My name was Mireille. They called me Yasmina. It is my Koran first name, the one Nadir chose for me when, after I married him for love, I embraced Muslim religion for to conform.

It took place at Shama’s, the youngest of my sisters-in-law. Two adoul were there, a young one and an old one, both dressed in spotless white djellabas and yellow babouches.

In the big Moroccan sitting room, the one for family celebrations, Nadir, my sisters-in-law and my parents-in-law had gathered in a corner, probably trying to create a bit of intimacy that the size of the sitting room did not encourage.

The two adoul had lifted their legs up to sit down in an easy pose, the yellow babouches on the floor, pair next to pair, neatly lined up as to remove any doubt on this apparent relaxed position.

The eyes of the old man came to rest on me, expressionless. I shyly gave my hand to shake as an introduction and received as a response this lifeless thing which flabbiness indicated that it was much more used to be respectivefully kissed than heartily shaken.

I withdrew quickly from the handshake and looked round to the younger of the two adoul, his open and smiling face reassuring me a little.

I sat next to Shama.

Shama and Nadir exchanged several polite phrases with the two adoul - an indispensable introduction in a country with ancestral traditions.

Then silence came and I understood when the old man cleared his throat noisily that the ceremony was about to start.

He asked some questions in Arabic and the young man immediately translated them into dubious French.

Why do you wish to become a Muslim?

I knew what answer my two examiners expected. I had prepared myself for it. I had rehearsed this part with Shama as you rehearse a sketch to amuse people.

Do not worry, it is a simple formality, she assured me to silence my qualms of conscience

So, why was I hesitating suddenly?

The words were blocked in my throat. I suddenly felt that what was supposed to have been, at the beginning, a simple joke, was starting to look like a real commitment. It was as if an invisible power wanted to prevent me from reaching the point of no return.

I remember this little girl in white alb, bride of a day among her girl friend, so proud of the Holy God she had vowed her life.

I was twelve years old, I was surrounded by the halo of the Holy grace and walked, or moreover was carried, next to my parents, in a state of complete beatitude. I did not understand the full meaning of this rite, but I was certain to be one chosen and will be seqted next to the Lord on the day of the Resurrection. I smiled to my illusions as a child.

So? whispered Nadir, annoyed

My answer burst forth.

To bring up my children in the Muslim faith (Judas….)

Very well! Do you know Islam precepts?

It was more an assertion than a question. Without expecting an answer, the old man started to read them with a monotonous voice, and the young man was trying to translate simultaneously.

First there is only one God and Mohamed is his prophet. Then you shall give to the poor. You shall fast during the Holy month of Ramadan and you shall go on pilgrimage to Mecca, if you can afford it.

I was not listening anymore. Suddenly I had the feeling I had been fooled. I had agreed to this masquerade to make things easy, because Nadir had told me that if he died while our children were under age I would not be allowed to be their guardian since I was not a Muslim. Also, I will not be allowed to inheritate, since a non-Muslim cannot inheritate from a Muslim. He calmly explained to me that, more than personal judgements, it was the law of his country and it was better to accept it if we were to live here.

Recite after me the Fatiha: " Praise God, Lord of the worlds, the merciful….

I droned out after him. I was trying to say the sounds the way I heard them.