The Vision

It was a hard jolt for me. I wasn’t expecting them to come home and take my wife away like that.

Now, I don’t mean that our police was somewhat unjust or somewhat something: Of course what she did was hugely illegal! But I can’t convince myself about the prison. Wouldn’t a warning be enough?

Our state knows the best, nevertheless. Who am I to judge?

I don’t want to think about it too much. I keep my eyes on the road. But these red lights keep a man waiting a lot. It’s always this boredom that lets the blind devil within loose, isn’t it?

Maybe it was all because she was bored. Maybe I could understand her if I got stuck in a few more red lights. Maybe the truth is waiting for me at the very next red light…

Oof! Estagfurullah… Only one more hour to go, then I will take a break. This break, I will definitely pray. 

Now, think about something else… 

I’d better grease the joints behind sometime soon. They are making those screeching sounds even at the slightest turns now. It’s not about the bulk. They were making these sounds before the bulk was attached as well. I remember hearing them this morning.

I can’t remember whether they made those sounds yesterday too. I was too busy worrying for Busra. Would she get used to it all? Would she forgive her mother?

Oof! Estagfurullah…

Maybe I should light another cigarette. This pack tastes like cheap firewood, though. God awful… I will never buy these again. I should cut down on cigarettes to half, and buy an old regular pack instead of two of these spoiled… Estagfurullah, estagfurullah, estagfurullah…

The sizzling of the radio isn’t helping at all. Turn it off again. Wish I had that cellphone with me, then I could listen to the news.

Don’t think about it: Buy grease for the joints and a pack of regular cigarettes, and get the radio fixed instead. You’re not saving up for anything.

I am sure that the prison time will help her come back to her senses. I believe in it wholeheartedly. Her cellmates will be people of faith. She will hear the glorious news every now and then. Day by day, she will regret not believing in the vision. She will understand me there. She will understand the pain she’d put me through. She will regret having caused such a mess. But I will be there when she’s finally free. I will welcome her out. Hold her dearly. Hug her. Tell her that it’s OK. Tell her that everything’s OK.

And we will celebrate 2033 together. Inshallah!

Thank God I have a house to stay in. Thank God I can pay my rent. Thank God my tummy is full. For what would I ask more? Yes, I’m a believer. That’s why I believe in the vision. Everything’s going to get tougher by 2033, then it will all be clear. These days will go away.

She never understood that. She kept asking for more. Why? I never knew. Wish I could. Then I would find a way to make myself understood. 

I used every word I knew to tell her that things would change in 2033. We had to put up with it for thirteen more years, and that’s it. Was it really that hard to get? Now, I’m sure that we understood each other from time to time. Especially when I had some good words.

“Followers of the prophet suffered as well.” I told her. “God asked them to put up with the suffering, and keep believing in the glory that was promised upon them.” 

I can still recite these words. The idea was mine after all. The imam of the hood had written them for me, and I quickly memorized.

“We suffer because of them! They know that we would be on the rise in 2033! We will be shining like a shining star in 2033! They know that! They keep doing their dirty tricks to prevent us from shining bright! They are afraid of our potential!”

I swear she understood me. She could understand the people on TV, and she understood me when I used their words. I could see that in her eyes: She understood me that day and the day after. She understood me the whole weekend. 

Then the Monday came, and I had to go.

I found her miserable every time I made it back home. I needed to hear the news. I needed to clear the sizzling sound of my radio from my ears. I needed some clarity. She never let me. Never!

“Do you know how much an onion costs now?” She would ask me. Or the carrot, or the goddamned potato! Estagfurullah…

“It’s all because of them!” I told her again and again. I tried to talk like the people on TV, but I lacked the education. I wanted to turn on the news, but she wanted to keep watching her series. Apparently, Busra wanted to watch them as well. I was alone with my own words.

I swear I did my best in that. I told her about the dirty tricks of the mastermind, about the onions, about the vision…

“2033, 2033!” She told me. “All you know is 2033!” 

She didn’t get it. So I told her about how the Treaty of Luanne was going to be over by 2033, pulling the straits under our control. With that, every ship passing by would have to pay us a lot of money. She never understood the importance of the straits.

“Are these ships of yours going to pay YOU?” She asked.

“They are going to pay to us all.” I answered.

She wouldn’t understand the importance of us all either. All she knew was her onions, carrots and series… There were either series or advertisements on TV. She would switch over to another channel when the advertisements showed up, watching two series at the same time.

As the onions got more and more expensive, her words got bitter and bitter. Now they tasted way worse than my firewood cigarettes. The thought of sitting in my truck for four hours straight, twice a day, listening to the sizzling of my radio while waiting at the red lights started to feel more like home than actually being at home and eating a meal that had onions in it.

Then came the carrots and potatoes. Then came the winter to burn the firewood. Then came Busra’s age for school. Then came “Then you have your dinner in 2033!” And “Then we burn 2033 in the stove to warm!”. 

