I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced Read online

  I hadn’t eaten anything since we’d left Sana’a; I was famished and fairly fell upon the rice and meat that his sisters had prepared. Joined after our meal by some guests from the village, the grown-ups gathered to chew khat. Again! Huddled in a corner, I watched them in silence. To my astonishment, no one seemed surprised by my tender age. Later I learned that marriages to little girls are not unusual in the countryside, so for these people, I didn’t seem like an exception. There is even a tribal proverb that says, “To guarantee a happy marriage, marry a nine-year-old girl.”

  The grown-ups were chatting up a storm.

  “Life in Sana’a has become so expensive,” my sister-in-law was complaining.

  “As of tomorrow, I’m going to teach the child to work like the rest of us,” announced my mother-in-law, without saying my name. “And I certainly hope she brought some money with her.”

  “No more time for girlish fancies. We’ll show her how to be a woman, a real one.”

  I remember how relieved I felt when they led me to my room, after the guests had gone at sunset. That brown tunic I’d been wearing since the day before was starting to smell really foul, and now I could finally take it off. Once the door had shut behind me, I sighed deeply and quickly slipped into a little red cotton shirt I’d brought from Sana’a. It smelled like home, a musty smell with a hint of resinous incense, a familiar and comforting scent. A long woven mat was lying on the floor: my bed. Beside it was an old oil lamp that cast the shadow of its flame on the wall. I didn’t even need to put out the light to fall asleep.

  I would rather have never awakened. When the door crashed open, I was startled awake, and thought that the night wind must have come up unusually strong. I’d barely opened my eyes when I felt a damp, hairy body pressing against me. Someone had blown out the lamp, leaving the room pitch dark. I shivered. It was him! I recognized him right away from that overpowering odor of cigarettes and khat. He stank! Like an animal! Without a word, he began to rub himself against me.

  “Please, I’m begging you, leave me alone,” I gasped. I was shaking.

  “You are my wife! From now on, I decide everything. We must sleep in the same bed.”

  I leapt to my feet, ready to run away. Where? What did it matter—I had to escape from this trap. Then he stood up, too. The door was not completely closed, and spying a glimmer of light from the moon and stars, I dashed immediately toward the courtyard.

  He ran after me.

  “Help! Help!” I shrieked, sobbing.

  My voice rang in the night, but it was as if I were shouting into a void. I ran everywhere, anywhere, panting for breath. I went into one room but ducked out again when he followed me there. I ran without looking back. I stumbled over something, maybe a piece of glass, and scrambled to my feet to take off again, but arms caught me, held me tightly, wrestled me back into the bedroom, pushed me down on the mat. I felt paralyzed, as if I had been tied down.

  Hoping to find a female ally, I called out to my mother-in-law.

  “Amma! Auntie!”

  There was no reply. I screamed again.

  “Somebody help me!”

  When he took off his white tunic, I rolled into a ball to protect myself, but he began pulling at my nightshirt, wanting me to undress. Then he ran his rough hands over my body and pressed his lips against mine. He smelled so awful, a mixture of tobacco and onion.

  I tried to get away again, moaning, “Get away from me! I’ll tell my father!”

  “You can tell your father whatever you like. He signed the marriage contract. He gave me permission to marry you.”

  “You have no right!”

  “Nujood, you are my wife!”

  “Help! Help!”

  He started to laugh, nastily.

  “I repeat: you are my wife. Now you must do what I want! Got that?”

  Suddenly it was as if I’d been snatched up by a hurricane, flung around, struck by lightning, and I had no more strength to fight back. There was a peal of thunder, and another, and another—the sky was falling down on me, and it was then that something burning, a burning I had never felt before, invaded the deepest part of me. No matter how I screamed, no one came to help me. It hurt, awfully, and I was all alone to face the pain.

  With what felt like my last breath, I shrieked one more time, I think, and then lost consciousness.

  April 9, 2008

  With her cell phone glued to her ear, Shada is pacing up and down the courthouse hall.

