the al-Am’ari refugee camp. She had just turned fourteen.
“My sister Huda and I were both getting married that day,” Fareeda said. “To brothers. I remember sitting inside our shelter, our palms henna-stained, our eyes smeared with kohl, while Mama wrapped our hair with hairpins she had borrowed from a neighbor. It was only after we’d signed the marriage contracts that we saw our husbands for the first time! Huda and I were so nervous as Mama led us to them. The first brother was tall and thin, with small eyes and a freckled face; the second was tan, with broad shoulders and cinnamon hair. The second brother smiled. He had a beautiful row of white teeth, and I remember secretly hoping he was my husband. But Mama led me by the elbow to the first man and whispered: ‘This man is your home now.’”
“But that was a million years ago,” Deya said. “Just because it happened to you doesn’t mean it should happen to me.”
“It’s not happening to you!” Fareeda said. “You’ve already said no to several men, and you’ve sat with Nasser twice! No one is telling you to marry him tomorrow. Sit with him a few more times and get to know him.”
“So, sitting with him five times will make me know him?”
“No one really knows anyone, daughter. Even after a lifetime.”
“Which is why this is so ridiculous.”
“Well, this ridiculousness is how it’s been done for centuries.”
“Maybe that’s why everyone is so miserable.”
“Miserable?” Fareeda waved her hands in the air. “You think your life is miserable? Unbelievable.” Deya took a step back, knowing what was coming. “You’ve never seen miserable. I was only six years old when my family relocated to the refugee camp, settling in a corner tent with a single room, as far as we could get from the open sewage, the rotting corpses on the dirt road. You wouldn’t believe how dirty I always was—hair uncombed, clothes soiled, feet as black as coal. I used to see young boys kicking a ball around the sewage or riding bikes on the dirt roads and wish I could run along with them. But even as a child, I knew my place. I knew my mother needed help, squatting in front of a bucket, washing clothes in whatever water we could find. Even though I was only a child, I knew I was a woman first.”
“But that was a long time ago in Palestine,” Deya said. “We live in America now. Isn’t that why you came here? For a better life? Well, why can’t that mean a better life for us, too?”
“We didn’t come here so our daughters could become Americans,” Fareeda said. “Besides, American women get married, too, you know. If not at your age, then soon enough. Marriage is what women do.”
“But it’s not fair!”
Fareeda sighed. “I never said it was, daughter.” Her voice was soft, and she reached out to touch Deya’s shoulder. “But this country is not safe for girls like you. I only want your protection. If you’re afraid to rush into marriage, that’s fine. I understand. You can sit with Nasser as often as you’d like if it makes you feel better. Would that help?”
As if sitting with a stranger a few more times could help alleviate the uncertainty she felt about everything in the wake of her grandparents’ lies. But at least she’d bought herself more time to figure out what to do. “I guess.”
“Good,” Fareeda said. “But promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You need to let the past go, daughter. Let your mother go.”
Deya refused to meet Fareeda’s eyes as she went back downstairs to change.
Later that night, after Deya and her sisters ate dinner and retreated to their rooms, Deya told Nora about her visit with Sarah. She had planned to keep the story to herself at first, but she knew Nora would suspect something was going on when she skipped school again. Nora said nothing the whole time she spoke, listening with the same calm interest as when Deya told her a story, turning to the doorway every now and then to make sure Fareeda wasn’t there.
“She must have something important to tell you,” Nora said when Deya finished speaking. “Or else she wouldn’t have risked reaching out.”
“I don’t know. She says she wants to help me, but I feel like she’s hiding something.”
“Even if she is, there must be a reason she reached out. She’ll have to tell you eventually.”
“I’ll make sure to find out tomorrow.”
“What? You’re skipping