in bed and wonder what it would be like to fall in love, to be loved in return. She could imagine the man, even if she couldn’t see his face. He would build her a library with all her favorite stories and poetry. They would read by the window every night—Rumi, Hafez, and Gibran. She would tell him about her dreams, and he would listen. She would brew mint chai for him in the mornings and simmer homemade soups in the evenings. They would take walks in the mountains, hand in hand, and she would feel, for the first time in her life, worthy of another person’s love. Look at Isra and her husband, people would say. A love you only see in fairy tales.
Isra cleared her throat. “But Mama, what about love?”
Mama glared at her through the steam. “What about it?”
“I’ve always wanted to fall in love.”
“Fall in love? What are you saying? Did I raise a sharmouta?”
“No . . . no . . .” Isra hesitated. “But what if the suitor and I don’t love each other?”
“Love each other? What does love have to do with marriage? You think your father and I love each other?”
Isra’s eyes shifted to the ground. “I thought you must, a little.”
Mama sighed. “Soon you’ll learn that there’s no room for love in a woman’s life. There’s only one thing you’ll need, and that’s sabr, patience.”
Isra tried to curb her disappointment. She chose her next words carefully. “Maybe life in America will be different for women.”
Mama stared at her, flat and unblinking. “Different how?”
“I don’t know,” Isra said, softening her voice so as not to upset her mother. “But maybe American culture isn’t as strict as ours. Maybe women are treated better.”
“Better?” Mama mocked, shaking her head as she sautéed the vegetables. “You mean like in those fairy tales you read?”
She could feel her face redden. “No, not like that.”
“Like what, then?”
Isra wanted to ask Mama if marriage in America was like her parents’ marriage, where the man determined everything in the family and beat his wife if she displeased him. Isra had been five years old the first time she’d witnessed Yacob hit Mama. It was over an undercooked piece of lamb. Isra could still remember the pleading look in Mama’s eyes, begging him to stop, Yacob’s sullen face as he struck her. A darkness had rumbled through Isra then, a new awareness of the world unfolding. A world where not only children were beaten but mothers, too. Looking in Mama’s eyes that night, watching her weep violently, Isra had felt an unforgettable rage.
She considered her words again. “Do you think maybe women have more respect in America?”
Mama fixed her with a glare. “Respect?”
“Or maybe worth? I don’t know.”
Mama set the stirring spoon down. “Listen to me, daughter. No matter how far away from Palestine you go, a woman will always be a woman. Here or there. Location will not change her naseeb, her destiny.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“You are too young to understand this now,” Mama said, “but you must always remember.” She lifted Isra’s chin. “There is nothing out there for a woman but her bayt wa dar, her house and home. Marriage, motherhood—that is a woman’s only worth.”
Isra nodded, but inside she refused to accept. She pressed her palms against her thighs and shook her tears away. Mama was wrong, she told herself. Just because she had failed to find happiness with Yacob, that didn’t mean Isra would fail, too. She would love her husband in a way Mama hadn’t loved Yacob—she would strive to understand him, to please him—and surely in this way she would earn his love.
Looking up, Isra realized that Mama’s hands were trembling. A few tears fell down her cheeks.
“Are you crying, Mama?”
“No, no.” She looked away. “These onions are strong.”
It wasn’t until the Islamic marriage ceremony, one week later, that Isra saw the suitor again. His name was Adam Ra’ad. Adam’s eyes met hers only briefly as the cleric read from the Holy Qur’an, then again as they each uttered the word qubul, “I accept,” three times. The signing of the marriage contract was quick and simple, unlike the elaborate wedding party, which would be held after Isra received her immigrant visa. Isra overheard Yacob say it would only take a couple of weeks, since Adam was an American citizen.
From the kitchen window, Isra could see Adam outside, smoking a cigarette. She studied her new husband as he paced up and down the pathway in