  “We need to do everything we can to get Nujood out of the clutches of her husband. We must alert the press, the women’s groups. …”

  After she finishes her call, she leans down to me, crouching to put herself at my height.

  “Don’t be afraid, Nujood. I’ll help you get your divorce.”

  No one has ever shown so much concern for me before.

  Shada is a lawyer. People say she’s a very important lawyer, one of the best lady lawyers in Yemen, who fights for women’s rights. I look at her, my eyes wide with admiration. She’s beautiful, and so sweet. Her voice is a little shrill, and if she talks quickly, it’s only because she’s in a great hurry. She smells of nice perfume, with the scent of jasmine. As soon as I saw her, I liked her. Unlike the women in my family, she doesn’t cover her face, and that’s rare in Yemen, not wearing the niqab. Shada wears a long, black, silky coat, with just a colored scarf on her head. Her skin glows, and her lipstick makes her look chic, like ladies in films. And when she wears her sunglasses, she looks like a movie star. What a contrast to all those veiled women out in the streets!

  “With me, you’ve nothing to fear,” she says, patting my face reassuringly.

  Shada approached me this morning as soon as she spotted me. When everyone returned to work at the courthouse after the weekend, she heard all about me, and was very upset by my story. She decided that she absolutely had to meet me. I was in the courtyard when she called out to me.

  “Excuse me, are you the little girl who came looking for a divorce?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Heavens! Follow me; we simply have to talk,” she said.

  So much has happened these last few days that my head is still in a whirl. During the entire weekend— Thursday and Friday, in Yemen—Judge Abdel Wahed and his wife were especially good to me. I was treated to toys, tasty food, hot showers, and good-night kisses, like a real child. Inside the house, I even had permission to take off my married woman’s veil, the one my mother-in-law makes me adjust as soon as it starts to slip. What happiness, not to fear blows from a stick, or tremble at the thought of going to bed, or flinch at the slightest sound of a door closing. Yet in spite of all this kind attention, my nights are still very uneasy, because as soon as I fall asleep, I feel as though the storm were lying in wait for me, and if I close my eyes for too long, the door might fly open again, and the monster return. What terror, what suffering! Judge Abdel Wahed says that this is normal, that I’ll need time to forget all my pain.

  When he brought me back to the courthouse on Saturday morning, it was hard to return to reality. At nine o’clock we were already sitting in his office, along with the other two judges, Abdo and Mohammad al-Ghazi, who smiled kindly at me when I came in. But here’s the thing: Mohammad al-Ghazi was very worried.

  “According to Yemeni law, it is difficult for you to file a complaint against your husband and your father,” he told me.

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s a little complicated for a child your age, and hard to explain,” he answered. Then he talked about several obstacles. Like many children born in Yemeni villages, I didn’t have any identification documents—not even a birth certificate. And I was too young to initiate proceedings against anyone. Such reasons were easy for a learned man like Mohammad al-Ghazi to understand, but not me. Still, I felt, I ought to keep a positive outlook; at least I had found some nice judges who wanted to help me. After all, they were not obliged to take up my case and could have ignored my plight, as many o
thers had, and advised me to go home to fulfill my duties as a wife. A contract had been signed, and unanimously approved by the men of my family. According to Yemeni tradition, it was therefore valid.

  “For the moment,” Mohammad al-Ghazi told his colleagues, “we must act quickly. So I suggest that we place Nujood’s father and husband under temporary arrest. If we want to protect her, it’s better to have them in prison than at liberty.”

  Prison! That’s very serious punishment. Would Aba ever forgive me? I was suddenly consumed with shame and guilt. And I felt dreadful when they asked me to go with the soldier who would arrest them, to make sure he found the right address. My family hadn’t seen me all weekend and must certainly have thought that, like my brother Fares, I had run away forever. I didn’t even want to imagine what my mother must have wondered when my brothers and sisters started clamoring for the bread I’d been sent to buy for breakfast. Besides, I was thinking about how my father had recently fallen ill, and had even begun coughing up blood. Could he survive imprisonment? If he were to die, I’d never forgive myself.

