Daima - Part 1: Muslimah free porn video

Daima - Part 1: Muslimah By RH Music Introduction: "How did the experiment conclude? Was there a winner?" "Yes, your Majesty. It was quite successful." "Excellent. Who?" "A college student. Named Paul J?sus Christiansen." "A college student? He must be very bright." "Yes. But..." "But...?" "There is a complication." "What sort of complication?" the Emir frowned. The Minister of Finance shifted uneasily. This would not be comfortable. "Tell me." The Emir's voice contained a harsh note of warning. "Your Majesty, he was able to determine that you have assets in Arabia." "WHAT?" the Emir bolted from his chair, robes flying. "HOW? How did this happen? You told me the data was fully anonymized! You promised not even Allah himself would be able to trace the data back to its source! How did this happen?" "I am sorry, Your Royal Highness! He determined the table was financial transactions and was able to correlate them to holidays and events from our religious calendar! He also found correlations with secular events, in our home country." "HE KNOWS THAT THE DATA REPRESENTS ASSETS IN MY COUNTRY??" "Yes, Your Majesty." The Minister of Finance hung his head, his face hot with shame. This was very, very bad. If this college student could link the financial transactions from the sample dataset to the Emir, then he would be able to calculate the Emir's true wealth. He might even be able to identify some of the Emir's holdings and corporations. The geopolitical consequences would be devastating. "Did other participants come to the same conclusions?" "No, Your Majesty. He was the only one." "Enough. I will handle it. Send his location and details to security." The Minister of Finance gulped. He knew what that meant. "If I may..." "What." "His results were... remarkable." "How remarkable?" "Our goal was 1 percent." "I remember." "No test participant scored above 0.85%. No better than our own experts. He gave us... 11.2 percent." "Over eleven percent??" the Emir gasped. He did a quick calculation in his head. "Yes, Emir." "Now I understand your hesitation." "Yes, Your Majesty." The Emir thought for a long while. His hand stroked his carefully cropped beard. The numbers were staggering. Well worth the risk. "So what do we do?" "If you will allow me, Your Majesty, we have discovered... some leverage." "What sort of leverage?" The two devout Muslim men, master manipulators of global finance, sat down to work out a plan. * * * Chapter 1: Aliya and the Apartment First class on Royal Arabian Airlines! Paul had never experienced such luxury before. The first class cabins were like individual hotel suites, each with a bed, a mini bar and a gorgeously made up stewardess to attend to his every need. "Glass of juice?" Paul was speechless for a second, staring at this beautiful woman in her elegant and sexy uniform with its flirty red kick pleats, crisp and efficient jacket and a sheer cream scarf attached to a pillbox hat. "I could get used to this!" he chortled to himself. After landing, a uniformed airline official escorted Paul to a special reception room, away from the other passengers, where a woman was waiting. "Mr. Christiansen?" Once glance and Paul felt his heart turn over. She wore fashionable long robes [abaya], with a beautiful head covering [hijab]. Her face was uncovered: a graceful oval of feminine beauty framed by her tight fitting scarf. The rest of her body was only subtly indicated, the gentle curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts. She was exotic and graceful and held herself with a noble elegance. "That's me," Paul said, his voice coming out comically high. "Wonderful," she smiled. "My name is Aliya. I will be your supervisor." "M-my... supervisor?" Paul asked. "As in..." Paul gawped at her. She was so beautiful! How could she be his supervisor? "That's right, your boss. Now I know you're brilliant, but I do have multiple degrees in mathematical statistics and data science from Bryn Mawr, so I'll know if you're pulling the wool over my eyes!" She grinned at him and Paul felt himself fall in love, just like that. "Now, I'll need your passport." "Oh, uh, sure. Of course." Paul reached into his backpack and fetched out his American passport and handed it over. Aliya took Paul to a bored looking man in a white head scarf and robes [thawb] who scanned the passport. Apparently what showed up on his screen was surprising, because he took a long time to read it, all the while looking back and forth between Paul and the screen. Finally he waved them through, handing the passport back to Aliya. "My... uh... passport?" Paul asked as they walked to the exit. "It's best that I keep it. I will need it to complete your on-boarding as an employee of the Royal Arabian Corporation," Aliya explained. "Oh... okay." They walked out a side door to a covered car park where there was a waiting limousine. Already the air was hot and oppressive. A muscular and severe looking man dressed in black pants and a loose light-grey, short-sleeve shirt opened the limousine door for them. "But... what about my bags?" "The airline will deliver them." Aliya ushered Paul into the limo. In the front seat was a bored Arab man browsing his cell phone. Like the passport official, he too was dressed in the traditional white head scarf and robes. And just like that, they were off. Through the darkened windows, Paul could see multi-story stucco & tile homes give way to modern downtown skyscrapers. The buildings shot hundreds of stories into the air, a line of spears planted in the desert, piercing the sky. * * * "Wow." "A beautiful and expensive view," Aliya agreed. Her cousin, the Emir, owned a full 45% of all of the real estate which stretched before them. The Emir's wealth was officially measured in dozens of billions, but he controlled the wealth of much, much more. He had paid for Aliya's education. Paul had lived his entire life in a small, college town in the eastern United States. His world had been rolling suburbs, two story colonial houses, big grassy yards, state roads, strip malls, grocery stores and nail salons. It was a far cry from this modern Arab city trapped between the desert and the sea which spread before him. The apartment complex occupied the entire 34th floor of the high-rise, an exclusive and discrete mixed-use building in the new Dubai. "This is all for me?" Paul asked, wide eyed. "Of course not," Aliya said, as she showed Paul around the apartments, her robes flowing around her like magical water. "The two rooms at the end by the elevator are for security. And over here, this is my room." "What... are you saying... I mean... you and I..." "Yes, we'll be roommates," Aliya smiled. "At least for now. These corporate apartments just became available. Since I just recently moved back home from Pennsylvania, it makes sense for us to share, since we are both fresh from college," Aliya neglected to say that she had just received her PhD and was therefore seven years older than Paul. "Of course we can't expect to have apartments of our own. You don't mind sharing, do you? I hope it's okay?" Aliya reached out and placed a gentle hand on Paul's arm, her eyes full of concern. "Of course it's okay!" Paul gushed. "This is amazing! I was just surprised." "Oh good," Aliya said. "I was worried that there might be a concern, you know, living with a woman." "I was in a co-ed dorm in college," Paul shrugged. "I'm used to it." "Is that so?" Aliya asked. Of course she knew very well Paul's entire background, plus a lot more. The previous few weeks had been... intense. Non-stop study and social-interaction training. She understood the enormity of what was riding on her performance. It was a good thing Paul was something of a clueless nerd. But then, how could he not be? His data science capabilities far exceeded her own, and he had not yet completed his undergraduate degree. He must have been dreaming, breathing, and eating data science practically his whole life. "We're also sharing a bathroom," Aliya continued. She showed Paul the master bath. It was palatial and covered with gorgeous tile work with oiled hardwood trim. It included a soaking tub, a shower, a bidet, and multiple sinks. There were three entrances, one from the hallway and one from each of their bedrooms. "Of course, I'll lock it whenever I'm inside." "Oh, of course! Uh, I will too." "And I think you'll like this..." Aliya said, leading Paul to a room at the end of a long hallway. "Are those..." Paul gasped, as a blast of cold air greeted them. "Yes," Aliya grinned, "our very own data center." There were four racks of servers, all packed with the latest hardware and the fastest possible cores packed with Optane memory, plus a pair of the most advanced Nvidia DGX SuperPOD Neural Network super computers. "Wow." No more hacking into the college network, Paul thought to himself. "And over here," Aliya said, closing the door to the server room and leading Paul next door, "are our offices." The room was appointed with two elegant desks, each with multiple monitors and keyboards, surrounded by whiteboards. "Our offices? But... you mean, we're working... here? I don't have to go, you know, to the office?" "That's correct! Isn't this wonderful? Just get out of bed, shower, make yourself pretty, and then get to work. But Paul," Aliya placed a hand on his arm again, a sure sign that she had some bad news to tell him, "there is a catch, and I'm afraid it is a condition of your employment here. The office machines are not connected to the internet. If you need to research something on the internet, you have to use the iPad, which has been locked down so that it only has a web browser and no other applications," Aliya indicated the iPad sitting on the desk. "I'm sure you understand how important security is. The Royal Arabian Corporation intellectual property assets with which we'll be working include the most sensitive data owned by the corporation." "But... but..." Paul sputtered, "how will I download the data files I need? I use a lot of public data files..." "There's an interface where you can request new data, and the IT security team will download the data for you." Paul hesitated. No internet? Could he really stand this? The internet was his sixth sense. Could he work like that? Of course, the pay was incredible, the apartment was gorgeous and Aliya was... "I'm sure you'll be able to handle it," Aliya said, gently giving Paul's arm an encouraging squeeze. "It really is the same as any other corporate security environment." Aliya reflected as to how her job was like leading Paul through a series of caves. Following them were tigers, deadly and silent, stalking them on soft pads and hidden in the shadows. As Paul travelled deeper and deeper into the cave, the rooms would get smaller and smaller. And he could never turn back, because if he did he would be devoured by predators. It was Aliya's job to ensure that Paul only went forward. If she did her job well, Paul would never know how much his life depended on her graceful, persuasive abilities. "Okay," Paul said finally. "I understand. After all, the University had a secure area as well, you know, for people data and stuff." "Exactly," Aliya said, smiling. Inside she felt a small pulse of relief. Paul may have been thinking he could hack his way out of the apartment in the same way that he had hacked his way into the college Hadoop cluster, but she knew this would be impossible. The apartment was physically isolated. New data would be brought in on physical media and then destroyed on-site. The iPad was connected to the only WiFi in the office, and all packets were inspected. WiFi hardware had been physically removed from all other computers. Paul's web browser was specially modified to log all SSL encryption keys so that all external communications could be inspected. Aliya pulled a folder from her desk. "I think this might be a good time to sign some paperwork. Shall we start with the confidentiality agreement?" * * * Chapter 2: Data Science, Islamic Culture and the Qur'an It was a public contest, posted by the American eCommerce Company (AeCC). The company presented itself as a cutting-edge startup, when in reality it was incorporated in the Cayman Islands and was secretly owned by the Royal Arabian Corporation. The goal of the test was to analyze anonymized supply chain data to see if big data techniques could improve inventory management by more than 1%. It had a prize of 1 million dollars, USD. What was hidden from the world in the anonymized data was that the "inventory" in this example was money. The Emir's money. Publicly, the contest had no winner. All entrants had scored less than the 1% threshold, by a substantial margin. Group discussions by university academics around the world generally concluded that the data was too random with patterns that were too sparse to be synthesized into anything useful. A number of university research groups submitted their best results (some having been encouraged to do so by an anonymous donor), and there was, for a while, a lively discussion on-line as to what approaches might work. But the data was dull, anonymized transactional data and not something fun like movie viewership, and the research community soon lost interest. Only one independent, highly motivated entrant had really taken on the challenge. And he had beaten the numbers... by a lot. A week after submitting his final results to be scored, Paul heard a knock on his door. To his surprise, in walked the CEO of the American eCommerce company to personally tell Paul that he had won the prize! And behind the CEO was a representative of the Royal Arabia Corporation, a small and unassuming man with a carefully groomed mustache, full of enthusiasm speaking in excellent British-accented English. "Have you shared your algorithms with anyone else?" asked the RAC representative. "No," Paul said, smugly. He had jealously guarded his work, afraid that someone else might steal his ideas and with the prize. "Excellent," the small man smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching with excitement. "Paul, we would very much like to purchase your algorithms and also offer you a job as a data scientist with our company." "Purchase my algorithms? Really?" "Yes, indeed. They are quite valuable." "What sort of price did you have in mind?" Paul asked, feeling his heart start to race. "Five million dollars." Paul sucked in his breath sharply. He would make a very bad poker player. "Really?" He asked. "Yes, indeed. But there is one condition." "A condition?" "Yes, you will need to come work at our offices in Dubai for a minimum of two years to help incorporate your algorithms into our business. Your salary would be $250,000 per year, with room and board, this is over and above the initial five million dollars that you will receive when you sign the contract. And your algorithms will become the intellectual property of the Royal Arabia Corporation. I can't stress that enough. The secrecy of your algorithms is paramount. They are only valuable to us if you keep them secret." It didn't take Paul long to decide. After all, The Royal Arabia Company was one of the world's most respected organizations with voluminous and glowing Glassdoor reviews. After discussing the opportunity with his mother that evening (Paul's father had died when he was just a child), Paul dropped out of the university and was on a flight to Dubai. Paul had entered the cave. The tigers prowling outside held their distance for another day. * * * Over the next month, Paul and Aliya worked through his algorithms using the test data. It was an equal mixture of brilliance and dumb luck. Paul had incorporated algorithms and data sets that were not supposed to go together, but somehow they had. Aliya quickly realized that Paul was a data science savant. He had an intuitive feeling for how data and algorithms went together. The downside was that he also had difficulty explaining his intuition in words that could be used on other data sets by other data scientists. 