A Woman Is No Man(60)

“Enough of this!” Fareeda said. “You heard your grandfather.”

“No, it’s not enough!” Deya’s voice was sharp. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

Fareeda sat up and grabbed the remote. “Is that what you really want?”

“Please.”

“Well, then,” Fareeda said, gritting her teeth. “The truth is, I had no trouble sending my daughter away, and I certainly won’t have trouble doing the same to you.” She turned her attention back to the television. “Now get out of my face. Go!”





Fareeda


Spring 1994

One crisp Friday afternoon, while Isra and Nadine fried a skillet of shakshuka and Sarah brewed a kettle of chai, Fareeda paced the kitchen. The men were stopping by for lunch after jumaa prayer, and Fareeda didn’t have enough food for them. There was no meat to roast, no vegetables to sauté, not even a single can of chickpeas to make hummus, and she rotated around the kitchen with her fingertips in her mouth, trying to calm herself.

“I don’t understand,” Sarah said to Fareeda, who had stopped to open the pantry yet again. “Why do you wait for Baba to bring groceries every Sunday?”

Fareeda stuffed her head into the pantry. How many times had she answered that question? Usually she would brush it off, saying that she couldn’t possibly do everything in the house, that Khaled had to help somehow. But today was one of those days when she felt an unexpected pulse of anger pumping through her. This was all her life had amounted to, all she was good for: sitting around taking criticism and orders.

“But really, Mama,” Sarah said, leaning forward in her seat. “The supermarket is only a few blocks away. Why not go yourself?”

Fareeda didn’t even look up. She reached inside the pantry for a box of cookies before taking a seat at the table. “Because,” she said, pulling one out and taking a bite. She could see the three young women staring at her blankly, waiting for her to finish chewing. But she just reached for another cookie and stuffed it into her mouth.

“Because what?” Sarah said.

“Because I don’t feel like it,” Fareeda said between mouthfuls.

“You know, Mama,” Sarah said, reaching for a cookie, “I could go to the grocery store for you.”

Fareeda looked around the table. Nadine nibbled on the edge of a cookie, while Isra stared straight ahead. She didn’t know which of them she disliked more: Nadine, who had refused to name her son after Khaled and constantly did as she pleased, or Isra, who followed commands like a zombie and still had not borne a son. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Really,” Sarah said. “I could go right after school. That way you don’t have to wait until Sunday each week.”

At once, Fareeda stopped chewing. She swallowed. “Are you crazy?”

Sarah looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“What would I look like, sending my unmarried daughter to the market by herself? Do you want the neighbors to start talking? Saying my daughter is out and about alone, that I don’t know how to raise her?”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” Sarah said.

“Of course you didn’t! You’re too busy stuffing your head in those books of yours to notice what really goes on in the world.”

Fareeda wanted to shake Sarah. It seemed like everything she tried to teach her about their culture rolled off her shoulders. Her only daughter was turning into an American, despite everything she had done to stop it. She had even asked Isra to teach Sarah how to cook, hoping her complacency would rub off on her daughter, but it hadn’t worked. Sarah was still as rebellious as ever.

“That’s what I get for coming to this damn country,” Fareeda said, snatching a handful of cookies. “We should’ve let those soldiers kill us. Do you even know what it means to be a Palestinian girl? Huh? Or did I raise a damn American?”

Sarah said nothing, her eyes glistening with something Fareeda couldn’t quite place. Fareeda scoffed and turned to Nadine. “Tell me, Nadine,” she said. “Did you ever dare ask your mother to go to the supermarket alone back home?”

“Of course not,” Nadine said with a smirk.

“And you—” Fareeda turned to Isra. “Did you ever step foot in Ramallah without your mother?”

Isra shook her head.

“You see,” Fareeda said. “That’s how it’s done. You ask any woman, and she’ll tell you.”

Sarah stared out the window in silence. Fareeda wished her daughter would understand that she didn’t make the world the way it was. She was just trying to help her survive in it. Besides, Sarah should be thankful for the life she had, living in a country where she had food to eat and a roof over her head—enough of everything.

Later, Fareeda gathered the men around the kitchen table, crossing her plump ankles as she admired the view around her. Khaled sat to her right, Omar and Ali to her left. All of them strong and healthy, even if Khaled wasn’t as young as he used to be. She wished Adam was with them, but he was working. He had so much to do, maybe too much. In the mornings, he helped Khaled in the deli, staying up front near the cash register to fill orders. Then he stopped by Omar’s shop to count inventory and deposit checks before heading to his own store. Fareeda was grateful for Adam’s help, though she didn’t tell him as often as she should. She told herself she would thank him tonight.