the ordeal of being known
: Prologue

Layla

The first curl of resentment between a mother and a daughter can start when the doctor announces, ‘It’s a girl’.

She wanted a boy. She had been told that boys are easier.

The second one can happen after she gives birth, but this one isn’t fleeting, she can’t brush it off because it happens over and over again until she can’t part with it and it becomes a part of the lens that she views you with.

Layla’s mother is a beautiful woman who’s used to getting attention. Her first pregnancy with Layla’s brother was exciting, but this one took a toll on her. Her body took longer to recover and ‘get back in shape’ and she couldn’t replace anyone other than her daughter to blame.

‘You look so beautiful’ turned into ‘She’s so beautiful’. People visited, and they fixated on the baby girl. This could be a happy moment, like the happy ones in her first pregnancy, but the first one didn’t harbor the feeling of competition that she felt.

She had taken something from her.

Then it grew bigger when the girl got older. When she became a child looking for a hobby, and it just so happened that she’s a natural. Teachers called to tell Layla’s mother about how talented her child was, but it didn’t make her happy; instead, it fueled her jealousy.

After that, she watched her daughter become a young girl. But it’s different; her boobs were a bit bigger, she grew taller, and she was not a little girl anymore in her mother’s eyes. She was not a child. Layla was a woman, never a girl.

One day, Layla opened up about the feelings of discomfort she gets from her mother’s family when the men stare at her and make weird comments. Sharon blamed her daughter; twelve-year-old Layla was being provocative in her opinion. She screamed and hit Layla, who absorbed the force of it all, hoping that it will help lessen her mother’s anger.

It doesn’t.

Sharon refused to let her take another thing from her. Layla had a dreadful moment of realizing that her mother was not her protector. She was hardly a mother and she will never stand by her side. Instead, she makes rules; she kept her daughter punished at all times and watched every breath she took, like a viper waiting to strike.

When Sharon got pregnant again, Layla’s panic attacks increased. It happened at an age when things keep getting worse, where she unraveled so many hidden layers of hatred in her mother’s heart until she can’t take it anymore, until her own heart becomes bared down and it crushes the illusion of childhood she had.

Sharon’s third and final pregnancy was different. Layla took care of her so that she didn’t feel like this pregnancy exhausted her. She convinced her mother to keep the gender a surprise. When another girl came, she had her mother’s eyes. It softened something inside Sharon. Layla didn’t think her mother had much room left in her heart to resent another child.

Samira had softer features, and she was luckily the kind of girl that drew tenderness from people. People praised Sharon for how quiet and polite Samira was, and she took credit for it, but it was Layla who raised her. Layla who took care of her, Layla who taught her everything she knows.

Layla to the audience: Now, let’s fast forward a bit to my fourteen-year-old self.

She didn’t think she deserves to be here. She knew it. She wished her family knew it as well.

Layla’s brother and parents ignored the invitation again. She and her sister, Samira, insisted on going. Samira has always loved coming here. Layla knows this is the only place her little sister feels like she has an actual family.

It was the first day of Eid; their mother didn’t let them visit a lot, but Ramadan and Eid are the only times when their father manages to change her mind. Their brother never liked coming; he is his mother’s son. Layla, on the other hand, insisted on going even before her sister was born.

The first time she went, she was six, and she remembered feeling ashamed; she had rarely spoken to her father’s family because it upset her mama. She didn’t have the best relationship with them. The first time she brought it up, she had gotten a slap on the face. At the time, she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, and she wasn’t allowed to play with most kids because her mother didn’t approve of them, so Layla was bored, and because she knew her father had a big family, she asked again.

Layla had tried to look for ways to excuse her mama’s control issues. She’d say, ‘she was just making sure I was safe’, or ‘she just doesn’t want anyone to corrupt me’. She says it’s hard to raise girls, so she had to be extra careful.

Layla to the audience: It’s all just misogyny.

Her father’s guilt eventually made him agree, and he dropped her off and left quickly. She didn’t understand why at the time. This neighborhood in Houston was known mostly to have Arab residents, and because it was Eid it was decorated accordingly. There were lights everywhere, the smell of bakhoor flooded the streets.

