A Woman is No Man

She put on a smile and entered the sala. The room was dim, every window covered with thick, red curtains, which Fareeda had woven to match the burgundy sofa set. Her grandparents sat on one sofa, the guests on the other, and Deya set a bowl of sugar on the coffee table between them. Her eyes fell to the ground, to the red Turkish rug her grandparents had owned since they emigrated to America. There was a pattern embossed across the edges: gold coils with no beginnings or ends, all woven together in ceaseless loops. Deya wasn’t sure if the pattern had gotten bigger or if she had gotten smaller. She followed it with her eyes, and her head spun.

The suitor looked up when she neared him, peering at her through the peppermint steam. She served the chai without looking his way, all the while aware of his lingering gaze. His parents and her grandparents stared at her, too. Five sets of eyes digging into her. What did they see? The shadow of a person circling the room? Maybe not even that. Maybe they saw nothing at all, a serving tray floating on its own, drifting from one person to the next until the teakettle was empty.

She thought of her parents. How would they feel if they were here with her now? Would they smile at the thought of her in a white veil? Would they urge her, as her grandparents did, to follow their path? She closed her eyes and searched for them, but she found nothing.

Her grandfather turned to her sharply and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you two go sit in the kitchen?” Khaled said. “That way you can get to know each other.” Beside him, Fareeda eyed Deya anxiously, her face revealing its own message: Smile. Act normal. Don’t scare this man away, too.

Deya recalled the last suitor who had withdrawn his marriage proposal. He had told her grandparents that she was too insolent, too questioning. That she wasn’t Arab enough. But what had her grandparents expected when they came to this country? That their children and grandchildren would be fully Arab, too? That their culture would remain untouched? It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Arab enough. She had lived her entire life straddled between two cultures. She was neither Arab nor American. She belonged nowhere. She didn’t know who she was.

Deya sighed and met the suitor’s eyes. “Follow me.”

She observed him as they settled across from each other at the kitchen table. He was tall and slightly plump, with a closely shaved beard. His pecan hair was parted to one side and brushed back from his face. Better-looking than the other ones, Deya thought. He opened his mouth as if to speak but proceeded to say nothing. Then, after a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m Nasser.”

She tucked her fingers between her thighs, tried to act normal. “I’m Deya.”

There was a pause. “I, um . . .” He hesitated. “I’m twenty-four. I work in a convenience store with my father while I finish school. I’m studying to be a doctor.”

She gave a slow, reluctant smile. From the eager look on his face, she could tell he was waiting for her to do as he did, recite a vague representation of herself, sum up her essence in one line. When she didn’t say anything, he spoke again. “So, what do you do?”

It was easy for her to recognize that he was just being nice. They both knew a teenage Arab girl didn’t do anything. Well, except cook, clean, and catch up on the latest Turkish soap operas. Maybe her grandmother would have allowed her and her sisters to do more had they lived back home, in Palestine, surrounded by people like them. But here, in Brooklyn, all Fareeda could do was shelter them at home and pray they remained good. Pure. Arab.

“I don’t do much,” Deya said.

“You must do something. You don’t have any hobbies?”

“I like to read.”

“What do you read?”

“Anything. It doesn’t matter what it is, I’ll read it. Trust me, I have the time.”

“And why is that?” he asked, knotting his brows.

“My grandmother doesn’t let us do much. She doesn’t even like it when I read.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks books are a bad influence.”

“Oh.” He flushed, as though finally understanding. After a moment he asked, “My mother said you go to an all-girls Islamic school. What grade are you in?”

“I’m a senior.”

Another pause. He shifted in his seat. Something about his nervousness eased her, and she let her shoulders relax.

“Do you want to go to college?” Nasser asked.

Deya studied his face. She had never been asked that particular question the way he asked it. Usually it sounded like a threat, as though if she answered yes, a weight would shift in the scale of nature. Like it was the worst possible thing for a girl to want.

“I do,” she said. “I like school.”

He smiled. “I’m jealous. I’ve never been a good student.”

She fixed her eyes on him. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“That I want to go to college.”

“No. Why would I mind?”

Deya studied him carefully, unsure whether to believe him. He could be pretending not to mind in order to trick her into thinking he was different than the previous suitors, more progressive. He could be telling her exactly what he thought she wanted to hear.

She straightened in her seat, avoiding his question. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t you a good student?”

“I’ve never really liked school,” he said. “But my parents insisted I apply to med school after college. They want me to be a doctor.”

“And do you want to be a doctor?”

Nasser laughed. “Hardly. I’d rather run the family business, maybe even open my own business one day.”

“Did you tell them that?”

“I did. But they said I had to go to college, and if not for medicine, then engineering or law.”

