by Etaf Rum
“What does that have to do with me?” Sarah said.
“It has everything to do with you! Think of how much easier it will be for you to find a suitor with Hannah out of the way.” She stood up, tasting a pinch of the rice stuffing to make sure it was seasoned properly. “There are hardly enough Palestinian men in Brooklyn as it is. The less competition, the better.” She met Isra’s eyes. “Aren’t I right?”
Isra nodded, placing a mixture of rice and meat in the center of a cabbage leaf. She could see Fareeda eyeing her, so she made sure to roll the leaf into a perfect fingerlike roll.
“Not that there’s much competition between you girls, anyway,” Fareeda said, licking her fingers. “Have you seen Hannah’s dark skin and course hair? And the girl is barely five feet tall. You’re much prettier.”
Sarah stood and carried a stack of dirty plates to the sink, her face noticeably redder. Isra wondered what she was thinking. She thought back to when Mama used to compare her to other girls, saying she was nothing but stick and bones, that no man would want to marry her. She’d tell Isra to eat more, and when she gained weight, she’d tell her to eat less, and when she went outside, she’d tell her to stay out of the sun so her skin wouldn’t get dark. Mama had looked at her so often then, scanning her from head to toe to ensure she was in good condition. To ensure that a man would find her worthy. Isra wondered if Sarah felt now as she’d felt then, like she was the most worthless thing on earth. She wondered if her daughters would feel the same way.
“Maybe now is your chance,” Fareeda said, following Sarah to the sink.
Sarah did not reply. She grabbed a sponge and turned on the faucet, her tiny frame lost beneath a blue turtleneck sweater and loose corduroy pants. She had worn those clothes to school, and Isra wondered if her classmates dressed in the same way, or if they wore tight-fitted, revealing clothes like the girls on television. More than once, she had overheard Sarah beg her mother for trendier outfits, but Fareeda would always shout, “You’re not an American!” as if Sarah had somehow forgotten.
“Well, don’t be so excited,” said Fareeda. Sarah shrugged. “You’re fifteen now. Marriage is around the corner. You need to start preparing.”
“And what if I don’t want to get married?” Sarah’s angry voice was like a gunshot in the room.
Fareeda glared at her. “Excuse me?”
Sarah turned off the faucet and met her mother’s eyes. “Why are you so eager to marry me off?”
“I’m not asking you to get married tomorrow. We can wait until after high school.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to get married after high school.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to get married? What else are you going to do, you foolish girl?”
“I’m going to go to college.”
“College? Do you think your father and I will let you leave the house alone so you can turn into an American?”
“It isn’t like that. Everyone goes to college here!”
“Oh, yeah? And what do you suppose everyone back home will think when they find out our daughter is roaming the streets of New York alone? Think of our reputation.”
“Reputation? Why don’t my brothers have to worry about our reputation? No one prevents Omar and Ali from roaming the streets alone, doing as they please. Baba had to practically beg Ali to go to college!”
“You can’t compare yourself to your brothers,” Fareeda said. “You’re not a man.”
“That’s what you always say, but it’s not fair!”
“Fair or not, no girl of mine is going to college. Fahmeh?” She moved closer, her open palm twitching. “Do you understand me?
Sarah took a step back. “Yes, Mama.”
“Instead of worrying about college, why don’t you learn a thing or two about being a woman. You have your sisters-in-law here. Did any of them go to college?”
Sarah mumbled something under her breath, but Fareeda didn’t seem to notice. “As a matter of fact,” she said, turning to leave, “from now on you can cook dinner with Isra every night.” She met Isra’s eyes. “You’ll make sure she knows how to make every dish properly.”
“Of course,” Isra said.
“This woman is ridiculous,” Sarah said when Fareeda had left to watch her evening show. “She treats me as if I’m some unworn hijab in her closet that she’s desperate to give away.”
“She just wants what’s best for you,” Isra said, only half convinced by her own words.
