Etaf Rum Quotes

It’s the loneliest people who love books the most.

A real choice doesn't have conditions. A real choice is free.

What’s meant for you will reach you even if it’s beneath two mountains, and what’s not meant for you won’t reach you even if it’s between your two lips

Perhaps that was why she had spent her childhood with a book in front of her face, trying to make sense of her life through stories. Books were her only reliable source of comfort, her only hope.

I was born without a voice, one cold, overcast day in Brooklyn, New York. No one ever spoke of my condition. I did not know I was mute until years later, when I opened my mouth to ask for what I wanted and realized no one could hear me.

Too often being happy means being passive or playing it safe. There's no skill required in happiness, no strength of character, nothing extraordinary. Its discontent that drives creation the most--passion, desire, defiance. Revolutions don't come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it's sadness, or discontent at least, that's at the root of everything beautiful.

It took more than one woman to do things differently. It took a world of them.

But maybe that’s the way of life, Fareeda thought. To understand things only after they had passed, only once it was too late.

She knew that the suffering of women started in the suffering of men, that the bondages of one became the bondages of the other.

That was the real reason abuse was so common, Isra thought for the first time. Not only because there was no government protection, but because women were raised to believe they were worthless, shameful creatures who deserved to get beaten, who were made to depend on the men who beat them.

It's the loneliest people who love books the most...it was the opposite of loneliness, too, like there were too many people around me, forced connections, that I needed a little isolation to think on my own, to be my own person.

I can tell my own story now, she thinks. And then she does.

Everything we draw into our life is a mirror of our thought patterns and beliefs. In a way, we can control the outcome of our future just by thinking more positively and visualizing only the things we want for ourselves.

Where I come from, voicelessness is the condition of my gender, as normal as the bosoms on a woman’s chest, as necessary as the next generation growing inside her belly.

Words could do extraordinary things, but sometimes they were not enough.

It’s hard to belong anywhere, truly belong, if we don’t belong to ourselves first.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there.

Sadness was like a cancer, she thought, a presence that staked it's claim so quietly you might not even notice it until it was too late. She hoped her other daughters didn't see.

But now, reading her books, she was beginning to find a different kind of love. A love that came from inside her, one she felt when she was all alone, reading by the window. And through this love, she was beginning to believe, for the first time in her life, that maybe she was worthy after all.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand. And yet Deya still felt alone in the end, no matter how many books she read, no matter how many tales she told herself.

She knew she had to teach them how to love themselves, that this was the only way they had a chance at happiness. Only she didn't see how she could when the world pressed shame into women like pillows into their faces. She wanted to save her daughters from her fate, but she couldn't seem to find a way out.

Learn this now, dear. If you live your life waiting for a man’s love, you’ll be disappointed.

Why did she have to be so afraid, so sensitive, so affected by the world?

But don't you think stories should be used to tell the truth?" "No, I think we need stories to protect us from the truth.

That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn’t say, had to watch them closely.

Her powerlessness even comforted her somehow. Knowing that she couldn't change things - that she didn't have a choice - made living it more bearable.

If every woman refused to get married after a woman died at the hands of her husband, then no one would ever get married.

the world pressed shame into women like pillows into their faces.

It's time you grew up and learned this now: A woman is not a man.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche has said, “The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.

Some days it feels like time is slipping through my fingers like water, as though one day I'll wake up to find it all gone.

Fear has a way of putting things in perspective.

Books were my armor. Everything I'd ever learned growing up, all my thoughts, dreams, goals, experiences, it all came from the books I read. It was like I went around collecting knowledge, plucking it from pages and storing it up, waiting for a chance to use it.

Fareeda knew that no matter what any woman said, culture could not be escaped. Even if it meant tragedy. Even if it meant death. At least she was able to recognize her role in their culture, own up to it, instead of sitting around saying “If only I had done things differently.” It took more than one woman to do things differently. It took a world of them. She had comforted herself with these thoughts so many times before, but tonight they only filled her with shame.

Soon you'll learn that there's no room for love in a woman's life. There's only one thing you'll need, and that's patience.

Aren't you scared? Of course I am...But whatever happens...It can't be worse than what's happening now...but awareness and action, she also knew, were very different things.

Books have always kept me company when I felt most alone.

Sadness was like a cancer, she thought, a presence that staked its claim so quietly you might not even notice it until it was too late.

...her body carried her worry like an extra limb....,

She wished she could be stronger, wished she could be one of those people who could listen to a sad song without bursting into tears, who could read something horrible in the news without feeling sick, who didn’t feel so deeply. But that wasn’t her.

And yet even as she heard this old voice in her head, she could still feel the shift that had just occurred inside her. The old voice was no longer strong enough to hold her back—Deya knew this now. She knew this voice that she had always taken as the absolute truth was actually the very thing preventing her from achieving everything she wanted. The voice was the lie, and all the things she wanted for herself were the truth, perhaps the most important truth in the world. And because of this she had to stand up for herself. She had to fight. She had to. The fight was worth everything if it meant finally having a voice.