'This is going to take a while,' Aliya realized. 'Allahuma thabetna' [God, grant me strength] she prayed. * * * "It's time to begin your language and culture classes," Aliya said. "And I will be your teacher." "Language and culture?" Paul asked. "Yes. They are mandatory and paid for by the company. After all, how can you possibly live in the United Arab Emirates without knowing the language and understanding our culture?" "Okay... makes sense I guess." In truth Paul was starting to feel isolated and lonely in this exotic country. So far, he had made no friends other than Aliya. After a couple of forays into the blistering heat to explore the city, he ended up spending all his time in the apartment. Maybe learning more about the culture wouldn't be such a bad thing? "Excellent," Aliya smiled. "From now on, we'll spend two hours every morning in language and culture classes." "Two hours?" Paul groaned. "Every morning??" "Yes. Further, you will be tested on your abilities. And I will be a stern teacher," Aliya said, shaking her finger at him with mock severity. "Now follow me." Paul followed Aliya into the living room where a table had been set up, along with a whiteboard and a stack of books. "Now I have given this a lot of thought," Aliya said, "and I believe that the best way to teach you both about our language *and* our culture is for us to study the Qur'an together." Aliya gave a large, old, leather-bound book to Paul. The cover was ornately and delicately decorated with interlocking gold octagons. "The Qur'an?" Paul asked, with a sinking feeling. "Yes, the Qur'an. It is the fountain and source of all Arabic culture, as well as the most beautiful linguistic text ever written. An appreciation of the Qur'an will give you an appreciation of our language and culture that will be unparalleled. Now I know that you're a Christian--" "More of an agnostic, really." Paul's mother had been a Catholic from Guatemala and his father been an Episcopalian from Minnesota who died when Paul was just a baby. Paul regularly attended Mass at his mother's insistence, until he went away to college. "If you prefer, you can think of this as a study of comparative religions," Aliya said. "Does that make sense to you?" "Sure. Okay." Paul wasn't sure how he felt about spending two hours a day studying the Qur'an. Sure, he saw Arabic lettering everywhere, and he wanted to be able to read it. And he knew the Qur'an was the most important text in the Arab world. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad? "Let's begin." * * * "I can not go out unaccompanied," Aliya explained. Paul and Aliya were in an upscale shopping mall where Aliya was shopping for new abaya and hijab. Khaled, one of the security guards from the apartment, was standing at the entrance to the store with his cell phone, looking sour. "According to my religion, I must be accompanied by either my husband or a male, mahram family member. In other words, a male family member who I am not allowed, by Islamic law, to marry." "I heard about this," Paul said, "but I still can't believe it. What if you need to go to the doctor? Or go visit your sister? Or take your children to the doctor?" "I must be accompanied," Aliya shrugged. "Of course, many women, especially in Dubai, travel alone, if they have the permission of their husband or male guardian. And it's an open secret that many do not consider traveling with a ghayr mahram (non-mahram) taxi driver to violate the spirit of the law - although I do." "So Khaled is..." Paul nodded towards the man by the entrance. "My younger brother. That's right." "Doesn't he mind, you know, having to escort you around all the time?" "Mind?" Aliya snorted, which was pretty funny coming out of someone so graceful. "This is the easiest job he's ever had! What do you think of this one?" Aliya held up a black robe. At first it looked completely black, but on closer inspection, Paul saw delicate designs of flowers and vines woven into the fabric with different types of thread. "It's beautiful," he said. Aliya held it up and looked at it thoughtfully. "So what am I?" Paul asked. "Am I..." "Mahram?" supplied Aliya. "Yeah. So am I mahram or non-mahram?" "Technically, you are non-mahram, ghayr mahram," said Aliya, "and so, technically, we should not be alone together at any time." "Technically?" "Well, I have my brother's permission. And there is a mahram man in the apartment at all times." Aliya gave the abaya to a sales lady and then went over to another rack to look at hijab. "Khaled." "Right, Khaled. So you see how important it is that he has his own room. But just to be safe, I got a written exception." "Seriously? An exception?" "Well, not an exception, exactly. The rules can be bent in certain circumstances when the major religious pillars are threatened. So I went to my Sheikh and he issued a fatwa - essentially a legal islamic opinion - which gives me some confidence that our work does not break with my religious principles." What Aliya didn't say was that it was the Emir who obtained the fatwa, and that the fatwa specifically identified the importance of Paul to the future of the UAE and all its Islamic citizens. Also, the fatwa specifically stated that Paul might not be considered to be a mahram man, because he might not be considered to be a man at all. In this way, Aliya's religious purity was also on the line. Only a successful execution of the plan would bring the fatwa into full force. If Paul turned back, then Aliya's time alone with Paul will be haraam [forbidden]. Only if Paul stayed the course, to the very end, would Aliya be guaranteed of her place in heaven. "Wow. I had no idea you'd have to go to so much trouble for me." "Oh Paul, it's no trouble at all! Being able to work on data science all day, for such a noble corporation... it is really an honor." Aliya paid for her purchases and they crossed the soaring, palatial lobby to a Costa Coffee. Tall Arabic men wearing traditional clothing, the white head scarf [ghutrah], black rope head band [agal] and white robes [thawb] walked by discussing the politics of the royal family. So much of the population of the UAE were immigrant workers (mostly from India and the Philippines), that actual UAE native men stuck out in their bright white clothes looking like colonial lords and masters over the native population, when in fact, they were the natives and everyone else were foreigners. Looking a them, it was hard for Paul not to feel a deep sense of inferiority. * * * "And how is our project doing?" asked the Finance Minister. "Ahead of schedule," Aliya reported. "We'll soon be able to run tests on live data." "Excellent," the Minister purred. A preliminary study of Paul's test results had already yielded an annual increase in profits of over 1.2B AED (about $300m). He was anxious to see if they could realize the full benefit of the new algorithms. The business optimization team was frantically implementing new financial controls in all of their systems to take advantage of the predictions in real time. "And his cultural assimilation?" "Very good progress." In truth, Paul's acquisition of the Arabic language was going much faster than Aliya could have hoped. He already knew several short Surahs by heart (surah Al-Kawthar - Abundance: Indeed, We have granted you, O Muhammad, al-Kawthar) and the shahada (There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God). More and more, Aliya was inserting Arabic phrases into their every day language even when working on data science, such as "inshallah" [if Allah wills it] and Alhamdulillah [praise be to Allah]. They even began name various of the data science methods that Paul had invented with Arabic names, like 'mutaqalib' for an especially fickle algorithm that's hard to tune. "And the asset? Is he in love with you yet?" the Minister asked, artlessly. "Not yet," Aliya blushed. "Or at least not that I know." By now, they had been working side by side, every day, sometimes 10 to 12 hours a day, including weekends for almost two months. It was natural that Paul would start having feelings for Aliya. And Aliya could see the signs. The long lingering looks, the quick turning away when he was caught staring, the solicitous way he helped around the apartment. But did it rise to the level of 'love'? It felt nothing like Aliya's other relationships. It was more intense, more addictive, more like every cell in her body had been taken over... 'Oh my god,' she realized with a start, her pupils dilating. 'I'm starting to have feelings for him. Oh Allah protect me,' she prayed silently to herself. Having feelings for Paul made everything worse. Much worse. Aliya knew things, things that a lover should not know about their partner. Worse, she knew what would happen if she wasn't able to keep him on schedule. Bad things. And she knew his future. "Well, it won't be long, I'm certain," said the Finance Minister, with a crude smirk. "Maybe it's time to tighten the screws?" * * * Chapter 3: Prayers Paul entered the kitchen, unnoticed. Aliya was there, eating breakfast. "Aliya?" "Yes, Paul?" Aliya turned to Paul with a neutral expression, her face framed into a round oval by her hijab. "Uh... some web sites... I mean..." Paul faltered, seeing her beautiful face. It was embarrassing. Paul held up his iPad. "There are some web sites I can no longer access. Including Gmail? And... uh... some other sites?" "Oh, yes. Paul, please have a seat." Paul sat nervously, feeling like an errant child. "There has always been corporate policy against browsing certain web sites at work," Aliya explained, gently grasping Paul's arm. "Apparently, someone at Corporate discovered your iPad was out of policy and added web site monitoring to it." What Aliya hadn't told Paul is that they had been monitoring his usage of the iPad all along. And with the hacked-in logging of the encryption keys, they could read every piece of data he sent and received. First and foremost, this was important to make sure Paul was not revealing intellectual property secrets to anyone. But they could also watch as he browsed porn. His logs confirmed what they had originally thought about his interests when they first planned the project. Confirmed and confirmed, over and over. "There's a nanny on my iPad?" Paul felt a rising flush of anger and embarrassment. "It is a corporate owned machine," Aliya patiently explained. "Well then, can I get back my own computer?" "I'm sorry, Paul, but you know this is a secure facility. We can't have any non-corporate hardware inside these apartments. Your computer is safe in storage. If you want, you could rent your own apartment." "Oh, no!" Paul said, a little too quickly. "I mean.. uh... Is that really the only way?" "It wouldn't be as nice as this one, of course," Aliya continued. "And your room here would probably be let to another employee, which would be a shame. You know how fond I've become of you. And we would probably need to move our work to the corporate headquarters. We would still see each other during working hours, of course." Suddenly Paul felt panicky. Leave the apartment? Where it felt nice and safe? Leave Aliya? "No, no," he quickly reversed course. "Of course I don't want to move out." "Oh, I'm so glad," Aliya's face showed honest relief and pleasure. "But... isn't there something else we could do? Maybe I could buy my own iPad...?" "I'm sorry, Paul, but this is a secure facility. I explained that already." "But... I... but what if I need to browse a web site that's blocked?" "Then just tell me what site you need, and I'll petition for an exception. But Paul, I have to tell you, that pornography sites are strictly forbidden. Technically speaking, browsing them is against the law in the UAE. It's rarely enforced, but if the authorities found out that you were browsing pornography, then you could be thrown in jail." "Jail??" Paul gasped, freaking out. "It could happen. Especially if they want to make an example of a visiting American." "Oh, god." Paul felt a sick pit in his stomach. "And Paul, on a personal note, I feel that browsing pornography is very disrespectful. Disrespectful of all women and disrespectful to me personally. Islam teaches us that women are to be cherished and respected at all times. We are not to be treated as objects for male desire. The robes and the head scarves are intended to remove temptation and to encourage respect. It pains me that you might have been viewing pornography at night, while during the day we were working side by side like equals. Have you? Tell the truth, Paul. Have you been viewing pornography at night on your iPad?" Of course, Aliya knew very well that Paul had been browsing porn on his iPad. Paul blushed and stammered. "Paul," Aliya said, grasping his hands. "Unburden your soul. Now is the time to confess. Please be honest with me." Paul's breath was coming out in short gasps and his heart was hammering. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. "I... I... yes," he finally admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, hanging his head. "It's okay, Paul," Aliya said. "I understand how in America, you treat women like playthings for your fantasies, and how you have no real respect for them. But Paul, that is wrong. You do realize that, don't you?" "Yes, Aliya," Paul said, squirming in his seat like a little boy. "Now, Paul, my mother always said that some sort of punishment is good for wayward children. And so I believe that you should be punished for browsing pornography and being disrespectful of me and all women. Do you agree?" "P-p-punishment?" The word shot through him like an arrow. Suddenly Paul saw Aliya as something more than a boss. She became someone who could punish him. Like a mother... or a mistress. "Yes, Paul, punishment." "Y-y-yes, Aliya. I agree." "Very good. And so, your punishment will be writing lines." Aliya pulled out a notebook. "This is Paul's notebook of shame," she said, smiling. "I want you to write, one thousand times, in English, 'Viewing erotic images is disrespectful to women.' And then, once you have done that, you will write it 1000 times in Arabic as well." "Yes, Aliya." "And finally, I want you to copy out the first 50 pages of the Qur'an. That should be about a thousand lines of the Qur'an. And no more browsing pornography. Do you understand?" "Yes, Aliya." Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked at Aliya and realized, just then, how he was submitting to her will. "Promise me, Paul, that you will never seek out erotic images of women again. Promise me." "I promise." "You promise, what?" Paul gulped and took a couple of deep breaths. "I promise to never again seek out erotic images of women." "Very good, Paul." Aliya said, with a caring smile, as if from a mother to her wayward child. "Now remember, that is a sacred promise from you to me." * * * The next week was torture for Paul. He had been so used to masturbating to porn, two or three times a day, that he found him self at a loss... cut off... anxious. At first the frequency decreased. Without porn to jump-start his habit, he would just lay in bed, twitchy and uncomfortable, before finally falling into a restless slumber. At night he would look at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep. Inevitably, his thoughts would turn to Aliya. How could they not? The two had been living together on the same floor for over two months now, working and living side-by-side during all their waking hours. It was the most blessed and intimate relationship Paul had ever experienced as an adult. And yet, in every way, Aliya was scrupulously and unfailingly modest. Paul had never even seen her ankles or neck. Even glimpses of her wrists were exceedingly rare. Paul tried to remember if he had ever seen her hair. He knew from his culture studies that hair was supposed to be covered, and Aliya's hair was always out of sight. Except, perhaps once or twice when a few strands may have escaped the tight confines of the al-Amira hijab she wore most days. But she did dress beautifully. Her abaya may have been long and covering, but they came in a wide variety of beautiful prints and fabrics, all with hijabs carefully carefully matched in color and style. The colors and long flowing robes made her seem beautiful and exotic - a miracle considering how covered up she was. From what Paul could tell, Aliya represented something of a center-right view of Islam in Dubai. Many women wore loose Hijab, sometimes over ordinary dresses, and, of course, there were lots of westerners with bare arms and legs which now seemed immodest to Paul, thanks to Aliya's influence and daily commentary. At the same time, there were also many women in the more traditional black, and a few wearing full niqab so that all you could see were their eyes (and sometimes even these were hidden behind mesh screens [burka]). And all combinations in-between. As his supervisor, Aliya was demanding, often telling Paul to get back to work and asking him, endlessly, to try again to explain this or that algorithm "until I thoroughly understand it". But she looked at him with such an open and honest face that Paul would often lose himself in her eyes and would only snap back into the present when she snapped her fingers for him to 'pay attention!' And so visions of Aliya insinuated themselves into his brain as Paul lay in bed at night. He felt somehow that this was wrong, dreaming of her, that she was too good, too pure, too virtuous to be in his dreams in that way. But he couldn't seem to stop. One line he had never crossed, however, was that his dreams did not include the two of them having sex. Of course, he had never seen her body naked, so it was not something he could envision. But more than that, she was like a malak (Islamic Angel) to him. Made of light by Allah the Glorious and acting as Allah's servant on this earth. Perhaps she's Ridwan, Paul wondered to himself, the guardian of paradise. Or maybe she's Raqib, who sits on your shoulder and records your good deeds for Allah. Most often, Paul would fantasize about Aliya sitting beside him in bed stroking his shoulder, her abaya flowing down like water, her face a circle of angelic light as she gazed down on him with care and love. Sometimes, the image would come to him during the day as they worked together. Paul was now getting random erections during the day as Aliya would look up at him, asking him a thoughtful question about the latest analysis or asking his opinion about a statistical result. And then he would look into her eyes and for a second completely forget what they were talking about. "Are you okay?" Aliya asked. "You don't seem like yourself." "I'm fine." "I can tell that you are not fine. Tell me, what is the problem?" "Nothing." Paul couldn't bring himself admit the truth. "Are you having a hard time, now that your access to pornography has been revoked?" Trust Aliya to ask such a direct and bold question but in such as caring way. Paul just turned his head away, too ashamed to answer. "Come with me," Aliya said, beckoning. Paul got up and followed her out of the office. * * * "They're in the bathroom together!" Khaled shouted, pointing to the screen. He jumped up and bolted for the door. "Wait!" Majed, the second security guard, said sharply, grasping Khaled's hand. He looked intently at the monitor. "It's haraam!" "WAIT!" Khaled turned to Majed, eyes red with anger. The Finance Minister had made clear that Majed was in command. But Aliya's honor was the responsibility of Khaled by right. "Look," Majed said, pointing to the monitor. "It's not haraam. She's teaching the kus how to wudu." * * * "Wudu is ritual washing," explained Aliya. "It must be performed if you've gone to the bathroom between prayers." Aliya led Paul through the ritual. It started with a centering and an invocation of Allah (bismillah) followed by multiple washings of hands, nose, mouth, face, arms, head, ears and feet. This was the first time Paul had used the special sink in the bathroom. At the end, Aliya had Paul recite the Shahada (which he had memorized, in Arabic, from his language and culture studies). Aliya showed Paul how to perform the washing with purpose, careful and unhurried. "That's a lot of steps," Paul observed. "Don't you get tired of them?" "Don't you get tired of breathing?" was Aliya's response. "Come." Aliya led Paul into the prayer room [musalla], where two prayer rugs had been set up side by side. Paul had noticed that Aliya would disappear several times a day to do her prayers, but this is the first time he had entered the room himself. "I hope you won't think me forward," Aliya said. "But I always hoped that we would pray together... like sisters," she ventured. "Siblings. And so I bought this second rug for you. No one has ever used it. It is yours." "Oh... Aliya, I don't think..." "Please," Aliya looked at Paul with the look of someone who had opened their heart to expose their deepest emotions. "Please..." was all she could say. Paul looked at the rug and around the room. Everything was tastefully decorated in an Islamic style with soothing geometric shapes. But was it right to accept such a gift from Aliya? he wondered. After all, he didn't really believe in god. He was agnostic. Wasn't he? But then Paul looked at Aliya and realized how much it mean to her and how much joy he could give her by simply accepting this gift. "It's beautiful," Paul said, finally. "Thank you, Aliya." Aliya grasped Paul's hand briefly and they both stood before the rugs, facing a niche in the wall which indicated the direction of Mecca [qibla]. "Now, since it is late afternoon, we will perform Asr. All Islamic prayers have different raka'ah. Some are optional [sunnah], some are strongly recommended [wajib], and some are required [fard]. I always include all of the optional raka'ah, to humbly give my devotion to Allah, and that is what we will do now." Aliya first taught Paul about posture and the major motions for an raka'ah: initial contemplation, hands up, hands together, bending over, sujud (prostration, feet together pointing to the right), tashahhud (sitting, legs under, feet to the right), and the graceful positions of the hands. She and Paul practiced these together. * * * "She's teaching the kus how to pray like a woman," Majed observed. "Look at the position of his feet, and the slope of his shoulders." "How would you know? Do you watch women praying?" Khaled said, with a jeer, watching his older sister on the monitors. "There is nothing more beautiful in this world than the devout woman in prayer," Majed said simply. "Let us hope that our kus learns his lessons. For his sake and ours." * * * Once Paul was familiar with the motions, they prayed. This started with Allahu akbar (God is the greatest) and was followed by a sequence of calls to Allah and Mohammed along with recitals of short surah from the Qur'an, including Surat al-Fatihah (surah 1, the opening), each with prescribed positions or motions. "And there," Aliya said. "We have completed the first raka'ah." The entire sequence took about three minutes. "That wasn't too bad," Paul said. "How many do we have to do?" "For Asr, afternoon prayers, including all of the optional parts... eight raka'ah." "Eight!" Paul gasped. "I know," Aliya smiled, purposefully misinterpreting his exclamation. "Oftentimes, especially recently, it's not enough and I add additional raka'ah, but I think we'll stick with just the eight today." And so they continued, saying the words and going through the positions. Aliya was careful to do each one in an unhurried, contemplative way, making it clear that her whole being was invested into each moment. After a while, Paul found himself falling into a kind of thoughtful trance, his mind clear and open, listening to Aliya say the prayers and joining in where he could. "And now we're done," said Aliya, once she had finished the final salam (As-salamu ?alaikum wa-ra?matu 'llah, "Peace and blessings of God be unto you"). "Oh!" Paul said. It was over sooner than he had expected. Aliya reached out and grasped Paul's hands in hers. "What do you think?" she asked. Paul looked into her eyes. Aliya looked back at him, her eyes full of worry, clearly desperate for his good opinion. "It was beautiful," Paul said, meaning it. "Really?" Aliya's eyes began to fill with tears. "Yes. And you're right, Aliya, I feel so much more calm and centered now. Thank you for showing me." But rather than letting him go, Aliya gripped Paul's hands even harder. "Please..." she said, a tear dripping down her cheek. "Would you... will you... please Paul... can we pray together? For all of the prayers? There are five every day. Will you pray with me?" "You mean, tomorrow?" "Not just tomorrow..." Aliya looked to the side, humble. Both she and Paul (and the people watching) understood the enormity of what she was asking, that this would be forever. That as long as they were sharing this apartment, they would be praying five times a day, together. And then afterwards... "Praying together, that would be a dream come true," Aliya said. "I love to pray, and doing it together... my mother and I prayed together when I was growing up, and those were the happiest times of my life. Please, Paul... can we pray together?" Paul looked at Aliya. She was so beautiful. So intent. So at peace with the world. She held his hands in hers and they were soft and delicate. "Yes," Paul agreed. "You mean it?" Aliya said, her heart leaping. This was first of the three most difficult gates in the plan. "Do you really mean it?" "Yes," said Paul again. Unaccountably, he felt his own eyes get moist. "It would be an honor to pray with you, Aliya." * * * That night, Paul had a dream. In Paul's dream, he found himself in the apartment, naked. He wandered from room to room, including the foyer and the security rooms. But everything was empty. There was not a soul around. It was dead silent. "Where is everyone?" he asked. Paul felt lost. His nakedness made him shiver with cold. He wanted to cover up, but the closets were locked. "Will I die like this?" he wondered. Just then, Paul heard a voice... singing. It came through the walls and the floors, very faint, a mesmerizing, spiritual voice. As Paul listened, it got louder and louder, almost as if it was entering his body and calling directly to his soul, lifting it up. "Paul, it's time to pray." Aliya! "But you can't pray naked," she observed, holding out a black abaya for him to wear. Paul slipped his arms into the robes and let Aliya wrap the flowing garment around his body. It must have been lined for he felt a soft and silky undergarment or under dress slip around his body... stroking it, caressing it. Paul realized he had an erection. "And now for your hijab," she said, holding it out. It was a hood with a round cut out for his face, a narrow neck and a flared section at the bottom. Aliya held it open and then, just as she was about to slip it over his head... He woke up. "Oh my god..." he groaned, as in a daze, he reached down and stroked his hard penis, trapped in the folds of the bedsheets. "Allah..." he groaned as he spurted into the sheets. Gasping and sweating, Paul lay tangled up, wondering what was happening to him. * * * Chapter 4: Learning to be a Proper Muslimah There was a knock on the door. "Paul?" It was Aliya. "Are you decent?" Paul looked at the clock. It was 5am. "Hold on..." Paul quickly threw some clothes on and opened the door. Aliya was there, looking as put together and perfect in her hijab and abaya as she did every day. "Time for morning prayers," she said, with eager anticipation. "So early?" "Yes. Always before sunrise. But Paul, I need to ask you a question. I'm so sorry to have to ask you this. Did you... masturbate last night?" Paul sucked in his breath. "How did you know?" "So, you *did* masturbate last night?" "Uh..." Paul blushed. "Yes," he admitted. "I..." Paul felt embarrassed. "I had a dream, and when I woke up..." "A dream?" Aliya said, with a light teasing in her voice. "Alhamdulillah! That must have been some dream! What was it about?" "Uh... I don't know, um, if..." Paul thought desperately of how to get out of this predicament. "Oh, Paul, it's okay! You don't need to tell me now. "I only had to know because, if you did... you know... receive your gift from Allah, then you will need to shower and perform ghusl before morning prayers." "Ghusl?" "It's like wudu, but for your whole body. Here, I wrote out the instructions to follow." Aliya gave Paul a list of instructions on a waterproof, laminated card. It contained special washing instructions for his hands, head, and shoulders. It also included steps typically reserved for women, such as washing his private parts with a perfumed cloth. Aliya reasoned that including these steps in Paul's cleansing ritual might help with his journey. * * * After morning prayers [Fajr], Aliya suggested they get some breakfast and spend some time studying the Qur'an. "Sure," Paul agreed, happily. He was now fully awake. Performing the morning prayers had helped him to feel rested and at peace. When he admitted this to Aliya, she responded with an impish smile. "Prayer is better than sleep," she said as the two of them worked together to set out a light breakfast. "I hope you'll tell me your dream, and then maybe I can help you interpret it," Aliya said. "Some dreams come from Allah, some from Shaytaan, and some from yourself." "Shaytaan?" "The devil," Aliya giggled. "Satan." "Oh, right." Paul shivered. "So where do you think your dream came from? Allah, Shaytaan, or yourself?" "I... I don't know," Paul said. "Well, we know that the dream made you break ghusl," Aliya grinned, obliquely referring to Paul's ejaculation. "So it must have been pleasant. Maybe it did come from Allah. Would you say that the dream was leading you to something?" "I..." Paul hesitated. "Yes," he said, finally. "Interesting. And was that thing a thing of purity? Or a thing of evil?" The dream was so vivid in Paul's memory that Aliya's question brought it back full force. The feeling of putting on the robes to cover his nakedness, of Aliya slipping the hijab over his head... "Purity," Paul said, definitely. "Well, then, you've been given a gift from Allah," Aliya said. "Cherish it and honor it. Now, I think we're on Chapter 4? I think you'll find this chapter very interesting. It's all about Women in Islam." And so they slowly worked their way through the Surah, going through each verse in Arabic, learning the words, writing the words, and repeating the words. There was a lot of rules about who could marry who, and in what situations, about property and inheritance and how to handle orphans and things like that. And then there was 4:34, on obedience: "Men are in charge of women by (right of) what Allah has given one over the other and what they spend (for maintenance) from their wealth. So righteous women are devoutly obedient, guarding in (the husband's) absence what Allah would have them guard. But those (wives) from whom you fear arrogance - (first) advise them; (then if they persist), forsake them in bed; and (finally), strike them. But if they obey you (once more), seek no means against them. Indeed, Allah is ever Exalted and Grand." "Yes, Allah commands women to be obedient," said Aliya, without any trace of irony or sarcasm. "It is one of parts that I most love about my religion." "But..." Paul sputtered, "it says it is okay to strike your wife!" "But only as a last resort, and you must stop if they obey you once again," Aliya pointed out. "But how could you possibly think that this is okay? Especially you, Aliya. You're so smart. So advanced. So... in control." "Paul," Aliya said, reaching out and holding Paul's hand. "I may be all smart and authoritative on the outside, but