Three Palestinian women. Three timelines. Three points of view.
1990. Palestine. Sixteen-year-old Isra is married off to Adam, an older man who lives in Brooklyn, New York. It’s an arranged marriage that marks the beginning of her new life—and the loss of the one she knew.
1990. Brooklyn. Farida, Adam’s mother, lives with the couple and her own husband and children, ruling the household with an iron will shaped by her past.
2008. Brooklyn again, but through the eyes of Deya, Isra’s eldest daughter, who questions the role her family expects her to play: a dutiful girl, ready for marriage. But Deya wants something different—college, independence, freedom.
This time, I found myself more invested in the characters than the themes I usually love to explore. There’s so much to say about each of them. Some, you want to hate. And then you pause. You see their trauma, their layers, their contradictions—and you begin to understand them. Or maybe you don’t. But you want to try.
Let’s dive into these voices.
Isra – The Perfect Wife Who Was Never Given a Chance
Since childhood, Isra was trained to be the ideal wife. She could serve guests in the proper order, lower her gaze around men, and navigate the customs expected of her. But once she married and moved to America, she realized how little that preparation meant. She had no idea how much she’d be expected to endure.
Soft-spoken and eager to please, Isra wanted to be a good wife and daughter-in-law. She asked questions quietly, if at all. She assumed America would be different for women—more liberating, more open. But quickly, she realized that the constraints of culture had followed her across the ocean.
She was expected to bear children, boys in particular. To do all the cooking, cleaning, and childrearing. School? Work? Dreams? Unthinkable.
And yet, we witness her slow transformation. From romanticizing marriage to becoming disillusioned with it. From silence to occasional outbursts. From pleasing everyone to, finally, standing up—especially for her daughters. But here’s the tragedy: her evolution feels stunted, cut short before it could fully bloom.
Her growth was real, but incomplete. Interrupted.
Adam – The Troubled Soul
Adam, the firstborn son, carries the weight of his entire family. Farida, his mother, never lets him forget it. He is responsible for paying the bills, supporting his brothers, providing a grandson, and upholding family honor. The list never ends.
Adam tries to hold it all in. His resentment, his sadness, his quiet desperation—they’re all bottled up inside. Until, eventually, he turns to the bottle to cope.
And no one seems to notice. Or care. “Nobody ever asks if I’m happy,” he once tells Isra.
It’s tempting to see Adam solely as the abuser, the cruel husband. And in many ways, he is. But his complexity lies in his internal conflict. He doesn’t fully buy into the rules he’s enforcing—he simply doesn’t know how to resist them. Caught between tradition, obligation, and masculinity as defined by control, he becomes both perpetrator and victim.
It might be an unpopular opinion, but I felt for Adam. A Woman Is No Man shows that patriarchy doesn’t only harm women—it breaks men too. Adam wasn’t just shaped by an oppressive culture; he was crushed by it. That’s not an excuse. It’s a tragedy.
Farida – The Keeper of Traditions
If I had to choose one character who made me fume, it would be Farida. Isra’s mother-in-law.
But she is not simple.
Farida grew up in a refugee camp, endured extreme poverty, married a violent man, and clawed for whatever scraps of power she could find in her own marriage. She fought for her right to speak, to assert herself—only to later weaponize that power against the women around her.
Why?
Maybe she thought suffering was the price of womanhood. Maybe, after a lifetime of pain, it became the only love language she knew. She believes a woman’s strength lies in her ability to endure, and she teaches that lesson fiercely.
But Farida is also a product of her world. Her idea of love is rooted in protection, not affection. In control, not comfort. You may not agree with her, but you understand—this is how she survived.
What baffled me most was her relentless praise of her sons, especially when they gave her so little in return. But what kind of men are raised when they’re never taught to see women as human?
And her refusal to self-reflect? Blame it on djinn, spirits, curses—anything but herself. That was so frustrating.
And yet, I couldn’t fully hate her.
Sarah – The Girl Who Dared
Sarah, Adam’s younger sister, was my favorite character.
She wasn’t just “rebellious” or “Americanized.” She was brave. She believed in college, independence, and the right to choose. She refused to be handed off like an object. She refused silence. She’s curious, outspoken, and constantly pushing at the edges of what’s expected. Her presence is a reminder that not every path has to look the same.
Farida tried to break her spirit. And thought she succeeded—until Sarah did the unthinkable and shattered the family’s image of obedience. Her choice breaks Farida’s heart but lights a spark for the next generation.
I loved her not just because she spoke up, but because she did so knowing the cost. She created a ripple that would, in time, open doors for Deya and her sisters.
Deya – The Strength Within
Deya, the eldest of Isra’s daughters, reminded many of her mother. But I saw something more—audacity, curiosity, and emotional strength.
Isra died when Deya was just seven, and that absence becomes a driving force. Something never felt right, and Deya couldn’t stop asking questions. She is caught between what she’s been told and what she feels to be true.
She’s been raised to be obedient, but something inside her resists. It’s not defiance for the sake of rebellion—it’s the slow, thoughtful process of becoming. Of trying to understand her family, her culture, and herself. She doesn’t always trust herself—how could she, in a world that never let her think independently?
Deya’s journey isn’t about dramatic decisions. It’s about quiet awakenings. And that’s what makes her so powerful—she reminds us that change often begins not with action, but with a question
That Ending Though…
Have you ever heard of open-ended math problems—the ones with multiple possible solutions? That’s what the ending of A Woman Is No Man felt like.
I reread the final chapter just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. It leaves room for multiple theories, all of which could be true. It was bold. Unsettling. Perfect.
The kind of ending that leaves you wondering what actually happened.
Let’s Talk About It
Without giving away spoilers:
If you were in a dangerous, controlling environment, would you stay and try to change the system from within—or leave and create your own freedom elsewhere?
Let’s talk in the comments.