  But I had no choice. Abdo had explained to me that when people are suffering, the evildoers must be punished. So I got into the car with the soldier. When we arrived at my parents’ house, however, the door was locked. I felt strangely relieved, and a few hours later, when the soldier went back there, he no longer needed me to show him the way.

  That very evening, the judges decided to find a safe place for me to stay. In Yemen there are no shelters for girls like me, but I couldn’t very well remain forever with Abdel Wahed and his family, who had already done so much for me.

  “Who is your favorite uncle?” one of the judges asked.

  My favorite uncle? I thought the best choice would be Shoyi, Omma’s brother, a former soldier in the Yemeni army, now retired: a big, strong man with a certain prestige in my family. He lived in Beit Boss, a neighborhood far from ours, with his two wives and seven children. True, he hadn’t opposed my marriage, but he represented the forces of order, in a way—and he, at least, did not beat his daughters.

  Shoyi was not very talkative, which suited me fine. He didn’t ask me too many questions, and he let me play with my cousins. That evening, before falling asleep, I thanked God for not allowing Shoyi to reproach me for my boldness, or even mention my running away. Basically, I think my uncle was as discomfited as I was by the whole thing.

  The next three days seemed long to me, full of the same tedious things. I spent most of my time at the courthouse, hoping for a miracle, some unforeseen solution. Unfortunately, the future wasn’t clear. The judges had promised to do their utmost to grant me a divorce, but they needed time. It’s funny, but going every day to that big, bustling courtyard, I finally became used to the tremendous crowd that had so impressed me at first. I could recognize the young tea and juice vendors even at a distance. The boy with the scale was always busy weighing visitors who had time to kill, and now I sometimes smiled encouragingly at him. As for me, though, whenever I returned to the courtyard I felt a pang of discouragement. How many times would I have to go there before I could again become just an ordinary little girl? Abdo had warned me that my case was most unusual. But what do judges do when faced with one like that? I had no idea.

  But I believe I am learning the answer from Shada, the beautiful lawyer with sunglasses. When she came up to me for the first time, I saw how she looked at me with great emotion before exclaiming “Heavens!” Then she checked her watch, opened her appointment book, and completely rearranged her heavy schedule. She began calling her family, friends, and colleagues; several times I heard her say, “I have to take on an important case, a very important case.”

  This woman seems to have endless determination. Abdel Wahed is right: she’s an impressive lawyer. She must have lots of power; her cell phone never stops ringing, and everyone she encounters always greets her very politely.

  “Nujood, you’re like a daughter to me. I won’t abandon you,” she whispers to me.

  I’m beginning to believe it. She has no reason to lie to me. I feel at ease with Shada, and I feel safe with her. She knows how to find exactly the right words, and her lilting voice comforts me. If the world came tumbling down, I know that she would stand by me. With her, I feel for the first time the maternal tenderness my mother, too preoccupied by all her family worries, did not know how—or rather, had no time—to give me.

  But there’s still one nagging question.

  “Shada?” I ask timidly.

  “Yes, Nujood?”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you promise me that I will never return to my husband’s house?”

  “Insha’Allah, Nujood. I’ll do my very best to keep him from hurting you again. All will be well. All will be well. But …”

  “But what?”

  “You must be strong, because it may take some time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Don’t think about that right now. Tell yourself that the hardest part is over. The hardest part was having the strength to escape, and you carried that off beautifully.”

  When I sigh, Shada gives me a little smile and pats me on the head. She’s so tall and slender. She impresses me a lot.

  “And now, may I ask you a question?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find the courage to run away—all the way to the courthouse?”

  “The courage to run away? I couldn’t bear his meanness anymore. I couldn’t.”

