A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

  “So Mama and Baba were both possessed? Really? That’s your explanation for everything?”

  Fareeda bit the inside of her lip. “Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”

  “No, it’s not! Sarah said there was nothing wrong with Mama.”

  Fareeda sighed. If only that were true, if only she had invented all of Isra’s trouble. But she and Deya both knew there had been something wrong with her. Quietly, she said, “You don’t remember how she was?”

  Deya flushed. “It doesn’t mean she was possessed.”

  “But she was.” Fareeda met Deya’s eyes. “And Adam was possessed, too. He wasn’t in his right mind. Only a majnoon, a crazy person, would kill his wife like that.”

  “That still doesn’t mean he was possessed! He could’ve been—” Deya searched for the right translation in Arabic. “He could’ve had a mental illness. He could have been depressed, or suicidal, or just a bad person!”

  Fareeda shook her head. It was typical of her granddaughter to revert to Western concepts to understand everything. Why couldn’t she accept that Western medicine had no understanding of these things, much less a cure?

  The teakettle whistled, puncturing the silence between them. Fareeda turned off the stove. In moments like this, when the smell of maramiya filled the kitchen, she had to admit how much she missed Isra, who used to brew chai just the way she liked it, who, even when she was upset, never disrespected her. Isra would never have yelled at her the way Nadine had screamed the morning before she and Omar packed their bags and moved, just like that, leaving Fareeda alone. And what had she done to deserve it? Fareeda wondered, pouring herself some tea. She remembered Omar saying how controlling she was, how he couldn’t even be nice to Nadine in her presence, how he had to pretend to be tough, manly. How much he hated the word manly, he had said, almost spitting as he did. Well, that’s because he wasn’t a man, Fareeda told herself now, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea. Neither was Ali, who had taken off to live in the city with some girl, leaving her to raise her granddaughters on her own. Leaving her to clean up the family mess once again.

  “You know,” Fareeda said after a moment, “Arabs use the term majnoon to mean madness, but if you break the word apart, what do you see?” Deya only looked at her. “The word jinn,” Fareeda said, settling back in her seat. “Madness is derived from the jinn, an evil spirit inside you. Therapy and medicine can’t fix that.”

  “Are you serious? That’s your explanation for everything? You think you can just blame this on the jinn? That’s not good enough. This isn’t some story, where you can tie up everything as you please at the end. This isn’t make-believe.”

  “If only it were make-believe,” Fareeda said.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you tried to cover for him,” Deya said. “How could you? You won’t even forgive your own daughter when all she ever did was run away! You’re such a hypocrite!”

  Fareeda tightened her grip around the teacup. Outside, the sky was dark, only the glow of a few lampposts visible through the window. She stared absently at the darkness as she considered Deya’s words. Why had she never really blamed Adam—had forgiven him, even? Sarah hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t left her with four girls to look after. And yet it was true, she had never been able to forgive her. She and Khaled had erased Sarah from their lives completely, as if they had never had a daughter, as if she had committed the grossest of crimes. She was so afraid of the shame the family would face that she had never even questioned it. Deya was right: she was a hypocrite. An ocean of sadness rushed through her, and she began to weep.

  For a long time Fareeda wept. Though she had buried her face in her hands, she could feel Deya’s eyes on her, waiting for an explanation, an answer. If only life were so simple.

  Isra

  Winter 1996

  Isra couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Deya whispering, You always look sad. She wept silently in her bed. How would her daughters remember their childhood? What would they think of her? These questions had occupied most of her thinking lately. Some days she thought she should apologize for all the kisses she’d never given them, all the times she’d looked over their shoulders while they spoke, for slapping them when she was angry, for not saying “I love you” often enough. Other days—days that were becoming increasingly rare—she would comfort herself with the hope that everything could still be okay, or—rarer still—that everything had been okay all along, that there was nothing wrong with her mothering, that she was only doing what was best for her daughters. What would she do with them when they got older? Would she force them down her same path?

  “I need to talk to you,” Isra told Adam when he returned from work that night. From the edge of the bed, she watched him slip out of his work clothes, waiting for him to respond. But he said nothing. “Won’t you say something?” she asked. “You’ve barely said a word to me since Amal was born.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She could smell the beer on him every night now. Perhaps that’s why he beat her more regularly. But sometimes it was her fault. Sometimes she provoked him. Isra thought back to the previous night, when she had put an extra spoonful of coriander in the mulukhiya to irritate him. “What’s wrong?” she had asked innocently as he spat out his food. When he shook his head angrily, pushing the bowl away, she kept a straight face, but inside she had been ecstatic at her small revenge. If overseasoning his food was the only thing within her power, then she would do that for as long as she could.

  “I want to talk to you,” Isra said. “About our daughters.”

  “What about them?”

  “Deya said something today, something that worries me.”

  His eyes shifted to her. “What did she say?”

  “She said . . .” Her voice trailed off. “She said I always look sad.”

  “Well, she’s right. You mope around the house like you’re dying.”

