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Kerra
KONYA, MAY 1247
Broaching a subject as deep and delicate as love is like trying to capture a gusty wind. You can
feel the harm the wind is about to cause, but there is no way to slow it down. After a while I
didn’t ask Kimya any other questions, not because I was convinced by her answers but because I
saw in her eyes a woman in love. I stopped questioning this marriage, accepting it as one of those
odd things in life I had no control over.
The month of Ramadan went by so fast and busy, I didn’t have time to dwell on this matter
again. Eid fell on Sunday. Four days later we married Kimya to Shams.
The evening before the wedding, something happened that changed my entire mood. I was alone
in the kitchen, sitting in front of a floured board and a rolling pin, preparing flatbread for the
guests. All of a sudden, without thinking what I was doing, I started molding a shape out of a ball
of dough. I sculpted a small, soft Mother Mary. My Mother Mary. With the help of a knife, I
carved her long robe and her face, calm and compassionate. So absorbed was I in this that I
didn’t notice someone standing behind me.
“What is it that you are making, Kerra?”
My heart jumped inside my chest. When I turned around, I saw Shams standing by the door,
watching me with inquisitive eyes. It occurred to me to hide the dough, but it was too late.
Shams approached the tray and looked at the figure.
“Is that Mary?” he asked, and when I didn’t answer, he turned to me with a beaming
countenance. “Why, she is beautiful. Do you miss Mary?”
“I converted long ago. I am a Muslim woman,” I answered curtly.
But Shams continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard me. “Perhaps you wonder why Islam doesn’t
have a female figure like Mary. There is Aisha, for sure, and certainly Fatima, but you might
think it is not the same.”
I felt uneasy, not knowing what to say.
“May I tell you a story?” Shams asked.
And this is what he told me:
Once there were four travelers, a Greek, an Arab, a Persian, and a Turk. Upon reaching a small
town, they decided to get something to eat. As they had limited money they had only one choice
to make. Each said he had the best food in the world in mind. When asked what that was, the
Persian answered “angoor,” the Greek said “staphalion,” the Arab asked for “aneb,” and the Turk
demanded “üzüm.” Unable to understand one another’s language, they began to argue.
They kept quarreling among themselves, feeling more resentful and bitter with every passing
minute, until a Sufi who happened to pass by interrupted them. With the money collected the
Sufi bought a bunch of grapes. He then put the grapes in a container and pressed hard. He made
the travelers drink the juice and threw away the skin, because what mattered was the essence of
the fruit, not its outer form.
“Christians, Jews, and Muslims are like those travelers. While they quarrel about the outer form,
the Sufi is after the essence,” Shams said, giving me a smile that conveyed such excitement that
it was hard not to be carried away by it.
“What I am trying to say is, there is no reason for you to miss Mother Mary, because you don’t
need to abandon her in the first place. As a Muslim woman, you can still feel attached to her.”
“I … I don’t think that would be right,” I stammered.
“I don’t see why not. Religions are like rivers: They all flow to the same sea. Mother Mary
stands for compassion, mercy, affection, and unconditional love. She is both personal and
universal. As a Muslim woman, you can keep liking her and even name your daughter Mary.”
“I don’t have a daughter,” I said.
“You will have one.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
I felt excited to hear such words, but before long the excitement was washed away by another
feeling: solidarity. Sharing an unusual moment of serenity and harmony, we looked at the figure
of Mother Mary together. My heart warmed to Shams, and for the first time since he’d come to
our house, I was able to see what Rumi saw in him: a man with a big heart.
Still, I doubted he would make a good husband for Kimya.
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