Page 40 - A Woman Is No Man

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by
words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many
people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand. And

yet Deya still felt alone in the end, no matter how many books she read, no
matter how many tales she told herself. All her life she’d searched for a
story to help her understand who she was and where she belonged. But her
story was confined to the walls of her home, to the basement of Seventy-
Second Street and Fifth Avenue, and she didn’t think she’d ever understand
it.

That evening Deya and her sisters ate dinner alone, as they usually did,
while Fareeda watched her evening show in the sala. They did not spread a

sufra with a succession of dishes, nor set the table with lemon wedges,
green olives, chili peppers, and fresh pita bread, as they did when their
grandfather came home. Instead the four sisters huddled around the kitchen
table together, deep in conversation. Every now and then they’d lower their
voices, listening to the sounds in the hall to make sure Fareeda was still in
the sala and couldn’t overhear them.

Deya’s younger sisters were her only companions. All four of them
were close in age, only one or two years apart, and complemented one
another like school subjects in a class schedule. If Deya was a subject, she
thought she would be art—dark, messy, emotional. Nora, the second eldest
and her closest companion, would be math—solid, precise, and
straightforward. It was Nora who Deya relied on for advice, taking comfort
in her clear thinking; Nora who tempered Deya’s overspilling emotions,

who structured the chaos of Deya’s art. Then there was Layla. Deya thought
Layla would be science, always curious, always seeking answers, always
logical. Then there was Amal, the youngest of the four and, true to her
name, the most hopeful. If Amal was a subject, she would be religion,
centering every conversation around halal and haraam, good and evil. It
was Amal who always brought them back to God, rounding them out with a

handful of faith.
“So, what did you think of Nasser?” asked Nora as she sipped on her
lentil soup. “Was he crazy like the last man?” She blew on her spoon. “You
know, the one who insisted you start wearing the hijab at once?”
“I don’t think anyone’s as crazy as that man,” Deya said, laughing.
“Was he nice?” Nora asked.