  In Khardji, life had become impossible. Tortured by shame and pain, I suffered in silence. All those horrible things he made me endure, day after day, night after night—whom could I tell about them? In fact, that first evening, I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

  “Mabrouk! Congratulations!”

  Early-morning light pours into the bedroom. In the distance, a rooster is crowing. Staring down at my naked little body, my mother-in-law taps my cheek to wake me. I can remember her face as if it were yesterday. Behind the old woman’s shoulder I recognize my sister-in-law, the one who rode in the car with us. I’m still drenched in perspiration. Eyes wide, I look around at the disorder of the bedroom: the oil lamp has rolled over to the door, and the brown dress lies in a heap on the floor like an old dishrag. And there he is, on the mat, sound asleep. What a wahesh—what a monster! On the rumpled sheet, I see a little streak of blood.

  “Congratulations!” echoes my sister-in-law.

  With a sly smile, she studies the red stain. I can’t say a word. I feel paralyzed. Then my mother-in-law bends down to pick me up as if I were a package. Why didn’t she come earlier, when I needed her help? Now, in any case, it’s too late—unless she was his accomplice in what he just did to me? Jabbing her hands into my ribs, she pushes the door aside with her foot and carries me to the narrow little bathroom, where I see a tub and a bucket. She begins splashing water on me, and oh, it’s cold!

  “Mabrouk!” both women say together.

  Their voices buzz in my tired ears, and I feel small, so small. I’ve lost control of my body, my movements. I’m cold on the outside, but inside, I’m burning. It’s as if there were something dirty in me. I’m angry, but can’t manage to put my anger into words. Omma, you’re too far away for me to call to you for help. Aba, why did you marry me off? Why, why me? And why didn’t anyone warn me about what was going to happen to me? Whatever did I do to deserve this?

  I want to go home!

  A few hours later, when he finally wakes up, I turn my head away to avoid looking into his eyes. He heaves a great sigh, eats his breakfast, and disappears for the day. Huddled in a corner, I pray for God the Almighty to come save me. I hurt everywhere. I’m terrified at the idea of spending my whole life with this beast. I’ve fallen into a trap, and I can’t get out.

  I had to adjust quickly to a new life: I had no right to leave the house, no right to fetch water from the stream, no right to complain, no right to say
no. And school? Out of the question, even though I was dying to write my name in white chalk on a big blackboard and sit on a bench to hear the teacher tell us new stories.

  Khardji, my native village, had become foreign to me. At the house, during the day, I had to obey my mother-in-law’s orders: cut up the vegetables, feed the chickens, prepare tea for any guests who dropped by, wash the floor, do the dishes. No matter how hard I scrubbed the grease-blackened pots, they would never return to their original color. The towels were gray and smelled bad. Flies buzzed around me. Whenever I stopped for a moment, my mother-in-law pulled my hair with her filthy hands. I wound up as sticky as the kitchen, and my fingernails were completely black.

  One morning I asked her permission to go play with the children my age.

  “You’re not on holiday here,” she grumbled.

  “Please, just for a few minutes?”

  “Impossible! A married woman cannot allow herself to be seen with just anyone—that’s all we need, for you to go ruining our reputation. We’re not in the capital here! In Khardji, people notice everything, hear everything, know everything. So you’d better be careful, and don’t you dare forget what I’ve told you, understand? Or I’ll tell your husband.”

  He left every morning and returned right before sunset. When he got home, he had his meal served to him on the sofrah and never helped clear the table. Each time I heard him arrive, the same panic seized my heart.

  When night fell, I knew what would begin again. Again and again. The same savagery, the same pain and distress. The door slamming, the oil lamp rolling across the floor, and the sheets getting all twisted up. “Ya, beint! Hey, girl!” That’s what he would yell before throwing himself on me.

  He never said my first name.

  It was on the third day that he began hitting me. He could not bear my attempts to resist him. When I would try to keep him from lying down on the mat next to me after he’d extinguished the lamp, he would start to hit me, first with his hands, then with a stick. Thunder and lightning, over and over. And his mother egged him on.