A Woman is No Man

“But that’s not fair.”

“You are too young to understand this now,” Mama said, “but you must always remember.” She lifted Isra’s chin. “There is nothing out there for a woman but her bayt wa dar, her house and home. Marriage, motherhood—that is a woman’s only worth.”

Isra nodded, but inside she refused to accept. She pressed her palms against her thighs and shook her tears away. Mama was wrong, she told herself. Just because she had failed to find happiness with Yacob, that didn’t mean Isra would fail, too. She would love her husband in a way Mama hadn’t loved Yacob—she would strive to understand him, to please him—and surely in this way she would earn his love.

Looking up, Isra realized that Mama’s hands were trembling. A few tears fell down her cheeks.

“Are you crying, Mama?”

“No, no.” She looked away. “These onions are strong.”

It wasn’t until the Islamic marriage ceremony, one week later, that Isra saw the suitor again. His name was Adam Ra’ad. Adam’s eyes met hers only briefly as the cleric read from the Holy Qur’an, then again as they each uttered the word qubul, “I accept,” three times. The signing of the marriage contract was quick and simple, unlike the elaborate wedding party, which would be held after Isra received her immigrant visa. Isra overheard Yacob say it would only take a couple of weeks, since Adam was an American citizen.

From the kitchen window, Isra could see Adam outside, smoking a cigarette. She studied her new husband as he paced up and down the pathway in front of their house, a half smile set across his face, his eyes squinting. From a slight distance, he looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older, the lines on his face beginning to set. A finely trimmed black mustache covered his upper lip. Isra imagined what it would be like to kiss him and could feel her cheeks flush. Adam, she thought. Adam and Isra. It had a nice ring to it.

Adam wore a navy-blue shirt with buttons lined up the front and tan khakis, cuffed at his ankles. His shoes were shiny brown leather with tiny holes pricked in them and a solid black heel of good quality. His feet caressed the dirt with ease. She pictured a younger version of him, barefoot, kicking a soccer ball in the streets of Birzeit. It wasn’t hard to imagine. His feet balanced on the uneven dirt path as if he had been raised on land like this. How old had he been when he left Palestine? A child? A teenager? A man?

“Why don’t you and Adam go sit in the balcony?” Yacob told Isra when Adam came back inside. Adam met her eyes and smiled, revealing a row of stained teeth. She looked away. “Go on now,” Yacob said. “You two need to get to know one another.”

Isra flushed as she led the way to the balcony. Adam followed her, looking uneasily at the ground, both hands in his pockets. She wondered if he was nervous but dismissed the thought. He was a man. What could he possibly be nervous of?

Outside, it was a beautiful March morning. Ideal weather for fruit picking. Isra had recently pruned the fig tree that leaned against the house in preparation for the summer bloom. Beside it grew two slanted almond trees, beginning to flower. Isra watched Adam’s eyes widen as he admired the scenery. Grapevines covered the balcony, and he traced his fingers across a cluster of buds that would swell into grapes by summer. From the look on his face, she wondered if he had ever seen a grapevine before. Perhaps not since he was a child. She wanted to ask him so many things. Why had they left Palestine, and when? How had they made it to America? She opened her mouth and searched for the words, but none came.

There was a wrought-iron swing at the center of the balcony. Adam sat on it and waited for her to join him. She took a deep breath as she settled beside him. They could see the graveyards from their seat, both dilapidated, and Isra blushed at the sight. She hoped Adam wouldn’t think less of her. She tried to take strength in what Yacob always said, “It doesn’t matter where you live as long as your home is yours. Free of occupation and blood.”

It was a quiet morning. For a while they just sat there, lost in the view. Isra felt a shiver down her spine. She couldn’t help but think of the jinn who lived in cemeteries and ruins. Growing up, Isra had heard countless stories of the supernatural creatures, who were said to possess humans. Many of the neighborhood women swore they had witnessed an evil presence near the two cemeteries. Isra muttered a quick prayer under her breath. She wondered if it was a bad omen, facing a graveyard as she sat with her husband for the first time.