Layla’s father left as soon as her little feet hit the pavement. She stood there staring at the kids playing in the backyard until her feet hurt.

A woman wearing a hijab came out of the house and walked slowly, like she was approaching a wild cat. She looked at the girl like she knew her. Layla didn’t like that.

“You’re Layla,” the woman said in disbelief.

Layla nodded and looked around.

“You’re here alone?” she asked. Layla nodded again. The woman gave a hollow laugh. “Your baba wouldn’t bother to say hi? Or let anyone know that we’re allowed to see you now?” It looked like she was talking to herself. She wasn’t looking at Layla.

“How do you know me?” Layla asked. The woman finally looked down at her. Her expression softened. Again Layla disliked it; she wasn’t used to it.

“You look so much like mama,” the woman whispered. “Baba is going to love you.”

Layla pursed her lips with doubt. She knew she wasn’t someone who was easy to love.

The woman’s hands reached out to Layla. She flinched back, her heart started beating fast like it usually did when a hand was raised in her direction. The woman frowned down at her.

“I don’t like touching. Don’t touch me. You have to tell everyone not to touch me or I won’t be back here again,” the little girl said sternly, in a very mature manner.

“Okay,” the woman drawled. “My name is Sara. I’m your aunt.”

Layla thought that made sense. Sara had the same olive skin tone as her dad; the same dark brown curls.

When they went inside, Sara asked Layla to stay in the dining room for a few minutes. She heard whispers; the kids who were outside were all inside now.

About fifteen minutes later, a couple walked in. She had never seen them before, but the older woman looked exactly like her. She had Layla’s olive skin, and her deep black hair; they shared same light brown eyes.

Layla’s grandfather cleared his throat and sat down.

The only thing she knew about them were their names and where they were from. Her grandfather’s name was Ahmad, and her grandmother’s name was Salma, and they were both from Palestine.

“You look happy to see me,” she had remarked, confused again.

“Of course we are! I named you based on one of my favorite stories. Qais and Layla.” He smiled warmly at her. He had kind features and smile lines; she liked that.

“Why didn’t you visit us then?” she asked. Her aunt came back then, and Layla found herself with three sets of confused eyes.

This was the first time an adult sat next to her and had an honest conversation with her.

Layla’s grandparents moved all of their kids here because her father and Aunt Sara wanted to study abroad. When her father met his now wife, Sharon, things had taken a turn. Sharon was the kind of woman who only accepted being the center of someone’s universe. He started ignoring all family events in favor of spending time with his wife’s family. He used to be somewhat of black sheep—had low self-esteem—he was so happy when a woman who was as beautiful as Sharon liked him.

He did everything to make her happy, including pushing his family away.

Layla’s father later ghosted his own family after the wedding. He called about a year later to tell them that his wife was six months pregnant with Layla’s brother. Out of guilt, he convinced his wife to let his father name the next baby. The visit to congratulate and name Layla over a year later would be the last visit for years.

Throughout the whole conversation, Layla noticed her grandparents spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. They never showed anger towards their son; they said family members make mistakes all the time.

They asked her so many questions—many she didn’t answer. She was angrier than ever; it was too much anger for such a young soul.

Layla’s grandparents were fond of her. They felt so bad, and they were always gentle with her. She was a cold, angry child. Her eyes—ones she shared with her grandmother—didn’t have any of the older woman’s warmth. They were carefully vacant.

Layla never played when she visited. Instead, she only watched the other kids. She loved going. Truly. But only she knew what happened when she got back home. Cruel words and hits awaited her, and she couldn’t bring herself to enjoy anything when she knew it was temporary. The hits were always there, never too hard to leave bruises, so that it wouldn’t be noticeable, but they were there.

She started taking her newborn sister with her. It was up to her to make sure her sister was showered with the love she couldn’t bring herself to accept. They were all very affectionate, but never to her. It was hard to allow it; too dangerous.

She couldn’t afford to get used to gentle touches.

It’s best if I don’t know what they feel like, she thought.

When Samira turned ten, her Arabic was already better than Layla’s because she had so many people to talk to.

