“Excuse me, are you a doctor?” He turned and looked at me; I was covered in my sharsharf.
“Yes I am, how can I help?”
“Please, my son is really sick, will you see him?” I begged, showing him Tarek, who was wrapped in my arms.
To my delight the doctor escorted us to a room. He asked if I was English because my English was so good. I told him I was but I was now living here, then I shoved Tarek in front of him! In any other circumstance I would have chatted for England but my son was ill, and I wasn’t really up for chatting.
He didn’t question me any more, but he started to examine Tarek, asking questions about his health. He spoke in English, to the sister’s dismay because they couldn’t understand the conversation, which meant they couldn’t butt in, but I was happy to be in charge of the conversation for once. Being in charge of my own son was something I rarely got to do, and it was all going so well until he went to remove his hat!
“I can do that!” I said quickly as he went on to untie Tarek’s hat, but I was holding him tightly and he was whining. I looked over to the sisters in panic. “The chicken guts,” I mouthed, but they were clueless to what I was saying, and it was too late!
When the doctor pulled Tarek’s hat off his head and the guts fell out he got the shock of his life! He jumped back, quietly mumbling something under his breath, going on to joke that he had thought it was Tarek’s brains! Then he looked at me, shaking his head in disbelief that I could put such a thing on my son’s head!
I quickly pointed at the sisters, “I swear it was them! I had nothing to do with it! You have no idea the stuff they get up to!” The doctor found the funny side in telling me Tarek was suffering with chicken pox, but I’d never felt more embarrassed in my life!
My son recovered well and a few weeks later I was summoned to Sanaa to Nasser Ziad’s house because he wanted to see his grandson. Nasser Ziad had been down once to visit and see Tarek and gave us money and gifts. The family said this was a good sign because it showed that he loved him. He was married to a Lebanese woman and had two daughters by her and they were all stunningly beautiful. She was very westernised and didn’t cover when she went out, and they had a huge beautiful house with everything an English home would have. Being inside the house you would never know you lived in the Yemen, and when she went out she had all the freedom to do as she pleased, she even drove a car!
Nasser Ziad looked at Tarek maybe twice during our stay and complemented me on his health but didn’t kiss him or pick him up. Most of the evening he talked about Africa and told me how nice it was out there, and how I should have gone with Ziad when he left. It felt like he had only wanted me to go to his house so he could convince me to go to Africa and be with Ziad. I sat and listened but said very little, not wanting to say the wrong thing. I stayed with them for one night and it felt strange to sit at a table again and eat with a knife and fork! I didn’t want to get out of the shower that evening; she had soaps and shampoos of all kinds! I couldn’t get to sleep being in a bed again; it was because I didn’t like being comfortable knowing that it wasn’t going to last. The next day I was driven by his wife to Funda’s house where I was told I could stay for a week and visit my sister.
Yas was over the moon to see us when we turned up at her door, but she was unwell again. She had been back and forth to the doctors but they still didn’t know what was wrong with her. We sat and played with Tarek all afternoon but I could see she was struggling. She was pregnant once again and she was still suffering from vomiting. I was allowed to visit her every afternoon until I went home.
She had the weirdest cravings; she craved dirt, red dirt from the ground, and black crumbling coal from the fire! Abdul’s family were tending to her every need, almost smothering her out of fear that she would lose this baby too. She would beg me to take her outside the house gates for a walk. “Please, Moo, just up and down the road!” I would always manage to talk Abdul’s mum into letting me take her for a walk, promising that I wouldn’t let any harm come to her. She would walk with me slowly to the end of the road where a huge pile of red dirt lay besides an abandoned building site. Then she would slowly lower herself, reaching her hand out from under her sharsharf while grabbing a handful of red dirt. On the way home I would laugh at her while I listened to her licking the dirt from her hand under her veil, as if it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted!
I always hated going back to the village after being in the city. Although I tolerated the women in the house I wasn’t close to any of them, except grandmother and the sisters. Humayrah had always hated me and it was because she hated Ziad; although she would never come out and admit it, the sisters told me it was because he was black. They said she felt he had no place in the family, even though he was Nasser Ziad’s son he was also Muhamasheen.
She also disliked Ali’s daughter Viyza, but she was much more verbal towards her. She didn’t racially abuse Viyza outright because that would show she was also racist towards Ziad, but she told her how useless she was and how ugly she was. After all, she was just a girl, and she was only Ali’s daughter, not Nasser Ziad’s son!
Soon after Humayrah’s son Ahmed come back from Africa, she had started spreading rumours about Ziad’s behaviour over there. She told the other wives that he was drinking alcohol and taking drugs and that he was bad tempered, she also told them that he was seeing other women.
Word got back to the sisters, who decided to tell me about the rumour. They told me not to worry about it because it was just Humayrah starting trouble, they said she had spread these lies about Ziad for many years. I believed the sisters because Ziad had never treated me badly and I saw the way Humayrah treated Viyza! I decided to put the rumours behind me. If Ziad was drinking I wouldn’t be happy, but when he was here I didn’t see any sign of it, and he was always shy, not bad tempered. If he was seeing other women in Africa I really didn’t care because I wasn’t there and as for drugs, I didn’t know what drugs were!
