(1)

Minutes are slipping away swiftly.

Khadija is in a quandary: should she travel today, Friday, to reunite with her eagerly awaiting groom in London or not?

She glanced around, observing travelers and those bidding farewell, standing before the departure hall in Cairo Airport, her family gathered around her.

This was Khadija’s first time boarding a plane.

She couldn’t control the tremors that had seized her limbs since stepping out of her brother Abu Bakr’s car in front of the grand hall’s entrance amidst the throngs of farewells. Her entire being quaked at the thought of travel, cars, trains, planes—all harbingers of death.

Her mind was consumed with thoughts of aviation disasters: a passenger plane crash in such-and-such a place, the fall of a civilian aircraft elsewhere, the death of all passengers and crew, a plane disappearing with all on board before…

Today is Friday… on a Friday… they say… an hour of bad luck… could the plane crash… plummet into the sea… shatter, and all passengers drown?

If this is my fate, can I escape it? There is no escape from a written destiny. I must accept what God has decreed for me, or else I’ll fall into disbelief, God forbid. By God’s grace, I am faithful, and I do not want to lose my faith, but I am a coward… I truly am a coward… fear consumes me every time I am forced to use any of these means of death.

Is there a conflict between trusting in God and fear, I mean, and caution? This is a natural feeling that cannot be suppressed.

Her mother’s voice still echoed in Khadija’s head…

“You and your sister, my dear, are God’s gift to us. We must take care of you and protect you. You were both born weak, unable to withstand any infection or illness. I don’t want you to mix with other girls—not at school, not after school. Be careful at school, stay away from any girl showing signs of illness. Be cautious on your way back from school, don’t cross the road unless the light is green. No one knows what lies ahead. If I could, or your father could, we wouldn’t let you go out alone and would accompany you everywhere. You are God’s gift to us, frail and slender, little birds we prayed for and God answered our prayers. I hope to see you both as happy brides in your nests. Oh Lord, don’t deprive me of this, O Generous One.”

How can I leave my mother, who has passed the threshold of seventy and can no longer walk or stand for long? She always needs me to push her wheelchair, which she cannot do without due to the pains of rheumatism.

Here she is beside me, almost immobile in her chair. How I pity you, mother, and my heart is torn because I will leave you.

And how can I leave my father, who is nearing eighty? True, he can still walk and move, thanks to God, but he cannot care for my mother at his age.

Should I leave them to my brother Abu Bakr’s wife, who I’ve noticed grows impatient with my mother, though she hides it with sweet words in front of my brother? Will she willingly leave her home, when I travel—I mean, if I travel—to live with my mother and father, and will she care for them properly?

And if the worst happens, what will they do without me? How will my father bear the news of my death if the plane crashes into the sea, and how will my mother react, and what will my brother Abu Bakr do, who has grown more attached to me since that accursed day, which was also a Friday… and after… the Gift of God?

Khadija leaned her tall frame to whisper in her mother’s ear, her voice trembling and choked:

Khadija: Mother… I don’t want… to… travel today.

The mother had prepared her arms to embrace her daughter before she entered the departure hall, and was taken aback by what she said. She looked around, calling:

Safiya: Haj Osman… Haj Osman!

Her husband stepped closer:

Osman: Yes, Safiya… I am right here beside you.

Safiya: Listen… your daughter… Khadija doesn’t want to travel!

Osman: What? What did you say?

The father turned to Khadija and approached her:

Osman: Is this true? How? Why?

Khadija became flustered, stammering:

Khadija: I… honestly, I can’t leave my mother or you, father. And… I don’t want to travel on a Friday… I have a foreboding that something will happen to the plane… I… I…

Her father interrupted her, his face flushed, his hands shaking once more:

Osman: Khadija, you are twenty-five… no longer a child… and we… your mother, your brother, and I… are not young. No one forced you to marry, nor to choose this groom, but you welcomed him, saying he is a devout and kind young man. What should I tell his father, a close friend of mine for thirty years? Should I tell him Khadija decided to annul the marriage and not to travel, and thank you… thus making you divorced after we’ve already held the wedding contract?

Khadija burst into tears, unable to gather her trembling body:

Khadija: Father, I did not reject Mamdouh, all I want is to delay the trip… just a little…

Osman: And your husband, waiting for you in London? He booked the ticket for you today and prepared everything… the apartment… the furniture…

Khadija: I feel suffocated… scared… terrified…

Osman: What are you saying? Scared? My daughter Khadija, who studied at Al-Azhar University and never misses a prayer, who is, God willing, a true believer, thinking this way?

