New Short Fiction: ‘For She Who Birthed a Dream and She Who Birthed a Sorrow’

By Nibal Thawabteh

Translated by Faten Hafez

The villagers called her Alkarsa, or “the mute woman.” This was not just a label, but rather a description of her condition: she was indeed mute.

Everyone showed her sympathy, and all held the belief that a divine reckoning was imminent. God shows patience, but never neglect. I asked many people for her story, and all of them gave the same account. Alkarsa was born without the gift of speech and grew up in a middle-class family. She developed into an ordinary young woman, neither attractive nor plain, but energetic and a hard worker. Many people took advantage of her—giving food, a few coins, and at times, nothing at all—while they tasked her with the most difficult jobs.

As if this were not enough, people’s greed drove them to exploit her womb. It wasn’t enough to reap the fruits of her mettle, her toiling hands, or the sweat of her brow; she was a woman capable of pregnancy and childbirth, so they wanted to reap the fruits of her uterus.

A childless husband and wife, yearning for a child to lean on, decided to invest in Alkarsa’s womb. The husband married her, and she became pregnant, but once she gave birth to his child, he drove her entirely out of his life—alone.

This incident happened twenty years ago. But just a few months ago, someone shared a story of her on a bus. On this particular bus, there were no available seats, and her son was sitting in the front. He was fully aware that she was his mother, but he chose to ignore her, acknowledging only the parents who raised him, feeling he was one of them. He didn’t even consider giving up his seat for his mother, while another man offered his. Alkarsa cried and muttered faint sounds, as if imploring God and expressing her grief over this injustice. She beckoned to the man who gave her his seat and pointed to her stomach, intending to convey that this young man in front was her son and that she still loved him. She wept the entire time, all the while blowing kisses to her son and pointing to her stomach. She tried to tell him that he was the child of her womb.

To the wombs of mothers who are weary and filled with tales and tomorrow’s dreams and disappointments, who among you gave birth to a dream and who gave birth to a disappointment? Alkarsa’s womb was a vessel brimming with tales of agony, emptied with the release of a cry of injustice, yet filled back up with each intake of breath.

I have always loved Eve’s swollen, pregnant body, and I often asked women whether pregnancy was similar to carrying the weight of a baby in my arms while walking, working, sleeping, or even crying? I never got a good answer. Most of them laughed at my question, some responded that it’s a lot heavier, and others hesitated, but agreed it was not the same.

Liala told me that she wished she had a more eloquent tongue, so she could express how different it was; how difficult it was to wake up in the morning after a long night tossing and turning in bed. How difficult it was to wake up in the morning unable to eat, drink, or breathe because something inside her was growing, getting bigger and bigger.

In fact, after a brief silence, she said, Let’s start the saga of pain from the beginning: I was born and raised to be a girl who should keep her peace, speaking softly, or preferably not speaking at all. Then I became a young woman who was perceived as a shameful body or the impending target of a scandal, so she had to be married quickly. In this way, I entered marriage, but with mixed feelings, neither fully resenting nor fully accepting my husband. He was not exactly the man who had occupied my dreams for as long as I could remember—my vision of a chivalrous knight. But this knight never came, and instead an ordinary man showed up, and I married him under great pressure from my family.

Later, they told me not to worry, assuring me that I could definitely change him, and he would become the best of men. They advised me to marry the one who loves me, not the one I love, for he would ensure my constant happiness. Their thinking was that the man I married for love would expect me to always contribute to his happiness, as if happiness were a one-way endeavor. After marriage, my family took it upon themselves to pray for me and implore God to compensate me well. All other language seemed to disappear from my life, and, on every occasion, I would hear only these consoling phrases “you will be compensated” or “God will surely compensate you.” But I was never compensated, and the entire experience became increasingly difficult.

Now, I want a baby. I long to hear the word mama. Baby clothing is all I see in shop displays. Everything tiny stirs my emotions. At some point, I grew fond of a puppy; his weakness reminded me of the fragility of my future baby. Every time I see a baby, I rush to hold and care for him while weaving in my mind an image of my still-unknown infant. But as time passed, my ability to look at them waned, and the sight of babies, in general, began to evoke feelings of frustration; they became a constant reminder of my delayed conception.

Every month during my period, I felt extreme anxiety. I would nervously await the moment, holding my breath, desperately trying to prevent the onset of bleeding. Many long nights were spent lying still, clenching my thighs tightly, in the hopes that I could stop the bleeding. My desire to become pregnant and be a mother was incredibly strong. The idea of pregnancy is basically that you are made up of many parts, and within those parts, there exists one in which you nurture and foster life. I endured a great deal of pain even before I encountered the pain of pregnancy that you’re asking about. And despite its intensity, I find it oddly comforting.

She grew silent and sank into her daydreams. Perhaps those daydreams involved caressing her baby’s lips or fondling his hair.

As for me, deep within my soul dwells the image of Alkarsa: her bitter grievance, her imploring eyes, and her son who was taken away. Here live the images of the many mothers abandoned in cold places, devoid of warmth and love. Here lives the image of mothers with swollen bellies, praying that they bring forth dreams instead of disappointments.

Nibal Thawabteh is an author and activist who works at Birzeit University in Palestine.

Faten Hafez is a poet and writer, and also teaches literature and composition at Kean University.