THE WOMEN IN BETWEEN

By A’isha Azar

The Women in Between is a continuing series about the lives of Arab women who are living between two cultures. Names have been changed, but the events related are all true.

Installment 3- Fedwa

Fedwa is a tall and graceful woman with lustrous skin and sleek, black hair…and an attitude toward her life like the Patience of Job. Fedwa is an Iraqi refugee.

Her husband has been in the United States for several years and he recently consented to bring his wife and daughter to America. He stayed with her for a very short time and then proceeded to go off and live with his American girlfriend, leaving Fedwa and their child to fend for themselves.

Today, I go to Fedwa’s house to take her for a trip to the local food and clothing bank. She speaks no English, does not drive a car and cannot afford one even if she could drive. She is also about six months pregnant, thanks to the husband who now lives with another woman. He hung around just long enough to grace her with another child to feed and worry about.

I met Fedwa through Wedad, who has done interpreting for her since she came to the States. She has also been the interpreter for her husband, even though she could never stand the sight of him. She tries to be at Fedwa’s house on the day that her allotment from the government arrives. She takes her to pay her bills, buy food, and whatever else she can do with money and food stamps. Today she cannot make it and has asked me to take her instead. If we are not there in time, Fedwa’s husband will come and take her to cash her public assistance check, and then take the money away from her. He has actually gone so far as to bring his girlfriend to Fedwa’s house and take her check to buy flowers for this upstanding specimen of American womanhood. It is so ingrained in Fedwa to do as he wishes that she does not defend herself against this treatment. I think she would not know how.

What her husband is doing is very much against Islamic mandate. Muslim women have the complete right to keep any money that comes to them. The Muslim husband is entirely responsible for the financial welfare of his family and he cannot ask his wife to contribute even if she has more money than he does. Women can contribute if they wish, but are under no obligation to do so. What her husband does is wrong, ethically, morally, spiritually and legally, according to the precepts of his religion.

On the drive to the food bank, we communicate in whatever ways we can, although I can tell she is not much interested. It makes me nervous to sit with a woman who is this defeated in her soul. Her’s is not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but from despair. Through much coaxing and use of my very limited Arabic, I learn that she is from Baghdad, and that the city is very beautiful. Fedwa mostly just wants to be left alone to look out the window.

At the food bank, she stands in line with the rest of the women to get her vouchers for food and clothing. Nearly as I can tell, there is a certain allotment every month. When her box is filled with food, I peek in to make sure nothing they gave her has any pork products. Fedwa is Muslim and pork is prohibited in any form. She does not, of course, read English, and she cannot check the containers for herself.

She goes through the piles of clothing, picks up a skirt and holds it to her too slender body. She keeps her own counsel and does not look at anyone for approval of her choices. She shows neither joy nor disgust in going through the used offerings at this place. She chooses as if it does not matter as long as she can be decently covered.

Back at her house, Fedwa invites me in for tea. I feel that I cannot refuse, since it would be insulting to her, but I wish I could. I want her to keep every ounce of tea that she has for herself and her daughter. Who knows when the sub-human creep that is her husband will come and take everything away from her?

She makes herself busy in the kitchen to avoid trying to make conversation in a language that she cannot understand and which she has little desire to try to learn right now. The only reason I am invited is that hospitality is the backbone of the system in her culture. Hospitality is one of the strongest of Arab social mores. I have heard stories of Bedouin who sacrifice their last sheep in order to provide food for complete strangers. I have also listened to anecdotes about poor people hiding when unexpected guests show up, because they are too ashamed of their poverty to welcome them if they have nothing to offer. I accept her invitation only because it would be too rude to refuse. It would be a way of saying that I think she is too poor, too wanting in some way, for me to have tea with her. Neither of us must acknowledge the fact of her dreadful circumstances.

Fedwa is going to English school. She attends during the day while her daughter is in school. She hopes to go to college some day, but it is difficult to make plans with a new baby on the way. For now she is just getting through life on a daily basis.

I have met her daughter, Samira. The girl is about eight years old, does speak English, and has a lot of power because her mother does not. Samira tells her mother what to do very often, and this is not a thoughtful or kind little girl. She is aware that she has control in many circumstances and uses her position as family translator to get what she wants. Wedad says that she is “just like her father.” She sometimes does not tell her mother what people are actually saying, but what she wants Fedwa to think they say. The woman is at this child’s mercy when she must communicate through her.

As I leave her house, I feel a great sense of relief. Fedwa is a reminder that I am blessed in a million ways. I know that even if it is depressing experience, I will help her again if she needs it. I feel such sadness at the circumstances in which she finds herself in this new country.

(Fedwa moved to the Midwest shortly after the birth of her second daughter. Her brother emigrated from Iraq to live there and she went to stay with his family. Wedad later heard that her husband followed her.)

ã A’isha Azar, 2001