  Isra blinked at him.

  “It’s true. What does this have to do with me?”

  “I don’t know,” Isra said. “But ever since Amal was born, you’ve been—”

  “Are you blaming me? After everything I’ve done for you?”

  “No! That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Nothing, I’m sorry. It’s just lately I’ve been afraid . . .”

  He shook his head, walking over to open his drawer. “Afraid of what, exactly?”

  Isra opened her mouth to respond, but the fear overwhelmed her, and no words would come out. What exactly was she afraid of? Being a bad mother? Scarring her daughters the way her parents had scarred her? Being too lenient, not teaching them the truth about the world? She was afraid of so many things. How could she explain it?

  Adam sighed. “Well, are you going to say something?”

  “I’m just worried about the kind of lives our daughters will have. If they’ll have any choices.”

  He stared at her. “What kind of choices?”

  “I just wonder if they’ll be expected to be married at a young age.”

  “Well, of course,” he said sharply. “What else would they do?”

  She looked away, but she could feel his eyes on her skin. “I was hoping maybe we wouldn’t rush them into marriage. That maybe we could, you know, give them a choice.”

  “A choice? What for?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just afraid they won’t be happy.”

  “What kind of nonsense is this? Have you forgotten where you came from? Do you think we’re American?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant.”

  But Adam wasn’t listening. “Is that the sort of woman you’ve become, after everything I’ve done for you? It’s not enough that you’ve birthed four daughters for me to take care of, but now I have to worry about how you want to raise them—”

  “No! You don’t have to worry.”

  “Is that so?” Adam
stepped toward her, and she shrunk back against the headboard, feeling the room close in on her.

  “Please, Adam, I swear, I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up!”

  She turned from him, but he smashed her head into the headboard. Then he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into their daughters’ bedroom.

  “Stop, please! The girls—”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t want them to see? Maybe it’s time they see what it means to be a woman.”

  “Please, Adam, they shouldn’t see this.”

  “Why not? Don’t you walk around sad all the time, anyway? Are you trying to scare them off marriage? Is that your plan?”

  He grabbed her by the sides of her face and twisted her head so she had a full view of her daughters in bed. His hands moved to her neck, holding her still. “Do you see these girls? Do you?” She struggled to catch her breath. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she managed to choke out.

  “Listen closely, because I won’t say this again. My daughters are Arabs. Are we clear? Arabs. If I ever hear any talk of choices again, I’ll make sure they wake up to your screams. I’ll make sure they see what happens when a woman disobeys her husband. Fahmeh? Do you understand me?”

  Isra nodded, gasping for air, until Adam released his grip. He left to shower without another word.

  Isra cupped her hand to the side of her head and felt blood.

  Later she would think it was her books that had made her do it. All the feelings that had silenced her for so long—denial, shame, fear, unworthiness—were no longer enough. As soon as she heard the water running, she went back into the girls’ bedroom. She opened the window. The cool air was harsh against her skin. She climbed out. As soon as her feet hit the cement, she ran.

  Where was she heading? She didn’t know. She ran down Seventy-Second Street and onto Fifth Avenue, pausing only to catch her breath. It was midnight, and all the shops were closed with the exception of a deli on the corner of Seventy-Third Street, a pool hall on Seventy-Ninth, a Rite Aid on Eighty-First. Where was she going? What would she do when she got there? A gust of wind blew into her face, and she slowed as her body began to shake, but she pushed herself forward nonetheless, forced her legs to keep moving. The cold air burned against her open wound, but she kept running. This is what her life had come down to, she thought. This is what all her patience had amounted to. Where had she gone wrong? And what was she supposed to do now? What were her options? Palestine or America—wherever she looked, she was only reminded of how powerless she was. All she’d wanted in this life was to find happiness, and now it was clear that she never would, and just thinking of that fact made her want to stand dead in the middle of the road until someone ran her over.

  She stopped again to catch her breath on Eighty-Sixth Street, in front of Century 21, a department store that covered half the block. She had been inside with Khaled and Fareeda once, but she couldn’t remember why they’d gone. Perhaps Fareeda had needed shoes. She walked down the street, searching for something, anything, to soothe her, but her body only shook with more force the farther she walked from home. The sky was charcoal, without a single star in sight. Around her people rushed by, even at this late hour. Teenagers laughed, men in tattered clothes lay on the pavement. They stared at her, and she looked away. She had the sensation that she was looking down at herself from the sky, as though she were a tiny infant in the middle of the massive street. She pressed her feet into the concrete and tried to ground herself.

  She paced in circles and began to weep. She crossed the street and paced in circles again. What should she do? Where could she go? She had no money, no job, no education, no friends, no family. And what would happen to her daughters without her? They couldn’t be raised without a mother. She couldn’t leave them alone with Adam and Fareeda. She had to go back.