inside I am just a woman. Just a woman like any other woman. What I love about Islam is the clarity. It is okay, in Islam, to be a woman in a man's world. It is okay to be a wife and to be obedient to your husband. He is, after all, providing for my welfare. The scriptures help to guide me to be a better person, a better woman, and, someday I hope, a better wife who seeks nothing but harmony and obedience to Allah, Mohammed, and my husband above all else. And the Qur'an is my guide. Do you see how that can be? Do you see how an otherwise smart, in control, modern woman might yearn for the clarity that the Qur'an provides?" Her words were so heartfelt and honest, that Paul was taken aback. it was as if their recent prayers together had opened up a new level of intimacy between them. A place where they could talk about anything. "Yes," Paul admitted. "I suppose I can see that." "And if you were in my shoes, could you imagine it for yourself?" Aliya ventured, setting the ground for future journeys into deeper caves. "Could you imagine wearing an abaya and a hijab? The word 'Islam' means 'submission'. Submission and devotion. And could you imagine devoting your life and your obedience to Allah, Mohammed and your husband?" Paul said nothing, but his dream came back to him full force. Aliya holding out the hijab and slipping it over his head. His dream of purity. His dream from Allah. * * * Over the next few weeks, Paul's dream kept coming back, and always with the same result: Just as Aliya was slipping the hijab over his head, he would wake up with a stiff erection and a sense of missing out. "Just five more minutes!" Paul would shout, after waking up frustrated again. It was like arriving home after a long journey and discovering the door was locked and you didn't have the key. Was it really a dream from Allah? It felt honest. It didn't feel like he was being led into a place of evil or temptation. What did the robes and the hijab represent? Chastity? Religious piety? Obedience to Allah? The willingness to give yourself over to something larger? Or just an infatuation with Aliya? Paul didn't know. Every morning Aliya would ask Paul if he had masturbated or not and then wait for him while he performed ghusl. It was so embarrassing that Paul had stopped masturbating. Every time he was able to report "no, I've been good", he got rewarded by Aliya with a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. As the days passed, prayer with Aliya gradually became the center of Paul's life. They prayed together five times a day, taking as little as ten minutes or as much as a half hour or more. When it was time, Aliya would get Paul's attention by make a "praying" gesture with her hands. Paul would nod and follow her to the musalla where they would face qibla and go through their daily prayer rituals. No matter what else was happening, each prayer was thoughtful, unhurried, and with careful intention [niyyah] of offering to Allah. "I don't remember you spending this much time in prayer," Paul observed one evening after the evening prayers [Isha] which consisted of a full 17 raka'ah. "You caught me," Aliya said, with a shy smile. "I've added all of the optional raka'ah into our prayers. I..." she bit her lip before continuing, "I am enjoying these prayers with you so much, that I just want them to continue for as long as possible. And since we're doing them together, well I don't feel any pressure to rush through them so that I can return to work. And also..." Aliya paused, "well, I thought it might be nice to give you more practice. But mostly, prayer for me is the core of my expression of devotion to Allah. The more I pray, the closer I feel to God, the closer I feel to who I truly am, and I want to give you that same experience." And, indeed, Paul was getting a lot of practice. With five prayers a day, and anywhere from 4 to 17 raka'ah in each prayer, Paul might perform as many as 55 raka'ah a day. Aliya always set the pace and the number. As they days continued, gradually, Aliya would have Paul perform more and more of the rituals, recite the surahs and the du'as, and lead the motions. Over time, his motions became fluid and graceful. "Look at how the kus prays," said Majed one day, watching the video feed. "It's as if the kus has been praying Islam his entire life. He prays with such devotion." "And you were right. The kus looks like a woman when he prays," Khaled sneered. "All he is missing is the abaya." * * * "It's Friday!" Aliya said after morning prayers [fajr]. "And you know what that means?" "It's the weekend!" Paul grinned, leaning back. The policy of the Royal Arabian Corporation was to work from Sunday to Thursday. "Yes, but it also means it's time for Paul to learn about proper hygiene!" "Wait, did you say... hygiene?" Aliya had said it with such enthusiasm that Paul thought she must be mistaken. "Yes, hygiene!" Aliya said, pulling out a shopping bag and placing various implements on the kitchen table, all brand new. "These are all yours now. It's time you learned how to take care of your body like a true Muslimah." "Muslimah?" "Yes. Let's start with clipping your nails." "Islam is concerned with how I clip my nails?" Paul was astonished. "Seriously?" "Yes, seriously." Aliya gave an exaggerated but teasing sigh. "It is part of our culture." Aliya first covered nail clipping ("Every Friday after fajr", she said) including the sequential order (right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot). "I have to clip my nails in a particular order?" "Yes, you do." Aliya rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Next she pulled out a stick. "What is that?" "It's a traditional Muslim Toothbrush," Aliya said. "A miswak. Just like Mohammed used to use." She showed Paul how to chew the end to expose the bristles, to dip into rose water and how to brush his teeth with it. Next, Aliya covered Muslim bathroom etiquette. How one always steps into the bathroom with your left leg and then out of the bathroom with the right leg. How use of toilet paper is permissible, but rinsing with water was better. "So that's why all of the toilets in Dubai have spray nozzles," Paul finally getting an answer to a question he had been wondering ever since he arrived. "Yes, indeed," Aliya said. "They're tricky. Especially the public ones. If you're not careful, everything gets soaked. But once you get used to it, you'll wonder how you ever lived without it. You'll be much cleaner than the westerners." Paul shifted uncomfortably as she said this. Is this how Muslims saw westerners? As uncouth and unclean? "And now, finally," Aliya pulled out a pink lady's shaver (Gillette Venus) and shaving cream (Satin Care, for sensitive skin). Paul stared at it dumbly. "For... my legs?" He asked. "Well, yes, but more importantly, for your armpits and pubic hair." "No way." "Yes way." Aliya was enjoying Paul's discomfort. "In fact, it is religious law." "For women, right?" "No, for both men and women." "You can't possibly be serious!" Aliya pulled out her tablet and showed Paul the Hadith on removing of pubic hair and armpit hair. "I have to pluck my armpit hair??" "No, shaving is permissible." "I don't believe it. For men too? And do I have to use a lady's shaver?" "The shavers had a two-for-one sale, so I just got you the same brand I always use. Now scoot! Into the bathroom and don't forget to enter with your left leg! And only come out when you're freshly shaved, showered, perfumed, and clipped." In the shower, Paul did as instructed and shaved his pubic hair and armpits using the women's Gillette Venus shaver and the Satin Care shaving gel. And then he continued to shave his legs, which he assumed was part of the package, not realizing that it's only Muslim women who shave their legs. * * * Chapter 5: Revelation Paul was not sleeping well. He was a mess. His dreams had morphed into a confusing jumble of images of the apartment, being naked walking through public streets and malls in Dubai, being approached by Aliya with a hijab and abaya and always waking up just as she was about to slip them over his head. Paul felt such a yearning for the protection of the clothes she offered in his dreams, and always he felt cruelly denied. It was endless torment. About the only time that Paul felt peace was during his daily prayers with Aliya. Only then could he focus on the invocations to Allah and give himself up to their soothing rhythms. "Only when I give myself fully to Allah do I achieve peace," he said, one day while eating lunch with Aliya after the noontime [Dhuhr] prayers. "Oh, Paul!" Aliya said, shocked at the purity and honesty of Paul's admission. She grasped his hand tight, tears in her eyes. "That's exactly how I feel! It's how all devout Muslimah feel." But then, what about his dreams? What do they mean? What should he be doing about them? Were they dreams from Allah? And if so, what was Allah trying to tell him? Paul had even started praying secretly in his room at night for guidance. Should he reveal his dream to Aliya? What would she say about it? Would she be offended by it? He would perform two raka'ah and softly recite Salat-l-Istikhar, the prayer for guidance. "Please guide me, Allah," he would say, fervently in Arabic after each prayer. "Please help me to serve you in the way that you most desire." These prayers were observed on the hidden cameras by Majed and Khaled, and duly reported to Aliya and the team at headquarters. It's was considered to be a good sign, Paul was clearly distressed, but about what? Aliya sensed something was wrong, but tactfully didn't say anything out loud. She and the whole team knew that he was suffering, they had studied his sleep patterns. They suspected it was only a matter of time before he broke. But how long? And how would it happen? Which way would Paul eventually break? Of course they knew from prior research his inclinations. But would he act on them or reject them? Aliya had done her best to subtly lead Paul down the right path. She had taught him how to pray gracefully like a woman and to chant like a woman. She had replaced all of his soap and shampoo with scented women's products. He was using a woman's shaver. He was perfuming his 'awrah [private parts] with a scented cloth for ghusl. She had also gone out of her way to inundate Paul with images of Islamic women's clothing. She would have several abaya hanging on coatracks in the living room whenever they studied the Qur'an or the Arabic language. She procured back issues of Islamic modest-fashion magazines like "Cover" and "Muslim Girl" and left them on the kitchen countertops and on the coffee table (Majed and Kahled reported that Paul would occasionally flip through them, focusing on the articles and pictures about hijabi and niqabi). In short, she had done everything in her power to show Paul the way. But she had no idea of what was actually going through his head. * * * "Aliya?" Paul asked, tentatively. They were waiting for an enormous neural-network training run to complete on a new dataset. Even with all of the GPUs at their disposal, it would take days to train. Initial results were encouraging, but they still had a long way to go. "Yes, Paul?" Aliya asked. She was analyzing the diversity and range of error back-propagating through the network and decided that convergence was proceeding as predicted. "C-c-could I tell you about my dream?" Paul asked, haltingly. A jolt of electricity ran through Aliya. This was it. This was the moment, she was sure of it. She did her best to remain calm. "Of course, Paul," Aliya said, affecting a neutral attitude. "I would be happy to hear your dream. Is it a dream from Allah or Shaytaan? Or a dream from yourself?" "Allah... I hope," Paul said, suddenly wondering if he was doing the right thing. Aliya waited patiently, desperately willing herself to be as calm and as placid as the desert at midnight. After a few moments to build up his courage, Paul recited his dream. Paul told of walking through the apartment cold and naked. Walking through the empty streets and shopping malls of Dubai. He told of the desperate feeling of cold and loneliness and abandonment he felt. And then he paused for such a long time, that Aliya wondered, was that all? Was that the entirety of the dream? But then Paul told of hearing the call to prayer. "And there you were, holding a hijab and an abaya," he said, nervously twisting the cap of a whiteboard marker in his hands so hard Aliya worried it might splinter. "And..." "And what?" Aliya gently encouraged. "And you hold them out to me," Paul admitted. "And then I wake up." "Oh, Paul!" Aliya said, with a sharp intake of breath. Inside Aliya was so astonished she didn't know what to feel. All of their carefully laid plans were producing fruit. Paul was like a marble rolling across the floor. They had carved a track for it to follow, but no one know if the marble would follow the track that had been so carefully laid. But now she knew. "What does it mean?" Paul asked, eyes wet and with such a plaintive expression that it broke her heart. Only at that moment did Aliya understand the seriousness their social psychology experiment to the poor test subject and the depth of feeling coursing through his soul. Paul was struggling to keep his emotions in check, she realized. Struggling not to break down before her. "I don't know," Aliya said, deliberately not being helpful. Paul had to come to his own conclusions. All of the psychologists on their team had agreed. You can not force someone to Allah. Allah must call and they must accept the call on their own. Aliya rose, grasped Paul by the hand and led him to the musalla where she led him through two prayers for guidance. "Oh, Allah! I seek Your guidance by virtue of Your knowledge, and I seek ability by virtue of Your power, and I ask You of Your great bounty. You have power; I have none. As You know; I know not. You are the Knower of hidden things." It was the same Salat-l-Istikhar which Paul had been secretly praying in his own room at night, but coming from Aliya, sung out-loud in her beautiful, melodious voice rather than in the hushed sub-vocal whispers Paul used in his room, it had power which entered his soul and lifted him up, as if floating like a leaf on an updraft of warm air reaching to the heavens. Aliya prayed, pouring every ounce of her soul into the du'a, reaching out with such fervor to Allah as never before. Everything hinged on this moment. Paul's well being (the tigers were prowling, ever closer, ever watchful), her job, her chastity, whether or not these last few months would be haraam which would ultimately determine if she would have a place in heaven or not. "Oh, Allah! If in Your knowledge, this dream is good for Paul's religion, Paul's livelihood and Paul's affairs, immediately and in the future, then ordain it for Paul, make it easy for him, and bless it for him. And if in Your knowledge, this dream is bad for Paul's religion, Paul's livelihood and Paul's affairs, immediately and in the future, then turn it away from Paul, and turn Paul away from it. And ordain for me the good wherever it may be, and make Paul content with it." After the second raka'ah, Aliya returned to a prostrate form and repeated the du'a, asking for guidance from Allah. She then stayed like this for a very long time, before finally rising. When she looked at Paul, she could see that he was still experiencing deep internal conflict. "It *is* a dream from Allah," Aliya stated, as if that was the result of her prayer. "Yes," Paul responded. "In your dream, you are cold and naked and wandering the earth, alone and abandoned." "Yes." "What does that mean?" "I think it means..." Paul hesitated. "That when I am without Allah. I am cold, and naked and alone because He is not with me." "And then, in your dream, you see me, and I am holding out a hijab and an abaya." "Yes," Paul said, his eyes welling up. "But what does it mean, Paul?" Aliya