Page 263 - A Woman Is No Man
P. 263

Deya




                                                         Winter 2009


                For the remainder of the winter, Deya did little but read Isra’s letters over

                and over, desperate to understand her mother. She read on the school bus
                every morning, her eyes buried in her lap. In class she hid the letters inside
                her  open  textbook  pages,  unable  to  focus  on  the  lesson  at  hand.  During
                lunch she read in the library, hidden between bookshelves. Some days she
                even  read  Isra’s  Arabic  edition  of  A  Thousand  and  One  Nights, flipping
                page after page, searching for herself and her mother in its stories.
                     What  was  Deya  looking  for  exactly?  She  wasn’t  sure.  A  part  of  her

                hoped Isra had left her a clue to finding her path, even though she knew
                such thinking was fruitless—clearly her mother had never even found her
                own. Most days she could hear Isra’s words echoing in her head: I’m afraid
                of  what  will  happen  to  my  daughters.  She  could  hear  the  voice  of  Isra’s
                mama, too: A woman will always be a woman. Every time Deya closed her
                eyes,  she  pictured  Isra’s  face,  afraid  and  confused,  wishing  she  had  the

                courage to stand up for what she wanted, wishing she had defied Mama and
                Yacob, had defied Adam and Fareeda, had done what she wanted for herself
                rather than what she was expected to do.
                     Then  one  day  in  early  spring,  as  Deya  reread  one  of  Isra’s  letters,
                something came to her. It was so obvious she couldn’t understand how she
                hadn’t realized it before, but reading her mother’s words, Deya finally saw
                how much she resembled Isra. She, too, had spent her life trying to please

                her family, desperate for their validation and approval. She, too, had let fear
                of  disappointing  them  stand  in  her  way.  But  seeking  approval  had  not
                worked for Isra, and Deya could see now that it would not work for her
                either.
                     Alongside this realization, an old voice that had lived in the back of her

                head for as long as she could remember—so long she had never before seen
                it for the fear that it was, only as the absolute truth—rose up inside of her.
                The  voice  cautioned  her  to  surrender,  be  quiet,  endure.  It  told  her  that
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