A Woman Is No Man(69)

Fareeda could hear Sarah mutter under her breath as she left the room. Something about being advertised. Or showcased. Poor girl, Fareeda thought, if she was just now realizing this. That this was a woman’s worth. Sometimes she wished she could sit her daughter down, explain life to her—God knew she had tried. But there were some things you couldn’t explain. Words could do extraordinary things, but sometimes they were not enough.





Deya


Winter 2008

By Sunday, Fareeda had arranged another meeting with Nasser. It was a cold winter day, and Deya circled the sala with a serving tray. She served Nasser’s mother Turkish coffee and roasted watermelon seeds, while Fareeda chatted on, her gold tooth flashing between her lips. Deya wanted to fling the serving tray across the room. How could she trust her grandmother, after all she had learned from Sarah? How could she pretend nothing was wrong? She couldn’t. She needed to stop stalling, needed to speak up for herself before it was too late.

“My grandmother thinks I should marry you,” she said as she settled across from Nasser at the kitchen table. “She says I’d be a fool to turn down your proposal. But I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”

Nasser straightened. “Why not?”

She had the sudden urge to take her words back, but she made herself go on. She could her Sarah’s voice in her ear: Be brave. Speak up for what you want. She turned to meet Nasser’s eyes. “What I mean is, I’m not ready to get married. I want to go to college first.”

“Oh,” Nasser said. “Well, you can do both. Many girls go to college after marriage.”

“Are you saying you would let me go to college?”

“I don’t see why not.”

She blinked at him. “What about after college? Would you let me work?”

Nasser stared at her. “Why would you need to work? You’ll be well provided for.”

“But what if I want to work with my degree?”

“If both of us were working, then who would raise the children?”

“See? That’s my point.”

“What point?”

“Why do I have to stay at home and raise the children? Why do I have to give up my dreams?”

“Because one of us has to do it,” Nasser said, seeming confused. “And of course that should be the mother. It’s only natural.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? It’s true. I’m not trying to offend you, but everyone knows it’s a woman’s job to raise children.”

Deya pushed herself up from the table. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You’re just like the rest of them.”

Nasser stared at her, his face contorted with shock and anger—and something else. Deya wasn’t sure what it was. “I’m not trying to upset you,” he said. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“What’s next? You’re going to beat me and say that’s natural, too?”

“What are you talking about?” Nasser said. “I would never put my hands on a woman. Maybe that’s how it used to be, but I know better.”

Deya observed him. He sat up straight, breathing heavily, a spot on his forehead flushed pink. She cleared her throat. “What about your father?”

“What about him?”

“Does he beat your mother?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“Of course not!” Nasser said. “My father would never beat my mother. He treats her like a queen.”

“Sure he does.”

“You’re being really rude, you know that? I know you’ve been through a lot, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to people like that.”

“What do you know about what I’ve been through?”

“Are you kidding me, Deya? Everyone knows everything in this town. But just because your father beat your mother, that doesn’t mean every man beats his wife.” Deya stared at him, and he scoffed. “I mean, for God’s sake, it’s not like he didn’t have a reason!”

It was as though he’d smashed a brick into her face. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Nasser stood. “It was nothing. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” He walked toward the doorway without meeting her eyes. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Deya said, following him across the kitchen. “Don’t go. Tell me what you meant.”

But Nasser rushed down the hall and out the door in a blink, his startled mother following suit, before Deya could say another word.





Fareeda


Fall 1995

Fareeda had suspected all along that Umm Ahmed would not be interested in Sarah for her son. It was because Umm Ahmed didn’t share Fareeda’s view of the world. She thought Fareeda wasn’t religious enough, that she shamed girls too much. But at least Fareeda understood the way the world worked, unlike Umm Ahmed, whose daughter Fatima had gotten divorced. She was sure Hannah would get divorced, too. That’s what happens, Fareeda thought, when you live life as though you’re in a TV commercial, everyone running around laughing, falling in and out of love.

“The phone never rings when you wait for it,” Fareeda said now, chomping on a stick of gum and staring at Nadine, who had joined her in the sala. It was the beginning of the school year, and Isra was waiting for Deya at the bus stop. It was her first day of preschool.