Beside her Adam stared absently into the distance. What was he thinking? Why wouldn’t he say something? Was he waiting for her to speak first? Surely he should speak first! She thought about the interactions between men and women she’d read about in books. Small introductions first, personal tales next, then affection grew. That was how two people fell in love. Or at least how Sinbad the Sailor fell in love with Princess Shera in A Thousand and One Nights. Except Shera was a bird for most of the story. Isra decided to be more realistic.

Adam turned to look at her. She swallowed, tugging on the edges of her hijab. His eyes lingered on the loose strands of black hair poking out from underneath. It occurred to her that he had not yet seen her hair. She waited for him to say something, but he only stared. His gaze moved up and down, his lips slowly parted. There was something in his eyes that troubled her. An intensity. What was it? In the glassy tint of his gaze, she could see the days of the rest of her life stacked together like pages. If only she could flip through them, so she knew what was to come.

Isra broke his gaze and returned her eyes to the graveyards. Perhaps he was only nervous, she told herself. Or perhaps he didn’t like her. It was reasonable. After all, she had never been called beautiful. Her eyes were small and dark, her jaw angular. More than once, Mama had mocked her sharp features, saying her nose was long and pointed, her forehead too large. She was certain Adam was looking at her forehead now. She pulled on her hijab. Perhaps she should bring out the box of Mackintosh’s chocolates Mama saved for special occasions. Or maybe she should brew some chai. She started to offer him some grapes but remembered they were not yet ripe.

As she turned to face Adam once more, she noticed his knees shaking. Then, in a flash, he zoomed closer and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Isra slapped him.

Shocked, she waited for him to apologize, to muster up something about how he hadn’t meant to kiss her, how his body acted of its own accord. But he only looked away, face flushed, and buried his eyes between the graves.

With great effort, she forced herself to look at the cemeteries. She thought perhaps there was something between the graves she could not see, some secret to make sense of what was happening. She thought about A Thousand and One Nights, how Princess Shera had wanted to become human so she could marry Sindbad. Isra didn’t understand. Why would anyone want to be a woman when she could be a bird?

“He tried to kiss me,” Isra told Mama after Adam and his family left, whispering so Yacob wouldn’t hear.

“What do you mean, he tried to kiss you?”

“He tried to kiss me, and I slapped him! I’m sorry, Mama. Everything happened so fast, and I didn’t know what else to do.” Isra’s hands were shaking, and she placed them between her thighs.

“Good,” Mama said after a long pause. “Make sure you don’t let him touch you until after the wedding ceremony. We don’t want this American family to go around saying we raised a sharmouta. That’s what men do, you know. Always put the blame on the woman.” Mama stuck out the tip of her pinkie. “Don’t even give him a finger.”

“No. Of course not!”

“Reputation is everything. Make sure he doesn’t touch you again.”

“Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t.”

The next day, Adam and Isra took a bus to Jerusalem, to a place called the US Consulate General, where people applied for immigrant visas. Isra was nervous about being alone with Adam again, but there was nothing she could do. Yacob couldn’t join them because his Palestinian hawiya, issued by the Israeli military authorities, prevented him from traveling to Jerusalem with ease. Isra had a hawiya too, but now that she was married to an American citizen, she would have less difficulty crossing the checkpoints.

The checkpoints were the reason Isra had never been to Jerusalem, which, along with most Palestinian cities, was under Israeli control and couldn’t be entered without a permit. The permits were required at each of the hundreds of checkpoints and roadblocks Israel had constructed on Palestinian land, restricting travel between, and sometimes within, their own cities and towns. Some checkpoints were manned by heavily armed Israeli soldiers and guarded with tanks; others were made up of gates, which were locked when soldiers were not on duty. Adam cursed every time they stopped at one of these roadblocks, irritated at the tight controls and heavy traffic. At each one he waved his American passport at the Israeli soldiers, speaking to them in English. Isra could understand a little from having studied English in school, and she was impressed at how well he spoke the language.

When they finally arrived at the consulate, they waited in line for hours. Isra stood behind Adam, head bowed, only speaking when spoken to. But Adam barely said a word, and Isra wondered if he was angry at her for slapping him on the balcony. She contemplated apologizing, but secretly she thought she had nothing to apologize for. Even though they had signed the Islamic marriage contract, he had no right to kiss her like that, not until the night of the wedding ceremony. Yet the word sorry brewed on her tongue. She forced herself to swallow it down.