Khadija: The image of the Gift of God, father, does not leave me… I remembered everything… today… the street… the mad car… the reckless drunken driver… my voice calling out to her… Hiba… Hiba… wait…

Khadija threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing bitterly…

A cloud of sadness enveloped everyone. Osman did not utter a word, his voice choked, while the mother wept silently and Abu Bakr wiped his tears, head bowed.

A policeman’s voice pierced through the silence and sadness:

“Travelers proceed… those seeing off, please clear the way for the travelers.”

Osman patted his daughter’s back and gently stroked her hair:

Osman: God rest her soul… she was a flower… an angel at ten. We do not forget her, Khadija… but this is God’s will, and we… we accept His decree and thank God for sparing you… you are with us… and if Hiba were here now, she would be happy for you and would push you onto the plane herself… each of us has a limited share in this life, Khadija… no more, no less.

The mother raised her hands to the sky: “May God protect you, bless you, and bring you happiness.”

In despair, Khadija said:

Khadija: My happiness is here… with you… you don’t feel what’s in my heart… have mercy on me… listen to me… just once…

At this, Osman approached her and kissed her head tenderly:

Osman: Trust in God, my dear… you are a bride… on the brink of a new life in a new country… and trust that God will grant you happiness… our prayers are your shield… say, Oh Lord…

Abu Bakr, with a calm voice and a smile on his face, said:

Abu Bakr: Time is passing, Khadija… we will miss you, we really will… we will miss your constant worry over us all…

Khadija wiped her tears, feeling, for the first time, truly helpless. She leaned to kiss her mother’s head, then bent to kiss her father’s hand before embracing Abu Bakr:

Khadija: May God keep you all safe… protect you… and bring us together again in good times.

Reluctantly, Khadija grabbed her suitcase, showed her passport, and entered the departure hall, disappearing among the bodies and bags.

(2)

Khadija still remembers that day vividly. She and her twin, Hiba Allah, inseparable as always, were returning from their weekly Quran memorisation class at the Quran Memorisation Society, which their father encouraged them to attend regularly.

The street felt unusually welcoming that day. A buoyant breeze of joy seemed to dance through the air, and the shops in the narrow street appeared wider and more inviting, their doors flung open in welcome. The sisters’ faces lit up with smiles of happiness, having completed their week’s lessons and attended their Quran class. They eagerly anticipated the next day, Saturday, which promised to be a joyful one. They were to wake up early for a trip to the zoo, a treat promised by their father.

In a playful tone, Khadija asked her sister what she planned to wear the next day and whether they should wear different dresses. Hiba Allah disapproved of the idea, asserting that those who love each other should dress alike. They giggled and skipped hand in hand, their joy unrestrained, as the twilight began to creep over the street.

Suddenly, Hiba Allah released Khadija’s hand and ran across the street, shouting, “Papa… Papa.” Khadija turned and saw their father emerging from a shop on the opposite sidewalk, carrying several bags.

In an instant, a black veil seemed to descend over the horizon, freezing everything before Khadija’s young eyes. For a moment, she saw nothing but darkness—a moment that felt endless, terrifying, and paralysing. Khadija stood rooted to the spot, screaming:

Khadija: Hiba… Hiba… Hi… ba…

The black veil suddenly lifted as a large truck, towing a trailer covered with a dismal black canvas, roared past, its horn blaring loudly, deafening the bystanders as it sped by as if racing the wind.

Yet the desolation of the street remained. The threads of twilight thickened. Khadija glanced frantically left and right, searching for Hiba, calling out again:

Khadija: Hiba… Hiba?

She cast her bewildered gaze across the street and saw nothing of her sister’s pink dress. Instead, she saw her father sitting on the ground, his hands covering his head, surrounded by three or four men trying to help him up. Khadija screamed:

Khadija: Papa… Papa, what’s wrong?

Khadija attempted to cross the street to the opposite sidewalk but found herself blocked by a large crowd. Traffic had come to a standstill, and the wail of an approaching ambulance grew louder and louder. Through a small gap in the circle of onlookers, she glimpsed the hem of Hiba Allah’s dress on the ground, stained with blood and mud.

Khadija felt her heart plummet to the depths of her chest, its beats quickening, her vision blurring. She kept screaming, her voice growing fainter until she collapsed to the ground in a faint:

Khadija: Hiba… Papa…

(3)

Khadija was carried along by the flow of passengers, moving with them helplessly, a bitter taste in her throat and her body trembling uncontrollably. She tried to maintain her composure, turning her dazed eyes and pale lips to the right and left.

She remained silent until she boarded the plane and took her seat. Her seat was next to an elderly woman who appeared to be English from her appearance and dress. When the woman greeted Khadija after she sat down, her fluent Arabic surprised her. Khadija responded only with brief words, leading the woman to think she might be tired and in need of rest, perhaps even sleep.

