A Woman is No Man. Etaf Rum
at home and pray they remained good. Pure. Arab.
“I don’t do much,” Deya said.
“You must do something. You don’t have any hobbies?”
“I like to read.”
“What do you read?”
“Anything. It doesn’t matter what it is, I’ll read it. Trust me, I have the time.”
“And why is that?” he asked, knotting his brows.
“My grandmother doesn’t let us do much. She doesn’t even like it when I read.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks books are a bad influence.”
“Oh.” He flushed, as though finally understanding. After a moment he asked, “My mother said you go to an all-girls Islamic school. What grade are you in?”
“I’m a senior.”
Another pause. He shifted in his seat. Something about his nervousness eased her, and she let her shoulders relax.
“Do you want to go to college?” Nasser asked.
Deya studied his face. She had never been asked that particular question the way he asked it. Usually it sounded like a threat, as though if she answered yes, a weight would shift in the scale of nature. Like it was the worst possible thing for a girl to want.
“I do,” she said. “I like school.”
He smiled. “I’m jealous. I’ve never been a good student.”
She fixed her eyes on him. “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“That I want to go to college.”
“No. Why would I mind?”
Deya studied him carefully, unsure whether to believe him. He could be pretending not to mind in order to trick her into thinking he was different than the previous suitors, more progressive. He could be telling her exactly what he thought she wanted to hear.
She straightened in her seat, avoiding his question. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t you a good student?”
“I’ve never really liked school,” he said. “But my parents insisted I apply to med school after college. They want me to be a doctor.”
“And do you want to be a doctor?”
Nasser laughed. “Hardly. I’d rather run the family business, maybe even open my own business one day.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“I did. But they said I had to go to college, and if not for medicine, then engineering or law.”
Deya looked at him. She had never known herself to feel anything besides anger and annoyance during these arrangements. One man had spent their entire conversation telling her how much money he earned at his gas station; another man had interrogated her about school, whether she intended to stay home and raise children, whether she would be willing to wear the hijab permanently and not only as part of her school uniform.
Still, Deya had questions of her own. What would you do to me if we married? Would you let me pursue my dreams? Would you leave me at home to raise the children while you worked? Would you love me? Would you own me? Would you beat me? She could have asked those questions aloud, but she knew people only told you what you wanted to hear. That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn’t say, had to watch them closely.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nasser asked.
“Nothing, it’s just that . . .” She looked at her fingers. “I’m surprised your parents forced you to go to college. I’d assumed they’d let you make your own choices.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You know.” She met his eyes. “Because you’re a man.”
Nasser looked at her curiously. “Is that what you think? That I can do anything I want because I’m a man?”
“That’s the world we live in.”
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. It was the closest Deya had ever sat to a man, and she leaned back in her seat, pressing her hands between her thighs.
“You’re strange,” Nasser said.
She could feel her face flush, and she looked away. “Don’t let my grandmother hear you say that.”
“Why not? I meant it as a compliment.”
“She won’t see it that way.”
There was a pause, and Nasser reached for his teacup. “So,” he said after taking a sip. “How do you imagine your life in the future?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want, Deya Ra’ad?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. As if it mattered what she wanted. As if it were up to her. If it were up to her, she’d postpone marriage for another decade. She’d enroll in a study-abroad program, pick up and move to Europe, perhaps Oxford, spending her days in cafés and libraries with a book in one hand and a pen in the other. She’d be a writer, helping people understand the world through stories. But it wasn’t up to her. Her grandparents had forbidden her to attend college before marriage, and she didn’t want to ruin her reputation in the community by defying them. Or worse, be disowned, banned from seeing her sisters, the only home and family she had ever known. She was already abandoned and alone in so many ways; to lose her remaining roots would be too much to bear. She was afraid of the life her grandparents had planned for her, but even more afraid of the unknown. So she tucked her dreams away, did as she was told.
“I just want to be happy,” she told Nasser. “That’s all.”
“Well, that’s simple enough.”
“Is it?” She met his eyes. “If so, then why haven’t I seen it?”
“I’m sure you have. Your grandparents must be happy.”
Deya tried to keep from rolling her eyes. “Teta spends her days complaining about her life, how her children abandoned her, and Seedo barely comes home. Trust me. They’re miserable.”
Nasser shook his head. “Maybe you’re judging them too harshly.”
“Why? Are your parents happy?”
“Of course they are.”
“Do they love each other?”
“Of course they love each other! They’ve been married for over thirty years.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Deya scoffed. “My grandparents have been married for over fifty years, and they can’t stand the sight of each other.”
Nasser said nothing. From the expression on his face, Deya knew he found her pessimism unpleasant. But what should she have said to him instead? Should she have lied? It was already enough she was forced to live a life she didn’t want to live. Should she really begin a marriage with lies? When would it end?
Eventually Nasser cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “Just because you can’t see the happiness in your grandparents’ life, that doesn’t mean they’re not happy. What makes one person happy doesn’t always work for someone else. Take my mother—she values family over everything. As long as she has my father and her children, she’s happy. But not everyone needs family, of course. Some people need money, others need companionship. Everyone is different.”
“And what do you need?” Deya asked.
“What?”
“What do you need to be happy?”
Nasser bit the inside of his lip. “Financial security.”