At the main window, they were told it would take only ten days for Isra to receive her visa. Now Yacob could plan the wedding, she thought as they strolled around Jerusalem afterward. Walking the narrow roads of the old city, Isra was overwhelmed by sensations. She smelled chamomile, sage, mint, and lentils from the open burlap sacks lined up in front of a spice shop, and the sweet aroma of freshly baked knafa from a nearby dukan. She spotted wire cages holding chickens and rabbits in front of a butcher shop, and several boutiques displaying myriads of gold-plated jewelry. Old men in hattas sold colorful scarves on street corners. Women in full black attire hurried through the streets. Some wore embroidered hijabs, tight-fitted pants, and round sunglasses. Others wore no hijab at all, and Isra knew they were Israeli. Their heels click-clacked on the uneven sidewalk. Boys whistled. Cars weaved through the narrow roads, honking, leaving a trail of diesel fumes behind. Israeli soldiers monitored the streets, long rifles slung across their slender bodies. The air was filled with dirt and noise.

For lunch, Adam ordered falafel sandwiches from a food cart near Al-Aqsa Mosque. Isra stared at the gold-topped dome in awe as they ate.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Adam said between mouthfuls.

“It is,” Isra said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Adam turned to face her. “Really?”

She nodded.

“Why not?”

“It’s hard getting here.”

“I’ve been gone for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like. We must’ve been stopped by half a dozen roadblocks. It’s absurd!”

“When did you leave Palestine?”

Adam chewed on his food. “We moved to New York in 1976, when I was sixteen. My parents have visited a couple of times since, but I’ve had to stay behind and take care of my father’s deli.”

“Have you ever been inside the mosque?”

“Of course. Many, many times. I wanted to be an imam growing up, you know. A priest. I spent Ramadan sleeping here one summer. I memorized the entire Qur’an.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“So is that what you do in America? You’re a priest?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I own a deli.”

“But why aren’t you an imam?” Isra asked, emboldened by their first conversation.

“I couldn’t do that in America.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father needed me to help him run the family business. I had to give that up.”

“Oh.” Isra paused. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?”

“I just always thought . . .” She stopped, thinking better of it.

“What?”

“I just assumed you’d be free.” He gave her a curious expression. “You know, because you’re a man.”

Adam said nothing, continuing to stare. Finally he said, “I am free,” and looked away.

Isra studied Adam for a long time as they finished their sandwiches. She couldn’t help but think of the way his face had stiffened at the mention of his childhood dream. His tight smile. She pictured him in the mosque during Ramadan, leading the maghrib prayer, reciting the Qur’an in a strong, musical voice. It softened her to picture him working behind a cash register, counting money, and stocking shelves when he wanted to be leading prayer in a mosque. And Isra thought for the first time, sitting there beside him, that perhaps it would not be so hard to love him after all.

Isra spent her last night in Birzeit propped in a gold metal chair, lips painted the color of mulberries, skin draped in layers of white mesh, hair wound up and sprayed with glitter. Around her, the walls spun. She watched them grow bigger and bigger until she was almost invisible, then get smaller and smaller as if they were crushing her. Women in an assortment of colors danced around her. Children huddled in corners eating baklava and drinking Pepsi. Loud music struck the air like fireworks. Everyone was cheering, clapping to the beat of her quivering heart. She nodded and smiled to their congratulations, yet inside she wasn’t sure how long she could stave off tears. She wondered if the guests understood what was happening, if they realized she was only a few hours away from boarding a plane with a man she barely knew and landing in a country whose culture was not her own.

