Page 17 - A Woman Is No Man

Look at Isra and her husband, people would say. A love you only see in
fairy tales.
Isra cleared her throat. “But Mama, what about love?”

Mama glared at her through the steam. “What about it?”
“I’ve always wanted to fall in love.”
“Fall in love? What are you saying? Did I raise a sharmouta?”
“No . . . no . . .” Isra hesitated. “But what if the suitor and I don’t love
each other?”
“Love each other? What does love have to do with marriage? You think
your father and I love each other?”

Isra’s eyes shifted to the ground. “I thought you must, a little.”
Mama sighed. “Soon you’ll learn that there’s no room for love in a
woman’s life. There’s only one thing you’ll need, and that’s sabr, patience.”
Isra tried to curb her disappointment. She chose her next words
carefully. “Maybe life in America will be different for women.”
Mama stared at her, flat and unblinking. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Isra said, softening her voice so as not to upset her
mother. “But maybe American culture isn’t as strict as ours. Maybe women
are treated better.”
“Better?” Mama mocked, shaking her head as she sautéed the
vegetables. “You mean like in those fairy tales you read?”
She could feel her face redden. “No, not like that.”
“Like what, then?”

Isra wanted to ask Mama if marriage in America was like her parents’
marriage, where the man determined everything in the family and beat his
wife if she displeased him. Isra had been five years old the first time she’d
witnessed Yacob hit Mama. It was over an undercooked piece of lamb. Isra
could still remember the pleading look in Mama’s eyes, begging him to
stop, Yacob’s sullen face as he struck her. A darkness had rumbled through

Isra then, a new awareness of the world unfolding. A world where not only
children were beaten but mothers, too. Looking in Mama’s eyes that night,
watching her weep violently, Isra had felt an unforgettable rage.
She considered her words again. “Do you think maybe women have
more respect in America?”
Mama fixed her with a glare. “Respect?”
“Or maybe worth? I don’t know.”