Confined: Based on a True Story

By Sahar Bahrawi

Rola, a Saudi hermaphrodite, lives in agony. Scorned by family members and shunned by society for her masculine appearance, Rola is constantly obliged to defend herself.

Trapped in her own body, she seeks support from Dr. Suhair, a Boston-educated Saudi psychologist. Throughout her struggle, Rola remains unaware that her battle against her authoritative mother to change her sex mirrors Suhair’s own struggle to escape a long confinement in a decaying marriage. Throughout a turbulent decade of unintentional mutual psychotherapy, Rola and Suhair both strive to break their chains and shape their own destinies.

Based on a true story, Confined offers a moving novel that explores the complexities of sexuality, mental health and social judgment.

“In the months and years after I cut my hair, not a day has passed without Mama making remarks about how provoking my appearance is to people, and how dangerous that is for me —and, more specifically, for her. As a result of her anxiety and her ire, as a teenager, I lived my life at home behind bars. Each night I prayed and pleaded to God to relieve me from the solitary confinement I’d been living in. The mental gap between Mama and me, brought by the generational gap and her volatile nature, led horror to be the cornerstone of our relationship.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728387727

Sahar Bahrawi

Sahar Bahrawi was born September 1978 in London, England, to Saudi parents. She returned to Jeddah in 1982, graduating from high school in 1996. She earned a bachelor’s degree from the American University in Cairo in 2000. Through her writing, Sahar strives to contribute to female empowerment in the kingdom and has written books and plays. She is also the author of Amna. Sahar has one son.

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© 2019 Sahar Bahrawi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse  10/10/2019

ISBN:978-1-7283-8773-4 (sc)

ISBN:978-1-7283-8771-0 (hc)

ISBN:978-1-7283-8772-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Happily Ever After

Chapter 2   Denial

Chapter 3   Behind Bars

Chapter 4   Finding the Road to Salvation

Chapter 5   Love at First Sight

Chapter 6   From Darkness to Dawn

Chapter 7   Karma

Chapter 8   It’s a Boy!

Chapter 9   Happily Ever After Clapper II

Author Description

About the Book

CHAPTER 1

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

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From a distance I could see the spectacular splash of the laser light show illuminating the dark evening sky. The rays got brighter the closer I came to Laylaty, the most glamorous wedding hall in Jeddah¹ and undoubtedly the most expensive.

I’ve lost count of the number of weddings I’ve attended in Jeddah. To me, they’re always the same: extravagant yet exhausting. For most of my life, wedding invitations have been more of a burden than a pleasure. The hot weather in Jeddah encourages the community to lead a late-night lifestyle, and most social events take place after ten. Weddings typically start an hour before midnight and don’t end until three or four in the morning!

As much as I usually resented having to give up so many hours of sleep for a wedding, tonight was an exception. I had never before appreciated the genuine feeling of joy that should naturally surround a wedding—a feeling that almost always seemed absent from our Saudi nuptials. Tonight, for what felt like the first time in my life, I was able to overlook the stiffness of the scenery, the opulence, and the exaggerated luxury that marked most elite weddings in Jeddah.

As I entered the hall, I had only one thought bouncing around in my mind: he did it!

Emran, my loyal patient and my hero, was getting married tonight. I could still recall the shiver that ran down my spine at my first glance of him when he walked into my clinic ten years earlier. Little had I known that this confused patient would change my life. During a decade filled with joy and sorrow, I had been overtaken by hopelessness dozens of times—whenever Emran himself lost hope. But each time, he had risen up stronger, wiser, and happier. Finally, after so many years, after all the hurdles, he had arrived at his dream destination: the wedding hall.

The message beep interrupted my cheerful thoughts: Are you here yet? It was from Durr, Emran’s sister.

Yes, I’m at the entrance, wearing a yellow dress. You’ll find me as soon as you walk out of the hall.

A few minutes later, a woman I assumed was Durr hurried toward me, cheerfully extending her arm for a warm handshake.

A pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor! she exclaimed. "You’re here just in time. The zaffa² is in fifteen minutes. Let me show you to your seat and inform Emran you’ve arrived at last!"

Holding my hand, Durr led me to the family table. I felt overwhelmed by her hospitality, feeling sure it was Emran’s doing. I was neither a family member nor a member of the wedding party, yet I was offered a prime seat right in front of the kousha.³

I could never thank you enough, dear, but I’m sure some of my acquaintances will be here, and I’d rather join them. That was my excuse to Durr, to spare myself the embarrassment of being in the spotlight. I searched for an isolated table, happy to watch the proceedings from a distance. I was not ready to socialize or answer any questions about my identity or my relation to the groom. What would Emran’s family tell their curious guests when asked about me? What should they say—that I’m his therapist?

On one side of the hall, I found a table that had been commandeered by a group of bubbly, joyful ladies in their thirties. Behind them was another table occupied only by a servant who was obviously a companion to one of the invitees. The perfect table for me, I thought. I grabbed a chair and poured myself a cup of coffee. The fancy chocolates, delicious canapés, and Arabic coffee were always the best part of the wedding experience for me. As I pulled the chocolate platter closer to select a particularly delicious-looking morsel, my attention was involuntarily captured by the conversation taking place at the neighboring table.

