ADVANCE RE ADING COPY
SEP TEMBER 2021
S U M A I Y A M A T I N
A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith
Dear Reader, I am honoured that you have selected The Shaytān Bride: A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith to give your time and attention. My editor, Julie Mannell, and I call this book an artifact. It exists for you to discover, decipher, and deduce — to learn more, either about yourself or worlds that are to you, perhaps unfamiliar. Before you begin reading, I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Sumaiya Matin. I am a Muslim woman, also a racialized, cisgender settler who emigrated from Dhaka, Bangladesh at the age of six to this sacred Indigenous land, now known blanketly as Canada. I am a strategic advisor for the Ontario government, a writer, and a part time social worker. I am the eldest daughter of two resilient beings, and before them, Allah. I share my social location because these identities and other unnamed ones have very much shaped the perspectives I share in this book. Your life experiences will also shape how you read this book, I am certain. In this coming-of-age literary memoir, you’ll meet a young girl who finds herself traversing not only geographic lines, but those of cultural, religious, and gender expectations. Lines that are singular, then parallel, and eventually somewhat circular. You’ll live moments that are both mundane and not. Underneath the writing, you’ll find strokes of death, love, honour, hope, and freedom. While this story touches on topics commonly associated with Muslims and the South Asian diaspora, for example, honour and family shame, I strive to add to your repertoire of nuances. We are multidimensional beings. My hope is that by sharing my experience, your interest and your understanding grows in some way — of the
complexities of gender-based violence, the impacts of Islamophobia and lingering residues of colonization, ongoing lateral violence, and process of settlement. Having said that, please note, this book is in no way a representation of Islam or of all women, Muslims, South Asians, Bengalis, or Bangladeshis. It is in summation about a young girl learning how she will remain true to herself and her own faith, more than it is anything else. Writing this book brought up fear for me and mostly related to perceived responses from non-Muslims who might already have misconceptions about Islam (and who could be decision-makers in positions of power) as well as from other Muslims. I also put my personal relationships with those whom I love the most on the line by writing this book but I did so because I am aware this book has the potential to help someone else feel seen and just a little less alone in some way. It is this belief that brought me the most joy and solace while writing, which helped me take the risk I needed to. The impacts of harm inflicted on our minds and bodies linger, as do the impacts of living in worlds that seem mutually exclusive or overwhelmingly complex, and especially without the resources and perceived community to support us. This artifact could be one of the ways we all find a way to each other. All of the characters in this book have been given pseudonyms in an effort to protect privacy and confidentiality. Thank you for this opportunity to hand over this artifact — a piece of my life — to you. I hope it speaks to you in some way, in whatever way you need it to.
Sumaiya Matin
THE SHAYTĀN BRIDE A BANGLADESHI CANADIAN MEMOIR OF DESIRE AND FAITH Sumaiya Matin The true story of how one woman faced the jinns that tried to shape her fate and escaped her forced wedding. Publication: CANADA September 7, 2021 | U.S. October 5, 2021
FORMAT 5.5 in (W) 8.5 in (H) 360 pages
Paperback 978-1-4597-4767-8 Can $23.99 US $19.99 £ 15.99
EPUB 978-1-4597-4769-2 Can $11.99 US $11.99 £7.99
PDF 978-1-4597-4768-5 Can $23.99 US $19.99 £ 15.99
KEY SELLING POINTS A powerful, non-linear literary memoir of a young Muslim woman’s experiences with
navigating the diaspora, sexuality and gender identity, romance, racism, and feminism
Will appeal to readers of A Good Wife by Samra Zafa, Heart Berries by Terese Marie Mailhot
and One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None Of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul
The Shaytān Bride (“Satan’s Bride”) refers to a real woman who grew up in the author’s
social circle who loved a city-dweller, known as a jinn or tool of Satan, but was cast aside and heartbroken when the jinn returned married to another woman A debut memoir from a Toronto-based writer, social worker, and communications strategist specializing in inclusion and anti-racism
BISAC BIO002020 – BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural, Ethnic & Regional / Asian & Asian American BIO022000 – BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Women BIO026000 – BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Sumaiya Matin is a writer and a strategic advisor for the Ontario government, working on anti-racism initiatives. She lives in Toronto.