And yet she was no longer a child who could be sustained by the possibility of a better life. This was it. This was her life. Her chance to do better. And she was failing.

she’d felt as though she understood the meaning of the word sorrow for the first time.

It's the loneliest people who love books the most.

She’d be a writer, helping people understand the world through stories.

A daughter was only a temporary guest, quietly awaiting another man to scoop her away, along with all her financial burden.

But what if I don't want to get married?' Deya had asked. 'Why does my entire life have to revolve around a man?

The cruelest thing on this earth is a man’s heart.

People flee to America from war-torn countries every day. Some are Arabs. Some are Muslims. Some are both, like us. But we could live here for the rest of our lives and never be Americans. You think you’re doing the right thing by wearing this hijab, but that’s not what Americans will see when they look at you. They won’t see your modesty or your goodness. All they’ll see is an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong.

Language was often a bridge, but sometimes a barrier. No matter how she chose her words, they would always come out a little distorted. So she said nothing for a while. Silence was better than being misunderstood, erased, unseen for who you really were.

Courage will get you everywhere, so long as you believe in yourself and what you stand for,' said Sarah. 'You don't know what your life will be like, and neither do I. The only thing I know for sure is that you alone are in control of your destiny. No one else. You have the power to make your life whatever you want it to be, and in order to do that, you have to find the courage to stand up for yourself, even if you're standing alone.

Sarah paused for a moment then said, "I don't care about being happy." Deya's surprise must have been written across her face because Sarah continued, "Too often being happy means being passive or playing it safe. There's no skill required in happiness, no strength of character, nothing extraordinary. It's discontent that drives creation the most—passion, desire, defiance. Revolutions don't come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it's sadness, or discontent at least, that's at the root of everything beautiful.

She thinks about the stories stacked across the shelves, leaning against one another like burdened bodies, supporting the works within each other. There must be hundreds of them, thousands even. Maybe her story is in here somewhere. Maybe she will finally find it.

Why didn't the world recognize that identity and privilege were accidents of birth? How much more empathy would people have if they understood that their position in life was decided not by goodness or merit or fault or need but by luck and chance, a toss of a coin?

What I'm trying to say is that if you believe you have power over your life, then you ultimately will. And if you believe you don't, then you won't.

She wanted to be happy. But she felt as though she wore a stain she couldn't wash off.

There’s nothing to fix. You aren’t broken. You’re hurting.

It was much more bearable to pretend her life was fiction than to accept her reality for what it was: limited.

What’s the point of working for the future if it means forgetting to live?

Perhaps alongside that strength, she had more room for love.

It takes more than one woman to do things differently...It takes a world of them

Let me tell you something. A man is the only way up in this world, even though he’ll climb a woman’s back to get there. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

She was likely uneducated, uncivilized, a nobody. Perhaps she was even an extremist, a terrorist. An entire race of culture and experiences diluted into a single story.

steaming of cup of mint chai.

America was supposed to be the land of the free, so why did everything feel tight and constricted?

desire, defiance. Revolutions don’t come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it’s sadness, or discontent at least, that’s at the root of everything beautiful.

To surrender to the vulnerability of love and allow ourselves to be loved by others—isn’t that the most courageous act of all?

God help any woman who has to raise a daughter in America.

Sometimes I wish I could've been born a man, just to see how it feels. It would've spared me a lot of grief in life.

Who cares what the world sees if you can’t even stand to look at yourself?

She was a soul torn down the middle, broken in two. Straddled and limited. Here or there, it didn't matter. She didn't belong.

She had finally figured it out. Life was nothing more than a bad joke for women. One she didn't find funny.

But most of all, I wanted to unlearn all the shame. I wanted to learn how to love and honor myself so I could know how to love and honor my children.

And then: What do I truly want? Well, ideally, I'd like to fix my brain.

Yet as much as she wanted to go out there and venture into the world, there was also a comfort and safety in the known.

It was like her body was an ocean, and these feelings would always come and go like the tides. The task was not to let herself be pulled away by one of the currents. The task was to accept that her insides would feel violent and tumultuous at times, and to be okay with that.

It was much more bearable to pretend her life was fiction than to accept her reality for what it was: limited. In fiction, the possibilities of her life were endless. In fiction, she was in control.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand.

Perhaps she had never confronted the voice in her head because it had been easier to listen to it. It had been safer to sustain the belief that she was a bad person. At least then she was in control. At least then she could arrange her life so carefully that her badness didn’t spill out and leak everywhere. But she would no longer be able to live her life with this regret, paralyzed by all the words she hadn’t said.

She knew she had to teach them how to love themselves, that this was the only way they had a chance at happiness. Only she didn't see how she could when the world pressed shame into women like pillows into their faces.

She wished she could open her mouth and tell her parents, "No, this isn't the life I want." But Israa had learned at a very young age that obedience is the only path to love. So she only defied in secret. Mostly with her books.

