by Etaf Rum
Sprawled across her prayer rug, she couldn’t stop thinking. Why hadn’t Allah given her a son? Why was her naseeb so terrible? Surely she had done something wrong. That must be why Adam couldn’t love her. She could tell from the way he touched her at night, huffing and puffing, looking at anything but her. She knew she could never please him. His appetite was fierce, aggressive, and she could never seem to quench it. And worse, not only had she deprived him of a son, but she had given him three daughters instead. She didn’t deserve his love. She wasn’t worthy.
She reached under the mattress, grazed her fingers against A Thousand and One Nights. It had been years since she had looked at its beautiful pages. She pulled it out and opened it wide. It was full of pictures: glimmering lights, flying carpets, grand architecture, jewels, magic lamps. She felt sick. How foolish she had been to believe that such a life was real. How foolish she had been to think she would find love. She slammed the book shut and threw it across the room. Then she folded up her prayer rug and put it away. She knew she should pray, but she had nothing to say to God.
That night, after putting her daughters to bed, Isra retreated to the basement window. She cracked it open, cold air slapping her in the face for a few moments, before she slammed it shut again. She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to weep.
The next thing she knew, she was on her feet, darting to the bedroom. She pulled open Adam’s drawer, grabbed the composition notebook and pen, and returned to the windowsill, where she ripped out a few empty pages from the back and began to write.
Dear Mama,
Life here isn’t so different from life back home, with all the cooking, cleaning, folding, and ironing. And the women here—they live no better. They still scrub floors and raise children and wait on men to order them around. A part of me hoped that women would be liberated in this country. But you were right, Mama. A woman will always be a woman.
She was gritting her teeth in anger and despair. She crumpled the letter, started again, then crumpled the next as well, then the next and the one after it, until she had rewritten her letter a dozen times, and all of them lay balled at her feet. She could picture Mama’s disapproval now, could hear her voice: But aren’t you fed, clothed, and sheltered? Tell me, don’t you have a home? Be grateful, Isra! At least you have a home. No one will ever come and take it from you. Living in Brooklyn is a hundred times better than living in Palestine.
“But it’s not better, Mama,” Isra wrote on a new sheet of paper.
Do you think about me? Do you wonder if I’m treated well? Do I ever cross your mind? Or am I not even part of your family anymore? Isn’t that what you always said to me, that a girl belongs to her husband after marriage? I can see you now, coddling my brothers, your pride and joy, the men who will carry on the family name, who will always belong to you.
I know what you’d say to me: once a woman becomes a mother, her children come first. That she belongs to them now. Isn’t that right? But I’m a terrible mother. It’s true. Every time I look at my daughters, I’m filled with sorrow. Sometimes they are so needy, I think they’ll drive me mad. And then I’m ashamed I can’t give them more. I thought having daughters in this country would be a blessing. I thought they’d have a better life. But I was wrong, Mama, and I’m reminded of how much I failed them every time I look in their eyes.
I am alone here, Mama. I wake up every morning in this foreign country, where I don’t have a mother or a sister or a brother. Did you know this would happen to me? Did you? No. You couldn’t have known. You wouldn’t have let this happen to me if you had. Or did you know and let it happen anyway? But that can’t be. No, it can’t.
Two weeks later, on a cool September day, Nadine went into labor. Khaled and Omar drove her to the hospital, leaving Fareeda to pace from room to room, a phone in hand, waiting for the news. Fareeda had wanted to accompany them, but Omar had refused. He hadn’t wanted to put pressure on Nadine, he’d said, without meeting Isra’s eyes, especially if she had a girl. Fareeda had said nothing, storming into the kitchen to brew a kettle of chai. Now she paced around the sala, muttering to herself, while Adam sat on the sofa, looking at Isra in his absent way, eyes half hidden behind a cloud of hookah smoke. When she couldn’t take it any longer, she stood to go brew some coffee.
In the kitchen, Isra let out a silent prayer that Nadine would have a girl. No sooner had she thought it than she felt disgusted with herself. What ugliness inside her had made her think such a wicked prayer? It was just that she didn’t want to be the only woman in the house who couldn’t bear a son. If Nadine had a son, Isra might as well flatten herself on the floor like a kitchen mat, because that’s all she’d be.
The phone rang, and Isra clenched her teeth. She heard Fareeda squeal, then Adam choking on the hookah smoke.
“Oh, Omar!” Fareeda said into the phone. “A baby boy? Alf mabrouk.”
The next thing Isra knew, she was standing in front of Fareeda and Adam, though she couldn’t remember walking down the hall and into the sala. Trembling, she set a tray of Turkish coffee on the table.
“Alf mabrouk,” Isra said, remembering to smile. “Congratulations.” The voice she heard was not her own. It belonged to a stronger woman.
