but how else were they to secure their lineage in this country? How else were they to secure their income in the future? Besides, it wasn’t as if Isra was the only woman in the world shamed for bearing a girl. It had always been this way, Fareeda thought. It might not be fair, but she didn’t make the rules. It was just the way it was. And Isra was no exception.
Outside the air was crisp, the tips of their noses stinging from the leftover winter wind. Fareeda led the way, and Isra followed with Deya in her stroller. It hadn’t occurred to Fareeda until that moment that neither of them had left the house since the visit to Dr. Jaber. The weather had been too cold. Khaled had gotten their weekly groceries alone, driving to Fifth Avenue on Sunday mornings to get halal meat from the butcher shop, and on Fridays, after jumaa prayer, to Three Guys from Brooklyn in search of the zucchini and eggplants Fareeda liked. She couldn’t wait to accompany him again now that the weather was warming up. Fareeda didn’t like to admit it, had never even said it out loud, but in the fifteen years she had lived in America, she could easily count the number of times she had done anything outside their home without Khaled. She couldn’t drive or speak English, so even when she did leave the house, poking her head uneasily from the door before venturing out, it was only for a stroll around the corner to visit one of her Arab neighbors. Even now, walking only a few blocks to Umm Ahmed’s house, Fareeda found herself glancing behind her, wanting to turn back. At home, she knew where her bed was, how many tugs were needed to start the furnace, how many steps it took to cross the hall into the kitchen. There, she knew where the clean rags were, how long it took to preheat the oven, how many dashes of cumin to sprinkle in the lentil soup. But here, on these streets, she knew nothing. What would happen if she got lost? What if someone assaulted her? What would she do? Fifteen years in this country, and she still didn’t feel safe.
But it’s better than living in a refugee camp, Fareeda reminded herself as she eyed the passing cars nervously, gathering herself to cross the street. Better than the years she and Khaled had wasted in those shelters. She thought of the broken roads of her childhood, of days spent squatting beside her mother, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, washing clothes in a rusted barrel. Days when she would stand in line for hours at the UN station, waiting to collect bags of rice and flour, or a bundle of blankets to keep them from freezing in the harsh winters, wobbling under their weight as she carried them back to her tent. Days when the open sewers smelled so harshly that she walked around with a laundry pin on her nose. Back then, in the refugee camp, her body carried her worry like an extra limb. At least here, in America, they were warm and had food on their table, their own roof over their heads.
They reached Umm Ahmed’s block. All the houses looked the same, and the people strolling the sidewalks looked the same, too. Not in how they dressed, which Fareeda found distasteful, with their ripped jeans and low-cut tops, but how they moved, rushing across the street like insects. She wondered how it felt to be an American, to know exactly where you were heading each time you left your front door, and exactly what you would do when you got there. She had spent her entire life being pushed and pulled, from kitchen to kitchen, child to child. But it was better this way, she thought. Better to be grounded, to know your place, than to live the way these Americans lived, cruising from day to day with no values to anchor them down. It’s no wonder they ended up alone—alcoholics, addicts, divorced.
“Ahlan wasahlan,” Umm Ahmed greeted them as she led Fareeda and Isra into the sala. Inside, other women were already seated. Fareeda knew all of them, and they stood to greet her, exchanging kisses on the cheek, smiling as they stole glances at Deya. Fareeda could see Isra flush in embarassment. Most of these women had come to congratulate them when Deya was born, and made crass remarks about Isra