A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

Sarah said nothing but frowned at her mother.

  “But you aren’t experiencing either,” Fareeda told Isra with a grin. “So you must be carrying a boy!”

  Isra didn’t know what to say. She felt a twist in her core. Maybe she did have morning sickness after all.

  “Why the sour face?” said Fareeda, reaching for another cookie. “You don’t want a boy?”

  “No, I—”

  “A boy is better, trust me. They’ll care for you when you’re older, carry on the family name—”

  “Are you saying you weren’t happy when you had me?” Sarah asked sharply. “Because I wasn’t a precious boy?”

  “I’m not saying that,” Fareeda said. “But everyone wants a boy. You ask anyone, and they’ll tell you.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I don’t get it. Girls are the ones that help their mothers. Omar and Ali don’t do anything for you.”

  “Nonsense. Your brothers would give me an arm and a leg if I needed.”

  “Sure they would,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes.

  Listening to Sarah, Isra wondered if this was what it meant to be an American: having a voice. She wished she knew how to speak her mind, wished she could’ve said those things to Mama: that girls were just as valuable as boys, that their culture was unfair, and that Mama, as a woman, should’ve understood that. She wished she could’ve told Mama that she was sick of always being put second, of being shamed, disrespected, abused, and neglected unless there was cleaning or cooking to be done. That she resented being made to believe she was worthless, just another thing a man could claim at will.

  “Don’t mind what Mama says,” Sarah whispered to Isra when Fareeda left the kitchen.

  Isra looked up, startled to hear Sarah speak to her directly. “What do you mean?”

  “Your child is a blessing no matter what, even if it’s a girl.”

  Isra tugged on the edges of her nightgown and looked away. She remembered uttering those very same words to Mama when she was pregnant: It’s a blessing no matter what. She didn’t want to be one of those women who didn’t want a daughter, didn’t want to be like Mama, who told Isra she had cried for days after she was born.

  “Of course it’s a blessing,” Isra said. “Of course.”

  “I don’t understand what’s so special about having sons,” Sarah said. “Is your mother this way, too?”

  “Yes,” Isra admitted. “I hoped things would be different here.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Most of my American friends at school claim their parents don’t care. But you should listen to my mom’s friends. They’re unbelievable. If it was up to them, we’d still live in Arabia and bury our female infants alive.”

  Sarah made a face at her, and Isra couldn’t help but feel as though she was looking at a younger version of herself. She’d never imagined they’d share anything in common: Sarah was raised in America, had attended a co-ed public school, had led a life so different from her own. Isra attempted a small smile and was rewarded when Sarah grinned back.

  “So, do you know any English?”

  “I can read and write,” Isra said proudly.

  “Really? I didn’t think anyone in Palestine knew English.”

  “We learn English in school.”

  “Can you speak it?”

  “Not well,” Isra said, blushing. “My accent is very heavy.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad. My brother said you went to an all-girls school, and that I should be thankful our parents send me to public school.”

  “I can’t imagine what that must be like,” Isra said. “You know, going to school with boys. My parents never would’ve allowed it.”

  “Well, my parents don’t have much choice. They can’t afford the all-girls schools around here. Technically, I’m not supposed to talk to the boys in my class, but what am I supposed to do? Walk around with a sign on my head that says ‘Please don’t talk to me if you’re a boy’?” Sarah rolled her eyes.

  “But what if your parents find out that you disobey them?” Isra asked. “Fareeda almost slapped you earlier. Won’t they beat you?”

  “Probably,” Sarah said, looking away.

  “Do you . . . Do they hit you often?”

  “Only if I backtalk or don’t listen. Baba beat me with his belt once when he found a note in my bag from my friend at school, but I try to make sure I never get caught doing anything they won’t like.”

  “Is that why you sneak your books home?”

  Sarah looked up. “How did you know that?”

  Isra gave another small smile. “Because I used to sneak books home, too.”

  “I didn’t know you like to read.”

  “I do,” Isra said. “But I haven’t read in a while. I only brought one book here with me.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “A Thousand and One Nights. It’s my favorite.”

  “A Thousand and One Nights?” Sarah paused to think. “Isn’t that the story of a king who vows to marry and kill a different woman every night because his wife cheats on him?”

  “Yes!” Isra said, excited that Sarah had read it. “Then he’s tricked by Scheherazade, who tells him a new story for a thousand and one nights until he eventually spares her life. I must have read it a million times.”

  “Really?” Sarah said. “It isn’t that good.”

  “But it is. I just love the storytelling, the way so many tales unfold at once, the idea of a woman telling stories for her life. It’s beautiful.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of make-believe stories.”

  Isra’s eyes sprung wide. “It’s not make-believe!”

  “It’s about genies and viziers, which don’t exist. I prefer stories about real life.”

  “But it is about real life,” Isra said. “It’s about the strength and resilience of women. No one asks Scheherazade to marry the king. She volunteers on behalf of all women to save the daughters of Muslims everywhere. For a thousand and one nights, Scheherazade’s stories were resistance. Her voice was a weapon—a reminder of the extraordinary power of stories, and even more, the strength of a single woman.”

