Page 76 - A Woman Is No Man

Without looking up, Isra passed her a grape leaf. Deya waited for
directions, but Isra said nothing. So Deya imitated her. She cut the stem off
a grape leaf, arranged a thin log of rice at the bottom, tucked both sides of

the leaf across the top until the rice was completely covered. When she was
done, she placed the stuffed leaf in the pot and looked to her mother’s face
for approval. Isra had said nothing.
Deya was pressing hard against the card now, bending it between her
fingers. She hated that memory, hated all her memories. Trembling, she
clenched the bookstore card in her fist. Who was this woman, and what did
she want? Could she be her mother? Deya breathed in and out, trying to

calm herself. She knew what she had to do. She would call the number the
next day and find out.

The next day came slowly. In school, Deya walked around in a daze,
wondering when she would have the opportunity to call the number. During
Islamic studies, the last class before lunch, she waited impatiently for
Brother Hakeem to finish his lecture. She stared at him absently as he
rotated around the room, watched his mouth as it opened and closed. He

had been her Islamic studies teacher ever since she was a child, had taught
her everything she knew about Islam.
“The word Islam means tawwakul,” Brother Hakeem said to the class.
“Submission to God. Islam is about peace, purity, and kindness. Standing
up to injustice and oppression. That’s the heart of it.”
Deya rolled her eyes. They couldn’t possibly be Muslims, if that’s what
it meant. But then again, what did she know? Religion wasn’t something

she had learned at home—they weren’t a devout Muslim family, not really.
Once, Deya had contemplated wearing the hijab permanently, not just for
her school uniform, but Fareeda had forbidden it, saying, “No one will
marry you with that thing on your head!” Deya had been confused. She had
expected Fareeda to be proud of her for trying to be a better Muslim. But
after thinking about it more, she had realized that most of the rules Fareeda

held highest weren’t based on religion at all, only Arab propriety.
Lunch now, and Deya’s only chance to call the number. She decided to
ask quiet, pale-faced Meriem to use her cell phone. She was one of the few
girls in class whose parents let her have a phone. Deya thought it was
because Meriem was so innocent. Her parents didn’t have to worry about
her talking to boys or getting into trouble. In fact, not once in their years of