ShaytanBride
@sumaiya_matin sumaiyamatinauthor
sumaiya.matin
MARKETING AND PUBLICITY Publicity campaign to targeted media and influencers Author speaking tour Representation at international trade shows and conferences Consumer, trade, and/or wholesaler advertising campaign
Social media campaign and online advertising Email campaigns to consumers, booksellers, and librarians Digital galley available: NetGalley, Edelweiss, Catalist
RIGHTS World, All Languages ABOUT THE BOOK Sumaiya Matin was never sure if the story of the Shaytān Bride was truth or myth. When she moved from Dhaka, Bangladesh, to Thunder Bay, Ontario, at age six, visions of this devilish bride followed her. At first, the Shaytan Bride seemed to be the monster of fairy tales. However, in the weeks leading to Sumaiya’s own wedding, she discovers that the story — and the bride herself — are much closer than they seem. The Shaytān Bride is the true coming-of-age story of a girl who suddenly finds herself unravelling the complexities of identity and desire in both the physical and spiritual worlds. As she encounters the best and worst in people, she must decide what she wants for herself and who she wants to become. Sumaiya Matin’s life in love and violence is a testament to the strength of the heart and one woman’s willpower in facing the complicated fallout of her decisions.
For more information, contact publicity@dundurn.com Orders in Canada: UTP Distribution 1-800-565-9523 Orders in the US: Ingram Publisher Services 1-866-400-5351
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S U M A I Y A M A T I N
A Bangladeshi Canadian Memoir of Desire and Faith
Copyright © Sumaiya Matin, 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright. Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Julie Mannell Cover designer: Laura Boyle Cover image: arcangel.com/ Rebecca Massey Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The shayṭān bride : a Bangladeshi Canadian memoir of desire and faith / Sumaiya Matin. Names: Matin, Sumaiya, author. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210167971 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210171065 | ISBN 9781459747678 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747685 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747692 (EPUB) Subjects: LCSH: Matin, Sumaiya. | LCSH: Muslim women—Canada—Biography. | LCSH: Muslim women—Canada—Social life and customs. | LCSH: Muslim women—Canada— Social conditions. | LCGFT: Autobiographies. Classification: LCC HQ1170 .M38 2021 | DDC 305.48/697092—dc23
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada. Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions. The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher. Printed and bound in Canada. Dundurn Press 1382 Queen Street East Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4L 1C9 dundurn.com, @dundurnpress
For Ammu (mother), Abbu (father), and all the world’s Shayṭān Brides
The whole of my life summed up in three phases: I was raw then I was burnt now, I am on fire — Rumi
Tarid al’Arwah Alsharira ()طارد األرواح الشريرة
I didn’t see the exorcist, but I heard he’d dropped by and brought with him a ta’wiz, a silver locket containing a small scroll with verses of Ayatul Kursi to ward off evil. The locket with the surah was attached to a black thread. The ta’wiz was supposed to be wrapped around my arm or worn around my neck. It must have been early in the morning or late in the night when he left it for me. I must have been sleeping. I wondered if he had entered the bedroom and watched as I lay there on one of the two beds, the one by the large window next to the veranda.
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That window was usually open at all hours, the thin linen curtains blowing occasionally when the breeze could eke its way through the humid Dhaka streets. I must have been on my back, legs spread apart, each breast sliding away from the centre of my chest, open and unguarded. Or maybe I had been on my right side, in the fetal position with my knees up to my chest, head over my bent arm, as if I was back in the womb again. It must have been then when he hovered over me, holding his palms open to the sky, reciting prayers, then gently placing his clammy hand on my forehead. Whiff of sandalwood incense. Performing ruqyah, reciting the words of the Quran to confront the jinns with bad dispositions and the jinns sent by everyday sorcerers to afflict humans. I heard the lilting Arabic verses that were so distinct and familiar to me. A tonic of solace, trust, and mystery soaking into my ears, soaking into the saliva filling my gaping mouth as I half slept. These words were a remedy, despite any incoherence from the flawed delivery of the reciter. My heart was either conditioned or naturally inclined to find the breaths between them, a space to rest, like the pulpy pillow I laid my head on. Or maybe I had heard nothing but the rattle of the rotating blades of the fan overhead. The haze and my disorientation were much less bothersome to me than the sharp flicker of light between my eyelids. I twitched awake, only to hear fading footsteps. Had it all been a dream? I wondered. What I knew was that in the morning, when I got off the stiff bed, drowsy and suffering some sort of memory distortion, I found Sweety Khala standing there in her floral salwar kameez, wavy black hair in a bun. She turned her body to the mattress and, suddenly and hastily, pulled it up with all the strength she had, revealing the black string attached to a silver locket. She carefully moved one
