Page 54 - A Woman Is No Man

rest of our lives and never be Americans. You think you’re doing the right
thing by wearing this hijab, but that’s not what Americans will see when
they look at you. They won’t see your modesty or your goodness. All

they’ll see is an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong.” He sighed, looking
up to meet her eyes. “It’s hard. But all we can do is try to fit in.”
Isra unwrapped her hijab and set it on the bed. She had never once
considered not wearing it in public. But standing in front of the mirror,
eyeing the long black strands of hair as they wilted off her shoulders, she
found herself feeling hopeful again. Perhaps this would be her first taste of
freedom. There was no reason to reject it before she had tried it.

They left the house soon after. Isra fingered a strand of hair nervously as

she stepped out of the front door. Adam didn’t seem to notice. He told her
that the best way to truly experience Brooklyn was not by car or train but by
foot. So they walked. The moon shone above them in a starless sky,
illuminating the budding trees that lined the street. They strolled down the
long, narrow block labeled Seventy-Second Street until they reached the
corner, and suddenly Isra felt as if she had been transported to a new world.

“This is Fifth Avenue,” Adam said. “The heart of Bay Ridge.”
Everywhere Isra looked, lights were flashing. The street was lined with
an assortment of shops: bakeries, restaurants, pharmacies, law offices. “Bay
Ridge is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in Brooklyn,” Adam said as
they walked. “Immigrants from all over the world live here. You can see it
in the food—meat dumplings, kofta, fish stews, challah bread. You see that
block?” Adam pointed into the distance. “Every single shop on that block

belongs to Arabs. There is a halal butcher shop on the corner, Alsalam,
where my father goes every Sunday to get our meats, and then there is the
Lebanese pastry shop, where they bake fresh saj bread every morning.
During Ramadan, they stuff the loaves with melted cheese, syrup, and
sesame seeds, just like back home.”
Isra scanned the shops, mesmerized. She recognized the smell of meat-

stuffed kibbeh, lamb shawarma, the thick syrupy musk of baklava, even the
faint hint of double-apple hookah. And other familiar smells lingered in the
air, too. Fresh basil. Piping grease. Sewers, sweat. The scents merged into
one another, became whole, and in an instant Isra felt as if she had fallen
through the cracked cement and landed back home.