**The Tormented in the Land of Flowers**
Novel writed by farid chakrouni in Netherland
*Chapter One: Layla and the River*
Dear reader, do you trust me if I take you to the endless realms of dreams, where we can fly together without wings, free like birds defying gravity? To a world adorned with mysteries, filled with layers of ambiguity and endless wonder. I will take you to the source of the clouds, to a place of ignorance and bewilderment, out of harmony with reason, insight, and understanding. Surely, you will accept my tempting offer and become one of those who follow my path and adopt my way in the stories of contemporary times. All you have to do is lend me your gifted hearing, granted by your magnificent Creator, and surrender to the truths about yourself that remain hidden in worlds rich with mysteries shrouded in the darkness of ambiguity and complexity. Listen to my tale, which is closer to you than your dreams, and you will be guided to a clear and righteous path, full of truths from which most people are heedless.
This time, it will be none other than the story of the old woman: Lady Layla, seated in the ninth chair of the ten women who excelled in telling their extraordinary tales. They quenched the curiosity of those who surrendered their hearing and mastered their focus, even if their storytelling seemed like the legends of old. But their lives were woven from realities they lived in an era that bore witness to their existence. These women, who endured poverty and wore hunger, did not choose such a fate. They wandered through the desert wilderness without a drop of water, yet they did not falter in completing their heroic journey, captivating the people of the world with the wonders of their experiences. Finally, Lady Layla sought permission from her sisters to immerse them in something they had not heard before, hoping to be one of those who had created a masterpiece, persistently and insistently throwing her story into the strands of a sun that had set in broad daylight. She spoke calmly, and everyone thought she was sincere:
"Yes, I am the one who opened her eyes in gardens of delight, crafted by the magnificent Creator into a magical land with streams and rivers. Its waters brought a smile to nature for those who hurried towards it. A flat, easy land with no crookedness, gazing upon itself with pride. Around me were those who called me Layla, *al-‘Aroubiya* (the Bedouin), not because of any fault of my own but simply because I was the daughter of nature, the sister of the mountain, and the beloved of the green meadows. I was born of nature’s rich genetics, nursed by the rivers that flowed shyly from the peaks of the high mountains, their waters flowing gently toward those who gazed upon them. It seemed like a work of art sculpted by the greatest civilizations of ancient Central America, like the Maya. In the end, I was just a girl of the old kind, without any civilization in my mind, without any modernity clinging to me. I had certainly become one of those whose kind had gone extinct in an era painted by progress and sophistication. Call me, if you like, a unique model. My life is an opportunity for reflection for those who admire the lives of the people of the distant past. I loved simplicity so much that I became its daughter. I embraced the daughters of nature, singing to it like the beautiful insects sing with their buzzing."
"Know well that my story will show you clearly that civilization never succeeded in changing my nature, no matter what I experienced and witnessed. My soul refused to plunge its thoughts into the philosophical swamps of the contemporary era. Instead, it chose to remain simple, freed from all the innovations of civilization, retaining the original version of the image of the naive, gullible village girl."
And the more the elderly Lady Layla, the youngest of them all, spoke, the more eager the other women became, as they anticipated her leading them through the night’s tale. If she did not hurry with her story, the anticipation would fade, and the brilliance of the narrative would be lost. As spring visited them, when the hours of night equaled those of day, and once the sun rose, there would no longer be a chance for storytelling, as the women were used to doing. The sixty-year-old lady, still admired for her beauty despite her age, with a charm that never left her features, spoke again.
"Like the rest of the simple village girls, I lived a Bedouin life, carrying a water jug on my shoulders from the headwaters of the river. The water poured from a flowing river that was revived each year with greetings of peace and security, and with each passing year, it grew even more beautiful and radiant. It captivated everyone who passed by, allowing them to drink a handful of its water. And with the splendor of the place where I let out my first cry, my face glowed, shining brightly. The young men of our neighborhood loved me as if I were a dazzling flower, bringing joy to all who looked at me—a solitary bloom in a forest, desired by every hunter. But my father would gently, kindly, and wisely turn away the suitors with undeniable logic: 'My daughter Layla is still studying and learning. It is not yet her time to be plucked by the hands of those who love blooming roses, for she is still in the prime of youth. And everyone has their destiny written for them in the preserved tablet.' These words did not rebuke the suitors, and they would return to their homes, understanding and unharmed.
I would never disappoint my mother, who dreamed of me one day being among the learned, and hoped to see me, before she departed this deceitful world for the eternal home, as a teacher for the children of our village or an educator of future generations, even if the fruits of such work came only after a while. This was the extent of her knowledge. But the days conceal from us what we know nothing about. I walked through life, indifferent to its trials, between blessings and indulgence, until I reached the age of seventeen. By then, I had fled the years of childhood, which I did not enjoy leaving behind. Childhood had taught me the true meaning of happiness and brought me the essence of joy from its sweet memories. A child who knew nothing but study and endless work in her parents' house, like the ant that never stops moving as long as it walks on the earth, morning and evening, tirelessly gathering grains one by one, unbothered by the slow passage of time. Her only concern was to ensure her safety for the inevitable days of winter.
