known the comforts of the words “I love you” growing up. It was because they’d been loved in their lives that they believed in love, saw it surely for themselves in their futures, even in places it clearly wasn’t.
“I changed my mind,” Deya told her grandparents that night as they sat together in the sala. It was snowing outside, and Khaled had forgone his nightly ritual of playing cards at the hookah bar because the cold worsened his arthritis. On nights like this, Khaled played cards with them instead, shuffling the deck with a rare smile, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
Deya looked forward to these nights, when Khaled would tell them stories of Palestine, even if many of them were sad. It helped her feel connected to their history, which felt so far away most of the time. Long ago, Khaled’s family had owned a beautiful home in Ramla, with red-tile rooftops and bright orange trees. Then one day when he was twelve years old, Israeli soldiers had invaded their land and relocated them to a refugee camp at gunpoint. Khaled told them how his father had been forced to his knees with a rifle dug into his back, how more than 700,000 Palestinian Arabs had been expelled from their homes and forced to flee. It was the Nakba, he told them with somber eyes. The day of catastrophe.
They were playing Hand, a Palestinian card game, and Khaled shuffled together two decks of cards before dealing. Deya picked up her hand, scanning all fourteen cards, before saying again, louder, “I changed my mind.”
She could feel her sisters exchanging looks. On the sofa beside them, Fareeda turned on the television to Al Jazeera. “Changed your mind about what?”
Deya opened her mouth, but nothing came. Even though she’d been speaking in Arabic her entire life, even though it was her first tongue, sometimes she struggled to find the right words in it. Arabic should’ve come as naturally to her as English, and it often did, but other times she felt its heaviness on her tongue, needed a split second of thought to check her words before speaking. Her grandparents were the only people she spoke Arabic with after her parents died. She spoke English with her sisters, at school, and all of her books were in English.
She put down her cards, cleared her throat. “I don’t want to sit with Nasser again.”
“Excuse me?” Fareeda looked up. “And why not?”
She could see Khaled staring at her, and she met his eyes pleadingly. “Please, Seedo. I don’t want to marry someone I don’t know.”
“You’ll get to know him soon enough,” Khaled said, returning to his cards.
“Maybe if I could just go to college for a few semesters—”
Fareeda slammed the remote down with a thump. “College again? How many times have we talked about this nonsense?”
Khaled gave Deya a sharp glare. She hoped he wouldn’t slap her.
“This is all because of those books,” Fareeda continued. “Those books putting foolish ideas in your head!” She stood up, waved her hands at Deya. “Tell me, what are you reading for?”
Deya folded her arms across her chest. “To learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Everything.”
Fareeda shook her head. “There are things you have to learn for yourself, things no book will ever teach you.”
“But—”
“Bikafi!” Khaled said. “That’s enough!” Deya and her sisters exchanged nervous looks. “College can wait until after marriage.” Khaled shuffled the cards for a new deck and turned his eyes to Deya again. “Fahmeh? Do you understand?”
She sighed. “Yes, Seedo.”
“With that said . . .” He returned his eyes to the deck. “I don’t see what’s wrong with reading.”
“You know what’s wrong with it,” Fareeda said, shooting him a wide-eyed look. But Khaled wouldn’t look at her. Fareeda’s jaw was clenching and unclenching.
“I don’t see anything wrong with books,” Khaled said, studying his cards. “What I think is wrong is you forbidding them.” His eyes shifted to Fareeda. “Don’t you think that will lead to trouble?”
“The only thing that will lead to trouble is being easy on them.”
“Easy on them?” He fixed Fareeda with a glare. “Don’t you think we shelter them enough? They come straight home from school every day, help you with all the household chores, never step foot out of the house without us. They don’t have cell phones or computers, they don’t talk to boys, they barely even have friends. They’re good girls, Fareeda, and they’ll all be married soon enough. You need to relax.”
“Relax?” She placed her hands on her hips. “That’s easy for