Ismee

by Rana Hewezi
Illustrations by Lydia Waheed

Lydia Waheed for Fools Magazine

The only other Rana I’ve met was from my father’s village.

One year older than I. The daughter of an uneducated falahee, or farmer.

I met her when I was 17. She was 18 and engaged.

She reminded me of a flickering lightbulb, desperate to bring light in fear of the imminent darkness. 

How much I envied her. 

~

As a young girl, I grieved a life unlived. A life unspoken, yet vaguely heard between the forceful, international phone calls and faintly witnessed between the detached visits to my extended family. While my parents straddled the line between then and now, I sought refuge on paper. 

I watched tentatively as my words took form. They were unyielding. Peppering at my pre-adolescent shield until I knew better than to deflect. 

I learned to embrace my words. I found comfort in them while I hid from a country I had abandoned. A country my parents had forsaken long before I was born. And one that could not seem to make room for me when I would return.

With each visit, the remnants of an unlived life hung over my shoulders. Taunting me. Haunting me. 

I did not recognize this country that had birthed me, yet felt the sting from its sharp rejection. 

I quickly grew to despise my nickname. 

El Amrikeya. 

The American.

My extended family repeated it with a mix of reverence and envy. Of remorse and awe.

To leave Egypt, or Masr was no small feat and to return to it was larger still.

It seems everywhere I went, people would become mirrors. Reflecting my appearance and deflecting my allegiance. 

For once, I wished to be called for what I was. What I am.

Masreya.

Egyptian. 

~

Even continents apart, Rana served to tether me to my origins. 

Regardless of how far I separated myself, I was inextricably linked. Unable to stray too far without circling back to her. Without circling back to Masr. 

Through it all, she remained consistent and unchanged, in stark contrast to the ceaseless state of development that Masr was undergoing.

With each visit, Masr shed the crumb of familiarity from our previous encounter. Resolute in its objective of casting me out further. 

Determined to be inaccessible. Impenetrable. Foreign. 

Each visit represented a different manifestation of Masr. I never met the same country twice. I welcomed each version apprehensively as I arrived and grieved them behind the screens of my mind as I departed it. 

I grieved the country and the girl I had become in its company, albeit for a short time. A girl who welcomed the frenzy commotion of the haggling of prices and surrendered to goulash and the intoxicating waft of gasoline. Who preferred a hmar over standard automobiles. Who proudly bore the Arab pronunciation of her name. Who fashioned mud castles from the side of the road after a downpour. One who did not retreat from the sun’s kiss as her feet sank in the feverish sand. 

One who did not question her worth. 

Or her place.

~

Lydia Waheed for Fools Magazine

When I initially met Rana, I did not see her as my extended family’s domestic help. 

I saw a girl leaking with identity. Leaking with an assurance that I lacked. 

She wore that look well. 

Her clarity burned through me with an unforgiving nature. To be only as you are rather than a dynamic composite where you are neither. That was all I wanted. That was all she had.

She saw a girl leaking with privilege. One who wore the face of defiance. It was a face reserved only for the entitled and the indulged. To want more than you were given was a desire Rana could not afford. 

Yet, it suited me.

My ingratitude must’ve scorched through her and stained her drooping, overworked frame. It must’ve been another rebuke of her status and a reminder of my own. 

That same night, while I fantasized about a time where I did not stumble over my Arabic tongue, where I could place the stories my grandparents recalled of my childhood mishaps, where I exchanged expletives and devoured sudanee on the streets, where I wore the hijab, where I recognized the Egyptian land and monuments as my own, Rana was married off to a stranger.

~

I distinctly remember voicing my envy to Rana. My namesake. Ismee.

She had just returned from bringing the produce my grandma had requested from the market. It was unceasingly hot that day. An impressive 109 in June. Even the sky revolted against the Sun by trying to entice the clouds. 

All in vain.

My paternal grandparents’ house did not have air conditioning then. Just a fan that solely served to move hot air around. My cousins and brother and I would take turns opening the freezer and sticking our heads in when my aunt gave us her back. We risked her reprimands and the preservation of the meat all for an instance of cool air. When that lost its appeal, we all fought for our turn in the restroom with the bucket of water that was our shower head. Even lukewarm water was preferable to the sweat coating our skin. 

Sometimes, when we got reckless, we would go out on our third-floor veranda and pelt the passing by-standers with whatever we could get our hands on. Orange peels. Peanut shells. Whoever had the best aim would win. Often the reward was shaped in a good smack. Battle scars, we called it. At times, we even splashed water on the streets. The kids outside would run up to the water and cup it with their hands, eager to drink. 

To us, this was nothing but harmless fun. To the kids on the street, it was probably the only clean water they had to drink. 

That day, privilege was dictated by who could afford to bask in the shade. My cousins and I tossed time away while Rana and other hired help, exposed, tempted fate out in the Sun. 

A sun that feeds on the hungry and thirsty. 

During mid-afternoon, Rana entered our home with the unforgiving Sun’s blemish on her skin. It was as if she was covered in soot. 

Her beige clothes were now a permanent brown. 

My hair was still wet from my shower. I was wearing Egyptian cotton from Cairo. 

Still, we envied her. I envied her. 

While we exchanged sweat in this hot room, she was allowed to wander the streets, unaccompanied. Especially as a woman. I wasn’t allowed to bask outside our front door, let alone mark the muddy road. It wasn’t proper. I wasn’t familiar with the roads of this town and my clothes and accent exposed me as I was: a foreigner disguised as a local. One worthy of a pickpocket and catcalls.

Another reminder of how my roots had denounced me. 

Haggler and all, Rana’s pocket betrayed the extra change that remained from her trip in the market. As she handed the extra money to Teta, my grandma, which she promptly refused, Rana shared the accounts of her day. Riding the tok-tok to the market. Bargaining with the men. Adding new expletives to her library. 

I was captivated. 

While doing so, she was mindful to cover up the sunburns on her nape by unfolding her collar and her cracked lips by repeatedly coating them with a fresh coat of saliva. Her whole mouth looked inflamed up close. 

However, I didn’t fixate on that. Or her grimy nails. Her depleted eyes. Her bleeding heel. 

Her forged energy did not match her appearance. Rana held the firm security of being nothing more than expected. She did not have to conform. She did not have to question. She was defined by an identity that served to self-assure and to impede. 

I was constrained by my lack of restrictions. 

To be too much, I risked not being anything at all. 

I expressed this to her, while complaining about my day. How monotonous it was. Mundane compared to hers. She listened, attentively, and I divulged further. I complained to her about the life my family had chosen for me. The life they had stolen from me. 

Immediately, I watched her undress the composure she had so painstakingly worn all these years. Her words were suddenly filled with a malice that struck my face with the force of a thousand blows.

“Foolish girl, this is the life they spared you from.”

Lydia Waheed for Fools Magazine

~

When I met Rana’s mom, I remember thinking she looked like a hardened version of her daughter. Every angle of her face was sharper. I used to think that her eyes could cut. 

I tried making casual talk as she waited for Teta to get her wallet. I asked about Rana’s wedding. The planning and the festivities. The goodbyes. 

My words barely registered on her face.

Surely, she would miss her daughter, I asked.

“One less mouth to feed,” she replied.