A Woman Is No Man(90)

Tell me, Mama. Did you know this would happen to me? Did you know? Is this why you never looked at me as a child? Is this why I always felt like you were drifting far, far away? Is this what I saw when you finally met my eyes? Anger? Resentment? Shame? Am I becoming like you, Mama? I’m so scared, and nobody understands me. Do you even understand me? I don’t think so.

Why am I even writing this now? Even if I mailed this off to you, what good would it do? Would you help me, Mama? Tell me, what would you do? Only I know what you would do. You’d tell me, Be patient, endure. You’d tell me that women everywhere are suffering, and that no pain is worse than being divorced, a world of shame on my shoulders. You’d tell me to make it work for my kids. My girls. To be patient so I don’t bring them shame. So I don’t ruin their lives. But don’t you see, Mama? Don’t you see? I’m ruining their lives anyway. I’m ruining them.

Isra paused after finishing the letter. She folded it twice before tucking it between the pages of A Thousand and One Nights. Then she returned the book to the back of the closet, where she knew no one would find it.

I’m crazy, she thought. If anyone finds this, they’ll think I’ve gone mad. They’ll know there’s something dark inside me. But writing was the only thing that helped. With Sarah gone, she didn’t have anyone to talk to anymore. And the loss of this thing, this connection she hadn’t even realized she needed until she’d had it, made her want to cry all the time. She knew she would always be alone now.

Bedtime, and her daughters wanted a story.

“But we don’t have any books,” Isra said. With Sarah gone, they were limited to the books Deya brought home from school, and now they were on summer break. Thinking of Sarah’s absence, of all the books she would no longer read, Isra felt a wave of darkness wash over her. Sharing her favorite thing with her daughters had once been the best part of her day.

“But I want a story,” Deya cried. Isra looked away. How much she hated the sight of Deya’s troubled eyes. How much they reminded her of her failure.

“I’ll read to you tomorrow,” she said. “It’s time for bed.”

She sat by the window and watched them fall asleep, telling herself everything was okay. That it was normal for her to feel frustrated, that her daughters wouldn’t even remember her sadness. She told herself she would feel better tomorrow. But she knew she was lying to herself—tomorrow her anger would only multiply. Because it wasn’t okay. Because she knew she was getting worse, that this deep, dark thing inside her was not going anywhere. Was it a jinn, or was it herself? How was she to know? All she knew was that she was afraid of what would become of her, of how much her daughters would come to resent her, of how, even though she knew she was wrong, she couldn’t stop hurting them. Is this what Adam felt, Isra wondered, when he came into the room at night, ripping off his belt and whipping her? Did he feel powerless, too? Like he needed to stop but couldn’t, like he was the worst person on earth? Only he wasn’t the worst person on earth. She was, and she deserved to get beaten for all of it.





Deya


Winter 2009

As the weeks passed, Deya realized a change had come over Fareeda. She did not arrange for any marriage suitors to visit. She said nothing when she saw Deya reading. She even smiled timidly whenever their eyes met in the kitchen. But Deya looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Fareeda said one night as Deya cleared the sufra after dinner. Fareeda stood slumped against the kitchen doorway. “I know you’re still angry with me. But I hope you know I was only trying to protect you.”

Deya said nothing, busying herself with a stack of dirty plates in the sink. What good were apologies now, after everything Fareeda had done?

“Please, Deya,” she whispered. “How long are you going to stay angry? You have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m your grandmother. I would never hurt you on purpose. You have to know that. You have to forgive me. Please, I’m sorry.”

“What good is your apology if nothing has changed?”

For a long time Fareeda stared at her with wet eyes from the doorway. Then she sighed heavily. “I have something for you.”

Deya followed Fareeda to her bedroom, where she reached for something inside her closet. It was a stack of paper. She handed it to Deya. “I never thought I’d give this to you.”

“What is it?” Deya asked, even as she caught sight of the familiar Arabic handwriting.

“Letters your mother wrote. These are the rest of them. They are all I found.”

Deya held the letters tight. “Why are you giving them to me now?”

“Because I want you to know I understand. Because I should’ve never kept her from you. I’m sorry, daughter. I’m so sorry.”

Downstairs, in the darkness of her room, Deya held her mother’s words up to the window, where a faint light came in from the streetlamps outside. There were at least a hundred letters in her hands, each stacked behind the other in no particular order, all addressed to Mama—Isra’s mother. Deya didn’t know which to read first. Trembling, she sifted through them until her eyes settled on one. She began to read.





Isra


Summer 1997

Summer passed slowly. During the days, nothing could be heard in the house except the whistle of a teakettle. Fareeda hardly spoke, the phone no longer rang, and Isra completed her chores in silence. Sometimes Khaled joined her in the kitchen on Fridays to make za’atar. It was a new ritual. Isra thought the za’atar brought him comfort. She would stand quietly by his side, the way she had done years ago with Mama, handing him skillets and spatulas, washing dishes he no longer needed. Neither of them ever looked at each other. Neither said a word.