“What’s best for me?” Sarah said, laughing. “You really believe that?”
Isra said nothing. It was moments like this when she was reminded of how different they were. Unlike Isra, Sarah wasn’t easily defined. She was split between two very different cultures, and this divide was written all over her: the girl who shrank whenever Fareeda lifted her open palm, who barely spoke when her father and brothers entered the house, who rotated around the kitchen table until they had been served, and the girl who read American novels voraciously, who wanted to go to college, whose eyes, she saw now, sparked rebellion. Isra wished she could regain the defiance she once had, but that young girl was long gone.
“If she really wanted what’s best for me,” Sarah said, “she wouldn’t want me to have a life like yours.”
Isra looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, Isra, but it’s obvious, you know.”
“What is?”
“Your bruises. I can see them through the makeup.”
“I . . .” Isra brought her hands to her face. “I tripped on Deya’s Barbie doll.”
“I’m not stupid. I know Adam hits you.”
Isra said nothing. How did Sarah know? Did she hear Adam shouting at night? Or had she overheard Fareeda talking about it on the phone? Did Nadine know, too? She looked down, burying her face in the stuffed cabbage.
“You shouldn’t let him touch you,” Sarah said. Though her voice was low, Isra could hear her anger. “You have to stand up for yourself.”
“He didn’t mean to. He was just having a bad day.”
“A bad day? Are you kidding me? You know domestic abuse is illegal here, right? If a man ever put his hands on me, I’d call the cops right away. It’s one thing for our parents to hit us, but after marriage, as a grown woman?”
Isra kept her gaze averted. “Husbands beat their wives all the time back home. If a woman called the cops every time her husband beat her, all our men would be in jail.”
“Maybe that’s the way it should be,” Sarah said. “Maybe if our women stood up for themselves and called the cops, their husbands wouldn’t beat them.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Sarah,” Isra whispered. “There is no government in Palestine. It’s an occupied country. There’s no one to call. And even if there was a police, they’d drag you back to your husband and he’d beat you some more for leaving.”
“So men can just beat on their wives whenever they want?” Isra shrugged. “Well, that’s not how it works in America.”
A flurry of shame ran across Isra’s body as Sarah stared at her, wide-eyed. She looked away. How could she make Sarah understand what it was like back home, where no woman would think to call the cops if her husband beat her? And even if she somehow found the strength to stand up for herself, what good would it do when she had no money, no education, no job to fall back on? That was the real reason abuse was so common, Isra thought for the first time. Not only because there was no government protection, but because women were raised to believe they were worthless, shameful creatures who deserved to get beaten, who were made to depend on the men who beat them. Isra wanted to cry at the thought. She was ashamed to be a woman, ashamed for herself and for her daughters.
She looked back up to find Sarah staring at her. “You know Adam drinks sharaab, right?”
“What?”
“Seriously, Isra? You haven’t noticed that he comes home drunk most nights?”
“I d
on’t know. I thought he was sick.”
“He’s not sick. He’s an alcoholic. Sometimes I even smell hashish on his clothes when we do the laundry. You’ve never noticed the smell?”
“I don’t know what hashish smells like,” Isra said, feeling stupid. “I thought it was just the smell of the city on him.”
Sarah stared at her, dumbfounded. “How can you be so naive?”
Isra straightened at the kitchen table. “Of course I’m naive!” she said, a sliver of defiance rising up, surprising her. “I’ve been stuck in the kitchen my entire life, first in Palestine and now here. How am I supposed to know anything about the world? The only places I’ve ever traveled are in the pages of my books, and I don’t even have that anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. But sometimes you have to take things for yourself. I told you I’d bring you some books. Why didn’t you let me? What are you so afraid of?”
Isra stared out the kitchen window. Sarah was right. She had abandoned reading for fear of upsetting Fareeda and Adam, thinking that servitude would earn their love. But she had been wrong. “Would you still do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Would you still bring me some books?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, smiling. “Of course. I’ll bring some home for you tomorrow.”