  “Someone read the story a little too deeply,” Sarah said with a smile. “I didn’t see strength or resistance when I read it. All I saw was a made-up story starring a guy murdering a bunch of helpless women.”

  “Someone’s a cynic,” Isra said.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “What’s your favorite book?”

  “Lord of the Flies,” Sarah said. “Or maybe To Kill a Mockingbird. It depends on the day.”

  “Are those romances?” Isra asked.

  Sarah gave a harsh laugh. “No. I prefer more realistic fiction.”

  “Love is realistic!”

  “Not for us.”

  It was as though Sarah’s words had smacked her across the face, and Isra looked down to regain her composure.

  “If you want,” Sarah said, “I can bring home some books for you tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re romances.”

  Isra smiled, a brief uneasy smile. She thought of Fareeda, catching her one day as she read an English novel, a romance even. No, she didn’t want to upset her. She swallowed. “It’s okay. I prefer Arabic novels.”

  “Are you sure? I know a few English novels you’d like.”

  “Really,” Isra said. “I won’t have time to read with a newborn, anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Isra meant what she said about not having time to read. In fact, lately she had begun to wonder if she was ready to be a mother. It wasn’t just how busy Fareeda kept her, but she worried she had nothing to give to a child. How could she teach a child about the world when she knew nothing of the world herself? Would she be a good mother—and what did a good mother look like? For the first time in her life, Isra wondered if she wanted to be like Mama. She wasn’t sure. She hated how easily Mama had abandoned her to a strange family in a foreign country. But deep down, Isra knew Mama had only done what
Yacob wanted—she’d had no choice. Or had she? Had her mother had a choice all along? Isra wasn’t sure, and later that evening she found herself sitting by the window thinking about the choices she might soon have to make as a mother. She hoped she would make the right ones.

  That night, Adam came home from work before the sun had set. He appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing faded black trousers and a blue collared shirt. Isra didn’t notice him standing there at first, as she stared absently at the orange sky through the window. But then he cleared his throat and said, “Let’s go out.”

  Isra tried to hide her excitement. The only time she left the house was occasionally on Sundays, when Khaled and Fareeda went grocery shopping and took Sarah with them. When they didn’t take Sarah, Fareeda would ask Isra to stay behind to look after her, afraid to leave her in the house unsupervised. Adam hadn’t taken Isra out since her first night in Brooklyn.

  Outside the air was crisp, the streetlamps already glowing. They strolled together down Fifth Avenue, past the butcher shops, supermarkets, bakeries, and dollar stores. The streets were just as lively as they had been the first time Isra had walked them. Traffic congested the roads, and crowds of pedestrians swept in and out of the shops and eateries. The sidewalks were worn and dirty, and the air smelled faintly of raw fish, which Adam said came from the Chinese fish market at the corner of the block. Every now and then, dark green gates framed wide staircases that descended into the sidewalks.

  “These are called subway stations,” Adam said, promising to take her on the train soon. Isra walked closely beside him, one hand over her plump belly, the other dangling freely. She wished he would hold her hand, but he sucked on a cigarette and stared ahead.

  They crossed the street to a shop called Elegante’s, where Adam bought Isra a slice of pizza. He said it was the best pizzeria in town. Isra had never tasted anything like it. She bit into the warm, thin bread slathered in cheese, sucked the savory sauce from her fingertips. She marveled at the rich combination of flavors, the comfort they brought her even though they were brand-new.

  “Did you like it?” Adam asked when she had finished.

  “Yes,” she said, licking the last bit of sauce from the corners of her mouth.

  Adam laughed. “Do you have room for dessert?” She nodded eagerly.

  He bought her an ice cream cone from a Mister Softee truck. Vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles. Isra devoured it. The ice cream they sold in her village dukan—strawberry sorbet or mulberry fruit served plainly on a stick—was nothing like this. This was creamy and so rich.

  Adam watched her eat with a proud smile, as though she were a child. “Another?”

  She brought both hands to her belly. “Alhamdullilah. I’m full.”

  “Good.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. “I’m glad.” Isra blushed.

  They turned to walk home. Isra held her breath as Adam blew cigarette smoke into the air. He was nothing like the men she’d read about in books. No faris, or prince charming. He was always restless, even after a long day’s work, fidgeting with his dinner or biting his fingertips. He was prone to absentmindedness, a faraway look in his eyes. He clenched his teeth when he was irritated. He always smelled like smoke. Still, she thought, she liked his smile, the way a dozen lines crinkled around his eyes and brought his face to life. She also liked the sound of his voice, slightly melodious, perfect for calling the adhan, or so she imagined—she had never seen him pray.

  Back outside the house, he turned to look at her. “Did you enjoy our walk?”

  “I did.”

  He took a long drag of his cigarette before crushing it against the sidewalk. “I know I should take you out more often,” he said. “But I’m so busy at work. I don’t know where the time goes between the deli and my store in the city.”

  “I understand,” Isra said.