Ziad returned early from Africa, he came back when our son was around ten months old. We returned to the top floor room and he was his usual shy generous self; he adored Tarek. Although he was happy to play with his son Ziad never liked to get dirty, so unless his son was looking clean and perfect he wouldn’t pick him up. He would take him down to the shops with him and show him off to everyone, he was proud to have a son! However if Tarek cried for his father to pick him up when Ziad didn’t want to, Ziad would ignore him or sternly tell him to be quiet. Ziad’s affection towards his son or anyone else was on his terms, and only his terms!
I became pregnant straight away when Ziad came back from Africa. It was also this time that Yas was due to give birth to her baby; because Ziad was doing work in Sanaa with his father I was allowed to visit Yas and was with her when she went into labour. She was extremely weak by this time, and after three days of hard, long labour at home, she gave birth to a little girl who she called Nasseem. We were over the moon with joy that day with Yas’s beautiful little baby, and although Nasseem was tiny and fragile, with long jet black hair and big black eyes, she had the face of an angel, and I’d never seen my sister look happier.
Ziad went back to Africa when I was around two months pregnant and once again my life went back to hard labour in the house and fields. I would have to leave Tarek with Umie Ayesha when she was home, but if she was also working in the fields that day then I would have to strap his basket over my shoulder and take him with me to the fields. There was always a tree to hang him on! When he woke up I would strap him to my back with a sheet while I worked.
I continued to write to Yas, who in turn wrote back and told me that Nasseem was unwell and had been for a while.
When Umie Ayesha finally went to Sanaa and allowed me to go with her I was anxious to go and see Yas and her little girl. Nasseem was still tiny; she hadn’t grown much since she was born. Her belly button was hard like a lump and she cried constantly, but she was stunningly beautiful and still looked like a lit
tle angel and she was still the apple of her mum’s eye.
Yas had taken her to see lots of doctors to try and find out why she wasn’t growing but they told her there was nothing wrong with her. Even though she fed like a normal baby she didn’t gain any weight. Nasseem cried day and night and although Abdul’s family helped her, Yas was her mother and I could see she was struggling. I tried to help while I was there but time went so fast and within a few days I was taken back to the village. I didn’t see or hear from her again, until I gave birth to my second baby.
When I went into labour I was in the fields working. It was the middle of the afternoon and Tarek was strapped to my back. I untied him and handed him to Umie Ayesha, asking her to take him for a while, not realising I was starting to have contractions. As the afternoon went on I told her I was in pain and we headed home.
My labour went on into the next day and night, and just after midnight on 1st January, 1982 I gave birth to my precious little girl. Ismahan Ziad. Issy was small compared to Tarek; her features were like mine but her skin darker like Tarek. She had loads of black curly hair and huge dark eyes. Nobody wanted me to call her Ismahan, they wanted me to call her Dobia after her grandmother, but I refused. She was my daughter and Ziad had given me permission to name her after my sister.
Yas came to visit the day after Issy was born. I was tucked up in my corner full of joy that I had my little girl at last, ignorant to the pain that my sister was in. Yas sat next to me and congratulated me on the birth of my daughter.
“Where’s Nasseem?” I asked, excited to see her.
Yas told me she had left her at home with her grandmother, but I could tell there was more to it. She looked tired, thin and frail, and although she insisted everything was OK I knew my sister. The room was full of women at the afternoon gathering, but I couldn’t help notice Yas kept putting her hand down her top. She looked as though she was sniffing a cloth she had tucked inside her chest.
“What’s that?” I asked, trying to look down her top, but she pulled away. I could see she was trying not to cry.
“Where’s Nasseem?” I asked again, but this time I had a knot in my stomach, I knew something was wrong; I could feel it.
“Please, Moo,” she begged, fighting back tears, “I’m not allowed to tell you anything, if I tell you I will get into trouble!” she whispered.
“Let’s go to the toilet,” I said, standing up and holding her hand to take her with me. I made an excuse that I needed the toilet and that I wasn’t feeling well so I needed my sister to take me. Once inside Yas broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Please tell me what’s wrong, is Nasseem ill?” I pleaded with her to tell me, putting my arms around her as I started to well up with tears.
“I was told I could only come and see you if I promised not to tell. If they find out I told you I’m in deep trouble, you just had a baby!” she sobbed.
I was crying with my sister because I could see she was in pain, but up until that moment I didn’t know why.
“I’m fine, Yas, and I promise, whatever you tell me I won’t tell!” However, what she was about to tell me nearly ripped my heart out.
“Nasseem died a while ago.” she wept.
I felt as though someone had stuck their hand inside my chest and was slowly ripping my heart out, twisting and squeezing it. I struggled to breathe and my head started spinning. My sister had lost her only child, Nasseem was no miscarriage; she was nine months old. Yas was warned she could only visit me if she didn’t tell me of her loss, because I’d just had a baby!
This was not Abdul’s choice but my family’s and Nasser Ziad’s. They decided between themselves not to tell me when Nasseem died because they knew it would affect me too much, and could affect my unborn child! It wasn’t us they were worried about, or my precious daughter, they thought I was having another son!