Deya
Winter 2008
In the coming days, Deya visited Sarah as often as she could without raising her grandmother’s suspicions. Luckily Fareeda was occupied lining up another suitor, in case Nasser withdrew his proposal, and it seemed that school hadn’t called home to report her absences, which were common in senior year as girls began sitting with suitors. At the bookstore, Deya and Sarah sat in the same velvet chairs by the window. Deya listened eagerly as her aunt told her stories of Isra, each tale unspooling like a chapter in a book, often in unexpected ways. The more Deya learned about her mother, the more she began to feel that she hadn’t known her after all. All the stories she had told herself growing up, the memories she had pieced together, they had failed to paint a full picture of Isra. Now, gradually, one began to emerge. Still, Deya wondered if Sarah was telling her the entire truth—if she, too, was filtering her stories, the way Deya had to her sisters for so many years. Yet despite her suspicions, for once in her life she wasn’t impatient for the whole truth. She had found a friend in Sarah, and she didn’t feel so alone.
“Tell me something,” Deya asked her grandparents one cold Thursday night while they drank chai in the sala.
Fareeda looked up from the television. “What?”
“Why hasn’t Aunt Sarah ever visited us?”
Fareeda’s face became pink. Across from her, Khaled sank deeper into the sofa. Though he kept his eyes on the television screen, Deya could see that his hands were shaking. He set his teacup on the coffee table.
“Really,” Deya continued. “I don’t think either of you have ever explained it. Doesn’t she have enough money to travel? Is she married to one of those controlling men who doesn’t let his wife leave the house? Or maybe . . .” She kept her eyes on Fareeda as she said this. “Maybe she’s never visited because she’s angry with you for sending her away? That seems entirely possible.”
“I don’t see any reason for her to be upset,” Fareeda said, bringing the cup to her face. “It’s marriage, not murder.”
“I guess, but then why hasn’t she visited?” Deya turned to Khaled, waited for him to say something. But his eyes remained fixed on the television. She turned again to Fareeda. “Have you ever tried to reach out? You know, to ask if she was upset, or maybe even to apologize? I’m sure she’d forgive you after all these years. You are her mother, after all.”
Fareeda’s face grew pinker. “Apologize?” She set her teacup down with a thud. “What do I have to apologize for? She’s the one who should apologize for never calling or visiting after everything we did for her.”
“Maybe she feels like you’ve abandoned her,” Deya said, keeping her voice innocent and light.
“Khalas!” Khaled stood up, glaring at her. “Not another word. I don’t want to hear her name in this house. Never again. Do you understand me?” He stormed out of the room before Deya could respond.
“You know, it’s obvious,” Deya said.
Fareeda turned to her. “What’s obvious?”
“That Seedo feels guilty.”
“Seedo doesn’t feel guilty! What does he have to feel guilty for?”
Deya kept her words vague. “For forcing Sarah into marriage. For sending her to Palestine. He must feel guilty. Why else would he be so angry?”
Fareeda didn’t reply.
“That must be it,” Deya said, leaning closer. “Is that why you’re always on the verge of tears whenever I mention Sarah? Because you didn’t want her to go? It’s all right. You can tell me.”
“Enough of this!” Fareeda said. “You heard your grandfather.”
“No, it’s not enough!” Deya’s voice was sharp. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”
Fareeda sat up and grabbed the remote. “Is that what you really want?”
“Please.”
“Well, then,” Fareeda said, gritting her teeth. “The truth is, I had no trouble sending my daughter away, and I certainly won’t have trouble doing the same to you.” She turned her attention back to the television. “Now get out of my face. Go!”
