A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

  “But I care what makes you happy,” Isra said.

  He shook his head. “Why should you care? I haven’t been good to you.”

  “Still,” she said, her voice low and soft. “I know what you’re going through. I know you’re under a lot of pressure, too. I can understand how that can make you act—” She stopped, looked away.

  “Walking the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn,” Adam said. Isra turned back to him to find his face had softened. “Some early mornings on my way to work, I don’t take the train straight into the city. Instead I stop to walk the bridge in time for sunrise.” His words slipped out as though he had forgotten Isra was in the room. “There’s something magical about watching the sunrise when I’m so high up there. In that moment, when the first light hits my face, I feel like the sun has swallowed me up. Everything goes quiet. The cars rush beneath my feet, but I don’t hear a thing. I can see the whole city, and I think about the millions of people living here, the struggles they face, and then I think about the men back home and their struggles, too, and in an instant my worries vanish. I stare at the sky and remind myself that at least I am here, in this beautiful country, at least I have this view.”

  “You never told me that before,” Isra whispered. He nodded but averted his gaze, as though he had said too much. “It sounds lovely,” she said, smiling at him. “It reminds me of when I used to watch the sunset back home, how the sun would sink into the mountains and disappear. It always made me feel better, too, knowing I wasn’t the only person staring up at the mountains, that in those moments I was connected to everyone watching the sunset, all of us held together by this magnificent view.” She tried to catch his eyes, but he stared at his plate and resumed eating. “Maybe we can watch the sunrise together one day,” Isra said.

  “Inshallah,” he said between mouthfuls of food, but from the look on his face, Isra knew they never would. There had been a time when this would have hurt her, and she was surprised to find that she was no longer upset. For so many years she had believed that if a woman was good enough, obedient enough, she might be worthy of a man’s love. But now, reading her books, she was beginning to find a different kind of love. A love that came from inside her, one she felt when she was all alone, reading by the window. And through this love, she was beginning to believe, for the first time in her life, that maybe she was worthy after all.

  “I don’t understand why you’re wasting time,” Fareeda said to Isra one Sunday afternoon in March. They were all gathered together at Fort Hamilton Park to celebrate Eid al-Fitr, which Isra found strange, considering that most of them hadn’t observed the Ramadan fast that year. Fareeda couldn’t fast because of her diabetes, Nadine was pregnant, and Sarah only pretended to fast so as not to upset Khaled, who, besides Isra, was the only one who fasted every year. She wondered if Adam only pretended to fast, too, but had never dared ask him.

  She didn’t know why she herself still observed Ramadan. Some days she thought she fasted out of guilt—for often failing to perform her five daily prayers, for failing to trust in Allah and her naseeb. Other days fasting reminded her of her childhood, of evenings seated with her family around a sufra of lentil soup and fresh dates, counting down the minutes until sunset so they could eat and drink again. But most days Isra suspected she fasted purely from habit, a soothing familiarity in performing ritual for ritual’s sake alone.

  “Really,” Fareeda said now, “why aren’t you pregnant again? What are you waiting for? You still need a son, you know.”

  Isra sat at the edge of the picnic blanket, as far away from Fareeda as possible, and watched the rest of the family. Sarah and Deya fed pigeons by the pier. Khaled carried Ameer over his shoulders. Omar and Nadine held hands and looked out onto the Hudson River. Adam lit a cigarette. Behind them, the Verrazano Bridge stood high and wide, like a mountain on the horizon. “I already have three children,” Isra said. “I’m tired.”

  “Tired?” Fareeda said. “When I was your age, I’d already given birth to—” She stopped. “Never mind the number. My point is that Adam needs a son, and you need to get pregnant soon to give him one.”

  “I’m only twenty-one,” Isra said, startled by the defiance in her tone. “And I already have three children. Why can’t I wait a little?”

  “Why wait? Why not just get them out of the way?”

  “Because I wouldn’t be able to raise another kid right now.”

  Fareeda scoffed. “Three or four, what difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference to me. I’m the one who has to raise them.”

  Fareeda glared, and Isra looked away. Not from shame, but rather to conceal her pleasure. She couldn’t believe she had spoken her mind and defied Fareeda for the first time in years.

  “Still eating?” Adam asked when he approached them.

  Isra passed him a small smile, but Fareeda wasted no time. She cleared her throat and began. “Tell your wife,” she said. “Tell her it’s time to get pregnant again.”

  Adam sighed. “She’ll get pregnant soon, Mother. Don’t worry.”

  “You’ve been saying that for months! You’re not getting any younger, you know. And neither is Isra. What do you think will happen if you get a fourth girl? You think you’re going to just stop trying for a son? Of course not! That’s why it’s important to hurry.”

  Adam fumbled inside his pocket for a pack of Marlboro Red. “You think I don’t want a son? I’m trying my best.”

  “Well, keep trying.”

  “I will, Mother.”

  “Good.”

