Temporarily Female A Short Story by: Abdel Latif Moubarak – Egypt
In a warm corner of an old café in the Al-Gamaleya neighborhood, Salma’s cup of coffee was being poured in a heavy silence. She held a pen in her hand, watching the reflection of her face in the rain-slicked window. Twenty-four years lived in the belief that womanhood was merely a dress to wear when society demanded gentleness, and to strip off when asked to be a solid wall for everyone to lean on. Her mother, Batoul, had passed away just a week earlier, leaving behind a small note written in a trembling hand: “Do not be a mere stopover, Salma… be the homeland.” But how could she build a homeland for herself when she had never been anything more than a passing shadow? Morad saw a sanctuary in her, yet he never viewed her as an independent identity. Their love was a tangle of need and escape: she was fleeing the weight of her family after her mother’s loss, while he was running from the setbacks of his business ventures. One evening, sliding his fingers along the edge of the table, he told her:
“You are my refuge, Salma… When I’m with you, I feel at home.” Salma didn’t smile. Those words, which might have flattered many women, tormented her. A refuge? A harbor? A stopover? The phrase “Temporarily Female” kept echoing in her mind. She was a woman as long as she listened, understood, and provided support; but the moment she expressed her own pain, the conversation flattened into the cold demands of daily life. In her father’s old house, surrounded by high walls and the scent of aged paper, Salma began sorting through Batoul’s personal belongings.
In their neighborhood, mothers taught their daughters patience unto self-erasure. Her mother used to repeat, “A woman is the cornerstone,” but Salma had seen how that stone ultimately eroded, buried beneath the soil, with no one remaining to admire the beauty of its carvings. When Morad stopped by to help, he paused to look at paintings she had created years ago and since abandoned. “Why did you stop painting? You could have continued.” She replied in a low voice, “There was no time for ‘Salma’ to exist. I had to care, manage, and sustain.” He asserted firmly, “Now I am here with you… you can start over.” Yet his voice carried no genuine passion for her art—only a polite gesture toward a fleeting emotion. One night, she stood before her full-length mirror. She put on a blue dress she had bought long ago and never worn. Looking into her own eyes, she read a weariness that makeup could not conceal. Was womanhood merely an appearance to display on special occasions?
Or was it the right to be vulnerable, to dream, to grow angry, and to express oneself without fear? A message arrived from Morad: “Shall we meet tomorrow to set a date for the engagement? I think it’s time to settle down.” That word, “settle down,” unsettled her. Was the engagement to him merely the end of a search, a pillow on which to rest? The next day, they met in the Aquarium Grotto Garden in Zamalek. A calm enfolded the place as sunbeams filtered through the branches of ancient trees. Morad began talking about their future apartment, the color of the walls, and how his work routine would change so she could devote herself entirely to the home. Salma interrupted him in a quiet yet firm tone: “And what about my exhibition?” Morad paused, then smiled patronizingly: “Your exhibition? Salma… we are starting a new life; there is no time for such hobbies now.” At that moment, Salma saw the truth in his eyes: to him, she was “temporarily female”—a delightful companion until real life began, at which point she would transform into a manager of his needs. She walked out of the garden without finishing the conversation. She strolled along the Nile promenade as the wind brushed her face, asking herself: “When did I allow others to draw my boundaries? When did I turn my existence into a transitional phase in the lives of those I love?” She recalled her mother’s words: “Be the homeland.” A homeland does not ask permission to exist, nor does it surrender its borders to please passersby. Salma locked herself in her room for three consecutive days. She did not answer Morad’s relentless calls. She opened the tubes of oil paint that were on the verge of drying out, picked up the palette knife, and dusted off the canvases. She began to paint. She didn’t paint trees or flowers as she once had, but women’s faces with blurred features, bearing hidden wings beneath their garments. She poured onto the canvas years of silence and every moment she had been a woman only to the extent that suited others.
Morad showed up at her house, furious. “What kind of behavior is this, Salma? You ignore my calls for days just to paint little pictures?” She opened the door, standing with a resolve he had never seen in her before. She was not angry at all; she was as calm as the sea before a storm. “Morad… I am not ignoring you because of the paintings. I am ignoring your idea of me.” “What idea? I want you to be my wife, I want to build a future with you!” “You want your stability, and you want me to be the vessel for that stability. You want a woman to fill the void temporarily until you arrange your affairs, and then turn her into part of the furniture. I am not a stage, Morad.” Morad stared at her in disbelief. He kept talking about love and sacrifice, but for the first time, she saw him for what he truly was: a man searching for a ready-made dwelling, not someone prepared to build a true partnership. She slipped off a simple ring he had given her early in their relationship and placed it on the table. “The love that erases who we are is not love. I believed that with you I would become complete, but I realized I was merely borrowing my identity from you.” Morad said harshly, “You’ll regret this… you’ll never find anyone who loves you the way I did.” She answered with a faint smile, “Perhaps, but I found myself… and that is enough.
” Three months passed. A small gallery in downtown hosted an exhibition featuring the works of three young artists. In one corner, a name was displayed: “Salma Batoul.” The centerpiece was titled “Temporarily Female.” The canvas did not radiate sorrow; instead, it depicted a woman emerging from a gray cocoon, leaving borrowed garments behind and moving toward a clear, bright sun. Numerous visitors paused before the painting, grasping its deep meaning. Salma was not seeking applause; she was seeking confirmation that she was no longer a shadow in her own story. In the evening, after the exhibition closed, Salma sat in the same café in Al-Gamaleya. The rain continued to fall softly. She no longer looked at her cup with tired eyes. She pulled out her new notebook and wrote on the first page: “I am no longer a woman on a temporary basis, nor an identity on the margins of other people’s days. I have cast off the dress of temporary pleasing, and I have become for myself land, a shelter, and an enduring homeland.” She closed the notebook and smiled at a tomorrow she would write with her own hands—whole and definitive.
