Etaf Rum - A Woman is No Man

The next day, Adam and Isra took a bus to Jerusalem, to a place called the US Consulate General, where people applied for immigrant visas. Isra was nervous about being alone with Adam again, but there was nothing she could do. Yacob couldn’t join them because his Palestinian hawiya , issued by the Israeli military authorities, prevented him from traveling to Jerusalem with ease. Isra had a hawiya too, but now that she was married to an American citizen, she would have less difficulty crossing the checkpoints.

The checkpoints were the reason Isra had never been to Jerusalem, which, along with most Palestinian cities, was under Israeli control and couldn’t be entered without a permit. The permits were required at each of the hundreds of checkpoints and roadblocks Israel had constructed on Palestinian land, restricting travel between, and sometimes within, their own cities and towns. Some checkpoints were manned by heavily armed Israeli soldiers and guarded with tanks; others were made up of gates, which were locked when soldiers were not on duty. Adam cursed every time they stopped at one of these roadblocks, irritated at the tight controls and heavy traffic. At each one he waved his American passport at the Israeli soldiers, speaking to them in English. Isra could understand a little from having studied English in school, and she was impressed at how well he spoke the language.

When they finally arrived at the consulate, they waited in line for hours. Isra stood behind Adam, head bowed, only speaking when spoken to. But Adam barely said a word, and Isra wondered if he was angry at her for slapping him on the balcony. She contemplated apologizing, but secretly she thought she had nothing to apologize for. Even though they had signed the Islamic marriage contract, he had no right to kiss her like that, not until the night of the wedding ceremony. Yet the word sorry brewed on her tongue. She forced herself to swallow it down.

At the main window, they were told it would take only ten days for Isra to receive her visa. Now Yacob could plan the wedding, she thought as they strolled around Jerusalem afterward. Walking the narrow roads of the old city, Isra was overwhelmed by sensations. She smelled chamomile, sage, mint, and lentils from the open burlap sacks lined up in front of a spice shop, and the sweet aroma of freshly baked knafa from a nearby dukan . She spotted wire cages holding chickens and rabbits in front of a butcher shop, and several boutiques displaying myriads of gold-plated jewelry. Old men in hattas sold colorful scarves on street corners. Women in full black attire hurried through the streets. Some wore embroidered hijabs, tight-fitted pants, and round sunglasses. Others wore no hijab at all, and Isra knew they were Israeli. Their heels click-clacked on the uneven sidewalk. Boys whistled. Cars weaved through the narrow roads, honking, leaving a trail of diesel fumes behind. Israeli soldiers monitored the streets, long rifles slung across their slender bodies. The air was filled with dirt and noise.

For lunch, Adam ordered falafel sandwiches from a food cart near Al-Aqsa Mosque. Isra stared at the gold-topped dome in awe as they ate.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Adam said between mouthfuls.

“It is,” Isra said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Adam turned to face her. “Really?”

She nodded.

“Why not?”

“It’s hard getting here.”

“I’ve been gone for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like. We must’ve been stopped by half a dozen roadblocks. It’s absurd!”

“When did you leave Palestine?”

Adam chewed on his food. “We moved to New York in 1976, when I was sixteen. My parents have visited a couple of times since, but I’ve had to stay behind and take care of my father’s deli.”

“Have you ever been inside the mosque?”

“Of course. Many, many times. I wanted to be an imam growing up, you know. A priest. I spent Ramadan sleeping here one summer. I memorized the entire Qur’an.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“So is that what you do in America? You’re a priest?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I own a deli.”

“But why aren’t you an imam?” Isra asked, emboldened by their first conversation.

“I couldn’t do that in America.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father needed me to help him run the family business. I had to give that up.”

“Oh.” Isra paused. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?”

“I just always thought . . .” She stopped, thinking better of it.

“What?”

“I just assumed you’d be free.” He gave her a curious expression. “You know, because you’re a man.”

Adam said nothing, continuing to stare. Finally he said, “I am free,” and looked away.

Isra studied Adam for a long time as they finished their sandwiches. She couldn’t help but think of the way his face had stiffened at the mention of his childhood dream. His tight smile. She pictured him in the mosque during Ramadan, leading the maghrib prayer, reciting the Qur’an in a strong, musical voice. It softened her to picture him working behind a cash register, counting money, and stocking shelves when he wanted to be leading prayer in a mosque. And Isra thought for the first time, sitting there beside him, that perhaps it would not be so hard to love him after all.

Isra spent her last night in Birzeit propped in a gold metal chair, lips painted the color of mulberries, skin draped in layers of white mesh, hair wound up and sprayed with glitter. Around her, the walls spun. She watched them grow bigger and bigger until she was almost invisible, then get smaller and smaller as if they were crushing her. Women in an assortment of colors danced around her. Children huddled in corners eating baklava and drinking Pepsi. Loud music struck the air like fireworks. Everyone was cheering, clapping to the beat of her quivering heart. She nodded and smiled to their congratulations, yet inside she wasn’t sure how long she could stave off tears. She wondered if the guests understood what was happening, if they realized she was only a few hours away from boarding a plane with a man she barely knew and landing in a country whose culture was not her own.

Adam sat beside her, his black suit crisp against his white button-down shirt. He was the only man in the wedding hall. The others had a room of their own, away from the sight of the dancing women. Even Adam’s younger brothers, Omar and Ali, whom Isra had only met minutes before the wedding, were forbidden. She couldn’t tell how old they were, but they must’ve been in their twenties. Every now and then, one would poke his head in to watch the women on the dance floor, and a woman would remind him to stay in the men’s section. Isra scanned the room for her own brothers. They were all too young to sit in the men’s section, and she spotted them running around the far corner of the hall. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

If happiness were measured in sound, Adam’s mother was the happiest person in the room. Fareeda was a large, broad woman, and Isra felt the dance floor shrink in her presence. She wore a red-and-black thobe , with oriental patterns embroidered on the sleeves, and a wide belt of gold coins around her thick waist. Black kohl was smeared around her small eyes. She sang along to every song in a confident voice, twirling a long white stick in the air. Every minute or so, she brought her hand to her mouth and let out a zughreta , a loud, piercing sound. Her only daughter, Sarah, who looked about eleven or so, threw rose petals at the stage. She was a younger, slimmer version of her mother: dark almond eyes, black curls flowing wildly, skin as golden as wheat. Isra could almost see a grown version of Sarah sitting as she sat now, her tiny frame buried beneath a white bridal dress. She winced at the thought.