Adam sat beside her, his black suit crisp against his white button-down shirt. He was the only man in the wedding hall. The others had a room of their own, away from the sight of the dancing women. Even Adam’s younger brothers, Omar and Ali, whom Isra had only met minutes before the wedding, were forbidden. She couldn’t tell how old they were, but they must’ve been in their twenties. Every now and then, one would poke his head in to watch the women on the dance floor, and a woman would remind him to stay in the men’s section. Isra scanned the room for her own brothers. They were all too young to sit in the men’s section, and she spotted them running around the far corner of the hall. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

If happiness were measured in sound, Adam’s mother was the happiest person in the room. Fareeda was a large, broad woman, and Isra felt the dance floor shrink in her presence. She wore a red-and-black thobe, with oriental patterns embroidered on the sleeves, and a wide belt of gold coins around her thick waist. Black kohl was smeared around her small eyes. She sang along to every song in a confident voice, twirling a long white stick in the air. Every minute or so, she brought her hand to her mouth and let out a zughreta, a loud, piercing sound. Her only daughter, Sarah, who looked about eleven or so, threw rose petals at the stage. She was a younger, slimmer version of her mother: dark almond eyes, black curls flowing wildly, skin as golden as wheat. Isra could almost see a grown version of Sarah sitting as she sat now, her tiny frame buried beneath a white bridal dress. She winced at the thought.

She looked around for her mother. Mama sat in the corner of the wedding hall, fidgeting with her fingers. So far she had not left her seat throughout the entire wedding, and Isra wondered if she wanted to dance. Perhaps she was too sad to dance, Isra thought. Or perhaps she was afraid to send the wrong message. Growing up, Isra had often heard women criticize the mother of the bride for celebrating too boisterously at the wedding, too excited to be rid of her daughter. She wondered if Mama was secretly excited to be rid of her.

Adam pounded on a darbuka drum. Startled, Isra looked away from Mama. She could see Fareeda handing Adam the white stick and pulling him down to the dance floor. He danced with the stick in one hand and the darbuka in the other. The music was deafening. Women around them clapped, glancing at Isra enviously as if she had won something that was rightfully theirs. She could almost hear them thinking, How did a plain girl like her get so lucky? It should be my daughter going to America.

Then Adam and Isra were dancing together. She didn’t quite know what to do. Even though Mama had always nagged her about dancing at events, saying it was good for her image, that mothers would be more likely to notice her if she was onstage, Isra had never listened. It felt unnatural to dance so freely, to display herself so openly. But Adam seemed perfectly comfortable. He was jumping on one foot, one hand behind his back, the other waving the stick in the air. With the Palestinian flag wrapped around his neck and a red velvet tarboosh on his head, Isra thought he looked like a sultan.

“Use your hands,” he mouthed.

She lifted both arms above her waist, dangling her wrists. She could see Fareeda nodding in approval. A group of women encircled them, moving their hands to the rhythm of the darbuka. They wore patterned red thobes with gold coins attached at their hips. Some held up round, flaming candles. Others placed a lit candlestick over each finger, waving their shimmering hands in the air. One woman even wore a tiered crown made of candles, so that it looked as though her head were on fire. The dance floor glistened like a chandelier.

The music stopped. Adam grabbed Isra by the elbow and led her off the dance floor. Fareeda followed, carrying a white basket. Isra hoped she could return to her seat, but Adam stopped in the center of the stage. “Face the crowd,” he told her.

Fareeda opened the basket to display a wealth of gold jewelry within. There were oohs and aahs from the crowd. She handed Adam one piece of gold at a time, and he secured each item on Isra’s skin. Isra stared at his hands. His fingers were long and thick, and she tried to keep from flinching. Soon heavy necklaces hung from her neck, their thick coins cold against her skin. Bracelets laced her wrists like ropes, their ends shaped like snakes. Coin-shaped earrings pricked her ears; rings covered her fingers. After twenty-seven pieces of gold, Fareeda threw the empty basket in the air and let out another zughreta. The crowd cheered, and Isra stood before them, wrapped in gold, unable to move, a mannequin on display.

She had no idea what life had in store for her and could do nothing to alter this fact. She shivered in horror at the realization. But these feelings were only temporary, Isra reminded herself. Surely she would have more control over her life in the future. Soon she would be in America, the land of the free, where perhaps she could have the love she had always dreamed of, could lead a better life than her mother’s. Isra smiled at the possibility. Perhaps someday, if Allah were to ever grant her daughters, they would lead a better life than hers, too.