It was Eid again, and everyone was in the kitchen helping out. The smell of her grandmother’s famous maskhan filled the place. Fairuz’s unmistakable voice was loud, but everyone singing to her songs was louder.

“Layla, come here!”

She followed her grandfather out and sat in front of him; there was a wrapped book on the table. He pointed at it, and she reminded him that he had already given her eidie.

“Just open it,” he said.

It was a book of his favorite Arabic poetry. He had bound and annotated it himself.

Layla stared at the book. His hands were shaking due to his age, hers were shaking for another reason. He knew she liked to read; she’d mentioned once that she never read poetry.

“You’ll change your mind once you read poetry by Mahmoud Darwish,” he had told her.

Now, she stared at him; she felt mad. Tenderness often felt like a cruel mocking to her; the safest reaction was always anger.

“Why?”

“Can I hug you?” he asked.

Samira was hovering outside, watching the exchange.

“No,” the girl replied too quickly. She could feel the sting of tears under his gaze. She chose to look down at the book instead.

I will not cry, she thought.

“Oh Baba, you are so cruel to yourself. How old are you? Sixteen? And yet, you look like you’ve lived twice as long. It’s always been that way, hasn’t it? So much anger here.” He pointed at her heart. “You shouldn’t have to carry so much alone. It’s been ten years of me waiting for you to trust me.” Her panic was increasing. This was too vulnerable; she didn’t want his pity. “Maybe this is my fault. Maybe I should have pushed for more answers.”

They weren’t too involved with her. She never let them. In all her visits, she only talked to her grandparents, and they were never going to get answers from her father.

Samira was looking at her, eyes pleading for her to speak.

That was the last time Layla went. After that, she drove her little sister and watched from afar.

Layla to the audience: Now, just a flashback from fourteen-year-old me.

“Mama, can I go see Jedo again soon?”

Layla truly thought time had stopped. For a second, she couldn’t draw her breath. There was only the sound of her sister calling her mama.

She had turned to look at her, so small, eyes so wide when she looked up.

“Mama?” she said again.

“No!” she snapped. It was harsher than intended, and she instantly regretted it. “I’m not mama. I’m your sister.” She shook. Samira’s lips wobbled. She never treated her with anything other than tenderness.

The rational part of her brain understood why Samira would call her mom. It was Layla who made her food. It was Layla who bathed her. Layla took care of her when she was sick. Layla helped her with schoolwork, but there was no room for rationality when she could feel her panic rising, choking her.

“Please go to the bedroom, Samira,” she said, panting. “I didn’t mean to.”

Samira nods; she ran to the room and closes the door.

Layla slid down the floor of the miserable colorless living room. She tried to catch her breath; she tried to replace an anchor, but she had nothing. Her thoughts spiral. She wanted to leave this house as soon as she turned eighteen, but what happens to her sister? What would happen when her mama started seeing Samira as a woman who was nothing more than an extension and not a human being? What would happen when she punished her for existing?

She couldn’t leave; she couldn’t stay.

She passed out on the floor for a couple of hours that night. When she woke up, the house was still empty. She ran to the room, a little dizzy, but found Samira sleeping in her bed.

Layla to the audience: Now, nineteen-year-old me.

Layla stayed.

A couple of weeks before Layla turned twenty, Samira came to her and said, “I’m going to ask you for something and I don’t want you to say no.”

Layla wasn’t in the habit of refusing anything her sister wanted, so she nodded.

“I need you to leave, Layla.”

“What?”

“I need you to go, okay? I need you to go and live.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Did mom say something to you?”

“No. I—”

“I swear that woman—”

“Listen to me!” she yelled. “You can’t stay here because of me! You’re so sad. You don’t laugh anymore. I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile. I love you more than I love anyone in the world, but I’ve been losing so many pieces of you and I need you to go before I lose my sister,” she cried. “Please. I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” she whispered, tugging Samira closer to her on the bed. Her heart felt too heavy; she didn’t know what to do, how to leave her sister there.