Khadija leaned her head against the small window and chose to close it, then she dozed off.

It was Friday, the same day Khadija and Hiba Allah, her twin, were born.

Thirty-five years ago, Osman and Safiya were married and in their first year were blessed with their eldest son, Abu Bakr. Their joy was immense. Her father’s words still echoed in her mind.

“At that time, I was working as an Arabic and Islamic Studies teacher at a middle school in Fayoum, and Safiya was a librarian at the municipal council library, the largest public library in the city. My mother, may she rest in peace, lived with us, and our house—just as you see—was big and spacious, and the hearts of believers are even more so. My mother took care of Abu Bakr while we were away. We longed for a daughter, but the wait was long, very long.

After nearly ten years, Safiya discovered she was pregnant, unexpectedly. When we confirmed the pregnancy, we were overjoyed. We didn’t wish to know the gender, for all of God’s gifts are good. About three months before the due date, Safiya stumbled on the stairs and fell, causing bleeding. We feared she would lose the baby. We rushed to the hospital, filled with fear but sustained by hope in God’s mercy. After the examination, the doctor told us that the twins needed to be saved via cesarean section.

Our joy at the news of the twins was equal to our fear for them. I told the doctor that the twins were only in their sixth month…premature. Isn’t there a risk for them? She replied quickly: Let us try…everything is in God’s hands. But I must warn you, we do not know if they will survive. They are not fully developed yet, and we will place them in incubators…and the rest is up to God.

After ensuring there was no risk to Safiya, we decided to go ahead with the surgery. Our happiness knew no bounds when we found out the twins were girls. We had hoped for one daughter, and God gave us two. I decided to name you Khadija, after Lady Khadija, may God be pleased with her, and we named your sister Hiba Allah, because you both were truly a gift from God.

We prayed for you both day and night, visiting the hospital every day—literally every day—for over sixty days to check on your condition. God answered our prayers, and you both grew up, filling our home with joy and happiness. Ten years, my dear daughter, filled with joy and delight, until God reclaimed His trust…the pure angel He had bestowed upon us. We were content with His decree, and thankful that you were still with us, Khadija, enjoying God’s grace. Now, the day has come for us to bid you farewell as you join your husband. Who could have imagined this day would come?

It is God’s will, Khadija. Our prayers continue to surround you and your brother. Why fear, my daughter? God willing, He will grant you happiness and righteous offspring, and then you will understand our feelings and emotions.”

Khadija was roused by a voice calling her:

Flight attendant: Madam, would you like any beverages?

Khadija straightened up in her seat and requested orange juice.

She glanced at the woman sitting next to her:

Khadija: I believe you’re not Arab, but your Arabic is very good?

Mary: I am English, but I have been living in Cairo for ten years, teaching English at the British Cultural Center. Those years were an opportunity for me to learn Arabic. And you, do you work?

Khadija: I completed my university education but did not work because I take care of my mother, who is almost bedridden, and my elderly father.

Mary: Are you traveling to London?

Khadija: Yes, this is my first time on a plane.

Mary: Tourism?

Khadija: No…how could I leave my parents for a trip? I’m moving there…my fiancé lives in London.

Mary: You’re a bride?

Khadija: That’s right.

Mary: Congratulations!

Khadija: Thank you.

What is life in London like? Is it similar to Alexandria, perhaps?

Mamdouh visited us twice.

The first time, he was on a week-long vacation and came with his father, who was my father’s colleague at the Fayoum middle school, but he taught English and passed on his love for the language to his son, of which I know only letters, sounds, and a few words. Mamdouh, however, studied it deeply and delved into its literature.

The second time, he brought his parents and expressed his desire to marry me. My father asked me to give my opinion, and I did not object.

I saw in him a dignified, devout, modest young man. We had one opportunity to go out together with our families, who sat at a nearby table in the Al Ahly club. I felt at ease talking with him. His words were reassuring, promising a calm life filled with affection and a desire for stability. I felt comfortable with him because his family was not strangers to us, and his father was a dear friend to mine.

My father arranged for the local imam to come to our house, and we had a simple marriage contract ceremony attended only by our families, as Mamdouh was in a hurry and didn’t have time for a larger gathering.

Mamdouh continued to call me almost every day to check on me and update me on the visa process and the preparations for the apartment he had recently bought on installments. I felt like I was living his life day by day. I grew more assured and felt that I had already filled his life, even before traveling to London. He also became a significant part of my life.

And now, here I am on my way to him.

Khadija was startled by the voice of the plane’s captain speaking, but she couldn’t understand what he said. She asked the Englishwoman, who was engrossed in a book:

Khadija: Sorry…what did the man say?