asks as tenderly and as openly as she can. "Tell me. Whatever it is, tell me." "I think it means..." Paul said, stifling a sob, "... I think it means that I need you to show me the way to Allah." "But how?" "By... by..." Paul dissolved into honest sobs, "by teaching me the way of the hijab," he said, finally. "Teaching you?" "I didn't tell you the whole dream, Aliya," Paul admitted. "At the end of my dream, you raise the hijab and are about to place it over my head when the dream ends." "Oh...! So you mean to say that, I need to teach you how to wear hijab..." "In order for me to find Allah." "Oh, Paul. But it is haraam for a man to wear hijab, to wear women's clothing." "It is?" "Of course it is," Aliya said, definitively. "Then what am I to do?" Paul wailed. "How am I to find Allah? What is the dream trying to tell me, if not to wear hijab?" Aliya closed her eyes and thought for a long time. She knew exactly what she wanted, but how to achieve it in such a way that it came from Paul? "Perhaps," she ventured, carefully. "Perhaps the dream is trying to tell you something more?" "More? What do you mean?" "Maybe...." Aliya said, "the hijab and the abaya... could they represent something else? Maybe they are symbols that represent something deeper?" Paul slowly became peaceful and wiped his eyes with a tissue and then thought for a long time. "Perhaps the dream is telling me..." he hesitated, "that I need to..." "Yes, Paul?" Aliya said, softly and encouraging. "That I need to become a Muslim woman?" he finished. "Ohhhh...!" Aliya said, as if with dawning realization, even though this was the goal she had been hoping for all along. "Because, if Allah has seen into your soul and you are truly a woman, then wearing abaya and hijab would not be haraam. It would be mubah [permitted]. Perhaps even wajib [required]." Aliya's skin was prickling with anticipation. Paul was entering the next cave. The tigers would be held at bay for a while longer. But before he could enter the next cave, it would have to be made official. Aliya and Paul prayed some more, asking for guidance from Allah and asking if this was the way of Allah for Paul to find peace with Islam, as a woman. After they were done, Aliya looked at Paul and her heart leapt with joy, because she could see it in his eyes. Peace. For the first time in months, there was peace in his eyes. "Allah has come to you," she stated. "Yes," Paul agreed. "And what knowledge did he impart to you?" Aliya asked, gently. "That I...." Paul hesitated. This was a big step. But he was now more sure than ever that it was the right one. "That I am a woman, inside. That I should wear hijab and abaya because... because..." a tear leaked down Paul's cheek, "because I am truly a woman inside. A Muslim woman." "Oh, Paul!" Aliya said, pulling him into a hug. "That is amazing! But Allah has imparted me with knowledge as well." "He has?" Paul asked, fearfully. "Yes," Aliya said, solemnly, "he has. And more. Allah has told me to consult with a Sheikh. That only with the guidance of a religious scholar, can we understand path you must follow. Allah also told me..." "There's more?" "Yes, Paul, there is more. Allah also told me that in order to be with him, you will need to convert to Islam and become a citizen of the United Arab Emirates." "Oh!" Paul began to realize the enormity of what was about to happen. "I'll need to tell my mother, then." "Yes, I think you will," Aliya agreed. * * * Chapter 6: Shopping and A Makeover Of course, all of this had been anticipated. This had been the goal all along. With the Emir's vast influence, they could have accomplished everything in a single afternoon. The Sheikh had already been consulted well before Paul had been visited in the United States. The fatwa was already written and waiting to be signed and sealed. But doing it too quickly would have been suspicious. Showing up the next day with all of the paperwork complete and waiting for signature would have tipped their hand. So Paul would have to be made to wait. * * * "I have heard from the Sheikh!" Aliya said, excitedly. She pulled up a chair and sat next to Paul, holding his hands in hers. This was the day after Paul's revelation. "He said that your case definitely sounds like one where Allah has revealed your true gender as a woman. That your dream is from Allah." "Alhamdulillah!" Paul said, relieved to have formal confirmation. "So... what happens now?" "He said that you should continue to study the Qur'an and to pray, and that he will need to come for an in-person interview." "I'll have to meet the Sheikh? In person?" Paul started freaking out. "Don't worry," Aliya assured him, with a gentle squeeze on his arm. "He is a very nice man. After the interview, if he is convinced, as you are, that Allah has revealed your true soul to be an Islamic woman, a Muslimah, then he will issue the fatwah." Paul could feel the gears of the religious machinery slowly start to move. The machine which would forever claim him as a servant of Allah, and a woman of Islam and all that entailed. "When is the interview?" "April 23." "April?? But that's... that's almost five months away!" "He is a very busy man, and that was the first time he had available. In the mean time, he will prepare a list of questions for you to answer, and he will need to research the religious texts to ensure that the fatwa is proper and will be acceptable to Allah." "Okay. Thank you." Paul looked ashen. He couldn't imagine having to wait for five months to transition. "But Paul, the Sheikh told me something else, as well." "What was that?" "That, since you have not taken the oath [Shahada] that means that you are not yet a Muslim. Further that means that to dress and present yourself as a woman would not be haraam." "Oh!" Paul gasped. "You mean... like, right now?" "Yes, I think so!", Aliya smiled. "Now we have months and months before the Sheikh arrives," Aliya said. "And we need to make the most of that time. I want you to fully present as a woman when he sees you, so there will be no question that you need to be recognized as a woman by Islam." "Oh, okay," Paul said, uncertainly. Things were starting to get very real, now. "What should I do first?" "I thought you'd never asked," Aliya said, with a wide smile. * * * What was first was a visit to a doctor. Paul, Aliya were driven by Majed and escorted by Khaled in a limousine to the doctor's office. They were met at the entrance by an efficient- looking Indian man who led them to a side entrance where Paul and Aliya were shown to an examination room. Khaled sat outside, in the hallway, scrolling through his cell phone. After a while, a female Indian doctor let herself in the door. "Aliya," the doctor said warmly. "Dr. Naramsinha." They hugged. "This is Paul. Or should we say, Paula? She has come to the realization that she can only find true peace with Allah as a woman." "Well, Paula," Dr. Naramsinha said, shaking Paul's hand, "that is quite a revelation." "Other than us, and the Sheikh, you are the first to know," Aliya said. Of course, this was a lie. Not only did the security guards know, but also the support team at RAC headquarters, the Minister of Finance, and the Emir himself. Even the doctor had been forewarned. "I'm honored! Now, I suppose you're here to start hormone therapy?" Paul looked at Aliya, shocked. "Y-yes?" he said, uncertainly. "Very good, now I need to ask you some questions..." Most of the questions were standard, height, weight, blood type, medical conditions, allergies, and the like. But at the end were a series of questions on Paul's transition plan. "Are you quite sure you wish to transition to being a woman?" Dr. Naramsinha asked. Aliya reached out and gave Paul's hand a reassuring squeeze, nodding as if to say 'be brave, I know you can do this.' "I... I... I'm quite sure," Paul stammered. Then, because the doctor didn't answer back, he continued with "Y-y-yes, I want to transition to being a woman." It felt awkward to say it out loud. Am I really doing this? Paul wondered to himself. "Very good. You are very brave, Paula," said the doctor. "Now Aliya, I'll need to ask you to leave, while we do the physical exam." What followed was a full physical, a rectal exam, several blood draws, an EKG, a breast exam (!), and ... "A what??" Paul asked, eyes wide. "A sperm donation," said the doctor, with a small smile. "Two, if you can manage it." "But... but..." Paul gasped, knowing for certain that yes, he could manage it. "We're going to freeze your sperm in our bank," Dr. Naramsinha explained. "But... why?" "It's standard procedure," the doctor shrugged. "This way, you'll have some sperm in the bank so you can maybe have children, if Allah allows." "Inshallah," [If Allah wills it] Paul said, automatically. And so, Paul was left in the room to masturbate, which he did into a tube. And then a second time, into a second tube. The day had been so highly charged with new experiences and scary prospects, that he found it easy to simply think about what was about to happen, and it just happened. "My gift from Allah," he said to himself, calling Dr. Naramsinha back. She capped the tubes and wrote his name and patient number on them, and placed them in a small cooler she had brought. "All done," she said, happily. "You are in perfect health. Why don't you shower and put yourself back together. Oh, and Aliya said to tell you that this would be a good time to perform ghusl, so that you'll be ready for Dhuhr [noon-time prayers]. There's a shower through that door." * * * After his shower, Paul received his first hormone shots, and then a prescription for a series of medicines which Aliya and Paul picked up from the pharmacy on the first floor. And then Aliya took Paul to the mall. "And now, finally! We get to shop for you!" she said, with obvious delight. Aliya took Paul to all of her favorite stores, having him measured at each and every store, and making sure to buy him a completely new wardrobe. Of course, he couldn't try anything on in the dressing rooms, after all, he was still dressed as a man, so they did their best to find cute things and to err on the larger side. "We can always have them tailored," she said. "Or we can send Khaled to return them for a different size," she giggled at that thought. "Also, I know a female tailor who will come to the apartment." "Oh, okay. But... Aliya, why are we buying western-style dresses and skirts and blouses?" "Oh, do you think Muslimah wear abaya all the time, even at home?" Aliya had a good, honest laugh at that. "No, silly! We wear ordinary women's clothes underneath and at home in private. The abaya is only for wearing in public." It didn't seem real. It felt like a wonderful, beautiful dream. Here he was laughing and joking with Aliya, who suddenly seemed to be so free and unburdened. "Like a real best friend," Paul realized, basking in her happy glow, watching Aliya's eyes twinkle as she sifted through a stack of bras. They had been shopping so long, they had to do Druhr prayers at the shopping mall, in their special prayer rooms. And because Paul was still presenting as a man, he and Khaled had to use the male prayer room, which was utilitarian, but roomy enough for them and the several other men also praying at the same time. In the prayer room, Paul felt ill at ease, the only white man inside a room full of arabs. But soon he lost himself in his prayers, going through the raka'ah, quickly and efficiently, including only the required (fard) prayers and finishing within about 10 minutes, feeling the total peace of mind that only ritual prayer seemed to bring. Finally he said his last salam and stood up. Two of the other men were finished and packing up, staring at him strangely. Khaled was no where to be found. Feeling awkward, Paul felt himself blushing with embarrassment, gathered his bags and quickly left the prayer room. But what he didn't realize is that the men were not staring at him because he was white. They were staring at him because he was a white man performed his prayers so gracefully and so flowingly. And so like a woman. The final stop of their shopping trip was special. It seemed to Paul that they had stopped in practically every store in the entire Mall of Emirates. This included lingerie (so embarrassing!), makeup, jewelry ("But I can't wear earrings for pierced ears," complained Paul, feeling a thump in his chest. "Shush," said Aliya, brushing away his concerns), Western-style dresses and skirts and blouses from three different stores ("What about pants?" Paul asked. "Shorts?" "Not for you," Aliya said, definitively. "Paula wears only skirts and dresses.") and shoes (where Paul had his feet surreptitiously measured before they choose several pairs to buy). "And now, it's time for something special," Aliya said, pulling Paul into her favorite store. "Oh..." Paul sighed, feeling a wash of warmth flow through his body. It was the very same store where Paul had watched Aliya purchase her abaya months ago. "For... f-for me?" Paul said, his voice coming out high and squeaky. "Yes, for you," Aliya said. "No hijab or niqab, just yet, but I don't see anything wrong with an abaya." "Yes... please..." Paul said, as they wandered through the racks with the long gowns full of sumptuous fabric. "How about this one?" Aliya pulled out a beautiful taupe colored abaya, decorated with delicate embroidery. She held it up to Paul, who felt his entire body tingle with pleasure. "Yes, I think that's a keeper," Aliya laughed at his obvious delight. They continued to walk through the racks. By this point, Paul had been measured enough, and besides the gowns were mostly long and flowing with plenty of room, and so fit would be less of a problem. After a careful and enjoyable search they selected three and purchased them all. The original taupe colored Abaya, a plain black one but with a stripe of delicate beads along the hem, and a soft, dusty rose one with three inch wide lace stripes just above the ankles and around the sleeves at the wrists. The bag containing his new abaya was the heaviest of them all. * * * Back at home, the men, Khaled and Majed, both had to help bring in all of the clothes. There were so many bags! They dumped everything on the bed to be sorted. "You won't need these anymore," Aliya said, taking out all of Paul's boxer-briefs from the dresser drawers dumping them on the floor. "Hey!" Paul tried to object. "I'll get Majed to take them to charity. Oh, we can get rid of these too," she pulled out his male shorts and added them to the 'charity' pile. "And these and these." Paul's male socks and jeans quickly joined them. "Now, let's see what's in the closet? All these dress shirts, they can go!" "Aliya, stop!!" Paul shouted, panicking. "Paula, what's the matter?" Aliya said, emphasizing Paul's female name. "You can't... I mean... But..." Paul blustered and stammered, trying to find the right words to express his feelings. "We can't just throw everything away!" "Why not?" she asked, so simply that Paul was taken aback. "Because, what if I have to go out as a man? You know, sometime in the next five months? What if something... something goes wrong? And I have to revert back to being Paul? What if... What if... What if there's a fire in the apartment?" "Then you will put on a skirt and blouse, oh! And this super cute jacket," Aliya held up a light windbreaker, "and then take the stairs out of the building, that's what you'll do." "But everyone will... I mean... I'll look like a man dressed up as a woman! I'm not ready!" Aliya considering what to do. Paul was malleable right now, so maybe she should press her advantage? She could make it impossible for Paul to return to being male. But the panic on Paul's face told a different story. If she went too far, she might break him, and then all of their hard work would be lost. "I don't think you'll ever need your male clothes again," she said. "You have received a vision from Allah, and you need