Etaf Rum’s debut novel, A Woman Is No Man, promises to lift the veil on the unspoken, generational oppression of women within conservative Arab-American communities. In theory, it’s a groundbreaking narrative: a multigenerational exploration of silence, shame, and survival told through the voices of three Palestinian women living in America. It’s the kind of book that should shake the reader, start conversations, and spark overdue reflection.
Unfortunately, in execution, the novel doesn’t come close to its literary potential. While the subject matter is undeniably important, the storytelling falls flat, the writing veers towards simplistic, and the characters struggle to rise above their archetypes.
From the very first chapter, the tone lacks the emotional complexity and nuanced introspection that a theme of this weight demands. Instead of peeling back layers of experience or exploring internal contradictions, the characters often speak in loops, locked in repetitive, almost hollow monologues. Much of the novel is filled with characters asking themselves the same questions, again and again: Why am I like this? What will happen? Can I escape? This device, used once or twice, could enhance intimacy. Used dozens of times, it becomes wearisome.
Set between Brooklyn and Palestine, the novel attempts to trace the cycle of patriarchal oppression across generations from Fareeda, the fiercely traditional matriarch; to Isra, her daughter-in-law, trapped in an abusive marriage; to Deya, Isra’s daughter, who must untangle the web of secrets her family has hidden. These are women with compelling stories to tell, and the author doesn’t shy away from presenting the raw cruelty many of them endure. Domestic violence, forced marriages, emotional manipulation, are brought to light with an honesty that is both admirable and difficult to read.
But for all its potential, the novel remains emotionally one-note. The character arcs, though harrowing, are frustratingly linear. Fareeda is hard and unyielding, Isra is meek and tragic, and Deya is the chosen one who must break the chain. There is very little room for surprise or transformation. As a breath of fresh air, Sarah is a character that seems like breaking the mould. For the others, the portrayal feels more like a sketch than a painting, highlighting the outlines of a painful reality without filling it in with the rich emotional depth that would give it lasting resonance.
Where the novel does succeed is in its courageous attempt to expose a culture of silence that has, for too long, gone unspoken. The author, herself a Palestinian-American woman, is drawing from a personal place, and her sincerity in wanting to tell this story is palpable. The generational trauma depicted with the inherited fears, the suffocating expectations, the indoctrinated beliefs that a woman’s worth is measured by obedience is deeply troubling and absolutely worth exploring.
But the storytelling itself in its structure, style, and execution doesn’t match the urgency of the themes. Repetition plagues the narrative. Scenes, conversations, even internal thoughts are recycled so often that any emotional tension they build is quickly lost. There’s also a lack of subtlety; the reader is told, over and over, what to think, how to feel, rather than being shown through immersive storytelling or layered character development. It begins to feel less like a novel and more like a well-meaning PSA.
In an era where so many powerful voices are finally being heard, I wish this one had been better served by its craft. I walked away feeling underwhelmed and disappointed, not because the story wasn’t important, but because it wasn’t told in a way that left me changed or challenged.
This could have been a remarkable book. For someone seeking complexity, nuance, and literary finesse, A Woman Is No Man feels like a missed opportunity.
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