Page 98 - A Woman Is No Man

Isra

Fall 1990

One overcast November morning, three weeks before she was due, Isra

went into labor. Adam and Fareeda took her to the hospital but refused to
come into the delivery room. They said they didn’t like the sight of blood.
Isra felt a deep terror as they wheeled her into the room alone. She had
watched Mama give birth once. The sound of her pain was a permanent
fixture in Isra’s mind. But this was even worse than she could have
imagined. As the contractions came harder and faster, it felt as though
crimes were being committed inside her. She wanted to scream out, like

Mama had, but for some reason she found herself unable to open her mouth.
She didn’t want to display her pain, not even in sounds. Instead she sucked
on her teeth and wept.

It was a girl. Isra held her baby daughter in her arms for the first time—she
stroked the softness of her skin, placed her against her chest. Her heart
swelled. I’m a mother now, she thought. I’m a mother.

When, at last, they entered the room, Fareeda and Adam locked their
eyes on the ground and murmured a quiet “Mabrouk.” Isra wished Adam
would say something to comfort her or show excitement.
“Just what we need,” Fareeda said, shaking her head. “A girl.”
“Not now, Mother,” Adam said. He passed Isra an apologetic look.
“What?” Fareeda said. “It’s true. As if we need another balwa, as if we
don’t have enough troubles.”
Isra felt a jolt at the word. She could almost hear Mama’s voice ringing

in her ears. Mama had often called Isra a balwa—a dilemma, a burden. Any
lingering hope that America would be better than Palestine fell away at that
moment. A woman would always be a woman. Mama was right. It was as
true for her daughter as it had been for Isra. The loneliness of this reality
seemed to leach out of the white hospital floor and walls into her.