A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

A daughter was only a temporary guest, quietly awaiting another man to scoop her away, along with all her financial burden.

“But what if the suitor and I don’t love each other?” “Love each other? What does love have to do with marriage? You think your father and I love each other?” Isra’s eyes shifted to the ground. “I thought you must, a little.” Mama sighed. “Soon you’ll learn that there’s no room for love in a woman’s life. There’s only one thing you’ll need, and that’s sabr, patience.”

Still, Deya had questions of her own. What would you do to me if we married? Would you let me pursue my dreams? Would you leave me at home to raise the children while you worked? Would you love me? Would you own me? Would you beat me? She could have asked those questions aloud, but she knew people only told you what you wanted to hear. That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn’t say, had to watch them closely.

Watching them, she understood yet again what it meant to be an outsider. She kept picturing them looking down at her like a panel of judges. What are you? she imagined them thinking. Why are you dressed this way? She could see the judgment brewing in their eyes. She could feel them observing how scared she was standing there, how unassuredly she moved, the garb she wore, and deciding instantly that they knew everything about her. Surely she was the victim of an oppressive culture, or the enforcer of a barbaric tradition. She was likely uneducated, uncivilized, a nobody. Perhaps she was even an extremist, a terrorist. An entire race of culture and experiences diluted into a single story.

It was a girl. Isra held her baby daughter in her arms for the first time—she stroked the softness of her skin, placed her against her chest. Her heart swelled. I’m a mother now, she thought. I’m a mother. When, at last, they entered the room, Fareeda and Adam locked their eyes on the ground and murmured a quiet “Mabrouk.” Isra wished Adam would say something to comfort her or show excitement. “Just what we need,” Fareeda said, shaking her head. “A girl.” “Not now, Mother,” Adam said. He passed Isra an apologetic look. “What?” Fareeda said. “It’s true. As if we need another balwa, as if we don’t have enough troubles.” Isra felt a jolt at the word. She could almost hear Mama’s voice ringing in her ears. Mama had often called Isra a balwa—a dilemma, a burden. Any lingering hope that America would be better than Palestine fell away at that moment. A woman would always be a woman. Mama was right. It was as true for her daughter as it had been for Isra. The loneliness of this reality seemed to leach out of the white hospital floor and walls into her. “Please, Mother,” Adam said. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.” “Easy for you to say. Do you know how hard it is to raise a girl in this country? Do you? Soon you’ll be pulling your hair out! You need a son to help you. To carry on our name.” She was crying now, a deep sucking sound coming from her mouth, and the nurse handed her a box of tissues. “Congratulations,” said the nurse, mistaking Fareeda’s tears for happiness. “W...

“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.”

“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.”

“What I’m trying to say is that if you believe you have power over your life, then you ultimately will. And if you believe you don’t, then you won’t.”

“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 sticks 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.

“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.

When Isra first arrived in America, when she first became a wife, she hadn’t understood why she felt so empty. She had thought it was temporary, that she would adjust in time. She knew there were many girls who left their families to come to America, having children when they were still children themselves. Yet they had managed. But lately Isra had finally understood why she couldn’t manage, why she constantly felt as though she were drifting far out to sea. She understood that life was nothing but a dark melody, playing over and over again. A track stuck on repeat. That was all she would ever amount to. Worse was that her daughters would repeat it, and she was to blame.

The princesses irritated her now. Those Disney movies, with their love stories and fairy-tale endings—how could they be a good influence on her daughters? What would her daughters think, Isra wondered, watching these women fall in love? Would they grow up believing these fairy tales were reality, that love and romance existed for girls like them? That one day men would come and save them?

Fareeda knew that no matter what any woman said, culture could not be escaped. Even if it meant tragedy. Even if it meant death. At least she was able to recognize her role in their culture, own up to it, instead of sitting around saying “If only I had done things differently.” It took more than one woman to do things differently. It took a world of them.