Fareeda’s gold tooth sparkled as she held the receiver to her ear. Beside her, Adam sat perfectly still. He inhaled a long puff of smoke and released it into the air. Isra moved closer to him, hoping he would say something to her, but he just sucked in the smoke and exhaled. She had become accustomed to the silence between them, had learned to shrink herself in his presence so as not to upset him the same way she had with Yacob growing up. It was better that way. But Isra worried no amount of shrinking would prevent Adam’s anger now. He was the eldest; he was expected to have the first grandson. But now he hadn’t, and it was all her fault.
He turned to Fareeda. “Alf mabrouk, Mother.”
“Thank you, son. Inshallah your turn soon.”
Adam smiled but said nothing. He leaned into the sofa, closed his eyes, inhaled another puff of smoke. Isra fixated on the long, sleek hookah rope in his hands, the shiny silver tip clutched between his lips. Every time he let out a rush of smoke, the room fogged, and she disappeared from sight. Standing there, she wished she could disappear like that forever.
That night, Adam entered their bedroom without saying a word. He shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, and all Isra could think was how slender he looked standing there, thinner than she had ever seen him. His fingers appeared longer, pointier than usual, and it seemed as though the veins on his hands had either multiplied or become engorged. He moved closer to her, lifting his eyes to meet hers. It gave her a strange feeling.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked in a low voice. Her compliance eased her on days like this, when she felt as though she was useless. If she couldn’t give him a son, the least she could do was be a good wife and please him.
He stared at her. She looked away. She knew that if he looked at her too closely, the thoughts—fear, anger, defiance, loneliness, confusion, helplessness—would burst from her and the tears would rush out of her eyes and she’d collapse right there in front of him. And Isra couldn’t have that. It was one thing to think, another thing entirely to speak your mind.
“I’m sorry,” Isra whispered. Adam continued to stare. The look in his eyes was unsteady, like he was under a spell and trying hard to focus. He took a few steps closer, and she took a few steps back into the corner of the room, trying not to flinch. He hated when she flinched. She wondered if Nadine flinched when Omar touched her. But Nadine was different, she thought. She must have been loved in her life that she knew how to love and be loved in return.
Adam reached out to touch her. He traced the outline of her face, almost as if daring her to move. But she kept still. She closed her eyes, waited for him to stop, to step away and go to bed. But then, all at once, it came.
He slapped her.
What terrified Isra most was not the
force of his palm against her face. It was the voice inside her head telling her to be still—not the stillness itself, but the ease of it, how naturally it came to her.
Deya
Winter 2008
I still can’t believe you ran away,” Deya told Sarah the next day at the bookstore. Upon emerging from the subway at Union Square, she had taken off her hijab and tucked it in her backpack, felt the cool breeze run through her hair, the winter sun on her skin. “You left everything you knew. I wish I was brave like you.”
“I’m not as brave as you think,” Sarah said.
Deya studied her aunt from across the small table. Sarah wore a flowered miniskirt with thin stockings, long black boots, and a fitted cream blouse. Her hair was wrapped in a loose bun. “Yes, you are,” Deya said. “I could never run away. I’d be terrified out here alone.” She met Sarah’s eyes. “How did you leave? Weren’t you afraid?”
“Of course I was afraid. But I was more afraid of staying.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid of what my parents would do if they found out . . .” Her words faded.
“Found out what?”
Sarah looked down at her fingers. “I don’t know how to say this. I’m worried you’ll think less of me.”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.” Deya could see hesitation in her aunt’s face as she turned toward the window.
“I had a boyfriend,” Sarah finally said.
“A boyfriend? Is that why you ran away?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Then why?”
Sarah stared out the window.
“Come on, tell me.”
She drew a breath and started again. “The truth is, I wasn’t a virgin.”
Deya stared at her with wide eyes. “In Teta’s house? How . . . how could you?” Sarah’s face grew red, and she looked away. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to judge you or anything. It’s just, all I can think of is Teta’s face. Seedo beating you. Maybe even a knife at your throat. Our reputation would’ve been ruined if people found out.”
“I know,” Sarah said quietly. “That’s why I ran. I was terrified what would happen when everyone found out. I was scared of what my parents would do.”
Deya said nothing. She couldn’t picture herself in Sarah’s shoes, couldn’t imagine losing her virginity. She would never have the nerve to go that far with a man, to disobey her grandparents so severely, but it wasn’t just that. The act itself seemed far too intimate. She couldn’t imagine letting anyone close enough to touch her skin, much less peel her clothes back, touch her deep inside. She flushed.
“Is that why you don’t think you’re brave?” Deya asked. “Because you didn’t have the courage to face your family after what you’d done? Because you chose to run away instead?”
“Yes.” Sarah looked up to meet Deya’s eyes. “Even though I was afraid for my life, I shouldn’t have run. I should’ve confronted my mother about what I’d done. It’s not that I wasn’t strong enough to face my parents—I was. Books were my armor. Everything I’d ever learned growing up, all my thoughts, dreams, goals, experiences, it all came from the books I read. It was like I went around collecting knowledge, plucking it from pages and storing it up, waiting for a chance to use it. I could’ve stood up to my parents, but I let fear control my decisions, and instead of facing them, I ran. I was a coward.”
