Etaf Rum - A Woman is No Man

Around her people strolled down the block, pushing strollers and carrying grocery bags, swirling in and out of shops like marbles. They looked nothing like the Americans she had imagined: women with bright red lipstick, men in polished black suits. Instead, many of the women looked no different than her, plain and modestly dressed, many even wearing a hijab. And the men looked like Adam, with olive skin and rough beards, clothes meant for tough labor.

Isra didn’t know what to think, eyeing the familiar faces floating down Fifth Avenue. These people were just like them, living in America and trying to fit in. Yet they still wore their hijabs; they didn’t change who they were. So why did Adam insist that she change who she was?

After a long time watching them, Isra was no longer thinking of her hijab. Instead, she thought of all the people drifting under the lamplights, people who lived in America but weren’t Americans at all, women who were just like her, displaced from their homes, torn between two cultures and struggling to start anew. She wondered what her new life would be like.

That night, Isra went to bed early. Adam was taking a shower, and she thought it best that he return to find her asleep. It was her first night alone with him, and she knew what would happen if she stayed awake. She knew he would put himself inside her. She knew it would hurt. She also knew—though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it—that she would come to enjoy it. Mama had told her this. Still, Isra wasn’t ready. In bed, she closed her eyes, tried to silence her thoughts. She felt as if she were running frantically, spinning in circles.

In the bathroom she could hear Adam turn off the running water, pulling the shower curtain open, then shut, fumbling for something inside the cabinet. She pulled the blanket over her body like a shield. Lying still beneath the cold sheets, she watched him through half-open eyes as he entered the room. He was wearing nothing but a bath towel, and she had a full view of his lean, golden body, the coarse black hair on his chest. For a moment he stood there, staring at her as though willing her to look at him, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes fully. He took off the bath towel and approached her. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, trying to relax. But her body only stiffened as he neared.

He climbed onto the bed, pulled back the sheets, and reached out to touch her. She inched away until she thought she would fall off the other side. But he grabbed her, pushing her into the mattress. Then he was on top of her. She could smell his ashy breath as he exhaled in her face. Her hands shook furiously, and she dug her fingers into her ivory nightgown. He pulled her hands away, tugging off her gown and underwear—a bright white set Mama had given her specifically for this night, so Adam would know she was pure. Only Isra didn’t feel pure. She felt dirty and afraid.

Adam locked his hands around her hips, pinning down her struggling body. She kept her eyes shut tight as he shoved her legs open, gritted her teeth as he thrust himself inside her. Then she heard a scream. Was it hers? She was afraid to open her eyes. There was something about the darkness that felt safe, familiar. Lying there, eyes closed, memories of her home somehow overwhelmed her. She saw herself running in an open field, picking figs from the trees, saving the best ones for Mama, who waited for her at the top of the hill with an empty basket. She saw herself playing with marbles in the yard, chasing them as they rolled down the hill. She saw herself blowing dandelions in the cemetery, reciting a prayer on every gravestone.

Then she felt a gush down her thighs: she knew it must be blood. She tried to ignore the burning sensation between her legs, as if a fist were punching through her, tried to forget that she was in a strange room with a strange man, her insides being forced open. She wished Mama had warned her about the powerlessness a woman feels when a man puts himself inside her, about the shame that fills her when she is forced to give herself up, forced to be still. But this must be normal, Isra told herself. It must be.

So she lay there as Adam continued to thrust himself in and out of her until, in rapid succession, he let out a deep breath and collapsed on top of her. Then he lifted his body off hers and hobbled out of bed.

Isra rolled over and buried her face in the sheets. The room was dark and cold, and she pulled the blanket over her goose-pimpled flesh. Where had he gone? After a moment, she heard him pacing in the bathroom. He flicked the light on, and she heard him open a cabinet. Then he turned the light off and returned to the room.

Isra didn’t know why, but in that moment she thought she was going to die. She imagined Adam slicing her neck with a knife, shooting her in the chest, setting her on fire. What made her think these horrible things, she didn’t know. But sprawled across the mattress, all she could see was darkness and blood.

She felt him nearing, and her heart began to swell. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt him place his hands on her knees, and her legs twitched away instinctively. He leaned closer. Slowly, he spread her legs apart. Then he dabbed a rag against her split flesh.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to.”

Lying there, trembling, Isra thought of Fareeda. She imagined her creeping down to the bathroom earlier that day, smiling slyly as she placed a bundle of fresh cloth in the cabinet for her son to use. It was clear to Isra what Adam was doing: he was collecting evidence.

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