She felt her skin prickle.
Clouds of steam rose from the serving tray, covering Isra’s face, and quickly she circled around the room until she had served all the men. She walked over to serve the suitor’s mother next. Isra noticed how the woman’s navy-blue hijab was tossed around her head as if by accident, barely covering her henna-stained hair. Isra had never seen a Muslim woman wear her hijab this way in real life. Maybe on television, in the black-and-white Egyptian movies Isra and Mama watched together, or in Lebanese music videos, where women danced around in revealing clothing, or even in one of the illustrations of Isra’s favorite book, A Thousand and One Nights, a collection of Middle Eastern folk tales set in medieval times. But never in Birzeit.
As Isra leaned in, she could see the suitor’s mother studying her. She was a plump, stooping woman with a crooked smile and dark almond eyes that squinted at the corners. From her expression, Isra decided the woman must be displeased with her appearance. After all, Mama had often said that Isra was a plain girl—her face as dull as wheat, her eyes as black as charcoal. Isra’s most striking feature was her hair, long and dark like the Nile. Only no one could see it now beneath her hijab. Not that it would’ve made a difference, Isra thought. She was nothing special.
It was this last thought that stung Isra. As she stood before the suitor’s mother, she could feel her upper lip trembling. She walked closer to the woman, clutching the serving tray in her hands. She could feel Yacob glaring at her, could hear him clear his throat, could see Mama dig her fingers into her thighs, but Isra leaned toward the woman anyway, the porcelain cup trembling, and asked: “Would you like some Turkish coffee?”
But it hadn’t worked. The Americans hadn’t even seemed to notice that she’d served the coffee first. In fact, the suitor had proposed soon after, and Yacob had agreed at once, smiling wider than Isra had ever seen.
“What were you thinking, serving them coffee first?” Mama yelled when the guests had left and she and Isra returned to the kitchen to finish cooking. “You’re not young anymore—almost eighteen! Do you want to sit in my house forever?”
“I was nervous,” Isra muttered, hoping Yacob wouldn’t punish her. “It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” Mama unwrapped the thobe from around her thin frame. “Like the time you put salt in Umm Ali’s chai because she said you were as thin as a lamppost.”
“That was an accident, too.”
“You should be thankful their family isn’t as traditional as we are,” Mama said, “or you might’ve blown your chance of going to America.”
Isra looked at her mother with wet eyes. “What will happen to me in America?”
Mama didn’t look up. She stood hunched over the cutting board dicing onions, garlic, and tomatoes, the main components of all their meals. As Isra inhaled the familiar scents, she wished Mama would hold her, whisper in her ear that everything would be okay, maybe even offer to sew her a few hijabs in case they didn’t make them in America. But Mama was silent.
“Be thankful,” Mama eventually said, tossing a handful of onions into a skillet. “God has presented you with a good opportunity. A good future in America. Better than this.” She waved her hands over the rusted countertops, the old barrel they used to heat water for bathing, the peeling vinyl floors. “Is this how you want to spend your life? Living with no heat in the winters, sleeping on a paper-thin mattress, barely enough food?”
When Isra said nothing, staring at the sizzling skillet, Mama reached out and lifted her chin. “Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your shoes, to leave Palestine and move to America?”
Isra dropped her gaze. She knew Mama was right, but she couldn’t picture a life in America. The trouble was, Isra didn’t feel she belonged in Palestine either, where people lived carefully, following tradition so they wouldn’t be shunned. Isra dreamed of bigger things—of not being forced to conform to conventions, of adventure, and most of all, of love. At night, after she had finished reading and tucked her book beneath her mattress, Isra would lay 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