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of her hands toward the amulet and snatched it from where it lay, releasing her other hand from the mattress. She let the mattress tumble like a falling skyscraper while keeping her eyes fixed on me, almost unblinking. She opened her right palm slowly to reveal the ta’wiz she was now holding. “Put this around your arm,” she said. “It will protect you from what you’ve been stricken with.” “No,” I said in a sharp tone. I turned away from her. We stood there under the rotating fan blades for a few more minutes. “From what do I need protection? I’m fine,” I said. “You claim you’re in love,” she replied, widening her eyes, and with all her weight on one hip, which indicated she had diagnosed me with some certainty, but that there was more she was probably trying to figure out. “It’s not wise, to be so eccentric. It’s not normal, however you’re behaving.” I pushed her hand away with my own — what felt to me like moving boulders but was really a slight tap. I hadn’t eaten for days. I was really weak. She held onto the ta’wiz tighter, as if her life depended on it. “All the men we’ve suggested, you’ve rejected. You just lay there, and don’t consider anything we say. Sometimes you’re a monster, yelling loudly and pushing us away.” She explained that these were all the symptoms of sihr, someone else’s ill intentions sent my way, or perhaps the interest of a jinn who wanted to make a home of my body, or who wanted me to fall in love with him. As she explained, I thought, I believe in jinns, too, made of smokeless fire, living alongside humans in a parallel world. I did believe that certain powers could be sent to influence a person to behave in ways that were not aligned with their true, deepest nature, that would make their battle within themselves to manage their misguided yearnings even harder. However, the agony I felt came not
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from jinns, but from one source and one source alone: being coerced to do something I did not want to do. As my thoughts unravelled, intertwined, and spun like thread, a young girl stumbled in. She was a maid, and her name was Bilkis. She was wearing a pair of brown capris with holes in them and a pink shirt with a rainbow printed on it. She had dark-brown tumbleweed hair. Her front tooth was crooked, and her skin seemed brittle. Bilkis kept her eyes on me as she shuffled in my direction holding a glass of water, which she presented to me without comment. I peered over the rim of the glass. I was parched and could already feel the slimy water in my mouth. Amid the miasma of secrets, fading sounds albeit moving mouths, and the furtive glances, I wondered if someone had put something in this water. “At least drink this,” Sweety Khala said, pointing to the water. “It’s Zam Zam water from Mecca, brought back from Hajj.” The Zam Zam water came from a well in Mecca, east of the Kaaba, the holy building toward which Muslims around the world pray five times a day. Prophet Ibrahim’s wife Hajar had found it in the hot, dry desert, where no one thought water existed, and used it to feed their son Ismail. It was holy water that I, too, revered, yet when I extended my hand toward the glass, I retracted. Such were the times, where my trust was always wavering, where I couldn’t believe what people were telling me — not completely. What did I think and how did I feel about being told that I was possibly possessed by a jinni? As Sweety Khala had pointed out, it was true that I presented with quite a few symptoms of a person possessed: aches in my heart and my head that were constant and far-reaching; my occasional dreams of falling off buildings, which lingered like an unattended urge; trailing whispers, sometimes in the distance and sometimes close.
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It was, at first, all too ridiculous. A diagnosis based on an observation, so sudden, and imposed by everyone. But as they increasingly exposed me to their hopes and the concerns of their own agenda, I realized that perhaps all these years I had not known them as well as I thought I did, and there was a larger world about which I had not been very aware. The time was strange, but all I knew and wanted was for it all to be over. When Bilkis handed the glass of water to me, I thought for a moment, What would happen if I knocked the glass out of her hand? Perhaps it would have looked like I was exactly what they thought I was: crazy. During this time, I had become particularly aware of and attuned to how I was being perceived and the multiple ways my actions and words could be used to suggest a truth about me that I wouldn’t be able to erase. What was this truth? It was fleeting and defined by the perception of groups of people. So, given the intangibility and conditionality, I decided then, despite my every urge, to grab the glass and take a sip. I thought to myself, Allah knows my heart. Whatever is right, whatever is real, will ultimately surface. “Fine, put the ta’wiz on me,” I said in a kind of rebellion, or maybe acceptance. For, somewhere within me, I knew it didn’t matter, anyway. No talisman or amulet could shape what would happen; only Allah’s will. At the time I was perceived as going astray from Allah, but it was then that my faith had deepened the most.
Disclaimer: This is not a rescue story.
