A Woman is No Man

Fareeda turned to Khaled, fixing her eyes on his face. “What are your plans today?”

“I don’t know.” He dipped his bread in olive oil and za’atar. “Why?”

“I need you to take me to town.”

“What do you need?”

“Meat and groceries.”

Isra tried to keep from staring at Fareeda. Even though she was not much older than Mama, they were nothing alike. There were no undertones of fear in Fareeda’s voice, nor did she lower her gaze in Khaled’s presence. Isra wondered if Khaled beat her.

“Do I have to go too, Baba?” Sarah asked from across the table. “I’m tired.”

“You can stay home with Isra,” he said without looking up.

Sarah exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I hate grocery shopping.”

Isra watched as Khaled sipped his chai, unfazed by Sarah’s boldness. If Isra had spoken to Yacob like that, he would’ve slapped her. But perhaps parents didn’t hit their children in America. She pictured herself raised in America by Khaled and Fareeda, wondered what her life might have been like.

After a moment, Khaled excused himself to get ready. Isra and Sarah got up as well, carrying the empty plates and cups to the sink. Fareeda remained seated, sipping her tea.

“Fareeda!” Khaled called from the hall.

“Shu? What do you want?”

“Pour me another cup of chai.”

Fareeda popped a ball of falafel into her mouth, clearly in no hurry to obey her husband’s command. Isra watched, confused and anxious, as Fareeda sipped her tea. When was she going to pour Khaled another cup of chai? Should Isra offer to do it instead? She looked at Sarah, but the girl seemed unconcerned. Isra forced herself to relax. Maybe this was how wives spoke to their husbands in America. Maybe things were different here after all.

Adam came home at sunset. “Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m taking you out.”

Isra tried to contain her excitement. She was standing in front of the living room window, where she had been for some time, studying the plane trees outside, wondering if they smelled woody or sweet or a scent she had never smelled before. She kept her eyes on the glass so Adam wouldn’t see her blushing.

“Should I tell Fareeda to get ready, too?” she asked.

“No, no.” Adam laughed. “She already knows what Brooklyn looks like.”

Downstairs, in front of a square mirror propped on her bedroom wall, Isra couldn’t decide what to wear. She paced around the room, trying one color of hijab after another. Back home she would’ve worn the lavender one, with the silver beads stitched across it. But she was in America now. Perhaps she should wear black or brown so she wouldn’t stick out. Or maybe not. Maybe a lighter color would work better, would make her seem bright and happy.

She was studying the color of her face against a mossy green headpiece when Adam entered the room. He eyed her hijab nervously, and through the mirror, she could see the straining in his jaw. He moved closer to her, not once looking away from her head, and the whole time he was walking, she felt her heart swelling inside her chest, inching toward her throat. He was looking at her hijab the way he had looked that day on the balcony, and it was only now that Isra understood why: he didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to wear that thing, you know,” Adam finally said. She blinked at him in shock. “It’s true.” He paused. “You see, people here don’t care if your hair is showing. There’s no need to cover it up.”

Isra didn’t know what to say. Growing up, she had been taught that the most important part of being a Muslim girl was wearing the hijab. That modesty was a woman’s greatest virtue. “But what about our religion?” she whispered. “What about God?”

Adam gave her a pitying look. “We have to live carefully here, Isra. People flee to America from war-torn countries every day. Some are Arabs. Some are Muslims. Some are both, like us. But we could live here for the rest of our lives and never be Americans. You think you’re doing the right thing by wearing this hijab, but that’s not what Americans will see when they look at you. They won’t see your modesty or your goodness. All they’ll see is an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong.” He sighed, looking up to meet her eyes. “It’s hard. But all we can do is try to fit in.”

Isra unwrapped her hijab and set it on the bed. She had never once considered not wearing it in public. But standing in front of the mirror, eyeing the long black strands of hair as they wilted off her shoulders, she found herself feeling hopeful again. Perhaps this would be her first taste of freedom. There was no reason to reject it before she had tried it.

They left the house soon after. Isra fingered a strand of hair nervously as she stepped out of the front door. Adam didn’t seem to notice. He told her that the best way to truly experience Brooklyn was not by car or train but by foot. So they walked. The moon shone above them in a starless sky, illuminating the budding trees that lined the street. They strolled down the long, narrow block labeled Seventy-Second Street until they reached the corner, and suddenly Isra felt as if she had been transported to a new world.

“This is Fifth Avenue,” Adam said. “The heart of Bay Ridge.”

Everywhere Isra looked, lights were flashing. The street was lined with an assortment of shops: bakeries, restaurants, pharmacies, law offices. “Bay Ridge is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in Brooklyn,” Adam said as they walked. “Immigrants from all over the world live here. You can see it in the food—meat dumplings, kofta, fish stews, challah bread. You see that block?” Adam pointed into the distance. “Every single shop on that block belongs to Arabs. There is a halal butcher shop on the corner, Alsalam, where my father goes every Sunday to get our meats, and then there is the Lebanese pastry shop, where they bake fresh saj bread every morning. During Ramadan, they stuff the loaves with melted cheese, syrup, and sesame seeds, just like back home.”