  But she couldn’t go back, not to him, not now. She could picture Adam now, his eyes bulging, his jaw clenching and unclenching. She could feel his fingers around her arms, squeezing tight. Feel him shoving her against the wall, pulling her hair, slapping her across the face. Feel his fingers around her throat, her skin starting to numb, could see the room going white. No. She couldn’t face him.

  She walked down Eighty-Sixth Street, stopping in front of a pharmacy. It was open, to her relief, and she sat on the front stoop. The stinging along the side of her head was easing. She pressed her fingers against her temples. She was cold, and she wept. She wept tears of all sorts—anger, fear, sorrow, but mostly regret. How could she have been so naive to think she could ever be happy? She should’ve listened to Mama. Happiness was something people made up in books, and she had been foolish to believe she could ever find it in the real world.

  Isra looked up to see a man approaching her.

  “Excuse me, are you okay?” he said. “You’re bleeding.”

  Isra wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the ground. The man moved closer. “What happened to your head?”

  “N—nothing,” she stammered, the English strange on her tongue.

  “Did someone do this to you? Did someone hurt you?” She shook her head. “You need to call the police. Hurting someone like this is illegal. Whoever did this to you will go to jail.” Isra started to cry again. She didn’t want to send the father of her daughters to jail. She just wanted to go home. “You need to go to an emergency room,” the man said. “You need stitches. Do you have anyone to call?” He pointed to a phone booth at the end of the block. “Come with me,” he said, gesturing toward the booth. Isra followed. The man placed two quarters into the shiny box and handed Isra the receiver. “You need to call someone.”

  It was the first time Isra had held a public telephone. The metal felt crisp against her fingertips and sent a chill through her. Once she started shaking again, she couldn’t stop. She held the phone to her ear. There was a beeping noise on the other end.

  “You have to dial a number,” the man said.

  She didn’t know who to call. In those seconds, holding the phone to her ear, Isra’s loneliness was the clearest it had ever been. She knew she couldn’t call Palestine without a phone card, and besides, what would Mama say except to go home at once, to stop parading her shame for the whole world to see? She couldn’t call Adam’s beeper, not after what she’d done. She had only one person to call, and she wept as she dialed the number.

  “Get in,” Fareeda said from the passenger window as Khaled parallel-parked. Isra climbed into the car. “What were you thinking leaving the house alone this late at night?”

  “Who is that man over there?” Khaled snapped, shooting her a sidelong look

  “I don’t know,” Isra said. “He was trying to help me, and—”

  “Tell me,” Khaled cut her off. “What kind of decent woman leaves her house in the middle of the night?”

  “Calm down,” Fareeda said sharply. She was eyeing Isra’s head by the light of the streetlamp. “Can’t you see the girl is shaken up?”

  “You be quiet.” He turned around to see Isra fully. “Tell me, where were you going? Who is that man?”

  “I—I don’t know. He was just trying to help,” Isra said. “I was scared. My head wouldn’t stop bleeding. . . . It won’t stop.”

  “That’s no reason to leave the house,” Khaled said. “How do we know you weren’t out with some man?”

  “Man? What man?” Isra curled up in the back seat. “I wasn’t with anyone. I swear.”

  “And how do we know that? How do we know you didn’t sneak out with some man and now you’re calling us to come get you?”

  “I’m telling the truth!” Isra cried. “I wasn’t with anyone. Adam hit me!”

  “Of course he did,” Fareeda said, flashing Khaled a look.

  “We don’t know anything,” Khaled said. “Only a sharmouta leaves her house in the middle of the night.”

  Isra was too tired to fight anymore. She leaned her head back, nauseated by her own helplessness.

  “Th
at’s enough!” Fareeda snapped. “Look at the girl’s head.”

  “She could’ve hit her head on the sidewalk,” Khaled said. “She could’ve just been with another man, and he could’ve done this to her. How do we know she’s telling the truth?”

  “You cruel, disgusting men! Always quick to point a finger. Always quick to put the blame on a woman. Your son is a drunk—of course he is, why wouldn’t he be? Just like his father!”

  “Uskuti! Shut up!”

  “What? You don’t like hearing the truth? Look at the girl!” Fareeda turned around and pointed at Isra in the back seat. “Look at her head! It will need a dozen stitches to close it. And you’re sitting here talking about another man. Ttfu.” She made a spitting sound. “The cruelest thing on this earth is a man’s heart.”

  Khaled raised his hand. “I said uskuti! Shut your mouth!”

  “Or what? You’re going to start beating me again? Do it! Put your hands on an old lady, you filthy man! Instead of screaming at this girl, why don’t you go punish your damn son for beating her senseless? What are we going to tell her parents, huh? That our son beat her so hard she needed stitches? And what if someone at the doctor calls the cops? What if your son goes to jail? Tell me, have you thought about that? Have you?” She turned to look out the window. “Of course you haven’t. I’m the one who has to do all the thinking around here.”

  Khaled sighed. “She shouldn’t have left the house like that.” He met Isra’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “A woman’s place is her home. Do you understand?” Isra didn’t reply. “Do you understand?” he said more loudly.