  “Some days it feels like time is slipping through my fingers like water, as though one day I’ll wake up to find it all gone.” He stopped, reaching out to touch her belly. “But it will be worth it, you know. Our children won’t have to struggle like we did. We’ll give them a good life.”

  Isra looked at him for a moment, feeling, for the first time, grateful for his hard work. She smiled and placed both hands on her belly, her fingers grazing his. “Thank you for everything you do,” she said. “Our children will be proud.”

  Deya

  Winter 2008

  I just got off the phone with Nasser’s mother,” Fareeda told Deya when she returned from school that afternoon. Her eyes were full of satisfaction. “He’s coming to see you again tomorrow.”

  Deya poured Fareeda a cup of chai in the sala, only half listening. She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from Books and Beans. Should she skip school to go meet her? What if her teacher called Fareeda and said she’d missed school? What if she got lost trying to find the bookstore? What if something happened to her on the train? She’d heard stories about how dangerous the subway was, how women were often mugged, raped, even murdered in its murky corners. There was no way she could afford a cab with the measly vending-machine money Fareeda gave them. But she had to try—she needed to know why the woman had reached out. She couldn’t live with not knowing.

  “I’m surprised Nasser wants to see you again,” Fareeda continued, reaching for the remote. “Seeing as you’ve managed to scare off every single suitor I’ve found you this year. Somehow the boy saw through your nonsense.”

  “I’m sure you’re happy,” Deya said.

  “Well, of course I’m happy.” Fareeda flicked through channels. “A good suitor is all a mother wants for her daughter.”

  “Is this what you wanted for your daughter, too? Even though it meant never seeing her again?” Fareeda had married Sarah to a man from Palestine when Deya was still a small child, and she hadn’t seen her since.

  “That was different,” Fareeda said. Her hands were shaking, and she set the remote down. Mentioning Sarah always hit a nerve. “You’re marrying right here in Brooklyn. You’re not going anywhere!”

  “But still,” Deya said. “Don’t you miss her?”

  “What does it matter? She’s gone, and that’s the way it is. I’ve told you a thousand times not to mention my children in this house. Why are you so difficult?”

  Deya looked away. She wanted to stomp around the room, kick the door and walls, break the glass of the window. She wanted to scream at Fareeda. I refuse to listen to you! she’d tell her. Not until you tell me the truth about my parents! But when she drew a breath, the words dissipated. She understood her grandmother well enough to know she would never admit the truth. If Deya wanted answers, she would have to find them herself.

  The next morning, at the bus stop, Deya made up her mind. She was going to the bookstore.

  “Listen,” she told her sisters as they waited for the bus. “I’m not going to school today.”

  “Where are you going?” Nora asked, eyeing her curiously. Deya could see Layla and Amal staring at her in disbelief.

  “There’s something I have to do.” She felt the tip of the bookstore card in her jilbab pocket. “Something important.”

  “Something like what?” Nora asked.

  Deya scrambled for a convincing lie. “I’m going to the library to fill out college applications.”

  “Without Fareeda’s permission?”

  “What if you get caught?” Layla said. “Fareeda will kill you.”

  “She’s right,” Amal added. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Deya looked away, toward the approaching school bus. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Once the bus had disappeared around the corner, Deya plucked the bookstore card from her pocket and read the address again: 800 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  She squinted at the tiny print, realizing for the first time that the bookstore wasn’t in Brooklyn, it was in Manhattan. A mixture of panic and nausea rose inside her. She’d only been to Manh
attan a handful of times, always in the back seat of Khaled’s car. How was she supposed to get there on her own? She took a deep breath. She’d have to ask for directions just as she’d planned. Nothing had changed. She walked to the nearest subway station on Bay Ridge Avenue and descended the dark steps, her heart pounding furiously, beat-beat-beat. The station was crowded with strange faces, and for a moment Deya wanted to turn around and run home. She froze, watching the people push past her, listening to the beeping sounds their cards made as they swiped them through the metal barricades. There was a glass booth at the back of the platform, with a man slumped behind the counter. Deya approached him.

  “Excuse me, sir.” She pressed the business card against the glass. “Can you tell me how to get to this address?”

  “Broadway?” His eyes shot to the top of his head. “Take the R train. Manhattan bound.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Take the R train,” he said again, slower. “Uptown toward Forest Hills–Seventy-First Avenue. Get off at Fourteenth Street–Union Square Station.”

  R train. Uptown. Union Square Station. She memorized the words.

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching inside her pocket for a bundle of one-dollar bills. “And how much is a train ticket?”

  “Round trip?”

  She sounded out the unfamiliar combination of words. “Round trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Round trip. To get to the city and back.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face burn. He must think she was a fool. But it wasn’t her fault. How was she supposed to understand American lingo? Her grandparents had only allowed them to watch Arabic channels growing up.

  “Yes,” she said. “Round trip, please.”

  “Four dollars and fifty cents.”

  Almost half her weekly allowance! She slipped the warm bills through the glass. Luckily, she saved most of her vending-machine money. She only spent it on books, which she bought from yard sales, school catalogs, even off her classmates, who’d become accustomed to selling her their used novels over the years. She knew they felt sorry for her because she didn’t have a normal family.