Deya didn’t quite agree with her aunt. She would’ve run away too had she been in Sarah’s shoes. Staying after she’d committed such a sin would have been unthinkable, unwise even—she would have risked getting killed. Deya passed her aunt a comforting smile. In an attempt to lighten the conversation, she said, “I never knew you loved to read so much. But I guess it should’ve been obvious, seeing where you work and all.”
“You caught me,” Sarah said with a grin.
“Fareeda didn’t mind your books?”
“Oh, she did!” Sarah laughed. “But I hid them from her. Did you know Isra loved to read, too? We used to read together.”
“Really? I remember she used to read to us all the time.”
Sarah smiled. “You remember that?”
“It’s one of the only good memories I have of her. Sometimes I think that’s why I love to read so much.”
“You like to read, too?”
“There’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do.”
“Well, in that case, you’re more than welcome to any of these.” Sarah gestured at the shelves piled high with books.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Deya said, feeling her cheeks burn. “You’re so lucky.”
“For what?”
“To have all these books. All these stories all around.”
“I am lucky,” Sarah said. “Books have always kept me company when I felt most alone.”
“You sound like me.”
Sarah laughed. “Well, guess what?”
“What?”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
Deya curled into her seat, unsure of what to say. She knew she should feel excited, connected even. But all she felt was fear, the need to retreat inside herself. Why couldn’t she let her guard down? Why couldn’t she believe that someone could actually care about her? She wasn’t sure of the precise reason, but if her own family was willing to throw her away to the first man who asked, then why should she expect more from anyone else? She shouldn’t. She was only being safe, she reasoned. She was only protecting herself.
“You know what’s strange?” Deya said after a moment.
“What’s that?”
“What are the odds that me, you, and my mother would all love to read?”
“It’s not strange at all,” Sarah said. “It’s the loneliest people who love books the most.”
“Is that why you loved reading? Because you were lonely?”
“Something like that.” Sarah looked toward the window. “Growing up in that family was hard, being treated differently than my brothers because I was a girl, waking up every morning knowing my future was limited. Knowing I was so different from most of the other kids at school. It was more than loneliness. Sometimes I think it was the opposite of loneliness, too, like there were too many people around me, forced connections, that I needed a little isolation to think on my own, to be my own person. Does that make sense?”
Deya nodded, hearing herself in Sarah’s words. “And now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you happy?”
Sarah paused for a moment then said, “I don’t care about being happy.” Deya’s surprise must have been written across her face because Sarah continued, “Too often being happy means being passive or playing it safe. There’s no skill required in happiness, no strength of character, nothing extraordinary. Its discontent that drives creation the most—passion, desire, defiance. Revolutions don’t come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it’s sadness, or discontent at least, that’s at the root of everything beautiful.”
Deya listened, captivated. “Are you sad, then?”
“I was sad for a long time,” Sarah said without meeting her eyes. “But I’m not anymore. I’m grateful to have accomplished something with my life. I spend my days doing something I love.” She gestured to the books.
“Do you think you would’ve had this life if you’d stayed? If you’d gotten married?”
Sarah hesitated before replying. “I’m not sure. I think a lot about the kind of life I would’ve had if I’d stayed. Would I have been able to go to college? Would I have managed a bookstore in the city? Probably not, at least not ten years ago . . . But it seems like things have changed.” She paused to think. “But then again, maybe they haven’t changed that much. I don’t know. It just depends . . .”
“On what?”
“On the family you’re from. I know many Arab families who firmly believe in educating their women, and I’ve met some who graduated from college and have good jobs. But I think
in my case, if I’d married a man my parents chose for me, who thinks the way my parents think, then he probably wouldn’t have let me go to college or work. He would’ve wanted me to stay at home and raise children instead.”
“You know, this isn’t making me feel better,” Deya said, thinking of the pitiful possibilities of her life. “If I’m going to be forced to stay at home and have children, then why shouldn’t I run away?”
“Because it’s the cowardly thing to do.”
“But what’s the point of being courageous? Where will that get me?”
“Courage will get you everywhere, so long as you believe in yourself and what you stand for,” said Sarah. “You don’t know what your life will be like, and neither do I. The only thing I know for sure is that you alone are in control of your destiny. No one else. You have the power to make your life whatever you want it to be, and in order to do that, you have to find the courage to stand up for yourself, even if you’re standing alone.”
Deya stared at Sarah’s pale olive complexion, the way her eyes glittered in the dim room. She was starting to sound like a self-help book, and though Deya frequently read those sorts of things, it was beginning to annoy her. It was one thing to read theoretical advice and another thing entirely to listen to the words come out of someone’s mouth.
“That all sounds great in theory,” Deya said. “But this isn’t a Dr. Phil show. What am I supposed to do? Ignore my grandparents and do whatever I want? It’s not that simple. I have to listen to them. I don’t have a choice.”