  Adam looked away, squeezing the pack of cigarettes tight. Even though he was looking out toward the river, Isra could see it in his eyes: he would beat her tonight. She stared at him, hoping she was wrong, that he wouldn’t take out his anger on her. But the signs were all too familiar now. First, he’d beat her loud and hard, shaking with rage. Then he’d reach out to touch her again, only slightly softer this time, pushing himself inside her. She’d shut her eyes tight, clench her fists, and keep still in hopes she might just disappear.

  Deya

  Winter 2008

  Something doesn’t make sense,” Deya told Sarah one Friday afternoon, after her aunt had finished telling her yet another story about Isra. They sat huddled by the window, sipping on vanilla lattes Sarah had brewed for them.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  Deya set her cup down. “If my mother loved books so much, why didn’t she want a better life for us?”

  “She did,” Sarah said. “But there was only so much she could do.”

  “Then why did she stop us from going to school?”

  Sarah looked at her, startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “She said we had to stop going to school,” Deya said, feeling her stomach twist at the memory. “She even called me a sharmouta.”

  “Isra would’ve never said that word, especially to you.”

  “But she did say it. I remember.”

  “The Isra I knew never would’ve uttered that word,” Sarah said. “Was this after I left?”

  “I think so,” Deya said, suddenly uncertain. She had been so young. Her memories were so fragmented.

  “Do you remember why she said it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “It must’ve been right before the car accident . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, the memory is clear, but I’m not certain of the exact—”

  “Tell me then,” Sarah interrupted. “Tell me everything you remember.”

  Outside the sky was dark gray, as Deya and Nora rode the school bus home. When they reached their stop, Mama was waiting for them, as she always did. Her belly was slightly bigger than usual, and Deya wondered if Mama was pregnant again. She imagined a fifth child in their narrow bedroom. She wondered where the baby would sleep, if Baba would buy another crib, or if it would sleep in Amal’s crib, and if Amal would share the bed with her and Nora. The baby’s face was in her head, already
big and swelling bigger, suffocating her. She took a deep breath and loosened the backpack from her shoulders.

  She touched Mama’s arm when she reached her, earning a quick smile before Isra looked away. It was the same smile Isra always gave her, just the slightest curve of the lips.

  Behind her, she could hear her classmates calling from the bus. “Bye, Deya! See you tomorrow!”

  Deya turned to wave goodbye. When she turned back, Mama’s eyes were intently fixed on her face.

  “Why are those boys speaking to you?” Mama said. It was strange to hear words leave her mouth with such force.

  “They’re in my class, Mama.”

  “Why are you talking to boys in your class?”

  “They’re my friends.”

  “Friends?”

  Deya nodded and lowered her eyes to the ground.

  “You can’t be friends with boys! Did I raise a sharmouta?”

  Deya stumbled back, struck by the word. “No, Mama, I didn’t do anything—”

  “Uskuti! You know you’re not allowed to speak to boys! What were you thinking? You’re an Arab girl. Do you understand? An Arab girl.” But Deya didn’t understand. “Listen to me, Deya. Open your ears and listen.” Her voice lowered to a tight whisper. “Just because you were born here, that doesn’t make you an American. As long as you live in this family, you will never be an American.”

  Deya couldn’t remember the walk home, couldn’t recall how she felt as she tiptoed across the pavement, crept down the basement steps, and settled into her bed. All she remembered was sinking between the sheets with a book in hand—Matilda—willing herself to escape between its pages. She dug her fingers into the spine, flipping page after page until she could no longer hear the ringing between her ears.

  The next thing she knew Mama was downstairs with her. The room was quiet, and Mama settled on the edge of her bed, hugging her knees. How long before Deya had inched up to her? She didn’t know. All she remembered was blinking up at Mama, desperate to meet her eyes, to catch even the hint of a smile. But she could barely see her face, couldn’t see her eyes at all. She reached out to touch her hand. Mama flinched.

  She waited for Mama to say something. Maybe she was thinking of a way to punish her. And why shouldn’t she be punished? She deserved it. There she was, making Mama sad, as if she needed any more reasons.

  Deya wondered how she would be punished. She looked around the room. There was nothing worth taking. Just a handful of toys scattered across the floor. She thought maybe her mother would take the television. Or the cassette player. She wasn’t sure. She had nothing.

  But then she saw it, the book resting beneath her fingers, and she realized she did have something to be taken away. She started to think of the words Mama would use when she told her to hand over her books, that she was forbidden from the school library, that she was no longer allowed to—

  “Deya,” Mama began. “Your father . . .”

  Please don’t say it. Please don’t take my books.

  “Listen . . .” Mama was shaking now. “I know you love school . . .”

  I’ll do anything, please. Not my books.

  “But . . .” She breathed in. “You can’t go to PS 170 anymore.”

  Deya’s heart stopped. For a moment, she had an overwhelming feeling of breathlessness. She felt the way a book must feel, the unseen weight beneath its cover. She swallowed. “What?”

  “Not just you. Nora, too.”