Deya looked at him. She had never known herself to feel anything besides anger and annoyance during these arrangements. One man had spent their entire conversation telling her how much money he earned at his gas station; another man had interrogated her about school, whether she intended to stay home and raise children, whether she would be willing to wear the hijab permanently and not only as part of her school uniform.

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.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nasser asked.

“Nothing, it’s just that . . .” She looked at her fingers. “I’m surprised your parents forced you to go to college. I’d assumed they’d let you make your own choices.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You know.” She met his eyes. “Because you’re a man.”

Nasser looked at her curiously. “Is that what you think? That I can do anything I want because I’m a man?”

“That’s the world we live in.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. It was the closest Deya had ever sat to a man, and she leaned back in her seat, pressing her hands between her thighs.

“You’re strange,” Nasser said.

She could feel her face flush, and she looked away. “Don’t let my grandmother hear you say that.”

“Why not? I meant it as a compliment.”

“She won’t see it that way.”

There was a pause, and Nasser reached for his teacup. “So,” he said after taking a sip. “How do you imagine your life in the future?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want, Deya Ra’ad?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. As if it mattered what she wanted. As if it were up to her. If it were up to her, she’d postpone marriage for another decade. She’d enroll in a study-abroad program, pick up and move to Europe, perhaps Oxford, spending her days in cafés and libraries with a book in one hand and a pen in the other. She’d be a writer, helping people understand the world through stories. But it wasn’t up to her. Her grandparents had forbidden her to attend college before marriage, and she didn’t want to ruin her reputation in the community by defying them. Or worse, be disowned, banned from seeing her sisters, the only home and family she had ever known. She was already abandoned and alone in so many ways; to lose her remaining roots would be too much to bear. She was afraid of the life her grandparents had planned for her, but even more afraid of the unknown. So she tucked her dreams away, did as she was told.

“I just want to be happy,” she told Nasser. “That’s all.”

“Well, that’s simple enough.”

“Is it?” She met his eyes. “If so, then why haven’t I seen it?”

“I’m sure you have. Your grandparents must be happy.”

Deya tried to keep from rolling her eyes. “Teta spends her days complaining about her life, how her children abandoned her, and Seedo barely comes home. Trust me. They’re miserable.”

Nasser shook his head. “Maybe you’re judging them too harshly.”

“Why? Are your parents happy?”

“Of course they are.”

“Do they love each other?”

“Of course they love each other! They’ve been married for over thirty years.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Deya scoffed. “My grandparents have been married for over fifty years, and they can’t stand the sight of each other.”

Nasser said nothing. From the expression on his face, Deya knew he found her pessimism unpleasant. But what should she have said to him instead? Should she have lied? It was already enough she was forced to live a life she didn’t want to live. Should she really begin a marriage with lies? When would it end?

Eventually Nasser cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “Just because you can’t see the happiness in your grandparents’ life, that doesn’t mean they’re not happy. What makes one person happy doesn’t always work for someone else. Take my mother—she values family over everything. As long as she has my father and her children, she’s happy. But not everyone needs family, of course. Some people need money, others need companionship. Everyone is different.”

“And what do you need?” Deya asked.

“What?”

“What do you need to be happy?”

Nasser bit the inside of his lip. “Financial security.”

“Money?”

“No, not money.” He paused. “I want to have a stable career and live comfortably, maybe even retire young.”

She rolled her eyes. “Work, money, same thing.”

“Maybe so,” he said, blushing. “Why, what’s your answer?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not fair. You have to answer the question. What would make you happy?”

“Nothing. Nothing would make me happy.”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean, nothing? Surely something must make you happy.”

She turned to look out the window, feeling his eyes follow her face. “I don’t believe in happiness.”

“That’s not true. Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.”

“It is true.”

“Is it because—” He stopped. “Do you think it’s because of your parents?”

She could tell he was trying to meet her eyes, but she kept them fixed on the window. “No,” she lied. “Not because of them.”

“Then why don’t you believe in happiness?”

He would never understand, even if she tried to explain. She turned to face him. “I just don’t believe in it, that’s all.”

He looked back at her with a glum expression. She wondered what he saw, whether he knew that if he opened her up, he would find, right behind her ribs, only a fist of rot and mud.

“I don’t think you really mean that,” he eventually said, smiling at her. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re just pretending to see how I’d react. You wanted to see if I’d make a run for it.”

“Interesting theory.”

“I think it’s true. In fact, I bet you do it often.”

“Do what?”

“Push people away so they won’t hurt you.” She looked away. “It’s okay. You don’t have to admit it.”

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Fine. But can I tell you something?” She turned back toward him. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She forced a smile, wishing she could trust him. But she didn’t think she knew how.

