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I wondered: Why are they afraid of me?
    After a while I discovered the answer: my veil was like a traffic signal where people had to stop. That obligatory stop was the ideal moment to unload tensions, fears, worries, anxiety, et cetera. People needed to vent. I was like the punching bag that fighters use for training. In fact, when I walked in the neighborhood of Viale Marconi I was never alone. I was always arm in arm with a crowd of ghost companions: their names? Jihad, holy war, suicide bomber, September 11th, terrorism, attacks, Iraq, Afghanistan, Twin Towers, bombs, March 11th, Al Qaeda, Taliban. And so on. In other words, I was a sort of bin Laden disguised as a woman. People must have been afraid, of course. So little by little I figured out a way. I had to resist in order not to isolate myself within the four walls of my house, a path that leads directly to depression.
    I decided to intervene. First of all, I threw myself into studying Italian. Then I began to wear colorful veils. I eliminated black, because it symbolizes mourning and grief. I like to combine colors: a pink, green, or purple scarf with a white, blue, or gray outfit. I try always to be smiling. Our Prophet says: “A smile is like giving alms.” I struggled not to lose faith in myself. But what a lot of work!
    I have to say that the situation has improved now. At first the veil obsessed me, day and night, it was a fixed idea. I was afraid it would be a real obstacle to fulfilling my dream. No one would dare go to a hairdresser with a veil. And so? So what. I kept having the same nightmare: Marilyn wearing a veil, and in tears! The only way to get rid of it was to convince my husband. I used every trick, I even told him that the son of an Egyptian in a veil who lived on Viale Marconi refused to go to school because his classmates made fun of him: “Your mamma is a Taliban!” “You’re the son of a Taliban,” or “Your mother is bin Laden’s sister.” Removing my veil would be good for our daughter. Why have her grow up with complexes?
    Unfortunately, my husband didn’t want to hear about it, and he just kept repeating the same phrase: “The wives of all my friends wear a veil—what will the Egyptians and the other Muslims of Viale Marconi say about me?” Damn, all he thinks of is himself, his own reputation. He doesn’t care a dried fig about me. He’s not the one with the veil.
     

Issa
     
    A week has passed since I moved to this apartment. I’ve had tremendous problems adjusting; I can’t sleep at night more than two hours in a row. What should I do? It’s not my fault if I’ve always had a room to myself. For the same reason, I’ve acquired certain habits, like sleeping nude, temperature permitting, or reading before I go to sleep; I love biographies of famous people. Here it’s not a good idea to be the self-taught intellectual immigrant and passionate reader. In other words, I’ve been forced to quickly change my habits, and I immediately renounced my nighttime nakedness. I might be taken for a pervert or a gay, more than sufficient reason to be thrown out of this apartment. Muslims are real male chauvinists, openly homophobic. While we Italians, sly as usual, are friendly toward gays and women but underneath we’re—hypocritically—chauvinist.
    I still can’t understand how people manage to sleep with the light on. There’s always someone who comes home from work after midnight or goes out at dawn. Not to mention the roar of faucets, of chairs being dragged . . . The result is that I’m suffering from insomnia, a problem I’ve never had before. I’ve always slept easily, even when I’m traveling and constantly sleeping in a different place. The discomfort is obvious, it’s not just a whim of mine. I’m not just playing the spoiled child, used to luxury. This is a serious problem. If I don’t sleep well I’ll have some trouble concentrating on my mission, won’t I?
    Don’t complain, little one, as my