  “No, Mama—please—”

  “I’m sorry, daughter,” Isra said in a choked voice. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Is that when you started going to Islamic school?” Sarah asked when Deya had finished. “After they took you out of PS 170?”

  “I think so,” Deya said. “Do you know why they took us out?”

  Sarah shook her head, shifting in her seat.

  “Wait a minute,” Deya said. “What year did you run away?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Nineteen ninety-seven.”

  “You were still there,” Deya said. “Surely you must remember something.”

  Sarah stared at her knees. “I think it was because I ran away. They must’ve been afraid that you and your sisters would follow in my footsteps one day.”

  “That makes sense.”

  There was a pause, and Sarah met Deya’s eyes. “Do you remember how things were after I left?”

  “Not exactly. Why?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Sarah asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw your parents?”

  Deya considered. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

  “What do you remember?”

  She felt the enormity of the memory on her tongue, words she had never said aloud. “They took us to the park. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Sarah said.

  Deya had replayed this memory so many times before she could picture it vividly: Mama waiting for her and Nora at the bus stop, with Layla and Amal asleep in the stroller. “We’re going to the park,” Mama had said, smiling wider than Deya had ever seen. Deya felt a rainbow bloom inside her. They walked down Fifth Avenue, teeth chattering, cold air forming goose bumps on their skin. Cars honked. People rushed by. When they reached a subway station, Deya realized Mama meant to take them inside and her stomach clenched in fear: she had never ridden a train before. She breathed and breathed as they descended the dirty staircase. Below, the dimness hurt her eyes. The platform was a dingy gray, smeared with garbage and wads of chewing gum, then dropped steeply to the subway rails. Rats ran across the tracks, and Deya inched back from the edge. At the end of the tunnel, she could see a bright light, fast approaching. It was the train. She gripped Mama’s leg as it swept by. When the train stopped in front of them, the doors opened, and there stood Adam. He rushed over to them, wrapping her in his arms. Then they went to the park, all six of them, a family.

  “So Adam met you all in the subway and took you to the park?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes.”

  Sarah eyed her in silence.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “So, what happened after that?”

  “I don’t know.” Deya slumped in the chair. “I’ve tried to remember so many times, but I can’t. For all I know, I could’ve made it up. Maybe I’ve even made everything up. That would explain why nothing makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said after a moment.

  “I don’t get it. You said you would help me understand the past, but you can’t even explain why my mother wrote that letter. What if something happened to her after you left? How would you know? You weren’t with her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, looking down at the floor. “I think about it every day. I wish I’d never left her.”

  Now that Deya had started to unleash the words she’d held at bay these weeks, she couldn’t stop them. “Did you even try to help her? If you knew Baba beat her, why didn’t you do something? I thought she was your friend.”

  “She was my friend, my sister.”

  “Then why didn’t you take her with you? Why did you leave her? Why did you leave all of us?”

  “She wouldn’t come with me.” Sarah’s eyes were filled with tears. “I begged her to come, but she wouldn’t leave. Maybe I should’ve tried harder. It’s something I have to live with. But I’m here to help you now.” She wiped tears from her face. “Please, Deya. For her sake. She’d want me to help you.”

  “Then help me! Tell me what to do.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do. If you don’t decide for yourself, then what’s the point? It won’t matter what you do if it’s not your own choice. It has to come from inside you. That’s the only way I can help. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not that simple.”

  “But it is. You’re
letting fear cloud your thoughts. Dig deep inside yourself. What do you want?”

  “I want to make my own decisions. I want to have a choice.”

  “Then do it! Starting now.”

  Deya shook her head. “You make it sound so easy, but it’s not. That’s what you don’t understand.”

  “There are many things you can say to me, but you can’t say I don’t understand. I never said it was easy. But it’s what you have to do.”

  Deya sighed and rubbed her temples. Her body ached, her head hurt. She had no idea what to do, or where to begin. She stood to leave. “I have to go.”

  Isra

  Spring 1995

  A year passed and Isra was pregnant again. Her fourth pregnancy. After completing her chores, she spent her days curled againt the basement window, a book in her hands, hoping to silence the gnawing fear of giving birth to another girl. But no amount of reading had alleviated her angst. In fact, it seemed as if the more she read, the more her worries grew, and her belly along with it, so that she got bigger and bigger and the walls around her narrower and narrower, hemming her in.

  “Are you okay?” Sarah asked Isra one night as they stood over the stove, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. They were cooking mujaddara, and the air smelled of lentils and rice, sautéed onions and cumin. Sarah put down the stirring spoon and met her eyes. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

  “I’m just tired,” Isra said, stooping slightly, one hand under her belly. “This baby is wearing me out.”

  “No,” Sarah said. “I can tell something else is wrong. Is it Adam? Is he hitting you?”

  “No . . .” Isra looked away.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I really don’t know what’s wrong . . . ,” Isra said, averting her gaze. “I’m just a little worried.”

  “About what?”

  “You’ll think it’s stupid.”