among the people. Back then, a Christian girl is forbidden to marrying a Muslim boy, and vice versa. The cruelty of war got so far that couples from the same religion but different political views are forbidden from marrying each other’s. Desperate to make their forbidden love happen, daring lovers agree that the boy kidnaps the girl, it is 100% consensual, they know, from cultural experience and historical events, this will force their parents to agree to their marriage. And you know what's assumed when a girl gets "kidnapped,", they assume they've had some hanky-panky going on. Her family will be mortified to take her back, and his family will have no choice but to embrace the idea of the marriage. It's like a twisted rom-com! Many girls from that generation can tell you the tales of how they happily got "kidnapped" and tied the knot with the love of their lives.
Thinking back at it, now that I am 49 years old, I find this the height of romance. A little kidnapping and the ransom is a wedding party. I can see the look on the parents and the guests faces… ironically, they all are dancing happily, everyone seems reassured… finally, this non virgin bride finds her groom and the honor of her vagina is protected forever!
Finally “ allah satar 3alaya” finally he married her and covered up for the bride’s non virgin state.
In those days in the 80’s and 90’s, I discover the twists and turns, the unconventional choices, and the remarkable experiences that have shaped who I am today.
On one day, shortly before I left Lebanon for the Netherlands, I cross paths with Rana in our neighborhood. She appears weary, her children running amok on the bustling sidewalk., her tousled hair is not shiny anymore, her lips are dry with no shiny pink lipstick on them and her gaze is empty, She smiles expressing how content she is, and I smile back, proud of my serial lies pursuing my freedom.
For decades that follow, I regard my life as a facade. But now, I embrace and cherish every escapade, every passionate encounter, and every moment of pleasure. I realize I was deceiving society, but what significance does it hold in comparison to my happiness and my authenticity? Whose opinions matter when I'm fulfilled, enriched by experiences, and filled with pleasure, in my eyes, my worth is equal to a boy worth, my escapades are as legit as the escapades of my fellow Lebanese boys.
I lived my youth fully, knowing those days won't return. Better days may lie ahead, but the youth, the energy, and the passion are lessons to carry forward as I age. These are my truths, unapologetically lived even in times of deception. I've truly embraced my freedom and glad to finally see my lies as my awesome truth.
While my life has its share of romcom moments, I ultimately didn't become a traditional Lebanese daughter-in-law. Adding a twist to the plot, I've been through divorce and, as if that weren't enough, I'm now remarried. I can't even begin to imagine how this storyline would baffle my imaginative mother-in-law. Nevertheless, my marriage romcom is a story worth sharing when the time is right.