You guys would not believe how happy I am today, one of the ladies proclaimed. This guy has really suffered, and his relationship with Rana has been such a wonderful bright spot after a long period of darkness. I’m so happy it worked out for both of them.

I so agree, Arwa, another lady replied. It really does feel like a fairy tale, full of adventure and conflict and then finally a happy ending. Honestly, girls, this marriage has been spreading positive vibes among all of us former classmates. May God bless."

Just then, however, a third voice from that same table made its presence known, sneering and contradicting. Amen. Isn’t it remarkably strange, though, for a man like Rana’s father to give his blessing to a marriage like this? I just don’t see how he can accept it!

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. All eyes at the table were fixed on the source of that poisonous comment—a fair-skinned, chubby lady wearing a black strapless dress. The dark makeup surrounding her eyes added a sense of wickedness to her bitter facial expression.

And what makes you say that, Manal? asked Arwa defensively. "What’s so suspicious about the bride’s father blessing this marriage? Emran is a decent fellow, by general consensus. Honestly, I have a great deal of respect for the bride’s dad for being so open-minded and tolerant. This marriage is an indication of his wisdom and intellect, and it is by no means demeaning to him or his daughter."

Well, if ‘Emran’ is so flawless, how come none of you ladies cheering for him now thought of marrying him yourselves? You were all friends with him and knew him before his bride did. Please stop being so delusional. Emran might be a nice man, but he’s not exactly a catch!

Manal’s vicious air quotes emphasizing Emran’s name filled me with a deep chill. I hoped that Arwa or another of the ladies would step in and defend Emran, but they said nothing, being far better acquainted with Manal’s judgmental character than I was.

Attempting to reclaim my joyful energy, I thought, Well, normal brides and grooms suffer through the verbal dissection of their entire lives by their friends on their wedding days, so why should Emran and Rana be any different? I knew what we all knew: a gossip-free wedding was impossible. Besides, the hostility toward Emran was not necessarily personal. In a society where most women are oppressed by their husbands, their in-laws, and a whole drove of other family members, many women grow to be bitter and resentful. As a result, they can be extremely critical and judgmental. Although I was not acquainted with Manal personally, I could tell that her hostility toward Emran was a lot more complicated than a simple disapproval of his past. Throughout my years of practice, I had seen many women respond to a lack of joy in their own lives by resenting those who had done better.

Just then a girl from an adjacent table called, "Everybody run to the balcony. The zaffa is up!"

In no time, most of the young female invitees congregated in the area directly beneath the ballroom balcony. The lights were dimmed, and the sound of harmonious, joyful drums announcing the grand entrance grew steadily louder. At last the balcony doors were opened, and the dazzling spotlights focused on the lovebirds making their grand entrance.

Emran appeared with Rana, his gorgeous bride. He looked like a true Saudi prince on a royal mission, wearing his white sparkling thobe⁴ topped with an elegant black bisht.⁵ I seldom reveal my emotions, but a tear escaped my eye. I was so proud of my heroic Emran. I had been his psychologist for ten years, but I had never seen him so handsome and radiant. His cheerful face and confident posture altered his appearance in the best possible way. For the first time in a decade, I saw Emran’s sparkling eyes and enchanting smile as they were meant to be. For the first time, I saw Emran truly happy.

Over a period of ten years, within my clinic’s walls, Emran had managed to unleash himself from the burden of seclusion and misery. And while he had succeeded at breaking his own chains, one after another, he had helped me break mine as well. During our sessions together, I sensed deeply Emran’s confinement, and I felt its reflection in my own life. Both of us were, in our own ways, prisoners of a seemingly endless era of personal hell.

A deep female voice interrupted my thoughts. Are you a relative of the bride or the groom?

I was mortified to see that the poisonous Manal was the source of the question. I’m friends with both, I replied in a slightly unfriendly manner, attempting to ward off any gossipy intentions, but my cold tone didn’t intimidate her much.

Well, I’m friends with neither of them, but I know Rola. Do you?

No, I replied in a rush, and hurried away.

Taking refuge in the bathroom, away from the commotion in the hall, I stepped closer to the mirror to check that my makeup hadn’t smudged. Stacked next to the antique sink were three perfume bottles and a small silver bowl containing mint sweets. I unwrapped one as I gazed at my image in the mirror. A sudden rush of nostalgia conquered my thoughts as my memories of Rola took over. I had truly missed her.

CHAPTER 2

DENIAL

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February 12, 2003

Rola walked into my clinic fifteen minutes late. Before I could express my frustration at her tardiness—a common trait among Arabs to which I never got accustomed—she produced, from a paper bag she was clutching, a cup containing a large scoop of chocolate ice cream.

"Even shrinks need chocolate," she declared, handing it to me with a smile.