The woman looked at her, making sure her seatbelt was fastened, and pointed to her belt:

Mary: Make sure your seatbelt is fastened because the plane is passing through turbulence…

Khadija panicked, unsure of what to do. Her hands trembled, and her face turned noticeably pale. She kept repeating:

Khadija: Oh God…Oh God…God, protect us.

Noticing Khadija’s distress, the woman reassured her and held her hand:

Mary: Don’t worry, my dear…don’t be alarmed. This is very normal in flights…five minutes and we will be out of the turbulence…don’t worry.

Khadija: Oh God…may God hear you, God willing.

The woman advised her to sit back, take a deep breath three times to calm down.

Khadija closed her eyes, surrendered, and rested her head on the seat, taking a deep breath once, then again. She felt a numbness in her eyes.

(4)

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until the plane’s engines have completely stopped.”

Khadija opened her eyes in bewilderment, looking around to see a sudden flurry of movement among the passengers. She turned to the English lady beside her for help:

Khadija: What’s happening?

Mary: The plane has arrived in London…thank God for your safety.

Khadija: Thank you…thank God…thank God…I’ve been given a new lease on life.

Mary didn’t understand Khadija’s remark, and Khadija quickly asked her:

Khadija: My name is Khadija, but I didn’t catch your name!

Mary: I’m Mary…Mary Faragallah.

Khadija: Are you married to an Egyptian?

Mary: Yes, my husband works at the American University. We’ve been married for eight years.

Khadija: Please, Madam Mary, stay with me until we exit. I don’t know anything here.

Mary: Don’t worry, my dear, I will stay with you until I hand you over to the groom and get his signature.

Mary laughed, and for the first time, Khadija gave a shy laugh, her pale face lighting up with signs of relief and happiness.

Khadija kept murmuring, “Praise be to God, thanks that match His blessings,” as she looked out of the small window, now open, revealing Heathrow Airport’s landscape. She saw planes scattered everywhere, many adorned with the British flag on their sides.

The passengers began to disembark, and Mary led Khadija until they were off the plane.

The arrival hall seemed endless. Khadija shadowed Mary, walking where she walked and stopping when she stopped.

Mary turned to Khadija with a smile:

Mary: Would you like to freshen up your makeup before meeting your groom after we’ve finished with the visa procedures?

Khadija: No, there’s no need.

Mary: My advice is that you do, and there’s the restroom right ahead. I’ll wait here for you.

Khadija felt as if her mother were speaking to her and complied with her suggestion.

Her heartbeats quickened…

In their last call, Mamdouh assured her that their new nest—the apartment where they would live—was ready to welcome her. The workers had finished repainting the walls and doors, and only the kitchen appliances needed installation, which would take just a few hours.

Khadija emerged from the restroom, her perfume wafting around her, though some thoughts still lingered in her mind.

How would the apartment be? And the large building it’s in, which Mamdouh had extensively described and praised? But more importantly, how would Mamdouh be as a husband? What would our life together be like? What would I do when he leaves me alone in the apartment every day for work? How should I act if I needed something, if something happened, if an emergency or calamity occurred during his absence? Would Mamdouh continue to love and respect me? What does the future hold for us?

Mary approached Khadija as she exited the restroom:

Mary: Wonderful! Now it’s time to meet your beloved.

Despite her age, Mary walked briskly. She was tall, slender, and her thinness seemed to aid her speed.

Khadija tried her best to keep up with Mary, but the heavy suitcase she was pulling, the long dress that hindered her steps, and her headscarf that kept slipping off her hair every minute slowed her down a bit.

“This is the first time I’m meeting Mamdouh alone… I came to him of my own accord… I will give myself to him… He is my husband…my husband on paper… He is a good young man…as he seems…from a respectable family like ours. He resembles my brother, Abu Bakr, a bit… But he has lived in the West for some time… I wonder… did he have the chance to know an English woman or women? Naturally, he lived among them…but his work as a translator in British courts and hospitals mostly involves dealing with Arabs…with Arab women… God protect us from them! He is handsome…dignified…perhaps naïve. He completed his studies in the College of Arts, then traveled to England to study a diploma in translation there…I mean…here…and returned to England again after getting a job.”

Mary turned her head while leading Khadija:

Mary: Hurry up, my dear…the groom must be eagerly waiting.

Khadija smiled as she saw a set of double doors that automatically opened and closed as people passed through.

She adjusted her hijab and prepared herself for the meeting. When Mary approached the door, it opened, and Khadija glimpsed Mamdouh scanning the incoming passengers. Mary whispered to her:

Mary: Where is the groom?

Khadija stepped forward a bit and shyly pointed him out, giving him a quick wave with her hand, her face blushing. Mamdouh weaved through the crowd toward her, his eyes curious when he saw an English lady accompanying her.