to be brave and courageous to follow that vision as fully as possible. Allah is very demanding. It will not be an easy path. You do understand that, don't you, Paula?" "Y-y-yes..." he said. Paul felt like he was about to burst into tears. "And the Sheikh said you should dress as a woman, full time. We only have five months, and it will look much better when he interviews you if you can say that you presented as a woman full time since you learned that you could." "I... Okay, I see." Paul was agreeing, but his hyperventilating told another story. "How about," Aliya said, thinking carefully, "we save one pair of pants, a shirt, a T-shirt, a pair of socks and your sneakers aside." "Okay." Aliya saw the flood of relief wash over Paul's face, and knew she had made the right decision. But she couldn't leave it at that. "But I don't want you to be putting them on and sneaking out of the apartment," Aliya said. "I wouldn't do that!" "Still... Why don't I keep them in my room, locked away. And then, if you need them, just ask, and if I agree, I will give them to you to put on." "But... But..." Paul looked back and forth between his pile of male clothes and Aliya. She smiled back at him, her eyes twinkling. Paul thought about it. He had plenty of money. He could easily replace his whole male wardrobe if he needed to. "Okay," Paul said, feeling like this was the best he would be able to do. "Wonderful," said Aliya. And as Paul watched, the security guards came into his room and bagged up all his old, male clothes, taking them away. Meanwhile, Aliya gleefully chattered away, examining each and every purchase and talking about when each one would be worn and how pretty they were. Soon his drawers and closets were full of nothing but female clothing. Paul looked around, panicked. Aliya had already selected his 'emergency male clothes' as he was now thinking of them and had taken them to her own apartment where they were locked up Allah knows where. The only male clothes in Paul's apartment were the ones he was wearing right now. Paul sat on his bed, looking forlorn, scared to take the next step. "I'll look ridiculous," he said, feeling panicky. "It's just us in the apartment." "And Khaled and Majed," Paul pointed out. "Pfft," Aliya brushed aside his concerns. "I'll tell them we're not to be disturbed. No one will know, but you and me. Here, try on this blouse." "I don't know..." Paul could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Just then the doorbell rank. "That must be Indira!" Aliya clapped her hands and ran out the door. "Indira?" * * * "He's--" "SHE's---" Aliya corrected. "Sorry! She's got beautiful facial structure," Indira said, turning Paul's face back and forth and studying him like a piece of pottery. They were set up in the (ridiculously large) powder room, which was now looking a lot like a beauty salon. Indira had brought in her own hair dryer and other strange equipment Paul couldn't fathom. "Definitely," Aliya added. "Shall we start with laser hair removal?" "Makes sense to me," Aliya said. * * * "Pierced ears?" Indira said. "You have the gun?" "Yes, right here in my case." "Let's do it!" * * * "I could style the hair, but I'd prefer to let it grow out some more." "I would too. Did you bring some wigs?" "I have them in the car." "Awesome. I'll send Khaled down to get them." * * * "These will help." "Breast forms! Wonderful, Indira. I don't know what I'd do without you." "The honor is all mine, Miss Aliya. You are my favorite client." "You're just saying that." "No, no! It is absolutely true!" "You are such a flatterer." "It's easy when your client is so nice. And beautiful." * * * "Are you ready?" Paul looked up at the two ladies. During this whole time as Indira and Aliya fussed over him, he had been facing away from the mirror. Now he was dressed in one of this new blouses, wearing a wig, lasered, eyebrows tweezed, ears pierced (with simple gold studs) and fully made up. Paul took a couple of deep breaths. Now or never. "I'm ready," he said. Slowly, the ladies, grinning and barely able to contain themselves, turned Paul around to face the mirror. "Oh!" he gave an undignified squeak. The woman in the mirror raised her eyes in shock, her pupils dilating. Paul's first reaction was confusion. Who was that in the mirror? On instinct, he raised a hand to his mouth, and then had another shock. His nails were painted red. That had happened so long ago that he had completely forgotten how they had added extensions and then shaped and painted his nails. "Is that... is that me?" Paul asked, in a hushed whisper. "Yes, my darling, it is you," Aliya said softly. And then the two ladies whooped and gave each other high-fives. "You look so beautiful!" Indira added. "But that... I mean... it can't be..." Upon closer inspection, Paul could see his male features showing through. The brow, the jaw. But they had been softened and made more beautiful with Indira's magic. He felt his whole body tingle. "See? You look beautiful," said Aliya. "This is Paula. This is the woman inside. This is what Allah was trying to lead you to in your dreams." "Can I..." Paul said, shyly. "Can I... put on a skirt?" he asked. "Yes! Of course!" Aliya raced out of the powder room and returning quickly with a skirt and a pair of panties. "We'll leave you to get dressed, and then we want you to come out to the living room and model your new look for us. Okay?" "Okay," said Paul softly. "I'm going to have to work on my voice." "All in good time." Aliya closed the door of the powder room, and the giggles and excited exclamations of the two women faded as they walked down the hallway to the living room. Paul inspected his face some more, thinking about all of the steps it took to make it look like this. He vowed to get lessons to make sure he could recreate it as closely as he could. His brows were so beautiful! High arched, thin brows. So feminine. And the blouse, with the open neckline, hinting but not showing, and the breast forms showing through his blouse. And the ears! He looked at the pierced ears. The gold studs were a beautiful adornment. Paul pouted, enjoying the look of his lipstick lips, done in a soft dusty red, just right. "Quit preening in there and come out! We want to see!" Aliya yelled from the living room. "Fine!" Paul shouted, grinning at having been caught out. How did she know? Paul took off his pants and went over to the skirt which Aliya had placed on the bench. Panties! She had brought a pair of nylon and lace panties to wear! With a shiver, Paul pulled off his boxer briefs, and then slowly... slowly... slipped on his new panties. "Ohhhh...." he sighed, electric tingles running up his legs and over his body, giving him goosebumps and making his nipples, underneath the breast forms tingle with delight. "You also have a pair of pantyhose," Aliya called from the living room. "Put them on!" Paul looked around and found them underneath the skirt. Taking off his socks, he rolled up the pantyhose in his hands the way he had seen his mother do when he was growing up, and then, pointing his toe, slipped them on, and up and over his stomach. They made his legs look so sleek and glistening! He had been shaving them for a while now, part of his Friday hygienic ritual. The nylon mesh on his bare skin felt delicious. Paul sighed with pleasure, stroking his legs with his fingers, loving the smooth tingles. "Yes, you have beautiful legs!" Aliya shouted. "Put on your skirt and get out here!" How does she do that? Paul wondered, reaching for the skirt. It was a simple, cream-colored circle skirt with ruffles around the hem. Paul carefully stepped into it and pulled up, then found the zipper and fastened it around his waist. 'Oh my god!' Paul practically danced with pleasure. The skirt brushed deliciously around his legs, stroking over his stockings and making his skin tingle so much he thought he might just die of pleasure. He looked in the mirror and saw a woman wearing a lady's blouse and circle skirt, beautifully made up with beautiful hair and actual breasts. "Get out here!" Aliya called. With a deep breath, Paul opened the bathroom door and stepped out (with his right foot first). Padding down the hallway, in his stocking feet, he stepped out into the living room, to the cheers of the ladies. "So beautiful!" Indira called out. "My darling employee!" said Aliya. "This is you. This is definitely you. How do you feel?" "I feel..." Paul paused, "wonderful!" he said. "Twirl for us!" Indira encouraged. And so Paul twirled for the ladies, the skirt flaring out gloriously, as he danced around the living room. "Come, come, we have something for you," Aliya said, leading everyone to the dining room. "A tea party!" Indira exclaimed. There on the table, were scones, clotted cream, and raspberry jam. A hot pot of tea was already brewed, safe in its own warm cozy. Aliya sat on one side of the table and Indira held out a chair for Paul to sit down. But he hesitated. "What's the matter?" Aliya asked. "I..." Paul looked over at Aliya. She was still wearing her hijab and abaya, as she always did, looking, her round face looking at him with love and concern. "May I...?" Paul continued, stopping, feeling fooling again. "May you... what?" Aliya asked softly. "May I wear... one of my... abaya?" Paul asked softly. "Oh! Of course!" Aliya jumped up and raced to Paul's bedroom, overjoyed. The day could not have possibly gone any better! And now Paula (she was already thinking of Paul as Paula now), was actually asking to wear an abaya! Would wonders never cease? "Here you go," Aliya said, holding the gorgeous taupe colored abaya with the delicate embroidered flowers in the same color, making a beautiful feminine texture. "Let me help you put it on," she said, holding it up. With Aliya's help, Paul slipped on the abaya, feeling the long, flowing robes around his body for the first time. It was as if his sleeping dream had come true. Aliya spoke softly into Paul's ear, in Arabic, from the Qur'an: O Prophet! Enjoin thy wives and thy daughters, and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks over themselves. Thus it is likelier that they will be known and not be disturbed. And God is Forgiving, Merciful. Paul looked into Aliya's eyes, and she looked into his, and they both realized then that they were crying. "Here, here!" Indira held out tissues. "Or you'll ruin your beautiful makeup!" But it was already too late, and no one cared. Aliya and Paul hugged, Paul feeling safe and comforted in her arms, as he continued to cry tears of joy and release. "I love you, Aliya," he whispered softly. "I love you too, Paula," she returned. * * * "Mom?" "Paul? Is that you? What time is it there?" "It's 9 in the evening." "So late? Oh my stars. It's just 11am here!" "I know, Mom." Paul and his mother had the same conversation every time he called. It was a problem because the difference in time zones meant Paul had only talked with his mother about once every other week, further isolating him from his family and his home. "Mom, I... I have to talk to you about something." "Of course, dear." "I..." Paul hesitated, and recited a quick 'Allahuma thabetna' [God, give me strength] to himself before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Mom, I've recently come to the realization that I'm... I'm transgender. I mean, I'm a woman inside... I think... well, not I think, I mean, I know. Anyway, I'm transgender, so that means... I'm going to..." Paul felt out of breath and unable to continue. "Oh my dearest, are you saying that you're going to become a woman? Like that Jazz girl I've seen so much of on TV?" "Y-yes. Who is Jazz?" Paul had been so disconnected from American Culture he had completely missed this. "Oh, she's this darling girl who was born a boy and then just decided she was really a girl. She got interviewed by Barbara Walters and everything!" "Okay, then, sure. Like Jazz. I'm... I'm going to transition to being a woman, full time." "Oh, but I feel so terrible," Paul's Mom said. "Terrible? Why?" "Because, should I have been more encouraging of you being a girl when you were growing up? I know you played with dolls and wore skirts for a while, but the doctor said it was just a phase. Oh, Paul, are you mad at me?" "What? No! Of course not, Mom! I could never be mad at you! I love you! This... this has just been..." Paul tried to think about what it was. "It's been a process," he finally said. "A long road to come to this... this revelation. And... this is who I am. Please, Mom, please tell me you're okay with it?" "Oh, Paul, of course I'm okay with it. I love you and I always will, and it won't matter whether you're Paul or Paula, you will always be my baby." * * * Chapter 7: Paul becomes Paula Things around the apartment returned to a semblance of normal for the next five months. "Except now I'm a woman," Paul would say to himself, examining his face in the mirror as he did his makeup. His daily rituals had changed substantially. Now he was getting up before 5am in the morning along with Aliya to do ghusl (if required) and to put on makeup. Then they would pray Fajr in the musalla followed by a light breakfast in the computer lab while they checked on the machine learning runs from the night before. Afternoons after Dhuhr [noon prayers] they studied the Koran and spoke Arabic, followed by Asr [afternoon prayers] and more data science until dinner and evening prayers [Isha]. Then they might relax together, watch a movie, or talk about clothes or prepare for the UAE citizenship test. "You'll ace it, I'm certain," said Aliya. Of course she knew it would be rigged. Paul could get every answer wrong and he'd still pass the test. The Finance Minister had made sure of that. But even so, it had to seem like it was something in doubt so Paul wouldn't get suspicious. And all during the day, Paul would be dressed as a woman, with a bra, panties, skirts and a blouse or a dress. After a couple of weeks, his ears were healed and he could start wearing more jewelry, including changing his earrings out to match his outfit. And twice a week, for the first month or so, Indira would show up to give Paul makeup lessons or to do touch-ups on his laser surgery. And the time went by so quickly! Every day was a delight and full of prayers, data science, and feminine activity. Paul was constantly fixing his makeup or adjusting his wig, taking his hormone pills or receiving a shot (from Majed, who, as it turned out, was also a trained EMT), looking over new clothes to order on-line, or studying the fashion magazines in the living room. And every evening, Paul would undress in his bedroom, carefully hang up his clothes, wash off his makeup, and slip into a soft satiny nightgown and slip into bed. And he would dream. Only now in his dreams he was no longer naked, but now he was dressed as a woman. But still he yearned for more. He still thought of himself as a 'he'. He was not yet complete. He was still seeking his way to Allah. * * * "Have you thought about what will happen after you say the Shahada?" Aliya asked, broaching the subject carefully. This was something she was concerned about. After all, she knew that Paula was very attached to her mother, who was Catholic. She spoke the question in Arabic. "I presume that we just stay here?" Paul asked, also in Arabic, feeling a whisper of worry at Aliya's question. "Does anything have to change?" "No, of course not, except..." "Except?" "It's hard to be a single woman in the Arab world," Aliya explained. "Especially a single woman with no family to look after you. Islam is very family oriented." "That's true, I hadn't thought of that," Paul admitted. "I have no siblings at all. I am an only child, raised by my mother." "Would you consider..." Aliya ventured, hesitating. "What, Aliya?" Paul asked, encouraging her. "Maybe becoming attached... well, adopted, really, to my family?" "You... they... they would do that for me?" Paul asked, eyes