We sat together on the cold toilet floor and hugged each other as we sobbed uncontrollably, until Yas made me stop and pull myself together. She reminded me of the time when Mana died, when I had to deal with my grief alone because nobody else could understand the pain I was going through.
She pulled out the cloth that was down her top; it was Nasseem’s dress and it still had Nasseem’s smell on it, she said she kept it with her at all times to remind her of what she once had. She told me Nasseem was her child, and although she knew I loved her and wanted to grieve for her I had to stay quiet, because if I left that toilet and told anyone I knew of her death we would never be allowed to see each other again. Our family would surely find a way of keeping us apart if they found out we had disobeyed them! I knew my sister was right, Nasseem was gone, and we could never bring her back, but the pain my sister was going through left an ache in my heart that tor me to pieces.
We left the toilet and walked back through the crowded room hand in hand. I was unsteady on my feet and felt faint, but my sister explained to the women that I wasn’t feeling well. Instead of me being allowed to support her when she lost her child, she now needed to support me.
For the rest of the afternoon we tightly clung onto each other’s hand underneath my blanket in my corner. As the afternoon went by we glanced at each other from the corner of our eyes, too scared to give each other full eye contact, and too scared to speak to each other, just in case either of us broke down.
It seemed with every loss we incurred, our grief got worse. With Mum we were too young to know about grief, so we will never know how we coped. With our sister we were not allowed to grieve in peace, but at least we were allowed to comfort each other and cry out loud. I needed to grieve for Mana alone, but I got through it with my sister’s love and full support. Now with the worst loss of all, the loss of a child, I wasn’t even allowed to hold my sister, or be able to comfort her through her grief!
We sat grasping hands, letting the other know how much we loved each other; our bodies were trembling and screaming from the inside, but we grieved Nasseem in silence, in fear.
Chapter Fifteen
I Never Wanted to Marry You
Issy was around six months old when I was told I was being sent to Africa. Umie Ayesha told me the rumours about Ziad were true and that his father had made the decision that I should go and be with my husband. She told me that although Ziad’s behaviour had been out of control, once I was there he would be different because I could sort him out. She told me I would need to be a good wife to him and that I would be gone for a year at the most.
I begged and pleaded not to go but the decision had been made, his uncle Ali was going to Africa in the next few days and I was being sent with him. I would need to go to Sanaa straight away and have a passport processed; I was also allowed to visit Yas and say goodbye. She was pregnant once again. She was pregnant when Nasseem died but hadn’t known it at the time. Our contact had become less and less and when she did write to me she didn’t tell me about her pregnancy because she believed she would lose it anyway and didn’t want to upset me.
There was little I could do to reassure her that this time things would be different but I tried, telling her it wouldn’t always be this way for her, and she would be OK. But the strong argumentative tomboy sister I once had disappeared the day she got married, and continued to fade with every child she lost; my sister had no energy to fight for anything anymore, she was just surviving.
I told her why I was being sent to Africa, what Ziad had been getting up to. We both knew there was nothing I could do to change anyone’s mind. Nasser Ziad had made the decision and there was nothing I could do about it, but there was one thing about going to Africa that gave me hope: I was getting a new passport!
We discussed the possibility of what I could do if I could hold on to my passport once I got to Africa. I knew Ziad travelled a lot so maybe he would allow me to travel with him, or maybe he would take me to England for a holiday? If not, I’d by that time bought enough gold to amount to something, the possibility of running away and going back to England was never far from my mind.<
br />
Yas also had a bit of good news: Abdul had finally finished university and was now working in government, with the president of Yemen! Abdul told Yas he owed all his good fortune to her because she was the one that helped him get the high grades that got him the job with the president. He was now going to be making lots of money and travelling all around the world taking her with him, just as he had promised. Could our dreams of going home finally be coming true?
Then there was Uncle Jim. He had stayed in contact since his first letter, he had tried to come over but had been in poor health. He had just sent word that he would be coming soon and promised that he would never stop with his quest to find us. We both knew we would do everything in our power to get back home to England, with or without our husbands’ help!
Saying goodbye to Yas was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I knew it would be at least a year before I would see her again, maybe more.
She was pregnant again and the thought that something could go wrong, without me being there, troubled me, but even when I was there I wasn’t allowed to comfort her. Nasseem’s death showed us just how apart our family had kept us. We always knew that once we got married we would be separated, but the reality was hard to take; she was my sister, a piece of my heart that was missing. We promised to stay in touch and find each other wherever in the world we ended up. I knew she meant it; I could always depend on her because we are sisters!
When we landed in Africa it was early evening. I held on to my passport as we checked in, sliding it into my bag as soon as we came out of the airport. Ziad’s uncle sat with us in the car that had been waiting for us outside the airport. He chatting away as he pointed out all the buildings in the city of Bangui, Central Africa, telling me what was what.
I got on well with Ali; it was his wife that I didn’t see eye to eye with! Africa looked beautiful with bright lights that filled the city. “That’s ours, and that one’s ours and that one!” He was proudly pointing out building after building as we drove past.
A Father's Betrayal Page 25