Khadija turned to Mary:

Khadija: Mamdouh…this is Madam Mary. I met her on the plane, and she helped me reach you.

Mamdouh extended his hand in greeting:

Mamdouh: Nice to meet you, Madam Mary, and thank you. Please allow us to invite you for a cup of coffee if you have time.

Mary: Congratulations! I accept the invitation, but we’ll do it after your honeymoon.

Mamdouh: Here’s my address and phone number then.

He handed her a business card from his pocket.

Mary headed towards the airport’s underground train station, waving to Khadija as she left.

Mamdouh reached for the suitcase:

Mamdouh: Welcome to London, my bride… May I take the suitcase?

Khadija: Are we taking the underground train?

Mamdouh: No…a taxi is waiting for us outside…please.

(5)

Mamdouh opened the car door for Khadija and then quietly got in after her. Khadija took her place on the left side of the back seat, pressing herself against the door, leaving a distance between herself and Mamdouh that he did not attempt to close. He leaned his body against the right side of the car.

Her modesty still governs her actions. I must melt a lot of this ice. This is the first time Khadija has traveled alone, and we haven’t known each other for long. But I thank God for blessing me with her. She comes from a respectable family, is devout, and has good morals.

She is worlds apart from the girls of this white race, who fill the bars, cafes, and streets, indifferent to how much of their bodies they expose. Their coldness rivals the smooth porcelain dolls that adorn the shop windows.

Mamdouh turned to her:

Mamdouh: How are your parents and Abu Bakr?

Khadija: Thank God, they are well. I truly miss them.

Mamdouh: This is the way of life. Each of us must one day set out on our own and build our own nest.

Khadija: Where are we going?

Mamdouh: To the hotel.

Khadija: The hotel?

Mamdouh: Unfortunately, some of the kitchen appliances, the washer and the fridge, were delayed and will be installed today. Tomorrow, God willing, we will go to the apartment.

Khadija: God willing.

Mamdouh: Why are you sitting so far from me?

Khadija: Forgive me. This is the first time in my life that I’ve been in a car with a strange man.

Mamdouh laughed, moved closer, and took her hand:

Mamdouh: I am your husband, Khadija. I am not a strange man. I am…

She interrupted him, whispering:

Khadija: Mamdouh, the driver might notice your words!

Mamdouh: He is English. He doesn’t understand Arabic. If he knew we were married, he would laugh at our behavior and might even think we were quarreling.

Khadija smiled and tried to pull her hand away, but Mamdouh held it gently. She surrendered. Slowly, a slight tremor began to move from his hand to hers and then to her whole body. She felt a tingle play at her head, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

The image of her mother, father, and Abu Bakr appeared before her. She was suddenly jolted by a worry that made her pull her hand away from Mamdouh’s.

Why hasn’t Abu Bakr called to check on my arrival? Why hasn’t Father called, knowing Mamdouh’s phone number? Did something bad happen? Did they arrive safely from the airport? Did Father suddenly get sick? Did Mother fall? Did Abu Bakr’s car crash on the way back?

She turned to Mamdouh:

Khadija: I’m worried about my family, Mamdouh. It’s not like them not to check on me.

Mamdouh took out his mobile phone and dialed a number he seemed to know by heart.

Mamdouh: Peace be upon you. This is Mamdouh. We are fine, thank God. I just wanted to let you know that Khadija arrived safely, and I was there to receive her. We are now in the car on our way to the hotel. One moment, please. Uncle Othman, Khadija.

Khadija took the phone eagerly:

Khadija: My dear father, I miss you. How is Mother? Are you all well? This is God’s grace. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused at the airport. Hello, Mama. Hello, my dear. I am fine, thank God. I feel like I’ve been away from you for years. My regards to Abu Bakr when he returns, God willing. Goodbye.

The car stopped in front of a massive building with a grand gate adorned with golden bars, guarded by two men in elegant suits and red ties. As the car came to a halt, the driver quickly got out to unload the luggage. Khadija stood there, stunned for a few seconds, until Mamdouh turned to her, prompting:

Mamdouh: Khadija, what are you waiting for?

Khadija: For the porter to take the luggage.

Mamdouh smiled, grabbed the suitcase, and moved towards the hotel lobby:

Mamdouh: Everyone helps themselves here.

The room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the River Thames, which cuts through London from east to west.

After entering the room, Khadija asked Mamdouh:

Khadija: Which floor are we on, Mamdouh?

Mamdouh: The tenth floor.

Khadija slowly advanced towards the balcony door, but she stopped after hearing Mamdouh’s words, standing far from the door. She hesitantly said:

Khadija: Can we change the room?