dilating with amazement.. "Yes. I've already talked to my father, and he agreed to take you in." What Aliya hadn't said was that her father had initially refused. "Taking on another *woman*?" he spat out. "Why would I do that? Another mouth to feed? Another woman to look after?" "She has her own job," Aliya explained. "She makes more money than you do." But that was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Aliya's father blew up and would have struck Aliya had not her mother stopped him. "A freak? Under no circumstance would I take on a western infidel, transvestite, pretend Muslim!" he raged. This continued all evening until finally he got a call from the Finance Minister. Soothing tones were spoke. Numbers were discussed. Finally, Aliya's father agreed to the arrangement. "Would I... what do I do about my own mother?" Paul asked, trying to work through the implications in his head. "Oh, Paula, she would always be your mother! Nothing would change there. It would be, for the purposes of Islam and the local laws, you would be a member of my family. We would adopt you... in the eyes of the United Arab Emirates. Legally. A civil adoption. And then we would take care of you. And I have three brothers, and, like, five uncles! So, lots of men to escort us around wherever we need to go. What do you think?" "But..." Paul looked at Aliya, his eyes watering. "But Aliya..." he said, and his voice was so plaintive that it broke her heart. Oh Paula, she thought to herself, again reflecting how this was not a game anymore. How they were holding his life and soul and heart in the balance, as the tigers moved ever closer and closer... "But Aliya," Paul said, tears now dripping down his face. It was now or never, he realized. Now or never. "I love you," he finally was able to say, staring at the ground, shaking like a leaf. "Oh Paula! I love you too!" Aliya said, moving quickly to Paula's side and pulling her into a warm hug. "Of course I do! I love you so much!" "But I though that maybe..." Paul said, "maybe..." "Oh, Paula. You are a woman. I am a woman. Islam does not allow us to be anything more than friends and sisters. You know that." "I know," Paul said, his voice cracking. "But women who love each other," Aliya said. "That is allowed, of course it is. And if you are my adopted sister..." she let the implication hang. Paul waited a long time before answering, gulping like a fish, trying to come to terms with this new information. "Then we would be... family?" Paul asked. "Sisters... officially?" "Sisters forever," Aliya assured him. "Forever joined by our family bond." "And nothing... nothing...?" "Nothing could ever pull us apart, Paula. This is really the best way. Please. Say yes. Become my sister. Join my family." "Yes," Paul said, finally dissolving into sobs. "Yes, Aliya, and thank you. And thank you to your father for agreeing to adopt me." * * * "I wish my face were more feminine," Paul said at breakfast one morning. "Nothing's wrong with your face," Aliya rushed to assure him. "You're beautiful." "No I'm not," Paul said. "I mean, sure, with makeup, I'm not horrible, but..." Paul shrugged. "What are you thinking?" Aliya asked, trying to be careful. If this was going where she thought it was, he was WAY ahead of schedule. Which would be wonderful, of course... "I don't know..." Paul said, twirling his spoon. They stayed like that for a while, quietly eating breakfast. "Maybe... surgery?" Paul asked, finally. Aliya felt her heart skip a beat. "Goodness," she said. "Are you ready for that?" "Do you think I'm crazy?" "Of course not," she said, supportively (she hoped). "Not crazy at all! Of course you want to look as beautiful and as feminine as possible." "I mean, I have plenty of money. Since we're using the corporate apartments, I've only spent money on clothes." "Of course. What were you thinking?" "Well... some facial surgery, I think. And maybe a vocal adjustment? I'm tired of my voice training classes. It would be nice just to have a feminine voice and not have to work so hard at it all the time." "That sounds practical." "And..." Paul hesitated. "Yes?" "Maybe... breast augmentation?" * * * Of course Aliya made all of the arrangements with the help of the Emir's staff. She was overjoyed. Paula wasn't scheduled to have feminization surgery until after Shahada [conversion to Islam] so this was an unexpected bonus. She had been worried and stressed about how her family would treat Paula if she didn't present well as a woman, and surgery would help with that a lot. Unbeknownst to Paul, the top plastic surgeon from Korea and his entire staff was flown to the UAE by the Emir. A second surgeon was flown in from Sweden just for the vocal surgery. Majed and Khaled drove Paul and Aliya to where Paul would receive the surgeries. It was the first time that Paul had been out of the apartment since the shopping trip to the Mall of Emirates. Not that it made a difference. He barely saw anything other than the inside of the car and the lobby of the private clinic. They arrived in the morning, and by the late afternoon, Paul was back at home in bed, recuperating. It took over a month. "I... I had no idea," Paul wrote on the portable whiteboard. He was not allowed to speak at all for two weeks, and then only short, very occasional words the next two weeks. The recovery took longer than he had expected. But slowly, like watching a flower bloom, he could see his new self emerging from the bandages and bruises. His face was more feminine and vulnerable with a more delicate nose, more contours (not as flat) and a more open look. He thought he looked a lot like old pictures of his mother when she was younger, but without her fierce confidence. "You're beautiful, Paula," said Aliya, standing behind him as he examined his face in the mirror. Paul smiled and held a thumbs up. "You'll be even more beautiful in hijab," she added, making Paul's heart thump. 'Inshallah,' [if Allah wills it] Paul prayed silently to himself. Having breasts was an entirely new experience. Already, Paul's breasts had been feeling warm and sensitive (thanks to the hormones) while wearing the padded bras that Aliya had purchased for him. And so he had already had a healthy focus on his breasts. After the surgery, Paul was in too much pain to enjoy his breasts, or really think about them in a feminine way. He had an illness he had to deal with. A recovery period. He was focussed on just getting through the day. But at some point, about two weeks after the surgery when things were mostly healed, Paul woke up early one morning, before morning prayers, and sat up and noticed them. 'I have breasts,' he realized. Paul reached down and hefted his new bosom, still in his surgical recovery bra, and hefted them. He looked down and saw cleavage. And as he did... as he marveled at this new part of his body, he looked over at his face in the mirror, which was also now pretty and feminine.... And it was like something shifted inside. Something slipped into place. 'I am...' he thought to himself. 'I am...' "Paula?" Aliya called, gently tapping on his door. "It's time for morning prayers." "Alhamdulillah," Paula called out, reaching for her abaya. * * * "The kus is a woman now," Khaled said, watching and listening to Paula and Aliya chatting like two girls over breakfast. Paula's voice was now healed enough so she could talk, as long as she said only a few words per hour. The result was lilting and musical. Khaled had a difficult time remembering the man he had first seen at the airport. The woman in the video now seemed so complete, it was as if she had always existed. Worse, Khaled felt a stirring for this abomination, which made him feel disgusted about himself. "Mashallah," [God has willed it] said Majed, watching over Khaled's shoulder. * * * Chapter 8: Submission to Allah Paula, Aliya, Khaled, Majed and Shaykh Sayyid (the Sheikh) were all sitting together in the living room. It was late morning. After two exhausting hours, Paula was nearing the end of her interview. Paula glanced over at the cloth wrapped bundle on the end-table next to Aliya. She didn't know for sure, but she suspected it contained her first hijab. Paula was wearing a plain, black Abaya, something solemn that she hoped would impress the Sheikh She would put on the hijab after the interview, once she had fully converted to Islam. The hijab which would finally make her nighttime dream come true. Her dream from Allah. "Paula, I have reviewed your history. I have interviewed people who have known you over these last five months. Your answers to my questions have been excellent. Your knowledge of Arabic and the Qur'an is wonderful, far beyond what I had anticipated." Paula looked over at Aliya and smiled. Aliya grasped Paula's hand and squeezed it. Khaled snorted. Majed's expression remained stony. "Now, before you say the Shahada, I'd like to ask you some serious questions, just to be complete. Please thoughtfully consider each question, one at a time, and answer honestly and truthfully, for these questions will determine your future." "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said. Paula was in awe of the person before her. Sayyid meant he was a descendant from the prophet Mohammed, through his grandson Imam Hussein. She just about peed in her pants when Aliya told her. It was like a direct connection to the prophet and the Qur'an. "Paula, do you believe that the Holy Qur'an is the literal word of Allah, our God, revealed by Him." "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said. "I believe this with all my heart. The Qur'an has led me to Allah." Paula spoke in Arabic. It was still quite heavily accented and certainly not flawless, but the Sheikh was impressed by how much this young woman, because this was clearly a woman and not a man in his eyes, had learned in just one year. And her voice was so beautiful! It was light and lilting. If Shaykh Sayyid hadn't already known of Paula's vocal surgery, he would have sworn it was natural. It fit her so well. "Very good, Paula. Now do you believe that the Judgment Day (Resurrection Day) is true and will come." "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said. "And the Horn will be blown, and whoever is in the heavens and whoever is on the earth will fall dead except whom Allah wills. Then it will be blown again, and at once they will be standing, looking on. "The Qur'an is the word of Allah and so I know this to be true in my heart." "Your understanding of the Qur'an is admirable and heartfelt," praised Shaykh Sayyid, impressed by Paula's quote referring to the second trumpet which signals the start of judgment day. "Now tell me, do you believe in the prophets that God sent and the books He revealed, and in His angels." "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said. "I believe in all of the prophets, from Abraham and Jesus and John to most especially the prophet Mohammed who brought us the glorious Qur'an. I believe in the Hadiths and in all religious teachings, if they be the true word of Allah." Paula glanced again at the cloth-covered package on the end-table. Soon, she thought to herself. Soon (Inshallah!) I will submit myself to Allah and become a Muslim woman, a Muslimah, forever bound by the Qur'an and the laws of Islam. And then I will be complete. "Do you renounce all of your prior religious affiliation? Do you accept Islam as your one and only religion, for the rest of your life?" Aliya looked over at Paula, her heart beating fast. This was it. This was the moment she was worried about. It was not enough for Paul, now Paula, to accept Islam. She must also renounce any past religions. She could feel the tigers at the mouth of the cave. Their ears pricked up and they stared at Paula intently. "Oh yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said, with such an honest and open expression that Aliya felt tears spring to her eyes. "I renounce Catholicism, the religion of my mother, and I renounce Episcopalian, the religion of my father. Further..." Paula paused. Aliya and the tigers were suddenly alert. Was something wrong? "Further," Paula continued, "I renounce atheism. I have found Allah, and I willingly submit myself to him. He fills me up--" Paula's eyes were misty as she looked over at Aliya, "--and he has shown me the path to finding my true self," Paula indicated his clothes. "Such is the power of Allah, when we listen carefully," said Shaykh Sayyid. The Sheikh reflected how wrong he had been. His first reaction to hearing of the request was profound distaste. Like all devout Muslims, going against God's plan is an abomination. If God made you a man, you must be a man. But because the request was from the Emir himself, it could not be avoided or delegated. And so, dutifully, he had done his research and had written the fatwa, and everything was in order. It had required a creative interpretation of an earlier Fatwa written by Sunni Sheikh Muhammad Sayyid Tantawy of Egypt, but Shaykh Sayyid felt his reasoning was sound and narrowly scoped to the Emir's request. It was, of course, still based on an Islamic view of binary gender. There were only men and women in God's plan, there was nothing else. But if Allah made you a woman on the inside to be a woman, then it was your responsibility to achieve his will by being that person on the outside. It was no different than if Allah gave you a talent with accounting but you were born as the son of a common laborer. You should do whatever was necessary to become an accountant to realize Allah's plan for you. So it was, Shaykh Sayyid reasoned, with this convert. Still, it was with a feeling of deep disgust he traveled from Abu Dhabi to Dubai to interview this Muslim transvestite. He knew his duty, and he was bound to fulfill it, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it. But he had not been prepared for the level of intense devotion to Allah he saw before him. Such deep feelings were rare, in his experience. It was clear to Shaykh Sayyid that Allah, had, in fact, led this poor wretch down this path to Islam, to new beliefs, a new country, a new family, and even a new gender. For what purpose, Shaykh Sayyid could only imagine. Allah has taught me a lesson in humility, he reflected to himself. Even the high and noble Shaykh Sayyid is nothing before Allah and his plan. "Finally, Paula, do you agree to not worship anything nor anyone except Allah." "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," Paula said, in Arabic. "Recite the Shahada," he commanded. Paula recited the Shahada in Arabic: Ash-hadu an la ilaha illAllah, wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah. (I testify that there is no god but God, and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.) "Welcome to Islam," said Shaykh Sayyid, smiling. "May you forever be with Allah." "Alhamdullillah!" Paula said, grinning and with tears of relief in her eyes. She looked over at Aliya who was also smiling and crying as well. The two ladies hugged. "Alhamdulillah!" said Majed, gruffly, without smiling. "Alhamdulillah," muttered Khaled, looking away, disgusted by his own reaction to this new Muslim woman. "Welcome to Islam, my sister Muslimah," Aliya whispered in Paula's ear. "May you forever be in His protection." "Thank you, Aliya," Paula whispered back. "I love you." "Now, I understand there are some papers to sign?" asked Shaykh Sayyid. "Sign?" Paula asked. "Yes, Shaykh Sayyid," said Aliya, pulling out an envelope which was hidden under the cloth bundle. "Paula, I talked with immigration at the Royal Arabian Corporation, and you passed the citizenship test! Isn't that wonderful? I have your new UAE citizenship papers right here." "But... but..." Paula hadn't expected to have to change her citizenship so swiftly. "Isn't there a ceremony or something?" she asked. "Or a residency requirement?" "Not for immigrants like you with special computer skills. All you need is to have