Fareeda hurried into the kitchen as soon as Nasser left, her almond brown eyes wide and questioning: Did Deya like him? Did she think he’d liked her? Would she agree to the marriage proposal? Deya had said no to a few proposals, her answer ripe on the tip of her tongue. But mostly the suitor was first to withdraw his offer. On these occasions, after the parents had politely informed them that a match had not been made and Fareeda had cried and slapped her face, her grandmother had only become more persistent. A few phone calls, and she had found a new suitor by the end of the week.

But this time was different. “Looks like you didn’t scare this one away,” Fareeda said with a grin from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing the red-and-gold dress she wore when suitors visited, with a cream scarf draped loosely around her head. She moved closer. “His parents said they’d like to visit again soon. What do you think? Did you like Nasser? Should I tell them yes?”

“I don’t know,” Deya said, shoving a wet rag across the kitchen table. “I need some time to think about it.”

“Think about it? What’s there to think about? You should be thankful you even have a choice in the matter. Some girls aren’t that lucky—I certainly never was.”

“This isn’t a choice,” Deya mumbled.

“Why, of course it is!” Fareeda ran her fingers against the kitchen table to make sure it was clean. “My parents never asked me if I wanted to marry your grandfather. They just told me what to do, and I did it.”

“Well, I don’t have parents,” Deya said. “Or uncles or aunts, or anyone besides my sisters for that matter!”

“Nonsense. You have us,” Fareeda said, though she didn’t meet her eyes.

Deya’s grandparents had raised Deya and her three sisters since she was seven years old. For years it had just been the six of them, not the large extended family that was the norm in Arab households. Growing up, Deya had often felt the sting of loneliness, but it stung the most on Eid celebrations, when she and her sisters would sit at home, knowing there was no one coming to visit them on the most important holiday. Her classmates would boast about the festivities they attended, the family members who gave them gifts and money, while Deya smiled, pretending that she and her sisters did those things, too. That they had uncles and aunts and people who loved them. That they had a family. But they didn’t know what it meant to have a family. All they had were grandparents who raised them out of obligation, and each other.

“Nasser would make a fine husband,” Fareeda said. “He’ll be a doctor someday. He’ll be able to give you everything you need. You’d be a fool to turn him down. Proposals like this don’t come around every day.”

“But I’m only eighteen, Teta. I’m not ready to get married.”

“You act like I’m selling you off to slavery! Every mother I know is preparing her daughter for marriage. Tell me, do you know anyone whose mother isn’t doing exactly the same thing?”

Deya sighed. Her grandmother was right. Most of her classmates sat with a handful of men every month, yet none of them seemed to mind. They slicked on makeup and plucked their brows, as though eagerly waiting for a man to scoop them away. Some were already engaged, wrapping up their final year of high school as if by force. As if they’d found something in the prospect of marriage so fulfilling that no amount of education could compare. Deya would often look at them and wonder: Isn’t there more you want to do? There must be more. But then her thoughts would shift, and uncertainty would kick in. She’d start to think maybe they had it right after all. Maybe marriage was the answer.

Fareeda moved closer, shaking her head. “Why are you making this so difficult? What more do you want?”

Deya met her eyes. “I already told you! I want to go to college!”

“Ya Allah.” She drew out her words. “Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not going to college in this house. If your husband allows you to get an education after marriage, that’s his decision. But my job is to secure your future by making sure you and your sisters are married off to good men.”

“But why can’t you secure my future by letting me go to college? Why are you letting some strange man control my fate? What if he turns out like Baba? What if—”

“Not another word,” Fareeda said, her upper lip twitching. “How many times have I told you not to mention your parents in this house?” From the expression on her face, Deya could tell Fareeda wanted to slap her. But it was true. Deya had seen enough of her mother’s life to know it wasn’t the life she wanted.

“I’m afraid, Teta,” Deya whispered. “I don’t want to marry a man I don’t know.”

“Arranged marriages are what we do,” Fareeda said. “Just because we live in America, that doesn’t change how things are.” She shook her head, reaching inside the cabinet for a teakettle. “If you keep turning down proposals, the next thing you know, you’ll be old and no one will want to marry you, and then you’ll spend the rest of your life in this house with me.” She caught Deya’s eyes. “You’ve seen other girls who’ve disobeyed their parents, refusing to get married, or worse, getting divorced, and look at them now! Living at home with their parents, their heads hanging in shame! Is that what you want?”

Deya looked away.

“Listen, Deya.” Fareeda’s voice was softer. “I’m not asking you to marry Nasser tomorrow. Just sit with him again and get to know him.”

Deya hated to admit Fareeda was right, but she found herself reconsidering. Maybe it was time to get married. Maybe she should accept Nasser’s proposal. It wasn’t as if she had a future in Fareeda’s house. She could barely go to the grocery store without supervision. Besides, Nasser seemed nice enough. Better than the other men she’d met over the months. If not him, then who? Eventually, she’d have to agree to someone. She could only refuse for so long. Unless she wanted to ruin her reputation and her sisters’ reputations as well. She could hear their neighbors in her head. That girl is bad. She isn’t respectable. Something must be wrong with her.