Isra scanned the shops, mesmerized. She recognized the smell of meat-stuffed kibbeh, lamb shawarma, the thick syrupy musk of baklava, even the faint hint of double-apple hookah. And other familiar smells lingered in the air, too. Fresh basil. Piping grease. Sewers, sweat. The scents merged into one another, became whole, and in an instant Isra felt as if she had fallen through the cracked cement and landed back home.

Around her people strolled down the block, pushing strollers and carrying grocery bags, swirling in and out of shops like marbles. They looked nothing like the Americans she had imagined: women with bright red lipstick, men in polished black suits. Instead, many of the women looked no different than her, plain and modestly dressed, many even wearing a hijab. And the men looked like Adam, with olive skin and rough beards, clothes meant for tough labor.

Isra didn’t know what to think, eyeing the familiar faces floating down Fifth Avenue. These people were just like them, living in America and trying to fit in. Yet they still wore their hijabs; they didn’t change who they were. So why did Adam insist that she change who she was?

After a long time watching them, Isra was no longer thinking of her hijab. Instead, she thought of all the people drifting under the lamplights, people who lived in America but weren’t Americans at all, women who were just like her, displaced from their homes, torn between two cultures and struggling to start anew. She wondered what her new life would be like.

That night, Isra went to bed early. Adam was taking a shower, and she thought it best that he return to find her asleep. It was her first night alone with him, and she knew what would happen if she stayed awake. She knew he would put himself inside her. She knew it would hurt. She also knew—though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it—that she would come to enjoy it. Mama had told her this. Still, Isra wasn’t ready. In bed, she closed her eyes, tried to silence her thoughts. She felt as if she were running frantically, spinning in circles.

In the bathroom she could hear Adam turn off the running water, pulling the shower curtain open, then shut, fumbling for something inside the cabinet. She pulled the blanket over her body like a shield. Lying still beneath the cold sheets, she watched him through half-open eyes as he entered the room. He was wearing nothing but a bath towel, and she had a full view of his lean, golden body, the coarse black hair on his chest. For a moment he stood there, staring at her as though willing her to look at him, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes fully. He took off the bath towel and approached her. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, trying to relax. But her body only stiffened as he neared.

He climbed onto the bed, pulled back the sheets, and reached out to touch her. She inched away until she thought she would fall off the other side. But he grabbed her, pushing her into the mattress. Then he was on top of her. She could smell his ashy breath as he exhaled in her face. Her hands shook furiously, and she dug her fingers into her ivory nightgown. He pulled her hands away, tugging off her gown and underwear—a bright white set Mama had given her specifically for this night, so Adam would know she was pure. Only Isra didn’t feel pure. She felt dirty and afraid.

Adam locked his hands around her hips, pinning down her struggling body. She kept her eyes shut tight as he shoved her legs open, gritted her teeth as he thrust himself inside her. Then she heard a scream. Was it hers? She was afraid to open her eyes. There was something about the darkness that felt safe, familiar. Lying there, eyes closed, memories of her home somehow overwhelmed her. She saw herself running in an open field, picking figs from the trees, saving the best ones for Mama, who waited for her at the top of the hill with an empty basket. She saw herself playing with marbles in the yard, chasing them as they rolled down the hill. She saw herself blowing dandelions in the cemetery, reciting a prayer on every gravestone.

Then she felt a gush down her thighs: she knew it must be blood. She tried to ignore the burning sensation between her legs, as if a fist were punching through her, tried to forget that she was in a strange room with a strange man, her insides being forced open. She wished Mama had warned her about the powerlessness a woman feels when a man puts himself inside her, about the shame that fills her when she is forced to give herself up, forced to be still. But this must be normal, Isra told herself. It must be.

So she lay there as Adam continued to thrust himself in and out of her until, in rapid succession, he let out a deep breath and collapsed on top of her. Then he lifted his body off hers and hobbled out of bed.

Isra rolled over and buried her face in the sheets. The room was dark and cold, and she pulled the blanket over her goose-pimpled flesh. Where had he gone? After a moment, she heard him pacing in the bathroom. He flicked the light on, and she heard him open a cabinet. Then he turned the light off and returned to the room.

Isra didn’t know why, but in that moment she thought she was going to die. She imagined Adam slicing her neck with a knife, shooting her in the chest, setting her on fire. What made her think these horrible things, she didn’t know. But sprawled across the mattress, all she could see was darkness and blood.

She felt him nearing, and her heart began to swell. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt him place his hands on her knees, and her legs twitched away instinctively. He leaned closer. Slowly, he spread her legs apart. Then he dabbed a rag against her split flesh.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to.”

Lying there, trembling, Isra thought of Fareeda. She imagined her creeping down to the bathroom earlier that day, smiling slyly as she placed a bundle of fresh cloth in the cabinet for her son to use. It was clear to Isra what Adam was doing: he was collecting evidence.

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