Rola’s gesture brought a smile to my face. Using chocolate ice cream to bribe her shrink to overlook her poor time management skills was a classic example of Rola’s humor. Because of that humor, I always had a good reason to turn a blind eye to her flaws.

Trust me, I said, no one could be more addicted to chocolate than we psychologists. I took a bite with the pink plastic spoon that always accompanied Baskin-Robbins ice cream. Then I got up from behind the desk and moved to sit in a chair facing my client. It’s good to see you looking so relaxed, dear. I’d like to dig beyond your recent past and into more ancient history today. Would that be okay?

Of course, Rola replied with a smile. Where did we stop last time? We were talking about Fatma, weren’t we?

"Yes, we were, dear. I do want to hear the whole story about Fatma, but some other time. Today I’d rather focus on earlier matters that are still vague. I need more details about your background and family life, Rola."

Sure, you can ask me anything.

You’ve never spoken much about your mother, but it seems clear from some of your stories that she has had an immense effect on your life. Did she ever comment on your masculine appearance?

Suddenly the spark in Rola’s eyes vanished, and her face dimmed with memories of her mother. She released a deep sigh and replied in a helpless tone, Mama is the kindest woman on earth. But to my misery, her kind heart lies trapped beneath a mask of cruelty and constant rage. No outsider would ever believe that such a volatile, short-fused woman has the heart of an angel.

It required no genius to determine that Rola was dominated by an oppressive, controlling mother whose harshness Rola always tried to balance by mentioning that her mother also had a kind, hidden heart. This mask of cruelty myth is common in the Middle East. In a somewhat emotionally immature society, we seldom dare to describe a loved one or figure of authority as abusive, oppressive, or even at fault. Instead, we are raised to find excuses for others as well as ourselves, with no limits or boundaries. Consequently, few people are held accountable for their behaviors and actions. Why should anyone be held accountable when an entire community is always ready to justify cruelty with good intentions?

So she raged against you because she didn’t approve of your appearance? The way you carry yourself? I asked.

Rola placed her ice cream cup on the table and wiped her fingers with a napkin, as though the tale she was about to tell required her full concentration. I anticipated a long, sensitive story.

Rola began, "As a child, I never once played with dolls or engaged in any mother-baby play. Unlike all the other girls, I never cared about dresses, never sneaked into Mama’s room to try on her makeup or lipsticks. Throughout my childhood years, I was never concerned with Cinderella or Snow White; my heroes were always Superman, Spider-Man, and Batman.

"Mama never gave me the opportunity to choose my own clothes. I was always forced to wear dresses and skirts. But as I grew into adolescence, at the age of eleven, I started rebelling against girls’ clothing. Adolescence was a major transitional phase in my life; since then, I have refused to wear anything but masculine trousers and shirts. At the time, Mama frequently complained about my boyish outfits—especially on Thursdays, the official family gathering day, when all my mother’s extended family would gather at my eldest uncle’s house for lunch.

"Before leaving the house, she’d always give me a disapproving look and then spit out her usual comparisons: ‘I still don’t get your fixation on trousers, Rola. Every Thursday I see all of my nieces wearing a different dress each time. It’s just like being in a fashion show. I can’t see why you should always be different. God help me!’

"Things remained on an even keel, though somewhat tense, during the early years of my adolescence. Mama complained every now and then, whenever I had to mingle with her community and insisted on wearing trousers and shirts. However, her slight dissatisfaction never developed into anything more than a few comments.

At the beginning of my thirteenth year, I woke up one morning and gazed at my reflection in the mirror for a few minutes. I disliked what I saw tremendously: a human being lacking a true identity. It was as though my long black hair belonged to someone else, someone in whose body I was trapped. A surge of frustration strengthened my determination to change what I didn’t like. I went to the kitchen on the ground floor, took a large pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, and sneaked up to my room again. Quietly I locked my bedroom door, gathered my straight long hair in a ponytail, and chopped it off.

Involuntarily, I put my hand over my mouth and cried out, Ooh! I had been so involved in creating a visual image of Rola’s story that imagining her mum’s reaction to chopping that beautiful hair off freaked me out. Thinking of how strict your mum is, I’m glad you’re still alive!

Rola laughed and proceeded, So am I, but it was a week from hell. Mama deprived me of my allowance and grounded me as well. She took me to a hairdresser’s salon to fix the haircut and make it less ‘scary,’ as she put it. After that day, Mama’s occasional dissatisfaction transformed into constantly criticizing my masculine appearance. Warning me about defying God’s laws by attempting to look like a man became a daily ritual for her.

With the perspective of somebody who’d lived abroad and had the chance to examine my homeland as an outsider, I realized that despite the fact that much of the social prosecution in Saudi is masked by religious values, Rola’s mom was probably terrified of rejection and social judgment—not God’s curse, as she claimed. The wave of fanaticism dominating Saudi culture for decades has done nothing but transform tribal norms into sacred religious values, and women are the primary victim of that evolution. In that sense, conforming to misogynistic tribal values has become associated with religious practices and conformity, making women prisoners for decades.

In the months and years since I cut my hair, Rola continued, "not a day has passed without Mama making remarks about