I tried to understand her. I really did. I swear I did my best at that. However, at some point, it seemed to me as if I was the only one who was still trying. 

She never worked. I was the one bringing money for onions. I was the one who had to buy the firewood, and enroll Busra to a school. She just watched her series.

I was living inside a cold truck with a radio that was barely working. She was living in a warm house with a beautiful TV on. Nevertheless, I was the one who was informed. I was the one who knew about 2033. Only I knew about the vision. Our vision. Vision of us all… 

I was the one bringing hope. I was the one bringing money. She just watched her series.

Apparently, doing my best wasn’t enough. So I did even more: I bought myself a better cellphone that could work as a radio as well. I swear I didn’t buy it to listen to music on the road or something. I just wanted her to hear the people on TV when she was busy watching her series.

“Turn it off! Don’t you see that I’ve been trying to watch this?” She said.

What’s the point of being married if we aren’t going to share the same vision? Am I wrong? 

For our case, the point was Busra. Besides, I was different than my father: I was relaxed. She didn’t have to share my vision. It was all fine. But seeing her pulling Busra to her side was outrageous.

So, did I beat her? No! God forbid. Did I yell at her? A bit. God forgive… But I said nothing until Busra went to bed.

“Why are you doing this to me? We talked about this many times. Didn’t I tell you about 2033?” I asked.

“2033, 2033… We need money NOW!” She answered.

“Then go work!” I suggested.

“Work? What kind of a man are you? Are you going to make your wife a cashier?” She refused.

She refused to work, she refused to believe, she refused to understand. I was still OK with that. However, she refused to be OK as well!

Seriously, though: What should I have done? You, yes, I am asking you. What would you do if you were me? Divorce her? Leave her out in the cold? Beat her?

I didn’t try to force her to believe in the vision. She was going to witness the truth in 2033 anyway. The problem lay in the thirteen full years standing before 2033, and I was already exhausted. So I decided to take the issue to God after the Isha prayer. 

God answered my prayers the day after. The President was making an address to the nation on TV, and he was talking about the hardening of the life. Thankfully, I could hear his voice on my cellphone radio.

No, he wasn’t ignoring us, the poor; he was aware of what we were through; and he was confident as usual. I could hear him smiling, and it was enough to rekindle the vision of us all. 

He was answering all the questions my wife was asking. I turned the volume all the way up.

She ignored. The President kept talking.

Yes, we weren’t in an economic crisis. Life was way worse in Europe. People were living on the streets. I knew he was telling the truth: My uncle in Germany told me the exact same thing: People were living on the streets there.

Yes, it was all the dirty tricks of the other countries that were jealous of us. The traitors within were cooperating with them for their selfish reasons. The reason why the onion was that expensive was the middlemen. They kept most of the onions in their stores, so that they could sell them for way more expensive prices. They didn’t care about us! All they cared about was them, them, them! They didn’t understand the importance of us all.

“See?” I asked.

“What am I supposed to see?” She asked back.

“Inshallah our glorious nation will spoil their games again!” The President said.

“Inshallah!” I said.

“We will only be able to buy the spoiled onions at this rate…” She said, laughing.

“Say estagfurullah!” I said.

“My brethren! 2033 is coming!” Said the President.

“See?” I asked, proudly.

“Let it come, let it come… If it’s going to come, it’s going to see…” She answered, bitterly.

“By the grace of God, we will get over these tough times!” Said the President.

“Inshallah!” I said.

She swore. Badly.

“In our Vision 2033, we will…” The President kept going on.

She swore to him, to the vision, to 2033.

“Say estagfurullah!” I repeated.

She kept swearing.

“Be careful!” I warned.

“Or else?” She asked.

“Don’t you know that it is hugely illegal to swear our President?” I asked.

“How will he know? Does he hear my voice from there?”

Then I swung my cellphone in front of her eyes, and put it on record. “Now I am recording your voice,” I said. “I will inform the state against you if you swear our President again!” I informed.

And she swore. She swore for three minutes and eleven seconds straight. Actually, I stopped recording there. She kept swearing. She swore all night. She didn’t stop. I slept on the couch in our living room, but I heard her swearing in our bedroom all night through.

Busra woke up three times because of her mother’s outcry. I felt helpless.

I took the cellphone to the palace of justice the next day, and made an official complaint there. Swearing to the President was hugely illegal. I’d told her. I’d warned her. She never understood.

I felt awful. Before taking Busra to her grandparents, I went to the station, and told the police that I was the one who made the complaint. I told the policemen that I wanted to take it back. They told me that it was a crime against the state, and she had to be judged no matter what. 

“Don’t you be afraid. Your wife won’t get a prison sentence,” they said. “They turn it into fine,” they said.

“Fine…” I said.

Now I understand it. God didn’t let my wife stay faithless. God wanted her to understand it all, but in a harsh way. She had to go through it, so that she could understand the Treaty of Luanne, the homeless Germans, the straits, ships, the importance of the vision, the importance of us all.

Thank god! I understand it all. Now I will definitely pray…