You Exist Too Much

by Zaina Arafat

It occurred to me in that moment to question why, as a man, his bare legs were somehow less troubling than mine. It was a double standard, a shame I had simply accepted until then. In acquiring my gender, I had become offensive.

Without the security of a relationship, longing felt less safe. It felt lonely.

I looked into his eyes and saw it, that familiar thing. Rage. I could tell he’d acted on it before, a number of times, but had since built his career on repressing it.

The notion that everyone will eventually cease to exist brings me great comfort and temporary courage.

he’d float into my room in his flannel pajamas, singing “Ya madrassa, ya madrassa,” which means, “School, O school” in Arabic, or, depending on which dictionary you consult, “terrorist training camp.”

If my mother was Hamas—unpredictable, impulsive, and frustrated at being stifled—my father was Israel. He’d refuse to meet her most basic needs until she exploded. Then he would point at her and cry, “Look at what a monster she is, what a terror!” But never once did he consider why she had resorted to such extreme tactics, or his role in the matter.

Everyone was referred to by their country of origin. They called me Palestina.

He asked me why I chose to live in Italy, and not Palestine or Jordan. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling a pinch of guilt for being in Italy and not the West Bank, volunteering with refugees or resisting the occupation, or at least something related to my heritage. Every country outside of my own felt like a luxury, and at twenty-three, I wanted to indulge. In a way I felt I deserved to.

“You’ll find that having someone who has a claim on you, and who you can claim, it’s one of the greater things in life.”

“Read all you want,” she said with uncharacteristic authority. “But you’ll just end up a more informed prisoner.”

I’m aware I can be exhausting—“you exist too much,” my mother often told me.

I would always envy that: her unambiguous craving for men.

For a long time, I’ve imagined telling her that I want everything she’s wanted me to pursue—a marriage, children, a lucrative career. But growing up in her house, subjected to her erratic rages, I didn’t have the energy. I was exhausted just trying to survive.

I realize before we even make it to my bed that the spell is broken, the appeal of him no longer exists. I am amazed by how quickly and completely it’s diminished when faced with his reality.

Until now, it’s never occurred to me that my mother was—my mother is—a child, forever stunted by her own traumas.