Deya agreed. There was something wrong with her: she couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t make up her mind.

“Fine,” she said. “Okay.”

Fareeda’s eyes sprung wide. “Really?”

“I’ll see him again. But only under one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not leaving Brooklyn.”

“Don’t worry.” Fareeda forced a tight smile. “He lives right here in Sunset Park. I know you want to be near your sisters.”

“Please,” Deya said. “When the time comes, will you make sure they marry in Brooklyn, too?” She spoke softly, hoping to elicit some sympathy. “Can you make sure we stay together? Please.”

Fareeda nodded. Deya thought she saw the wetness of tears in her eyes. It was an odd sight. But then Fareeda looked away, twisting her scarf with her fingers.

“Of course,” Fareeda said. “That’s the least I can do.”

FAREEDA MIGHT HAVE forbidden Deya from speaking of her parents, but she couldn’t erase her memories. Deya clearly remembered the day she had learned of Adam’s and Isra’s deaths. She had been seven years old. It was a bright autumn day, but Deya had watched the sky turn a dull silver through her bedroom window. Fareeda had finished clearing the sufra after dinner, washed the dishes, and slipped into her nightgown before creeping downstairs to the basement, where they had lived with their parents. Deya knew something was wrong the minute her grandmother appeared at the doorway. As far back as she could remember, she had never seen Fareeda in the basement.

Fareeda had checked to see if Amal, the youngest of the four, was asleep in her crib, before sitting on the edge of Deya and her sisters’ bed.

“Your parents—” Fareeda took a deep breath and pushed the words out. “They’re dead. They died in a car accident last night.”

After that, it was all a blur. Deya couldn’t remember what Fareeda said next, couldn’t picture the looks on her sisters’ faces. She only remembered disparate bits. Panic. Whimpering. A high-pitched scream. She had dug her fingers into her thighs. She had thought she was going to throw up. She remembered looking out the window and noticing that it had started to rain, as if the universe was grieving with them.

Fareeda had stood up and, weeping, went back upstairs.

That was all Deya knew about her parents’ death, even now, more than ten years later. Perhaps that was why she had spent her childhood with a book in front of her face, trying to make sense of her life through stories. Books were her only reliable source of comfort, her only hope. They told the truth in a way the world never seemed to, guided her the way she imagined Isra would’ve had she still been alive. There were so many things she needed to know, about her family, about the world, about herself.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand. And yet Deya still felt alone in the end, no matter how many books she read, no matter how many tales she told herself. All her life she’d searched for a story to help her understand who she was and where she belonged. But her story was confined to the walls of her home, to the basement of Seventy-Second Street and Fifth Avenue, and she didn’t think she’d ever understand it.

That evening Deya and her sisters ate dinner alone, as they usually did, while Fareeda watched her evening show in the sala. They did not spread a sufra with a succession of dishes, nor set the table with lemon wedges, green olives, chili peppers, and fresh pita bread, as they did when their grandfather came home. Instead the four sisters huddled around the kitchen table together, deep in conversation. Every now and then they’d lower their voices, listening to the sounds in the hall to make sure Fareeda was still in the sala and couldn’t overhear them.

Deya’s younger sisters were her only companions. All four of them were close in age, only one or two years apart, and complemented one another like school subjects in a class schedule. If Deya was a subject, she thought she would be art—dark, messy, emotional. Nora, the second eldest and her closest companion, would be math—solid, precise, and straightforward. It was Nora who Deya relied on for advice, taking comfort in her clear thinking; Nora who tempered Deya’s overspilling emotions, who structured the chaos of Deya’s art. Then there was Layla. Deya thought Layla would be science, always curious, always seeking answers, always logical. Then there was Amal, the youngest of the four and, true to her name, the most hopeful. If Amal was a subject, she would be religion, centering every conversation around halal and haraam, good and evil. It was Amal who always brought them back to God, rounding them out with a handful of faith.

“So, what did you think of Nasser?” asked Nora as she sipped on her lentil soup. “Was he crazy like the last man?” She blew on her spoon. “You know, the one who insisted you start wearing the hijab at once?”

“I don’t think anyone’s as crazy as that man,” Deya said, laughing.

“Was he nice?” Nora asked.

“He was okay,” Deya said, making sure to smile. She didn’t want to worry them. “Really, he was.”

Layla was studying her. “You don’t seem too happy.”

Deya could see her sisters watching her intensely, their eyes making her sweat. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

“Are you going to sit with him again?” said Amal, who, Deya realized, was biting her fingertips.

“Yes. Tomorrow, I think.”

Nora leaned in, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Does he know about our parents?”