A Woman Is No Man(41)

Deya was convinced she was dreaming. She stood in the center of the bookstore, staring at Sarah, stunned. There was so much to say, and she opened her mouth, searching for the right words, but none came to her.

“Let’s sit,” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. Her voice was strong, declamatory.

Deya followed her down the bookstore, mesmerized. She glanced at all the books, hundreds of them, covering most of the exposed brick walls. There was a café bar at the end of the room, with coffee tables arranged around it, and a few people sat with books and cups of coffee in hand. She followed Sarah to the corner of the café, where they settled opposite each other on a pair of chairs by a window. The smell of coffee and the overcast winter sun through the window created a warm glow between them.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you who I was over the phone,” Sarah began. “I was afraid you’d tell my parents I called.”

“I’m confused,” Deya said, sitting up. “I thought you were in Palestine. How long have you been back? Why don’t Teta and Seedo know you’re here?”

“That’s a long story,” Sarah said in a soft voice. “It’s part of the reason I reached out.”

Deya blinked at her. “What’s the rest?”

“I know they want you to marry soon. I wanted you to know you have choices.”

“Choices?” Deya could feel herself start to laugh. “Is that a joke?”

Sarah smiled a small smile. “No, Deya. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Deya opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then she said, “But why would you come all the way back to New York for that? And why now? I don’t get it.”

“I’ve wanted to see you for years, but I had to wait until you were old enough to understand. When I heard you’ve been sitting with suitors, I was afraid you’d get married before I had a chance to talk to you. But now that you’re here, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Is it about my parents?”

There was a pause, and Sarah looked out the window. “Yes, them. And a lot of other things too.”

Deya studied Sarah’s expression. She could see from the look in her eyes, the way she stared at the glass, there was something safeguarded. “Why should I trust you?”

“I have no reason to lie to you,” Sarah said. “You don’t have to believe me, though. All I ask is that you listen to me before you decide for yourself.”

“Well, I don’t trust anyone.”

Sarah smiled and leaned back into her chair. “Not so long ago, I was just like you,” she said. “I remember what it was like being raised in that house. How could I forget? I understand what you’re going through, and I want to help you make the right decisions, or at least let you know you have options.”

“You mean about getting married?”

Sarah nodded.

“Do you think I have a choice? I don’t! You, of all people, should understand that.”

“I do understand. That’s why I had to see you.”

“I don’t see how you can help me,” Deya said. “If you could, you would have helped yourself.”

“But I did help myself.”

“How?”

Sarah spoke slowly, a half smile on her lips. “I haven’t been in Palestine this entire time, or at all, in fact. I never got married.”





Fareeda


Summer 1991

That summer, Fareeda and Khaled decided to take Omar back home in search of a bride. There was no shortage of Muslim Palestinian girls in Brooklyn, but Fareeda refused to marry her son to one of them. No, no, no. Everyone knew that girls raised in America blatantly disregarded their Arab upbringings. Some of them walked around town in tight clothes and a face full of makeup. Some dated behind their parents’ back. Some weren’t even virgins! The thought alone made Fareeda shudder. Not that Omar was a virgin, necessarily. But it was different for a man, of course. You couldn’t prove whether or not he was a virgin. No one’s reputation was on the line. She could hear her mother’s voice now: “A man leaves the house a man and comes back a man. No one can take that away from him.” But a woman was a fragile thing. This was precisely why Fareeda couldn’t bear the thought of raising more girls in this country. Wasn’t it enough she had Sarah to worry about? And now Deya, too? She prayed Isra wasn’t pregnant with another girl.

Fareeda held on to this hope as she boarded the plane, walking uneasily behind Omar and Khaled. She couldn’t believe it had been fifteen years since they first came to America. When they first landed in New York, Khaled had promised it was only a temporary situation, that once they made enough money they would gather their children and return home to die on holy land. But as the years passed, Fareeda knew that day would never come. She did what she could to ease this truth. She made sure her children knew Arabic, that Sarah was raised conservatively, and that her sons, as Americanized as they were becoming, still ended up doing what was expected of Palestinian men: marrying Palestinian girls and passing down the traditions to their own children. If she didn’t preserve their culture, their identity, then she would lose them. She knew this in her core.

That had been her biggest fear lately, especially watching Omar and Ali come and go as they pleased. But that’s just the way things were, Fareeda thought, studying the Manhattan skyline as the plane climbed into the air, her hand clutching Khaled’s. There was nothing she could do but marry Omar off before it was too late.