Mamdouh: Why? The view from here is wonderful. Come…

Mamdouh rushed to open the door, but she held his hand:

Khadija: Please, don’t open it. I’m afraid of high places. And frankly, I fear for you too. The devil is cunning.

He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away, terrified.

Khadija: If you care for me, please change the room. I beg you.

Mamdouh: Why, Khadija? This room costs more per night than the rooms on the lower floors. Honestly, it’s the tourist season, and changing rooms is difficult now. Come, sit here. We are far from any danger now, if you see danger in this beautiful balcony. Tell me, what do you feel? What scares you?

Khadija: Honestly, high places and their balconies remind me of a neighbor of ours.

Mamdouh: What about this neighbour?

Khadija: She lived on the eighth floor and left her daughter to play while she chatted with a friend who came to visit, away from the balcony. Suddenly, the girl fell from the balcony and hit the ground… dead. She was only five years old.

Mamdouh: Let’s think logically, Khadija. Does that mean everyone who stays in a high-floor room will fall and die? How many people have fallen from high balconies?

Khadija: I don’t like to argue, Mamdouh. You should be grateful I agreed to travel today. I was seriously considering postponing the trip if not for my father’s intervention.

Mamdouh: Postponing the trip? What are you saying, Khadija? Why?

Khadija: I don’t like traveling on Fridays. I’m superstitious. They say there’s an hour of bad luck on Fridays.

Mamdouh: There is no power nor strength except through God. Bad luck on Friday? This is baseless, neither religiously, scientifically, nor logically. How did God say to us, “When the prayer is finished, disperse in the land and seek of the bounty of Allah”? Does this mean that God is pushing us toward bad luck? God forbid.

Khadija: Honestly, I don’t know. This is what I’ve heard. I’m a cautious person, and those who are cautious avoid harm and danger.

Mamdouh: I don’t want to prolong this discussion now. But let me tell you, Khadija, what’s going on in your mind are simply illusions. They don’t exist in reality; they are in your head only. If you continue to think this way, your illusions will grow and could harm you. I’ll give you a wonderful book to read once we settle down. Its title is “The Secret.”

Khadija: What is “The Secret”? What is it about?

Mamdouh: Its essence is that we bring good or bad things to ourselves. There’s a powerful force called the Law of Attraction. If we think about a disaster, it might happen to us. Our minds will be filled with negative thoughts, bringing us more misfortune. Our situation won’t change until we change our thinking. If we think about wealth, for instance, it will come to us. We’ll attract it to ourselves by constantly having thoughts that bring it. Why stray from our culture? I still remember what my father taught me, which I often forget: “Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.” Now, let’s rest a bit before heading down to the restaurant for dinner.

Khadija sat in her place for a few minutes, reflecting on what Mamdouh had said. Then she went to the bathroom, and upon returning, she asked Mamdouh about the direction of the Qibla. He pointed to the ceiling, where she found a sign indicating its direction. She took a prayer rug from her suitcase. Mamdouh noticed and moved closer to her, whispering:

Mamdouh: After you finish praying, leave the rug out so I can pray Isha after I perform ablution.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded. Mamdouh chose a table in the right corner near the large restaurant balcony, from which intertwined lights of various colours and shapes could be seen.

He looked at Khadija:

Mamdouh: How long I have waited for this day, Khadija. I lived alone for a long time, a cold life without warmth, just work, work, eating, drinking, and meetings, but without any real flavor. Today, for the first time, I feel my life has a purpose.

Khadija kept her head down as she listened to Mamdouh’s words, her fingers involuntarily moving up and down a small vase on the table that held two red roses, lost in thought.

Khadija: Which part of London are we in now?

Mamdouh: We’re almost in West London. The capital is truly beautiful in the evening.

Khadija: Are the people here kind?

Mamdouh: They are very friendly and polite in their interactions. God willing, you’ll get to know them better when you learn the language and start working.

Khadija: I’m really eager to learn English so I can protect myself from any harm. But what kind of job would suit someone with a degree in Islamic Studies from Al-Azhar University?

Mamdouh: It’s still early to discuss this, but I’ll work on finding a job for you once you master the language, perhaps at the Islamic center, in administration. Thankfully, I know several officials there.

Khadija: God bless you. It seems you have many connections.

Mamdouh: Praise be to God, I love my work and I love people. But tonight, I feel you’ve become the centre and focus of all this love.

Her face turned red, and she turned her head. Mamdouh reached out and held her hands:

Mamdouh: There should be no shyness between a husband and wife, Khadija. And what about you? What do you love? Do you have hobbies, ambitions, projects for the future?

Khadija: I’m very attached to my family and I worry a lot about them. I love reading, especially novels, and I’m passionate about cooking. My project for the future is the success of our relationship. The example I have before me is my parents’ marriage. May God bless me with you.