Tarid al’Arwah Alsharira / The Exorcist
When I was a young girl living in Dhaka, Bangladesh, I heard about eccentric women who were possessed by jinns. These jinns lived in both the seen and unseen worlds, in very fine and thin bodies, often hard to trace. There were good ones and bad ones. The bad ones were akin to the devil, the Shayṭān. How I understood Shayṭān in Islam was that he was once Iblis, a type of angel created by Allah or God. When Iblis didn’t obey Allah and had to face his consequence, he decided to take vengeance by making it his mission to lure humans into doing evil.
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Iblis was called Shayṭān because he went farther and farther away from the truth of Allah being the one creator, and his heart was inflamed with an anger so reckless that it created discord and inevitable corruption. He was the master then of all the ill-dispositioned jinns, whom he commanded to afflict humans in different ways. The eccentric women that were talked about displayed all the signs of Shayṭān’s meddling. Like Shayṭān, they were also known to have nefarious souls. What were the markers of their rebellion? In their mannerisms, they were highly lethargic, solitary, or disinterested. They were often forgetful or appeared ill. They turned down their men for sex or didn’t love them anymore. Their hearts were filled with disgust and hate. They heard or saw things others didn’t. They dreamt often of being summoned or of other peculiar things. Their bodies often ached, or had involuntary movement. They rejected all their suitors, saying they were too ugly or had some other defect. There was also the kind of eccentric woman thought to be infected with ishq, a reckless passion, an undying desire to obtain one’s beloved. These were the ones that intrigued me the most. When possessed by the jinni, they fell in love with men or other women with no regard for whether their desires would be socially acceptable. They ignored the consequences their desires would have on their bodies, their families, and their religion. This audacity or carelessness was so preposterous that the only explanation was meddling from an outside force that had somehow found its way in. And then there were the eccentric women who weren’t possessed, but rather, actually in love with jinns. The jinns they fell in love with were often shapeshifters, sometimes in the form of humans, animals, or even an untraceable shadow. These jinns preyed on women whose hearts were pure, naïve, and easily able to feel what others felt. They sometimes seduced women who were meant to be the brides of other men, good men.
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One specific story I heard was that of a jinni who stole a woman on her wedding night. He picked her up from where she lay, sleeping next to her new husband, and put her in a treasure chest that he had brought with him. The bride was never found. There were female shapeshifting jinns, too, called silas, that wandered the deserts misleading travellers and nomads on their path, seducing the men to have intercourse with them. As a young girl in Dhaka, I always heard stories of women both in the city and nearby villages who weren’t married despite being of marriageable age, or a woman who had run away with a man, or perhaps another woman. The stories of their possession by jinns, or their love affairs with them, were passed through whispers. Who are these women? I wondered. There were many incarnations of this same story, and sometimes the women were considered victims — thought foolish, naïve, not prudent enough, and therefore vulnerable — and other times simply deserving of whatever ill fate. About those latter ones, I heard plenty of people say, “Well, you know, she was just asking for it.” At the end of the stories, the moral or warning was always the same: never end up like these women, stay vigilant, and do simply what you’re supposed to. Always. When Ammu warned me that I should be good and maintain my honour, I wasn’t sure if her purpose was to console or warn me. As a young girl, I also didn’t know that in other lands outside of Bangladesh there were similar women living out similar stories, but within slightly different contexts. I decided to name all these women as one woman in my head. An essence. I called her the Shayṭān Bride.
∞
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I imagined the Shayṭān Bride burning like the flames of the Darvaza crater in Turkmenistan, the one that people call the gates to hell. Her fire wasn’t the substance of what was in Iblis’s heart — vengeance. It came from a desire for life. And so, I imagined she would always speak the first impressions on her heart, and she would smile, cry, and laugh without any restraint. She would walk the earth as if she didn’t have to anticipate any turn or fall, as if there were no limits or bounds as to where she could go. She didn’t accept everything she was told. Did her assuredness lack remembrance of God? Was it driven by an image she had of herself, a type of self-aggrandizement or entitlement? No. It was possible that through her choices, she found herself often in the depths of sin, but that was also where she found faith and trust. It was where she was able to believe again and again, and so she could never be led astray. I imagined the Shayṭān Bride not as terrorized by the bad jinns, the sorcerers, her human lovers, or even the Shayṭān, like they said. She moved freely and in ways most others didn’t because they weren’t sure how, or they were afraid, or such freedom of movement existed entirely outside the spectrum of their imaginations.