I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced Page 8

  “It’s English writing. It means, ‘I love you,’” Hamed says.

  I don’t even know which way to turn with all the packages being handed to me from every side. I untie the ribbons one by one, and it’s surprise after surprise: a little battery-powered piano, colored pencils, pads of drawing paper, and a Fulla doll, like the ones in Judge Abdel Wahed’s house.

  When I try to find words to express my gratitude, only one comes to mind: “Shokran! Thank you!”

  And I give everyone a big smile.

  Then Nadia invites me to cut a cake: it’s chocolate, my favorite flavor, with five red cherries on top. And suddenly I remember one of my escapades on Hayle Avenue, with Mona. How many times, with my nose pressed to the boutique windows, had I dreamed about a wedding celebration with presents and evening gowns? Things hadn’t turned out that way.

  Compared to dreams, reality can be truly cruel. But it can also come up with beautiful surprises.

  Today I finally understand the meaning of the word party. If it were a dessert, it would be sugary, and crunchy, perhaps with something soft inside, like my favorite coconut candies.

  Holding my big stuffed bear in my arms, I announce, “A divorce party—that’s really better than a wedding party!”

  “And on this very special occasion, what can we sing for you, Nujood?” asks Nadia.

  “I don’t know.”

  While I hesitate, Shada has an idea: “Why don’t we sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

  “Happy ‘birthday’? What’s a birthday?” I ask, a little confused.

  “A birthday is when people celebrate the day someone was born.”

  “All right, but there’s a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that I don’t know when I was born.”

  “Well, then, from now on, today will be your birthday!” exclaims Shada.

  The room fills with applause.

  “Happy birthday, Nujood! Happy birthday!”

  I feel like laughing and laughing. It’s so simple to be happy, when you’re among friends.

  June 2008

  My divorce has changed my life. I don’t cry anymore. My bad dreams are starting to go away. I feel stronger, as if all these ordeals have toughened me. When I go out in the street, sometimes women in the neighborhood call to me, congratulating me and shouting “Mabrouk!”—a word once tainted by evil memories, but which I now like to hear again. And shouted by women I don’t even know! I blush, but deep down I’m so proud.

  Since I always keep my ears open, I’m even managing to better understand all the family mysteries swirling around my sisters and brothers—especially around Mona. Her story is like a complicated puzzle that puts itself together piece by piece. … “Wait for me, I’m coming with you,” Mona yells, running after the car.

  Today two women have come to my home to see me: a foreign journalist and Eman, a women’s rights activist. I recently left my uncle’s house and returned to live with my parents, because in my country, there are no shelters for girls who are the victims of family violence. It’s good to be home, and although I am indeed still angry at Aba, he himself has reason to resent what I did. Actually, we all seem to be pretending to have forgotten what happened. For the moment, it’s better that way.

  My parents have just moved to a new neighborhood, Dares, which lies along the road to the airport. Our little house has only two small rooms, decorated with simple cushions leaning against the walls. At night, the noise of the airplanes approaching to land often wakes us up, but at least I know that here I can keep an eye on Haïfa, to protect her. If anyone dares to come ask for her hand, I will immediately protest. I’ll say, “No! It’s forbidden!” And if no one listens to me, I’ll call the police. In my pocket I preciously guard the telephone Hamed gave me, a shiny new cell phone like Shada’s, so that I can call her at any time.

  Mohammad, my big brother, is not pleased. Ever since the session in court, he often yells at Haïfa and me. He takes my father aside, telling him that all this publicity about our family isn’t good for our reputation. He’s jealous, I’m sure of that: it shows in the faces he makes every time a reporter comes knocking at our door. To my utter amazement, my story has traveled swiftly around the globe, and every week new journalists arrive from lands with names as exotic as France, Italy, or even America. Just to see me!

  “With all these foreigners lurking in the neighborhood, Nujood is drawing shame to our family,” my brother grumbles to Eman as soon as she arrives.

  “She’s the one who ought to be ashamed of you!” Eman shoots back.