spent more than a year in the country, have proficiency with the Arab language, and to have passed the citizenship test, all of which you've done. And one more thing..." Aliya bit her lip before continuing, "you will need to renounce your US citizenship." "Oh!" Paula said, shocked. "I thought I could be... dual citizenship?" "I'm sorry, Paula," Aliya said. "But Emirates does not allow for dual citizenship. You will need to sign your old name, Paul Christiansen, here." Outwardly, Aliya was calm and helpful, but inside she was churning with worry. The Finance Minister had been very insistent that Paula must renounce her US citizenship. But why? Wasn't it enough that Paula was a Muslim woman now? Hadn't they completed their goal? What else did they have planned for her now? Why was it so important that she renounce her US citizenship and become a full citizen of the UAE? Paula looked at the form. It was an official US Government form written in English. According to the form, rejection of one's United States citizenship would be irreversible and forever. The form, once signed, would be sent to the US Embassy. Paula would never again be able to call the United States 'home'. Paula looked up at Aliya, who reached out and gently squeezed her arm. "This is your home now," Aliya said. "Yes, Aliya," Paula said, trusting her completely. Paula placed the tip of the pen on the paper and signed her old name, 'Paul Christiansen'. Inwardly, Aliya sighed a breath of relief. She happened to glance over at Majed who was staring at her intently, with an expression of mutual understanding. They were now both implicated in this act of conversion. They were both responsible for having pushed and pulled Paul, now Paula into converting to Islam and willingly giving up her US citizenship based on deception, and there were many instances where they had bent the truth in doing so. Aliya prayed that Allah would understand the necessity of their actions. "I feel like I'm in al-Barzakh [limbo]," Paula said, trying to make a joke of it. "I have no country!" Aliya passed the form to be signed by Shaykh Sayyid and then Majed and Khaled as male witnesses. "Just a few more signatures," Aliya said. "Next, the Human Resources' Immigration Control department felt that it would be best if you officially changed your name." Aliya moved to sit next to Paula, and held Paula's hands in her own. "Paula, I talked with my father, and since he will be your new father soon, I felt it was best if he was the one to give you a new Arabic name." "A new... name?" Paula asked, starting to shake. "Your father... he gave me a new name?" "Yes, a new name. I hope you like it. It is 'Daima'." "Daima," Paula said, softly to herself. "Yes, you will now be known as Daima Al Muhairi." "Daima Al Muhairi," Paula said to herself, tasting the words for the first time. "It means 'Always'," said Aliya. In fact, the name had not been chosen by Aliya's father, but by the Emir himself. He had wanted to ensure that his investment would always be safe. "Always?" Paula said, her eyes moist. "Always," Aliya said, placing the name-change form in front of Paula. She also placed a card where she had written out Paula's new name. Paula looked at the form. First she signed her male name, Paul J?sus Christiansen, for the last time. Then she signed her new name. 'Daima Al Muhairi,' Paula carefully copied the Arabic characters from Aliya's card. "My name is... Daima." "Daima," agreed Aliya. "Always." "It's a beautiful name," added Shaykh Sayyid . "A good traditional Muslim woman's name. A reminder to always be faithful to Allah and to your husband." "Daima..." Paula said to herself. To be faithful to Allah and... my husband? Aliya passed the name change form around to be witnessed by the men in the room as was required. "Now for your UAE citizenship form..." she said. In a trance, the man who was formerly Paul, who for a while became a woman named Paula and now was, forever, a Muslim woman named Daima, slowly signed his new name, Daima Al Muhairi on her new UAE citizenship form. Daima felt her past slipping away. Her US citizenship was now gone. Her name was now gone. For the first time she fully felt what she was doing, and where she was headed. Paul was disappearing forever. He was now no more. He had become, Daima. A Muslim woman, devoted to Allah. "Daima," she said softly to herself as she signed the adoption papers, agreeing to be formally adopted by Aliya's father. "You are now my sister," Aliya said. "Alhamdulillah!" "Alhamdulillah!" Shaykh Sayyid chimed in, followed by the other men. "Alhamdulillah!" Daima said, suddenly bursting into sobs under the enormous weight of the changes that had just taken place. I am now a Muslim woman in the UAE, she realized. Daima looked over at Aliya, and impulsively reached out to hug her. "There, there," said Aliya, fetching a tissue and wiping Daima's tears. "It's all over," she said softly. "It's all over." And now her job was done, Aliya reflected. It was out of her hands now. This was her last assignment. Oh, she and Daima would continue to work together as colleagues, but all of the tasks and goals that the Finance Minister had outlined for Aliya over a year ago had been accomplished. And the result was this devout Muslim woman before her. She had converted a man into a Muslim woman. She had led him slowly and carefully down the path, and now here he was. Her sister. Paula, now Daima, watched as Aliya reached over to the bundle on the end table and unwrapped it. "Now first, I have a headband for you to wear," she said. "It will keep all of your hair nice and covered, even if your hijab may slip a little." Daima bowed her head as Aliya slipped the snug tube of fabric (the seam in back) over her head and then carefully arranged it so that her scalp was covered. "And now, your hijab," she said. And just like in her dream, Daima watched as Aliya approached her with the hijab. But this time, instead of being denied, as in her dream, she watched, her emotions rising, as Aliya, carefully explaining each step, draped it over Daima's head, leaving the two ends hanging down her chest, one much longer than the other. Next, Aliya pinched the two ends together under Daima's chin, then wrapped the long end up and over her head. Because the two were pinched together, a portion of the short end was now tightly pressed against her face, trapped. Aliya next tucked the side of (what was) the long end between the scarf and Daima's face, and then finished it off with a hair pin. "Just to hold everything in place," Aliya said, smiling. It felt like a dream. It *was* a dream, Daima's dream, but the reality was so much more powerful, Daima knowing how she had just converted to Islam and had just given up her US Citizenship. She felt like she was being wrapped. Not wrapped like a present, but wrapped up in the arms of Allah. She felt, for the first time, the true force of submission to Allah and the word of the Qur'an. Daima was giving up her freedom, willingly, for Allah. She was becoming, in effect, a second class citizen, forever having her actions determined by the men in her family, forever chaperoned, never able to leave the house alone without permission, not allowed to obtain a driver's license or seek employment without her male guardian's permission (not by law necessarily, but by the stronger bonds of her devotion to Allah) and forever covered in public to ensure her modesty in the eyes of her religion. Daima felt wrapped and protected, almost like being swaddled like a baby before her God. Her modest clothing was now like a shield against the outside world, reminding her of her place and keeping her safe within the walls of its carefully codified and restrictive rules and gender roles. It was counter-intuitive, but In her abaya, and in her hijab, covered up from from view, Daima became acutely aware of her body. Her womanly body. Her new breasts in their bra and in the light feminine blouse with the ruffled trim that Aliya had picked out for her. Her hips and legs, now more womanly and curvy thanks to the hormones she had been taking now for five months. Her back and arms and neck, graceful curves, all hidden from view. Every inch of skin was alive and so present in her mind, it was almost as if she had two bodies: the one she lived within and the one she could feel, the one covered up in her islamic clothing, alive and pulsing with energy and love for Allah. Submission, for her, was an act of freedom. Freedom from male expectations. Freedom from male competition and male expectations. Freedom to be herself. Freedom to worship. Freedom to be passionate and invested and in love. Diama sighed. The hijab was now firmly in place. She would be wearing one in public for the rest of her life. She opened her eyes. Aliya looked into Daima's eyes and saw a soul at peace. "You have found Allah," Aliya said, simply. Daima took a deep breath and looked into Aliya's eyes. "Yes," she said simply. "I have submitted to him. I am forever his." Aliya couldn't help it. After months and months of stress and worry, she let go and broke into hysterical tears at the flood of relief that washed over her. It had worked! Paula had converted! All of their careful plans and stratagems had worked their way to completion, and now here was another servant of Allah for the Emir, submissive and ready to do her duty. "Aliya," Daima said, concerned. "Are you okay? Why are you crying?" Aliya couldn't speak right away. "Tears of joy," she finally got out. * * * "Open doors, open mind." Aliya and Daima were kneeling together, legs and shoulders touching, in the Jumiera Mosque in Dubai, listening to Shaykh Sayyid. Because he was so famous, he had been invited to lead Friday noon-time prayers. "Open minds, open heart," Shaykh Sayyid repeated. "This was the dedication of this holy mosque by his highness Sheikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum, a truly wise and great leader. Allah tells us that only through an open mind can we hear his voice and see his influence on the world, only with an open mind can we come to feel his love and understand his plan." Daima looked around, nervously. The place was packed, with every possible space filled. There were so many women that they overflowed the woman's portion of the mosque (in a separate antechamber off to the side, where Daima and Aliya were kneeling) and took up a slice of the main mosque, with a modesty aisle separating them from the men. Men filled up the rest of the main mosque and some were kneeling outside, in the covered vestibule outside the front door. "And we pray to Abraham and Mohammed and all of the prophets and we believe that through our prayers we understand Allah. But it will all be for nothing if you do not keep an open mind. Allah will speak to you, it can happen at any time, not just during prayers, not just during Salat- l-Istikhara [prayer for guidance], not just in the mosque. Allah is with us all of the time and Allah may speak to us at any time. Will you have an open enough mind to hear his words?" This was Daima's first visit to a mosque. "I wanted to wait until you were fully a Muslim woman," Aliya had explained. "I wanted your experience to be entirely an Islamic experience." They were dropped off by Majed and then they separated from Kahled, going to the left of the mosque. The courtyard was crowded and noisy with people chatting with friends and relatives. "Wudu?" Aliya had asked. "I'm good," said Daima. And so, after enjoying the slight breeze outside for a few moments, they took off their shoes and entered the Woman's prayer room. It was through a small and plain side door, much smaller and much less decorated than the large front entryway reserved for the men. "Open Doors, Open Mind," Shaykh Sayyid repeated. "Recently, I had a profound experience which made me realize how close minded I had become, and I praise Allah who showed me the error of my ways. Allah opened my heart and my mind, and all I had to do was listen." The prayer room was open an airy, with high ceilings decorated with colorful Arabic inscriptions. Two large doors opened onto the main floor of the mosque. Around the women's prayer room were various toys. Children clung to their mothers or ran about the room, completely free and comfortable with their surroundings. The sage green carpet underfoot was soft and padded. Intricately decorated, wide rose stripes went the width of the carpet and were set about four feet apart, showed where to stand for prayer. As the time drew near, the woman assembled, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, standing in rows. Women were all in abaya and hijab in a wide range of colors and styles, some also wore face veils (niqaab). At a signal, the entire company knelt and Shaykh Sayyid started speaking. "I traveled to Dubai to witness the Shahada of a new convert to Islam." Aliya and Daima glanced at each other, their eyes wide. Was he talking about Daima? "For reasons I will not say, I was skeptical. I felt that this convert could not possibly be a true Muslim. But I knew my duty and, with reluctance, I got in the car to fulfill my duty." Shaykh Sayyid paused. "My mind was closed," he continued. "I had made an assumption. And Allah, the merciful, teaches us through the Qur'an: 'O you who have believed, avoid much negative assumption. Indeed, some assumption is sin. And do not spy or backbite each other. Would one of you like to eat the flesh of his brother when dead? You would detest it. And fear Allah; indeed, Allah is Accepting of repentance and Merciful.'" Daima felt like she was floating above her body, swimming in the hot air of the mosque. Was Shaykh Sayyid really talking about her? Was it possible? "What I found in our new convert, may god bless her, was a Muslim of such pure and heartfelt devotion that I knew at once that she had been shown the true path by Allah. Here was a woman, formerly a Christian, formerly an atheist, now a devoted servant to Allah." Daima listened to the words of Shaykh Sayyid, in a trance. She found it hard to believe that she was the subject of his speech for the noon prayers. The heat of the day and the heat of the mosque full of devoted worshippers made her woozy. Her first day as true convert to Islam, her true submission to Allah... it felt like her dream had merged with reality. "And so I realized the error of my closed mind. I had judged this woman without ever having met her. And now, having met her, I understand that Allah can visit anyone, at any time, and that all his children are beautiful. "The Prophet Musa (Peace be upon him) followed a learned man called Al- Khidr to get guidance. He kept seeing Al-Khidr do actions that to Musa seemed wrong and Musa would speak up and point out that they were wrong. At the end, it turned out that Al-Khidrs intention had been good all along and though his actions seemed wrong he was actually doing them to benefit the people. This shows us that there are things of which we have no knowledge and should not think that we do and therefore shouldn't judge. "Mohammed, the Messenger of God (God bless him and give him peace) said, 'One of you does not believe until he loves for another what is loved for self.'" The woman to the other side of Daima looked at her strangely. "Are you okay?" she asked in English, whispering. "Yes, I am," Daima responded in Arabic, tears streaming down her face. She felt at peace and at home. And as they repeated the raka'ah, led by Shaykh Sayyid, in this hot mosque, surrounded by over a thousand Muslim worshippers, all praying together, their hearts beating as one, Daima felt herself fully converted to Islam. "This is me," she thought to herself. "This is where I belong." * * * END PART 1 Copyright (c) 2020 by RH Music, all rights reserved. Thanks to Robyn Hoode for her excellent editorial help. Thanks to Samirah for her review for cultural content. Errors which remain are entirely the fault of the author.