Mamdouh: And children?

Khadija: I love Abu Bakr’s children very much. They are my darlings after my parents. May God bless us with children, as my mother says, they are gifts from God.

The waiter approached and greeted them, and Mamdouh took care of the orders.

Mamdouh felt a warm connection growing between him and Khadija. She began to brighten up and drew closer to him as they walked side by side. She held onto his arm as they returned to their room. Taking advantage of the warmth between them, as soon as the elevator doors closed, he pulled her into his embrace. The journey from the second to the tenth floor was a golden opportunity. Mamdouh gently touched her cheeks, leaned his face towards hers, their warm breaths mingled, and he planted a kiss on her cheek.

Mamdouh was aware of what Khadija was facing: it was her first time traveling alone, to a non-Arab country, to start a new life with a man she didn’t know much about, whom she hadn’t lived with before, and whom she had only met a few times in the company of family. Therefore, he was determined to let their relationship grow naturally and smoothly, nurtured by a familiarity he would foster, and watered with warmth and love in his words and actions.

After donning his pajamas, he leaned back on his bed, examining his mobile phone. Khadija sat on the edge of the other bed, deep in thought.

Thank God, I had some fear within me… fear of Mamdouh changing when we were alone abroad. But now, seeing him, my fear has shifted to concern for him. He seems to love me and seeks stability in his life with me. My love for him has begun to grow in my heart, its branches taking root in my chest. Oh Lord, bless him for me, for he is my support here. I wish I could hold him now and nestle in his embrace, wrapped in his arms. I must dispel this deadly fear that paints the world as if it were hungry wolves wanting to devour me and those I love: my father, my mother, my brother, and my husband. What did I do to deserve this… or what did I do to myself, as Mamdouh says?

I must change… I must support Mamdouh and assist him, not add to his burdens. Is what Mamdouh said true? Am I the one bringing fear, worry, and caution upon myself? God has given me so many lessons, yet I haven’t learned. I was born as a child and God saved me, granting me a new life. I flew on a plane, and it didn’t crash into the sea as I had feared. What am I waiting for?

She looked at Mamdouh with a tender gaze, then leaned towards him and gave him a quick kiss:

Khadija: Goodnight.

Mamdouh: And you too, my love.

He returned her kiss and turned off the lights.

Hours passed in the night…

In her sleep, she saw her mother calling her. She hurried to her room in their large house, fear gripping her, and her mother said to her, “Stay away from the fire, Khadija, stay away. Hold Mamdouh’s hand, tell him to stay away… the fire, the fire.” Khadija replied in a panic, “Where is the fire, mother?” Her mother, turning her face away, said, “There… by the garden… but God has saved us, God has saved us.”

Khadija awoke, terrified, mumbling, “Mother, mother.”

Mamdouh approached her and stroked her head:

Mamdouh: Khadija, Khadija, are you alright? May God make it a good dream.

Khadija: My mother… I’m scared for her… I saw her warning me about the fire.

Mamdouh: God willing, it’s nothing, just a jumble of dreams, don’t worry, my love.

After a few minutes passed, Mamdouh settled back into his sleep:

Mamdouh: Goodnight, Khadija. We need to get some sleep as we have a busy day ahead.

Khadija: Goodnight… may God protect us.

(6)

At the breakfast table in the hotel restaurant, they sat side by side, nearly touching, their faces lit with joy. Khadija turned to Mamdouh:

Khadija: Will I get to see our new apartment today, God willing?

Mamdouh: God willing. The engineer overseeing the renovations promised me, and he assured me that everything—he really said everything—would be in place by Friday, and today is Saturday. Just wait a moment…

He checked his mobile phone and then smiled:

Mamdouh: Thank God, he sent me a message late last night after ten, informing me that everything is in order.

Khadija: Thank God, and congratulations. May God make it a source of joy for us.

Mamdouh: Oh Lord, Khadija, you have no idea how much it cost me and how exhausting it was. By the way, I have another small apartment with a bedroom and a living room that I lived in when I first started working here. I’m still paying installments on this newly renovated apartment, but I didn’t want you to move into an old place. You’re starting a new life, and everything should be new. Indeed, everything in the apartment is new—the walls, the paint, the doors, the furniture, and the appliances. It’s become a bride again, ready for the loveliest bride to grace it.

Khadija: May God reward you for every penny you spent on it, God willing.

Mamdouh: The apartment is in a building that was constructed not too long ago, with 24 floors. It’s in central London, in a rather upscale neighbourhood. It’s one of four sister buildings built at the same time. Thank God, many of the neighbours are Arabs, so you won’t feel alienated if circumstances force me to leave you alone during the early period.