  Bravo, Eman! says my little voice. Mohammad doesn’t quite know what to say, so he sulks off to a corner of the main room, while I hurry to put on my black scarf before he can forbid me from going out. I’ve never been to the amusement park, and Eman has promised to take us there—an adventure not to be missed! I grab Haïfa’s hand to take her with me, so she won’t be left to face Mohammad’s anger by herself. I will never abandon Haïfa, my protégée. We are already in the car when Mona catches up with us, galloping along in her coat and niqab.

  “Mohammad ordered me to accompany you,” she gasps.

  Mona seems distressed about something, but insistent, saying that she won’t let us leave without her. We realize that we had better do as our older brother says. Mona slips into the front seat next to the driver. I think I understand what’s going on: annoyed, Mohammad has surely decided to take revenge by sending Mona to spy on me. But I quickly discover that poor Mona has other intentions.

  After we set out, Mona announces that before we go to the park, she would like to make a detour through our old neighborhood, Al-Qa. What a strange idea! Has Mohammad sent her on some special mission? Bewildered by Mona’s insistence, Eman finally agrees and, making our way back to Al-Qa, we arrive in front of a mosque.

  “Stop!” Mona tells the driver.

  I’ve never seen her so upset. The car brakes suddenly. On the front steps of the mosque, a hand emerging from a long, shabby black veil reaches out to passersby, hungry for the slightest little coin. The other hand cups the cheek of a sleeping little girl in a stained, too-small dress, her hair a mass of tangles.

  “It’s Monira!” I shout.

  Monira, Mona’s daughter, my tiny niece! But what is she doing here, in the arms of a beggar woman without a face, completely swathed in black?

  “Ever since my husband went to prison, my mother-in-law has insisted on having custody of Monira,” Mona murmurs, to everyone’s astonishment. “She says that with a child, it’s easier to soften the hearts of passersby.”

  I’m openmouthed. Monira, that delicate little doll, condemned to beg in the arms of Mona’s ragged mother-in-law? Mona’s husband, behind bars? What’s going on? So he’s the man in prison, the one Aba mentioned in the courtroom. I can see that Mona is too busy tenderly kissing her daughter, whom she has torn from her veiled exhibitor, to give us any explanations.

  “I miss her so much. I’ll bring her back to you, I promise,” I hear her say to the old woman in black, before she plunges back into the car, cradling her three-year-old in her arms.

  The car suddenly smells musty; Monira is so filthy that we have trouble telling what color shoes she’s wearing.

  The car door slams and off we go. Tiny Monira is so happy to see her mother and aunts again that we almost forget our shock at having found her in such miserable circumstances.

  The driver heads for the southwest quarter of the city. Along the way we pass another mosque, this one under construction, and it’s so grand, so magnificent, that it looks like a castle. I peer out the window, admiring the six giant minarets.

  For the moment, though, my thoughts are focused on Mona. When we reach the park, she slowly opens her heart to us.

  “It’s a long story,” she says and sighs, allowing Monira to go hide behind a bush, chaperoned by Haïfa.

  The three women are all sitting cross-legged under a tree, with Eman and the journalist fa
cing Mona as I listen in.

  “Mohammad, my husband, was put in prison a few weeks before Nujood’s marriage. He had been found in our oldest sister Jamila’s bedroom. I’d been having my suspicions for some time, and finally, for my peace of mind, I had some people come who caught them red-handed, and the situation quickly turned ugly. The police came and took Mohammad and Jamila away, and they’ve been languishing in prison ever since. I don’t know for how long.”

  Mona bows her head, and I stare at her, dazed, not really knowing what to say. It’s hard for me to grasp the seriousness of what she’s telling us, but it all seems terrible.

  “In Yemen,” Eman murmurs, “adultery is a crime punishable by death.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mona replies. “That’s surely why Mohammad is pressuring me to sign a paper that will allow the affair to be covered up. I am to pretend that we were divorced before his arrest. I refuse to visit him in prison, but that’s the message he has sent to me. I won’t give in! He made me suffer so much.”

