Page 105 - A Woman Is No Man

But it’s better than living in a refugee camp, Fareeda reminded herself
as she eyed the passing cars nervously, gathering herself to cross the street.
Better than the years she and Khaled had wasted in those shelters. She

thought of the broken roads of her childhood, of days spent squatting beside
her mother, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, washing clothes in a rusted
barrel. Days when she would stand in line for hours at the UN station,
waiting to collect bags of rice and flour, or a bundle of blankets to keep
them from freezing in the harsh winters, wobbling under their weight as she
carried them back to her tent. Days when the open sewers smelled so
harshly that she walked around with a laundry pin on her nose. Back then,

in the refugee camp, her body carried her worry like an extra limb. At least
here, in America, they were warm and had food on their table, their own
roof over their heads.
They reached Umm Ahmed’s block. All the houses looked the same,
and the people strolling the sidewalks looked the same, too. Not in how
they dressed, which Fareeda found distasteful, with their ripped jeans and

low-cut tops, but how they moved, rushing across the street like insects. She
wondered how it felt to be an American, to know exactly where you were
heading each time you left your front door, and exactly what you would do
when you got there. She had spent her entire life being pushed and pulled,
from kitchen to kitchen, child to child. But it was better this way, she
thought. Better to be grounded, to know your place, than to live the way
these Americans lived, cruising from day to day with no values to anchor

them down. It’s no wonder they ended up alone—alcoholics, addicts,
divorced.

“Ahlan wasahlan,” Umm Ahmed greeted them as she led Fareeda and Isra
into the sala. Inside, other women were already seated. Fareeda knew all of
them, and they stood to greet her, exchanging kisses on the cheek, smiling
as they stole glances at Deya. Fareeda could see Isra flush in embarassment.
Most of these women had come to congratulate them when Deya was born,

and made crass remarks about Isra not having a son. More than once, she’d
had to pass Isra a look, clearing her throat and signaling her to relax. She
wished Isra understood that such comments were normal, that she shouldn’t
take everything so personally. But Isra was sensitive, Fareeda thought,
shaking her head. Too sensitive. She hadn’t seen enough of the world to be
otherwise.