I saw myself from afar like that bee that collects its pure honey after much toil and hardship, even though it consumes none of it. Instead, it gifts its honey to others, who enjoy and savor it, living in happiness and abundance. I wonder, should I weep with regret for the time that has passed now that I am sixty years old? Even if I were to cry, I would do so with sincere tears that would restore my dignity, though time never moves backward, not for eternity nor the ages to come. That is nothing but wisdom."
**The Time**
When I was just two years shy of twenty, my destiny came running towards me. I welcomed it without shame or rejection. It whispered softly in my ear, almost like a prayer: “I wish you, Leila, a new life, though it won’t resemble the one before. You know, my dear, life is like a great river. Those who stand at its banks drink from its waters until they are quenched, while those who do not must drink from the salty sea, which never quenches the thirst of the parched.” I was astonished and, with eager anticipation that could not be delayed, I replied to my destiny swiftly: “I am also eager for my future days. What will they bring, and how will I reach their end?”
Suddenly, as if by surprise, my father entered our home after finishing his evening prayer. He held his prayer beads, counting them in remembrance of God, thankful and grateful, dragging behind him news I had never heard before. My mother, as she always did, greeted him, and he asked her about me: “Where is Leila, O mother of Leila? I bring you news that will make us all happy, God willing. As you know, after patience comes all the good. Our Lord loves the patient and surely rewards them.”
But my mother, impatient as ever, replied faster than he expected: “You’ve argued with us, and you’ve argued too much. Why don’t you just tell us what you have to say and relieve us, and yourself? I’ve never known you to give clear news without riddles. When will we hear something straightforward?”
At that moment, I entered to join my parents in their conversation, which was clearly about me. My father spoke, beaming: “Leila, the apple of my eye, you are our only child. If you leave us, we will become orphans without you. Tonight, a suitor has come to our doorstep, brought by fate. Can I get a response from Leila, so I can cry tears of joy and be happy to see my daughter as a bride in her own home, and soon enough, as a mother with children and grandchildren?”
My mother, with her unique style, asked for the details: “Is what you say true, O Bashir? Will Leila really become a bride and have her own home, a princess in a grand palace?”
As for me, Leila, the young and only flower, I found myself in a whirl of confusion. Unsure if what I heard was a dream or reality, I asked shyly, as daughters of Eve do, in modesty: “But father, who is this suitor? Is he someone we know or a stranger? After all, there are many suitors, but few are true men.”
It seemed my mother shared my thoughts, deepening the question: “Yes, Leila is right. We need to know who has chosen us as in-laws.”
My father, calm and composed, revealed the truth all at once: “Yes, just as you suspected, O mother of Leila. We have been preferred over many families in our village by Mr. Khaled, son of Maimon the carpenter.”
My mother and I were taken aback, our expressions in unison as we responded: “Do you mean Khaled, the Dutchman? The one with the long hair, that odd young man?”
“Yes, him in the flesh. Why wouldn’t he be suitable for Leila? He has traveled the lands of the West inch by inch. Let me tell you something else—he is an educated young man, fluent in Dutch. He has built a house for his parents and has a substantial bank account. Who could refuse such an offer? His father, Mr. Maimon, promised me that he would take Leila to the Netherlands, where she could continue her studies at Leiden University. There, in that land of prosperity and advancement, all her dreams could come true, as if she were living in a rosy dream that only the lucky ones experience.”
As for me, I was gripped by fear, stunned and speechless. But my mother, ever defiant, broke the silence with fierce determination: “By God, you must be out of your mind! Don’t make things more difficult for me, man. I’ve suffered enough with you over the years, tolerated your senseless whims, and followed you in all your madness until you nearly drove me insane. You are not thinking clearly! How can you throw your only daughter into unsafe hands and bury her in a grave you dig yourself? Are you unaware, or are you pretending not to know about Khaled and his family? They are cold-hearted people who don’t care about right and wrong. Let them all go to hell. Are you truly ignorant of Khaled’s shady dealings? Or are you just turning a blind eye? Do you think that the money he throws around comes from an honest source? Or is it tainted with the filth of illicit trades, ones that neither our religion nor Dutch law would accept? His mother, Zahra, bragged to me enough about his drug trades, the poisonous pills that destroy young lives. She boasts about him as if he were a prince who conquered lands and liberated oppressed nations. Be reasonable, man! Our daughter Leila is adored by many honorable suitors. She’s educated, speaks three languages fluently, and we raised her from a young age with the hope that she would bloom into a blessed flower. We cannot simply hand her over to someone who doesn’t deserve her, letting her wilt away in his hands. Let Khaled and his family go to hell!”
My poor mother, like all daughters of Eve, talks endlessly, sometimes right, sometimes wrong. But my father, like most men, doesn’t waste words—he acts. He responded to her with scorn: “Woman, you don’t understand a thing! How can you reject a blessing God has sent us? If I listened to you, we’d be stuck in this place forever. Don’t you know that in today’s world, a house with daughters is the weakest house? Their parents grow old with no happiness in sight. Every mother in this village races to marry off her daughter, to rid herself of the curse of having unmarried girls. Don’t you get it, foolish woman? Talking to you is pointless.”
And so, my father acted without considering our feelings. I found myself torn between two difficult paths. Should I refuse my father’s request, something I was never raised to do? Or should I agree to marry a man twice my age, with all the troubling things said about him?