  Mona hasn’t ever been this talkative before; as she speaks, her hands are never still, and her eyes blaze in the little window of her niqab, which hides the rest of her face. My heart is in my throat as I listen to her quavering voice. And then, out of the blue, all of us burst into crazy laughter: crouching behind that bush, Monira has just pulled down her panties, and a thin yellow stream waters the sun-scorched grass.

  “Monira!” Mona says scoldingly, returning to her motherly role while a smile plays around her lips. But her eyes soon grow sad again. “Monira, my dear one. I’ll be forced to bring up my two children alone—providing, of course, that my mother-in-law allows me to see them. As for Mohammad, he was never a good father. And he wasn’t a good husband, either.”

  After a pause, Mona takes up her tale again.

  “I wasn’t much older than Nujood when I was forced to marry him. Our family and I were living happy days in Khardji, until that black hour when everything fell apart.”

  Slowly, I creep closer to hear better; I think I’ve already heard too much for my age, but now I definitely want to hear the end of this story. She’s my sister, after all, and strangely enough, I feel responsible for her.

  “Omma had just left for Sana’a to seek emergency medical treatment for her serious health problems—some doctors had advised her to consult a specialist in the capital. As usual, Aba had left early to see to his herd. I was alone in the house with my little brothers and Nujood, who was only a baby. A young man I didn’t know came to the house; he must have been about thirty. He began making advances toward me, and no matter how hard I tried to chase him away, he managed to push me into the bedroom. I fought back, I screamed, I yelled ‘No!’ but—” She breaks off, then says, “When Aba came home, it was too late. Everything had happened too quickly.”

  I can’t believe this! Poor Mona—she, too … Her constant gloom, that depressed look in her eyes, the bursts of hysterical laughter—so this is why.

  “Aba was furious. He immediately raised the alarm to find out what had happened, and began accusing the villagers of a plot, but none of our neighbors wanted to listen. Informed of the business, the village sheikh married us hastily, before rumors could spread from house to house and valley to valley. In the name of honor! He said it was best to stamp out such rumors right away.

  “No one ever asked me what I thought. They stuck a blue dress on me, and by the next day I was his wife. Meanwhile, Omma had returned to the village; she raised her hands to heaven, blaming herself for ever having left. Aba was ashamed, and wanted revenge, saying that the neighbors were responsible, that someone had certainly meant to harm him by attacking his children. He felt humiliated, betrayed. One evening, everyone gathered to talk things over, and the discussion grew heated. They began to trade insults; jambias were drawn. A little later—that evening or the next day, I no longer remember very well—the neighbors came back with revolvers. They threatened us, ordering us to get out of the village right away. My parents left for Sana’a. My husband and I went to hide somewhere else for a few weeks, before finally rejoining the family in the capital.”

  I’m shaking inside. That hurried departure for Sana’a, my father’s anger, Mona’s sadness, her obsessive attention to me: now I understand.

  “Years later, when our father told us that Nujood was going to be married, I felt sick about it. I kept begging him to think it over, telling him that Nujood was too young, but he wouldn’t listen. He said that once she was married, she would be protected from kidnappers and the men always hanging around our neighborhood. He’d already had enough problems, he argued, because of me and Jamila. When the men of the family gathered to sign the marriage contract, they even talked about having a sighar, the traditional ‘marriage exchange,’ to wed the new husband’s sister to my brother Fares, if he ever returned from Saudi Arabia.

  “The evening of Nujood’s wedding, I couldn’t help crying when I saw her, lost in that dress, far too big for her. She was much too young! Hoping to protect her, I even went to talk to her husband. I made him swear before God not to touch her, to wait until she reached puberty, to let her play with children her age. ‘It’s a promise,’ he said. But he didn’t keep his word. He’s a criminal! Men are all criminals. Never listen to them. Never, never.”

  I can’t take my eyes off Mona’s niqab. How I would love, at this very moment, to see the slightest bit of her face, hidden behind that black net, and the tears I imagine are streaming down her cheeks.

