A Woman Is No Man(37)
But it’s better than living in a refugee camp, Fareeda reminded herself as she eyed the passing cars nervously, gathering herself to cross the street. Better than the years she and Khaled had wasted in those shelters. She thought of the broken roads of her childhood, of days spent squatting beside her mother, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, washing clothes in a rusted barrel. Days when she would stand in line for hours at the UN station, waiting to collect bags of rice and flour, or a bundle of blankets to keep them from freezing in the harsh winters, wobbling under their weight as she carried them back to her tent. Days when the open sewers smelled so harshly that she walked around with a laundry pin on her nose. Back then, in the refugee camp, her body carried her worry like an extra limb. At least here, in America, they were warm and had food on their table, their own roof over their heads.
They reached Umm Ahmed’s block. All the houses looked the same, and the people strolling the sidewalks looked the same, too. Not in how they dressed, which Fareeda found distasteful, with their ripped jeans and low-cut tops, but how they moved, rushing across the street like insects. She wondered how it felt to be an American, to know exactly where you were heading each time you left your front door, and exactly what you would do when you got there. She had spent her entire life being pushed and pulled, from kitchen to kitchen, child to child. But it was better this way, she thought. Better to be grounded, to know your place, than to live the way these Americans lived, cruising from day to day with no values to anchor them down. It’s no wonder they ended up alone—alcoholics, addicts, divorced.
“Ahlan wasahlan,” Umm Ahmed greeted them as she led Fareeda and Isra into the sala. Inside, other women were already seated. Fareeda knew all of them, and they stood to greet her, exchanging kisses on the cheek, smiling as they stole glances at Deya. Fareeda could see Isra flush in embarassment. Most of these women had come to congratulate them when Deya was born, and made crass remarks about Isra not having a son. More than once, she’d had to pass Isra a look, clearing her throat and signaling her to relax. She wished Isra understood that such comments were normal, that she shouldn’t take everything so personally. But Isra was sensitive, Fareeda thought, shaking her head. Too sensitive. She hadn’t seen enough of the world to be otherwise.
“Thank you for coming,” Umm Ahmed said as she poured Fareeda and Isra cups of chai. Then she served them a purple container of Mackintosh’s chocolates, waiting until each woman had plucked a shiny piece from the box before returning to her seat.
“Alf mabrouk,” Fareeda said, unwrapping a yellow caramel stick. “A thousand congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Umm Ahmed turned to Isra, resting her eyes on her swollen belly. “Inshallah your turn soon, dear.”
Isra nodded, her jaw tightening. Fareeda wished she would say something nice to Umm Ahmed, or to any of the women in the room for that matter. They must all think she was a fool, always so quiet and vacant. Fareeda had wanted a daughter-in-law she could show off to her friends, like a twenty-four-karat gold bangle. Yes, Isra could cook and clean, but the girl knew nothing about entertaining and socializing. She was as dull as dishwater, and there was nothing Fareeda could do about it. She would have to choose more carefully when finding Omar a wife.
“So tell me,” Fareeda said to Umm Ahmed, who sat in the middle of the room. “Ahmed must be so excited to give his parents the first grandson.”
“Oh yes,” Umm Ahmed said, careful not to meet Isra’s eyes. “Alhamdulillah. We’re all very happy.”
“There is no better blessing than a healthy baby boy,” said one of the women. “Of course, we all love our daughters, but nothing compares to having a son.”
“Yes, yes,” Fareeda agreed. She could sense Isra’s eyes on her, but she didn’t want to seem envious by not participating in the conversation. “Adam does everything for us—running the family business, helping with the bills. I don’t know what we would’ve done if he’d been a girl.”
The women nodded. “Especially in this country,” said one of them. “The boys are twice as needed and the girls are twice as hard to raise.”
Fareeda laughed. “Exactly! I only have Sarah, and raising her in this country gives me nightmares. God help any woman who has to raise a daughter in America.”
The women nodded in agreement. Glancing at Isra, whose eyes were locked on Deya’s face, Fareeda felt sorry she had to hear those words. But it was the truth. It was better she learned now, Fareeda thought. Then maybe she wouldn’t think it was just Fareeda who thought this way. It wasn’t just her! Every woman in the room knew this to be true, and not just them, but their parents and their parents’ parents and all the generations before them. Perhaps if Isra realized how important having a son was, she wouldn’t be so sensitive about it.
Umm Ahmed poured the women another round of chai. “Still,” she said, her face hidden behind the steam. “What would we have done without our daughters? Fatima and Hannah do everything for me. I wouldn’t trade them for a thousand sons.”
“Hmm,” Fareeda said, snatching a piece of chocolate from the purple Mackintosh’s container and shoving it into her mouth. She was glad Sarah wasn’t here to hear this.
“So I’m assuming Ahmed named the boy after his father,” Fareeda said.
“Yes,” Umm Ahmed said, placing the teapot on the coffee table and leaning back in her seat. “Noah.”