Appearing modern and very beautiful, she finally slipped out of the door and walked to the office tower next door: the head office of Batelco, the local telephone monopoly. Tingling with fear and excitement, she sat on a couch and waited to be called for the interview. It occurred to her that her feelings weren’t far removed from those on her wedding night – and right now she felt about as naked.
No wonder women enjoy going out like this, she thought.
A secretary approached and showed her into a conference room, where two men and a female executive explained that the company was expanding its number of ‘customer relations’ officers. What did she think of that? She told them it was a good idea – the company’s reputation for service was so bad it was difficult to believe they even had any to start with.
The senior guy stared at her and then laughed. All day they had heard prospective employees tell them what an outstanding company it was. Finally they were interviewing someone who at least understood the job was necessary. Still smiling, he said most of the work was dealing with customer complaints about overcharging, explaining billing cycles, unlocking the mysteries of pricing plans.
She told them she didn’t have any experience but she was still an expert; as a widow on a small income she had to understand and analyse all the household bills, including Batelco’s. Out of anxiety she kept rattling on, not realizing that even though they were nodding their heads, the panel members were barely listening.
They knew the job was more about handling irate subscribers than technical qualifications. The woman in front of them seemed to have a rare combination of intelligence and style – enough to give pause to even the most rabid customer.
The committee looked at one another, communicating in a shorthand of raised eyebrows and tiny shrugs, and without a word between them came to a decision. The senior guy interrupted and asked if she could start on Monday. She was so excited she couldn’t answer, and it was only after he repeated the question that she managed to say yes.
She walked out of the conference room with a maelstrom of thoughts crowding her head but, even in the midst of it, she knew she couldn’t share the news with her daughters. Everything could still fall at the last hurdle: her son.
After dinner, casually, she asked him to go with her to the nearby grocery market. She had been planning it all afternoon and, as they set out, she saw that her timing was perfect. It was the start of the weekend and groups of youths had gathered outside a car customizing shop, squads of Pakistani men who lived on site at local factories squatted on street corners and carloads of rowdy boys headed into movie houses in the city. As they walked, she pointed out every unsavoury aspect and told him that soon, veiled or not, the girls would be of an age where they would no longer be able to leave the house.
He nodded; he’d thought about it too. As a male, he was the head of the family and responsible for the women’s virtue.
‘We have to move to a better area,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘And how do we pay for it?’
‘I get a job,’ she said quietly, conveniently omitting to mention she already had one.
He stopped and stared at her. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ he said.
She lowered her veiled face in obedience, wisely letting the first blast of anger and surprise blow by. He turned to walk on towards the grocery store but she didn’t move.
‘Ridiculous maybe, but give me an alternative,’ she said steadily. ‘How else do we keep the girls safe?’
He continued towards the store. And still she didn’t move, determined to fight her son for a chance at a better life.
‘We can’t live on charity for ever!’ she called after him. ‘What man would want it? No mother would allow it. With a job we could afford a new life—’
She didn’t finish. He turned and stalked back to her, furious. ‘The answer is no – it’s wrong!’
He started dragging her by the sleeve, but she had seen the opening she had been so desperately hoping for. ‘A woman working may not suit some idea of manhood, it may offend a few wild-eyed imams, but it isn’t wrong,’ she said coldly.
Her son glimpsed the chasm opening in front of him, but he couldn’t take back what he had said. Instead, he tried closing the whole subject down, indicating the groups of men watching the unfolding domestic dispute. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘You’re making a spectacle of us!’
But she wouldn’t move. ‘It’s years since I did my religious studies,’ she said, ‘so tell me – where in Islam does it say it’s wrong for a woman to take honest work?’