Zahia

Sayonara says neither too much nor too little. It's a simple acceptance of fact. Literally translated, it means it must be so.

Unlike the au-revoirs, it does not cheat by bravado. It does not ovoid the issue.

And I'm running ahead of myself … forgive me!

Trauma is a fact of life. Rip out your heart and spit in your face trauma. It festers and it infects. Zahia always wore baggy jumpers and smelled of vanilla and chewing gum. She had feverishly bright eyes and a little crooked smile. She was born with every possible disadvantage in the book. She endured hardships that virtually all second-class citizens go through: economic and social exclusion, born into a poor family, a half cast. Part Arab, half-human.

After Zahia's father died in a work accident, she didn't have exactly a bright future to look forward to. She lived in constant fear of physical threats and terror. She was raped repeatedly by her mother's new boyfriend. It left her bewildered and lost. An outcast from outside and within herself She became an exotic dancer.

The pain wouldn't go away; ever! Pain is contagious, like a virus. The more we hurt, the more we feel inclined to hurt ourselves. After a serious suicide attempt, more lost and bewildered than ever, she was brought to the institution and under my care.

And then there was Sabine: beautiful Sabine. She was in a turbulent place, between adolescence and adulthood where everything feels raw, invigorating, and scary.

Free in her wildness. She knew nothing of borders and cared nothing for rules and customs. Her life flow was clean, enthusiastic like fresh water. And then she became pregnant...

She tried the life of the suburban wife and struggled with it alone. She made the bed, shopped for groceries, ate peanut butter sandwiches, lay beside her husband, afraid to ask even of herself the silent question: is this all?

Like many girls, she was taught to make herself smaller. She was allowed a little ambition, but not too much. She could be successful: just a little, else she became a threat to her husband.

Because she was a female, she was expected to make her life choices always keeping in mind that marriage is the most important. She could be competitive, not for jobs or accomplishments, but the attention of men. Her husband never learned that marriage had to be a source of joy, love, and mutual support.

Religion, laws, and customs are all founded on the belief that woman was created for men. And male domination was so rooted in her unconscious that she was no longer able to see it.

Sucked into a deep depression, Sabine too came to the institute, where she met Zahia. They soon became lovers.

Teasing, tempting, and playing, they loved liked children. Zahia found a new appreciation for life.

I walked in on them once. Zahia laughed and said: "I'm not scared. Are you?"

Yes! I was scared. But not for me.

The institution was under strict Catholic rule. Mother superior took the sole source of authority, and she ruled with an iron fist. She was also my boss.

lt didn't take long before Atilla the Nun got wind of the relationship, and all hell broke loose. I was called to answer for this "moral turpitude''. I had to listen to endless tirades and a litany of lamentations about my degree in a quack Science (Psychology) and above all: my incompetence.

I had allowed embarrassment and shame to descend upon the immaculate name of the institution. When I was no longer able to listen to the avalanche of hate coming out of her mouth; I interrupted her and asked what was so immaculate about battered and abused women. What was so pristine about young unwed women, hidden away from the world. This to me was a stain on human society and a container of unheard misery. Locked behind bars of distortion and stigmatization in the worst conceivable way.

I braced myself for a biting sarcastic reply, but instead, the nun stormed out of her office. I was left to stare out the window: in silence.

When my shift was over, I heard singing rise from the chapel. It was supposed to be the young women's act of contrition; celebrate mass up to six times a day. Zahia was a Muslim!

Zahia who was never cut out for serious conversations told me about all the adventures she imagined for herself. When she was called to mother superior's office, we could both breathe in the ominous threat in the air.

"Come with me," she begged. She held on to me like I was the last raft on a dark and stormy ocean.

I tried to hide my emotions when we entered the office, so as not to encourage mother superior's admonitions.

Zahia's verdict was disastrous! She was to undergo:, Treatment."

I just stood there: nailed to the floor, underneath a carved image of an idol nailed to a tree. I couldn't help but observe that there was something in the nun's wrath: a passion beyond what she probably ever allowed herself to feel: she was roused.

Moral indignation is just jealousy of a kind!

Zahia shrunk to a desperate pile of misery. As the nun left her office, with an obvious sense of approbation, she gave me a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

I prayed she would get eaten by a spider or a demon.

I knew there would be possible repercussions, but that didn't stop me from breaking the rules.

After Zahia packed her meager belongings into a plastic bag, I took her to see Sabine who was locked inside her room, to let them say goodbye. My head ached and my throat tightened shut as I unlocked the door. Sabine flinched when she heard the key in the lock as if a tremor had passed through her. She was waging war on herself.

I waited in the corridor, for this was their goodbye. A moment about holding on to every moment with every ounce of their being. Memorizing everything; not to feel the goodbye in the last kiss and the last hug.

I saw Zahia dying a little that day; maybe it was her way of bringing this to a natural end.

"I'm sorry!" I whispered as I helped her in the car, waiting to drive her way.

I hoped she set off on all those adventures she imagined for herself. But I willed my hope to stillness, for I knew she would become the sum of what she knew she would never be.

Three months after Sabine's baby girl was born; I was ordered to drive her "home." As her husband opened the door, I became logjammed with the effort to say and do and settle all at once. Dirty clothes were spread all over the linoleum. The kitchen sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and the apartment smelled of week-old trash bags.

No flowers, no balloons. Not even a glass of water to welcome the newborn home. The husband lay on the couch watching a stupid daytime soap opera.

I looked at Sabine. She nodded. I guess she knew that there was nothing immediate to look forward to. It broke my heart, but I had to leave. She walked me to the door.

"Write to me," I asked her.

"Why?" she asked.

"To connect. To bear witness. So, you can feel your life in your words as I read them. And to

remember you're alive!"

She watched me walk down the stairs. Goodbyes are always harder on the person left behind.

I felt crippled by sadness and powerlessness. There wasn’t the slightest thing I could do.

Sayonara, for now Sabine! I thought as I closed the door behind me. Sayonara Zahia.

Neither one of them ever wrote to me...