A Woman Is No Man(64)
“What makes you happy?” Isra asked Adam one night as she watched him eat his dinner. She didn’t know where the question came from, but by the time it had left her lips, she found herself leaning forward in her seat, both eyes glued on Adam for his answer.
He looked up from his plate, swaying a bit in his seat. She knew he was drunk—Sarah had taught her how to recognize the state. “What makes me happy?” he said. “What kind of question is that?”
Why did she care what made him happy? The man who beat her mercilessly, who had sucked the hope from her? She wasn’t sure, but in that moment it felt important, intensely so. She poured him a cup of water. “I just want to know what makes my husband happy. Surely something must.”
Adam took a gulp of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know, not once in my entire life has anyone ever asked me that question. What makes Adam happy? No one cares what makes Adam happy. All they care about is what Adam can do for them. Yes, yes,” he said, slurring a little. “How much money can Adam bring home? How many businesses can he run? How much can he help his brothers? How many male heirs can he produce?” He paused, looking at Isra. “But happiness? There’s no such thing as happiness for people like us. Family duty comes first.”
“But I care what makes you happy,” Isra said.
He shook his head. “Why should you care? I haven’t been good to you.”
“Still,” she said, her voice low and soft. “I know what you’re going through. I know you’re under a lot of pressure, too. I can understand how that can make you act—” She stopped, looked away.
“Walking the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn,” Adam said. Isra turned back to him to find his face had softened. “Some early mornings on my way to work, I don’t take the train straight into the city. Instead I stop to walk the bridge in time for sunrise.” His words slipped out as though he had forgotten Isra was in the room. “There’s something magical about watching the sunrise when I’m so high up there. In that moment, when the first light hits my face, I feel like the sun has swallowed me up. Everything goes quiet. The cars rush beneath my feet, but I don’t hear a thing. I can see the whole city, and I think about the millions of people living here, the struggles they face, and then I think about the men back home and their struggles, too, and in an instant my worries vanish. I stare at the sky and remind myself that at least I am here, in this beautiful country, at least I have this view.”
“You never told me that before,” Isra whispered. He nodded but averted his gaze, as though he had said too much. “It sounds lovely,” she said, smiling at him. “It reminds me of when I used to watch the sunset back home, how the sun would sink into the mountains and disappear. It always made me feel better, too, knowing I wasn’t the only person staring up at the mountains, that in those moments I was connected to everyone watching the sunset, all of us held together by this magnificent view.” She tried to catch his eyes, but he stared at his plate and resumed eating. “Maybe we can watch the sunrise together one day,” Isra said.
“Inshallah,” he said between mouthfuls of food, but from the look on his face, Isra knew they never would. There had been a time when this would have hurt her, and she was surprised to find that she was no longer upset. For so many years she had believed that if a woman was good enough, obedient enough, she might be worthy of a man’s love. But now, reading her books, she was beginning to find a different kind of love. A love that came from inside her, one she felt when she was all alone, reading by the window. And through this love, she was beginning to believe, for the first time in her life, that maybe she was worthy after all.
“I don’t understand why you’re wasting time,” Fareeda said to Isra one Sunday afternoon in March. They were all gathered together at Fort Hamilton Park to celebrate Eid al-Fitr, which Isra found strange, considering that most of them hadn’t observed the Ramadan fast that year. Fareeda couldn’t fast because of her diabetes, Nadine was pregnant, and Sarah only pretended to fast so as not to upset Khaled, who, besides Isra, was the only one who fasted every year. She wondered if Adam only pretended to fast, too, but had never dared ask him.
She didn’t know why she herself still observed Ramadan. Some days she thought she fasted out of guilt—for often failing to perform her five daily prayers, for failing to trust in Allah and her naseeb. Other days fasting reminded her of her childhood, of evenings seated with her family around a sufra of lentil soup and fresh dates, counting down the minutes until sunset so they could eat and drink again. But most days Isra suspected she fasted purely from habit, a soothing familiarity in performing ritual for ritual’s sake alone.
“Really,” Fareeda said now, “why aren’t you pregnant again? What are you waiting for? You still need a son, you know.”
Isra sat at the edge of the picnic blanket, as far away from Fareeda as possible, and watched the rest of the family. Sarah and Deya fed pigeons by the pier. Khaled carried Ameer over his shoulders. Omar and Nadine held hands and looked out onto the Hudson River. Adam lit a cigarette. Behind them, the Verrazano Bridge stood high and wide, like a mountain on the horizon. “I already have three children,” Isra said. “I’m tired.”
“Tired?” Fareeda said. “When I was your age, I’d already given birth to—” She stopped. “Never mind the number. My point is that Adam needs a son, and you need to get pregnant soon to give him one.”