...to remind us of the importance of our women. When we accept that heaven lies underneath the feet of a woman, we are more respectful of women everywhere. That is how we are told to treat women in the Qur'an. It's a powerful verse.

She hadn't realized it meant marrying a man she barely knew, nor that marriage was the beginning and end of her life's purpose. It was only as she grew older that Deya had truly realized her place in her community. She had learned that there was a certain way she had to live, certain rules she had to follow, and that, as a woman, she would never have a legitimate claim over her own life.

She couldn't believe how quickly time had passed, that she had gotten old. Old - she shook the thought away. It was not the thought of being old that bothered her rather the realization of what her life had amounted to. What a shame, she thought now as she waited for sleep to come...

The voice cautioned her to surrender, be quiet, endure. It told her that standing up for herself would only lead to disappointment when she lost the battle. That the things she wanted for herself were a fight she could never win. That it was safer to surrender and do what she was supposed to do.

Something inside her shifted, as if her whole life she had been looking in the wrong direction, not seeing the precise moment that turned everything upside down. She saw the chain of shame passed from one woman to the next so clearly now, saw her place in the cycle so vividly. She sighed. It was cruel, this life. But a woman could only do so much.

Fareeda knew that no matter what any woman said, culture could not be escaped. Even if it meant tragedy. Even if it meant death. At least she was able to recognize her role in their culture, own up to it, instead of sitting around saying “If only I had done things differently.” It took more than one woman to do things differently. It took a world of them.

What’s meant for you will reach you even if it’s beneath two mountains, and what’s not meant for you won’t reach you even if it’s between your two lips’?

(...) she shrugged to articulate her feelings, even to herself. Words diluted things, made them smaller.

She wondered what he saw, whether he knew that if he opened her up, he would find, right behind her ribs, only a fist of rot and mud.

The only person you can trust is yourself, and sometimes even that’s not easy.

Too often being happy means being passive or playing it safe. There’s no skill required in happiness, no strength of character, nothing extraordinary. Its discontent that drives creation the most—passion, desire, defiance. Revolutions don’t come from a place of happiness. If anything, I think it’s sadness, or discontent at least, that’s at the root of everything beautiful.

There's nothing wrong with protecting myself." "Maybe not. But pretending nothing's wrong is not protecting yourself. If anything, it's much more dangerous to live pretending to be someone you're not.

She could have asked those questions aloud, but she knew people only told you what you wanted to hear. That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn't say, had to watch them closely.

How could she make Sarah understand what it was like back home, where no woman would think to call the cops if her husband beat her? And even if she somehow found the strength to stand up for herself, what good would it do when she had no money, no education, no job to fall back on? That was the real reason abuse was so common, Isra thought for the first time. Not only because there was no government protection, but because women were raised to believe they were worthless, shameful creatures who deserved to get beaten, who were made to depend on the men who beat them. Isra wanted to cry at the thought. She was ashamed to be a woman, ashamed for herself and for her daughters.

Isra felt a sense of failure rising in her. She had tried her best to shelter her daughters from her sadness, they way she wished Mama had sheltered her...Sadness was like a cancer, she thought, a presence that staked its claim so quietly you might not even notice it until it was too late. She hoped her...daughters didn't see. Maybe Deya could even forget...Isra could still learn to be a good mother. Maybe she could still save them. Maybe it wasn't too late.

When a woman is shamed and devalued in her community, she learns that the most traumatic events of her life will never be recognized as legitimate, and with that she learns there is no reason to speak them, that to do so might even be dangerous. Instead of reaching out, she is taught to reach in, conceal, pretend. When she internalizes this experience, she begins to enforce this silence in the women around her, teaching her daughters and granddaughters to do the same, a passing down of silence.

Deya walks between the library bookshelves now. They are thick and tall, each one twice as wide as her. She thinks about the stories stacked across the shelves, leaning against one another like burdened bodies, supporting the worlds within each other. There must be hundreds of them, thousands even. Maybe her story is in here somewhere. Maybe she will finally find it. She runs her fingers along the hardcover spines, inhales the smell of old paper, searching. But then it hits her, like falling into water. I can tell my own story now, she thinks. And then she does.

She woke up every morning feeling very young, yet at the same time terribly old. Some days she felt as though she were still a child, other days as thought se had felt far too much of the world for one life. That she had been burdened with duty ever since she was a child. That she had never really lived. She felt empty; she felt full. She needed people; she needed to be alone. She couldn't get the equation right? Who was to blame? She thought it was herself. She thought it was her mother, and her mother's mother, and the mothers of all their mothers, all the way back in time.

She often wondered how many people felt this way, spellbound by words, wishing to be tucked inside a book and forgotten there. How many people were hoping to find their story inside, desperate to understand. And yet Deya still felt alone in the end, no matter how many books read, no matter how many tales she told herself. All her life she'd searched for a story to help her understand who she was and where she belonged.