  I’m ashamed of having suspected her of wanting to spy on us. If only I’d known! All that suffering, for so many years, endured without a protest or complaint, never raising her voice or taking refuge under a sheltering wing. Mona, my big sister, the prisoner of a fate even more tragic than mine, trapped in a maze of troubles. Her childhood was stolen from her, as mine was from me, but I now understand that, unlike Mona, I’ve had the strength to rebel against my fate, and the good fortune to find help.

  “Mona! Nujood! Look at us! Watch us!”

  Looking up, we see Haïfa sitting on a swing, with little Monira wedged between her knees, bubbling with laughter. Mona goes over to them, and I follow her. The swing next to the girls is empty.

  “Nujood, help me fly away,” she says.

  Mona sits on the swing. I climb up behind her, placing a foot on each end of the wooden seat, and I grab the ropes on either side. Pumping with my legs, I start the seat swinging backward and forward, backward and forward, more and more quickly.

  “Faster, Nujood, faster!” Mona shouts excitedly.

  I feel the wind in my face, so cool and fresh. Mona laughs, the first time in a long while that she has laughed so lightheartedly. And this is the first time we’ve ever been on a swing together—I feel like a feather on the wind. It’s so good, recovering this feeling of innocence.

  “Omma’s flying! Omma’s flying!” Monira giggles from the swing next to ours.

  Mona’s yelping with joy. She doesn’t want to stop.

  After a few minutes, my scarf blows loose in the wind, and for once, I don’t rush to readjust it. My hair tumbles down around my shoulders, rippling in the breeze. I feel free. Free!

  August 2008

  I’ve eaten a “bizza.” That was a few days ago, in a very modern restaurant where the waiters all wore caps and shouted their orders into a microphone.

  The bizza tasted so strange! It crunches under your teeth, like a big khobz flatbread, with lots of good things to eat on top: tomatoes, corn, chicken, olives. At the table next to us, there were ladies wearing scarves who looked like the women in the Yemen Times offices. They were very stylish, and even used a knife and fork to bring the pieces of bizza to their mouths.

  I tried to imitate them, cutting my slice the same way. At first it wasn’t easy; I got bizza everywhere. As for Haïfa, she saw a girl empty a bottle of spicy tomato sauce over her plate, so she wanted to try that, too. Except that, from the first mouthful, her throat was on fire and her eyes got all red! Luckily, o
ne of the waiters finally left his mic to bring her a big bottle of water.

  Now we have a new game: when we help Omma prepare meals, we pretend we’re customers in a “bizzeria” who’ve come to choose their favorite dishes.

  “How may I help you?” asks Haïfa, laying out the sofrah in our main room.

  “Let’s see, today, I think I’ll have a cheese bizza.”

  Actually, I say cheese because when I rummaged through our pantry bag, I realized that that’s all we have left to eat. Too bad; we’ll cope.

  “Come to the table,” announces Haïfa, inviting the rest of the family to join us.

  We’ve barely begun to eat, though, when someone knocks on our front door.

  “Nujood, are you expecting more reporters?” Mohammad asks me suspiciously.

  “No, not today.”

  “Then perhaps it’s the water truck, to fill the cistern. But he usually comes in the morning.”

  Frowning, Mohammad gets to his feet, still chewing his mouthful of bread, and hurries to the front door. Who could be visiting us at this hour, in this stifling August heat? During very hot weather, visitors usually come at the end of the day.

  Mohammad’s cry startles us all.

  “Fares!” he shouts. “Fares has come back!”

  I feel faint. Fares, my beloved brother, whom I haven’t seen in four years! Supporting herself against the wall with trembling hands, our mother staggers to the front door, and we’re all close behind her, with little Rawdha trying to sneak ahead of us by slipping between our legs. Our tiny hall has never seemed so long.

  The young man at the door has a gaunt face and deeply tanned skin; how he has changed! Tall and thin, Fares is no longer the adolescent in the photo I’ve studied so often, down to the slightest details. Now I must look way up to observe him closely. His eyes have a harder look, and his forehead bears a few dark creases, like Aba’s. He has become a man.