Part I

Deya

BROOKLYN

Winter 2008

Deya Ra’ad stood by her bedroom window and pressed her fingers against the glass. It was December, and a dust of snow covered the row of old brick houses and faded lawns, the bare plane trees lining the sidewalk, the cars parallel-parked down Seventy-Second Street. Inside her room, alongside the spines of her books, a crimson kaftan provided the only other color. Her grandmother, Fareeda, had sewn this dress, with heavy gold embroidery around the chest and sleeves, specifically for today’s occasion: there was a marriage suitor in the sala waiting to see Deya. He was the fourth man to propose to her this year. The first had barely spoken English. The second had been divorced. The third had needed a green card. Deya was eighteen, not yet finished with high school, but her grandparents said there was no point prolonging her duty: marriage, children, family.

She walked past the kaftan, slipping on a gray sweater and blue jeans instead. Her three younger sisters wished her luck, and she smiled reassuringly as she left the room and headed upstairs. The first time she’d been proposed to, Deya had begged to keep her sisters with her. “It’s not right for a man to see four sisters at once,” Fareeda had replied. “And it’s the eldest who must marry first.”

“But what if I don’t want to get married?” Deya had asked. “Why does my entire life have to revolve around a man?”

Fareeda had barely looked up from her coffee cup. “Because that’s how you’ll become a mother and have children of your own. Complain all you want, but what will you do with your life without marriage? Without a family?”

“This isn’t Palestine, Teta. We live in America. There are other options for women here.”

“Nonsense.” Fareeda had squinted at the Turkish coffee grounds staining the bottom of her cup. “It doesn’t matter where we live. Preserving our culture is what’s most important. All you need to worry about is finding a good man to provide for you.”

“But there are other ways here, Teta. Besides, I wouldn’t need a man to provide for me if you let me go to college. I could take care of myself.”

At this, Fareeda had lifted her head sharply to glare at her. “Majnoona? Are you crazy? No, no, no.” She shook her head with distaste.

“But I know plenty of girls who get an education first. Why can’t I?”

“College is out of the question. Besides, no one wants to marry a college girl.”

“And why not? Because men only want a fool to boss around?”

Fareeda sighed deeply. “Because that’s how things are. How they’ve always been done. You ask anyone, and they’ll tell you. Marriage is what’s most important for women.”

Every time Deya replayed this conversation in her head, she imagined her life was just another story, with plot and rising tension and conflict, all building to a happy resolution, one she just couldn’t yet see. She did this often. It was much more bearable to pretend her life was fiction than to accept her reality for what it was: limited. In fiction, the possibilities of her life were endless. In fiction, she was in control.

For a long time Deya stared hesitantly into the darkness of the staircase, before climbing, very slowing, up to the first floor, where her grandparents lived. In the kitchen, she brewed an ibrik of chai. She poured the mint tea into five glass cups and arranged them on a silver serving tray. As she walked down the hall, she could hear Fareeda in the sala saying, in Arabic, “She cooks and cleans better than I do!” There was a rush of approving sounds in the air. Her grandmother had said the same thing to the other suitors, only it hadn’t worked. They’d all withdrawn their marriage proposals after meeting Deya. Each time Fareeda had realized that no marriage would follow, that there was no naseeb, no destiny, she had smacked her own face with open palms and wept violently, the sort of dramatic performance she often used to pressure Deya and her sisters to obey her.

Deya carried the serving tray down the hall, avoiding her reflection in the mirrors that lined it. Pale-faced with charcoal eyes and fig-colored lips, a long swoop of dark hair against her shoulders. These days it seemed as though the more she looked at her face, the less of herself she saw reflected back. It hadn’t always been this way. When Fareeda had first spoken to her of marriage as a child, Deya had believed it was an ordinary matter. Just another part of growing up and becoming a woman. She had not yet understood what it meant to become a woman. She hadn’t realized it meant marrying a man she barely knew, nor that marriage was the beginning and end of her life’s purpose. It was only as she grew older that Deya had truly understood her place in her community. She had learned that there was a certain way she had to live, certain rules she had to follow, and that, as a woman, she would never have a legitimate claim over her own life.