Khadija: That will ease the pain of feeling like a stranger.

Mamdouh: Now let’s pack our bags and leave. To the new nest of Khadija and Mamdouh.

Khadija: Let’s go.

Mamdouh and Khadija got into the car waiting for them at the hotel entrance. Mamdouh said to the driver in English:

Mamdouh: Grenfell Tower, please.

Driver: The tower in Kensington?

Mamdouh: Yes.

Mamdouh took out a set of keys and handed two of them to Khadija:

Mamdouh: Keep these keys with you; you might need them. This white key is for the main entrance of the tower, and the yellow one is for the apartment—apartment 17 on the fourth floor.

Khadija: Thank you, my love.

Mamdouh then began to tell Khadija the story of buying the furniture, how luck was on his side, and how everything fell into place for the apartment’s preparations.

Mamdouh felt the car wasn’t taking the usual streets; the driver seemed to be taking a longer route. He refrained from complaining out of respect for Khadija, who was eagerly watching the streets and shops, anticipating the moment they would arrive.

As the car entered the neighbourhood, Mamdouh was surprised by an unusual number of people. Groups were coming and going, some holding bouquets of flowers, as if they were on a pilgrimage. The car stopped at a large park, and Mamdouh was puzzled:

Mamdouh: Why did you stop? Is the road closed?

Driver: Are you from the neighbourhood?

Mamdouh: Yes.

Driver: Didn’t you hear about what happened yesterday?

Mamdouh: What happened? You’re making me anxious.

Driver: Anyway, please see for yourself as I can’t stay parked here long. Parking here is now prohibited.

Mamdouh: Thank you. Here’s your fare. Come on, Khadija.

They got out of the car. The place was filled with thick smoke. The building’s fences were covered with numerous flower bouquets, each with a card. On the walls were pictures of people surrounded by writings and signatures, some adorned with black ribbons.

Mamdouh looked up and saw the other three towers. He walked a bit towards Grenfell Tower but couldn’t see it.

He saw a charred building, with small columns of smoke still rising from its windows. Mamdouh froze in place, his face a map covered in shock.

Unable to stand, he collapsed to the ground:

Mamdouh: Oh God, oh God, there is no power nor strength except in God.

Khadija stood, confused, not understanding what was happening:

Khadija: What happened, Mamdouh?

Mamdouh: The tower… the building… the home… the apartment… the costs… everything burned… charred.

Khadija: Maybe some floors were spared. Let’s ask to be sure.

She reached out her hand to him and led him a little further until they stopped at a newspaper vendor:

Mamdouh: What happened, sir?

Newspaper Vendor: Yesterday, a fire broke out in the tower and consumed it…

Mamdouh: At what time?

Newspaper Vendor: At twelve fifty-five.

Mamdouh: Were there any fatalities?

Newspaper Vendor: Seventy-seven residents… many of them were sleeping.

Mamdouh: Do you know the cause?

Newspaper Vendor: The police said an electrical short circuit in one of the apartments caused the fire.

Mamdouh: On which floor was that apartment?

Newspaper Vendor: I’m not sure, but you can ask the policeman standing over there in front of the tower from a distance.

Mamdouh kept repeating, “There is no power nor strength except in God,” as his heart raced towards the policeman.

“Is there any hope that our apartment survived the flames?”

He approached the policeman and greeted him:

Mamdouh: Excuse me, I’m one of the tower residents, but I spent the night elsewhere. Can you help me?

Policeman: Of course. Do you remember your apartment number?

Mamdouh: 17.

Policeman: On the fourth floor?

Mamdouh: Yes.

Policeman: Was it under renovation?

Mamdouh: Yes, I renovated everything.

Policeman: And when were the kitchen appliances installed?

Mamdouh: I think the engineer installed them late yesterday, which is why my wife and I stayed elsewhere.

Policeman: May God compensate you.

Mamdouh: What do you mean?

Policeman: The entire tower and all its apartments burned and were destroyed due to an electrical short circuit in apartment 17, according to initial investigations.

Mamdouh: Oh my calamity… my compensation is with God… my compensation is with God.

Khadija approached and embraced him as he continued to murmur, “How,” “Why,” and “Who is responsible?”

She gently pulled him away, showering him with kisses.

Khadija: Mamdouh, my love, we must thank God that the apartment wasn’t ready by Friday. Otherwise, we would have been among the victims. We must thank God we stayed in the hotel. This is a great mercy from God for you and me.

Mamdouh: My compensation is with God… for everything I spent.

Khadija: Thank God you are safe, my love. Now I understand that you and I have been granted a new life.

At this moment, the policeman approached and whispered to Mamdouh, informing him that the station would send him a notice for further questioning to complete the report.