Fareeda
Spring 1994
One crisp Friday afternoon, while Isra and Nadine fried a skillet of shakshuka and Sarah brewed a kettle of chai, Fareeda paced the kitchen. The men were stopping by for lunch after jumaa prayer, and Fareeda didn’t have enough food for them. There was no meat to roast, no vegetables to sauté, not even a single can of chickpeas to make hummus, and she rotated around the kitchen with her fingertips in her mouth, trying to calm herself.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah said to Fareeda, who had stopped to open the pantry yet again. “Why do you wait for Baba to bring groceries every Sunday?”
Fareeda stuffed her head into the pantry. How many times had she answered that question? Usually she would brush it off, saying that she couldn’t possibly do everything in the house, that Khaled had to help somehow. But today was one of those days when she felt an unexpected pulse of anger pumping through her. This was all her life had amounted to, all she was good for: sitting around taking criticism and orders.
“But really, Mama,” Sarah said, leaning forward in her seat. “The supermarket is only a few blocks away. Why not go yourself?”
Fareeda didn’t even look up. She reached inside the pantry for a box of cookies before taking a seat at the table. “Because,” she said, pulling one out and taking a bite. She could see the three young women staring at her blankly, waiting for her to finish chewing. But she just reached for another cookie and stuffed it into her mouth.
“Because what?” Sarah said.
“Because I don’t feel like it,” Fareeda said between mouthfuls.
“You know, Mama,” Sarah said, reaching for a cookie, “I could go to the grocery store for you.”
Fareeda looked around the table. Nadine nibbled on the edge of a cookie, while Isra stared straight ahead. She didn’t know which of them she disliked more: Nadine, who had refused to name her son after Khaled and constantly did as she pleased, or Isra, who followed commands like a zombie and still had not borne a son. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Really,” Sarah said. “I could go right after school. That way you don’t have to wait until Sunday each week.”
At once, Fareeda stopped chewing. She swallowed. “Are you crazy?”
Sarah looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“What would I look like, sending my unmarried daughter to the market by herself? Do you want the neighbors to start talking? Saying my daughter is out and about alone, that I don’t know how to raise her?”
“I didn’t think of it like that,” Sarah said.
/> “Of course you didn’t! You’re too busy stuffing your head in those books of yours to notice what really goes on in the world.”
Fareeda wanted to shake Sarah. It seemed like everything she tried to teach her about their culture rolled off her shoulders. Her only daughter was turning into an American, despite everything she had done to stop it. She had even asked Isra to teach Sarah how to cook, hoping her complacency would rub off on her daughter, but it hadn’t worked. Sarah was still as rebellious as ever.
“That’s what I get for coming to this damn country,” Fareeda said, snatching a handful of cookies. “We should’ve let those soldiers kill us. Do you even know what it means to be a Palestinian girl? Huh? Or did I raise a damn American?”
Sarah said nothing, her eyes glistening with something Fareeda couldn’t quite place. Fareeda scoffed and turned to Nadine. “Tell me, Nadine,” she said. “Did you ever dare ask your mother to go to the supermarket alone back home?”
“Of course not,” Nadine said with a smirk.
“And you—” Fareeda turned to Isra. “Did you ever step foot in Ramallah without your mother?”
Isra shook her head.
“You see,” Fareeda said. “That’s how it’s done. You ask any woman, and she’ll tell you.”
Sarah stared out the window in silence. Fareeda wished her daughter would understand that she didn’t make the world the way it was. She was just trying to help her survive in it. Besides, Sarah should be thankful for the life she had, living in a country where she had food to eat and a roof over her head—enough of everything.
Later, Fareeda gathered the men around the kitchen table, crossing her plump ankles as she admired the view around her. Khaled sat to her right, Omar and Ali to her left. All of them strong and healthy, even if Khaled wasn’t as young as he used to be. She wished Adam was with them, but he was working. He had so much to do, maybe too much. In the mornings, he helped Khaled in the deli, staying up front near the cash register to fill orders. Then he stopped by Omar’s shop to count inventory and deposit checks before heading to his own store. Fareeda was grateful for Adam’s help, though she didn’t tell him as often as she should. She told herself she would thank him tonight.