Read Online Divorce Islamic Style by Amara Lakhous - Free Book Online Page B

grandfather Leonardo used to say, may his soul rest in peace. Let’s look at the glass half full. One of the positive things about this complicated week is that I’m gradually starting to know all eleven of my fellow-tenants: eight Egyptians, a Moroccan, a Bangladeshi, and a Senegalese. I’m also busy getting familiar with the space. For example, I’ve noticed that the kitchen is transformed, in emergencies, into a makeshift dormitory to welcome a couple of guests—relatives, friends, or friends of friends of one of the tenants.
    Everyone knows that Arabs are very hospitable. For centuries they’ve cultivated this grand passion, helped by the vastness of the Sahara, by its immense spaces. What does it take to put up a tent and spread a carpet for guests? Nothing. What does it take to feed them? A cup of milk and some dates. Unfortunately, we don’t live in the desert, amid camels and palm trees. Hospitality has become expensive and has lost its deep value. In Italy you’re not allowed to put up someone at your house without declaring or reporting (what a terrible word) him to the local police station within forty-eight hours. This is a law that goes back to the seventies; its purpose was to combat terrorism. Hospitality no longer has to do exclusively with the private life of individual citizens; the State insists on knowing who sleeps at your house. Let’s be frank: for us Italians the existence of a law is one thing, its application another. The usual split between theory and practice, fed by our allergy to legality. In other words, in terms of public safety I and my eleven fellow-tenants are illegal residents; none of us have the proper requirements to live on Viale Marconi.
    I’ve noticed that in our building there are a lot of students (mostly girls), owing to the proximity of Roma Tre University. The other day I met a student at the entrance of the building, she had come for an interview about renting a place to sleep. An interview for a job? No, an interview for a bed. Just that. It seems like a mistake, but it’s not. She had tears in her eyes, because it hadn’t gone well.
    I stopped to listen to her; she really needed someone to talk to, right away. I did my best to hide my Italianness and play the role of the Tunisian immigrant. The girl had no prejudices: venting to a non-European was fine with her. Where had the problem originated? The landlord was looking for a student who would also do the housecleaning. Insane. There was something that didn’t make sense: was the poor girl supposed to study and graduate or was she supposed to be the domestic help? This shit went off his rocker, maybe the next time he’ll want a student who’s a belly dancer or a sushi chef or just gives blow jobs. All this for a damn wretched place to sleep.
    The girl asked me to help her look. I thought of giving her my place, but I immediately abandoned that idea. It can’t be done. An Italian girl together with five young men (of Muslim religion, a not negligible fact) in one room? I already see the newspaper headlines, unleashed like pit bulls: VIALE MARCONI . FIVE NON EU MUSLIMS RAPE ITALIAN STUDENT . No, that’s no good, it’s too long. You need something short but striking, like: MUSLIMS RAPE STUDENT . There, that would be the perfect headline, extremely suggestive and with many possible interpretations. For example, the word “Muslims” could be understood as “all Muslims,” that is, a billion and a half people! The result, in the mind of someone who’s already slightly prejudiced: throughout the world there are a billion and a half rapists who belong, without exception, to the same religion!
    Those poor students who come from outside Rome, taken advantage of by unscrupulous landlords. I should be compassionate toward them, because they have to put up with the same problem of lodgings as immigrants. In fact, maybe they’re in a worse position, because it’s really terrible to feel like a foreigner in your own