“You’re not. Not really. I know how to avoid mama’s anger now. Her anger is directed at you because she thinks you’re too defiant. I can manage. I learned all your tricks, and mama is getting older. You stayed for almost two years, but that’s enough. You can leave and know that I won’t be alone. And it’s not like we won’t be sisters anymore. It’s only a couple of years before I can move with you. Until then, you’ll build a better life for both of our sakes, right?”

Layla to the audience: Okay, last jump to my twenty-year-old self.

Layla wished to leave in peace, but she should have known better. There was rarely a moment of it in that house. She was supposed to disappear quietly and Samira would pretend she knew nothing of where and when she left.

Getting slapped was not really a rare occurrence, but she had tried avoiding it more than usual recently. She did not want her sister to wake up to the sound of her crying in the bathroom again. Layla tried to continue with avoidance, but Sharon was easy to rile up. It hardly took anything for her to feel rage at her daughter.

She’d turned twenty. She never expected to stay for this long. It was causing her soul to rot, but she tried looking at silver lining; working a part-time job plus working on commission had helped her save a lot of money for her departure. One of the downsides was that it gave her parents something to hold over her. Something to bully her over. Layla never went to college like their beloved son did. She was their failure. Their biggest disappointment and they never bothered to ask if she had other plans, which she did.

Layla could barely remember what the fight was about. She blocked so much of it out, but she always remembered how it felt to be humiliated when someone raised their hand to her. She didn’t fight. She was leaving. Let her mother slap and scratch over and over again, because if she fought back, the problem would double in size.

She was so tired, she just wanted to leave.

The door opened, Layla was on the couch with her mother’s hands grabbing her hair. Samira ran to get her mother off her sister. She was already crying. Her older brother decided to help with a frown on his face.

Sharon hitting her used to be easier for the whole family when Layla was younger. It was under the illusion of discipline. After that, it was obvious Sharon wasn’t a good mother to her. Her father and her brother let it happen, and sometimes, even though their guilt meant absolutely nothing to her, she could see it.

They both tried to make excuses to make themselves feel better about being cowards. They told her it was her fault for talking back. To them, the act of fighting back or hating your abuser was a bigger crime than abusing someone.

“I am done!” Layla snapped. She looked at her father in the eye. She saw a flash of fear before he shook his head with disapproval. He could see that she’d had enough.

“We’ll talk later,” he said. He spoke calmly, just in case she lost her temper. It would give him a pass to call her too emotional, to say that she couldn’t think rationally like him.

She ran upstairs and Samira followed; they didn’t bother to look back. This was where they ‘contained’ her mother’s anger. This is where they acted like they were going to protect Layla.

They never had. She went to them hundreds of times to try to fix things, to try to get them to understand. They always said things like ‘she’s still your mom’ or ‘what do you want us to do? We can’t change your mom’ or ‘You just need to be calmer when you talk to her’.

She heard yelling from downstairs. Her father grumbled a few words in Arabic that no one other than Layla and Samira could understand.

She remembered him being angry at them when he thought that none his children spoke Arabic, but he left out that he was absent for most of their childhood. His job used to take a lot of time and he traveled a lot.

Layla had taught herself just to surprise him when she was younger, but he never really paid attention to her.

Her bags were packed and hidden. She sat with Samira on the bed; she forced herself to remain calm. She didn’t want her little sister to worry. Layla put on a brave mask and waited. She waited until Samira fell asleep, until she heard no voices coming from downstairs.

Layla stared at her sister, then at her own hands. There was a burn on her hand from when she taught Samira how to cook. Her hoodie was too worn because it was Samira’s favorite one to steal. Every memory flooded her mind. She didn’t want to leave her sister in that house.

She got up to place a kiss on Samira’s forehead and then she head to the window to sneak out. Her bags were hidden outside. The only thing she had on her was her plane ticket to Los Angeles and her favorite pencil to sketch with.

Layla snuck out and waited for her Uber. She arrived hours early to the airport and then she could only wait. She boarded and then more waiting till the plane landed. It took hours, but they felt like seconds in her head. The chaos of the day was already so far away.

This is so odd, she thought.

She had waited for years to leave, to finally be on her own, and she expected to feel…more? The only things circling her head were questions.

Is it really over? What is it going to be like? When am I going to see my sister again? What if she needs me next to her? Please, just let it be over.