The women gestured as we passed, wanting us to see the babies bound in blanket cocoons inside the glass boxes. One infant had a cleft palate. Another had a malformed hand. The mothers patted spaces on their beds for us to sit, moving aside plastic bags of clothing. There were no televisions, only a large, black-rimmed clock that ticked hours on a peeling, white wall.
One woman held out a section of the orange she was eating. “Ahlen wa sahlen [Hello and welcome],” she said eagerly. I smiled at her club-footed infant and hesitated, about to take the orange. Fatima called from the end of the ward. She waved impatiently for us.
“Shukran [Thank you],” I murmured apologetically and moved on.
When we reached Fatima, she hugged me tightly, kissing both sides of my face three times before letting me go. She kept hold of my hand even as she hugged Shirley. She moved aside her plastic bags and motioned for us to sit on her cot.
“I am glad to see you!” she cried.
“I am glad to see you, too! How are you?” I asked, still holding her hand.
Shirley adjusted the blond hair that had strayed from her scarf in the force of Fatima’s hug. Her light freckled skin looked flushed and her blue eyes were misty at the warmth of Fatima’s welcome.
Fatima wrinkled her nose in a grimace. “I am good. There is some pain still. But I am okay.”
She pulled me to the incubator at her bedside. “See my son.” Her smile was proud and tender. “His name is Qasar. It means ‘emperor.’ ”
Shirley and I moved closer to the tiny baby, who was wrapped tightly in white sheeting, lying inside the framed glass box like a miniature mummy with only his curly head exposed. An oxygen tube was taped into his tiny nose. His breathing was irregular, and he coughed frequently, choking and struggling with each cough and making an effort to cry.
Fatima cringed at each sound. “My baby cannot swallow or suck his milk,” she told Shirley. “The doctor said ensha’allah [God willing] he will be better and he will grow to be strong and healthy.”
She looked at the infant and then back at Shirley. “But he cannot swallow.”
Fatima scoured Shirley’s somber face. Shirley was an American nurse and was respected as much as a doctor by local women. “Do you think he will become well soon?” she asked softly.
I ached at the worry in Fatima’s weary eyes. Her face looked gaunt and hungry for hope. I squeezed her hand tightly as we stood together by the incubator. I wanted to infuse her with hope. But I wanted it to be real hope rooted in living Truth, so that it could not be taken away.
Shirley cleared her throat. I had seen her flash of anger when Fatima described the doctor’s prognosis. Shirley had little tolerance for the local practice of telling patients what they wanted to hear instead of the truth. She had been by the bedside of dying patients who had clung to such lies. They had been kept from the truth until their diseased bodies were beyond restoration. And then it had been too late.
“Fatima,” Shirley began gently, taking Fatima’s other hand in hers. “If the baby cannot swallow, he cannot drink or eat. He must learn to swallow or he cannot survive.”
Fatima nodded, tears filling her eyes, as she looked at Shirley and then me. The anguish in her eyes hurt my soul. Shirley dropped Fatima’s hand and reached inside the incubator to stroke the infant’s tiny head.
“Fatima,” I hesitated. “May we pray for your baby?” I held my breath for her rejection.
“Yes, yes, please,” Fatima answered instantly. She did not notice the women who might be watching. She did not seem to care. She eagerly pulled us closer to her baby.
I was stunned by her response. Fatima had never allowed me to mention Jesus’ name. But now she seemed hungry for it. We hovered over the incubator. I placed my hand on the baby’s back as Shirley placed hers on his head. We bowed our heads slightly and prayed discreetly with open eyes.
Shirley prayed first, then I. We laid the infant before God, asking God in Jesus’ name to help the baby swallow so that he could eat and be nourished. We finished and stood silently beside Fatima.
Fatima’s eyes were glistening with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She looked wistfully through the glass box at her tiny son.
A light dawned in Shirley. “Fatima,” she asked. “Have you held your baby?”
Fatima shook her head, shaking away a tear. “Not since he was in the private hospital. Here the nurse said I cannot. She said Qasar must stay in the incubator, even for the tube feedings.”
Anger flashed again in Shirley’s eyes. The baby was not attached to IV lines or to any machine other than the oxygen tank. There was nothing to obstruct his being held by his mother. Shirley raised the wooden lid of the incubator and gently lifted the infant out.
“Of course you can hold your baby,” she said. “He needs your touch, and you need his.”
Fatima took the infant carefully into her arms, holding him near her breast. She gently lowered her cheek to caress his head against it. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of her son. Tears streamed down her bowed face.
“Fatima,” Shirley said. “You can hold your baby whenever you want. It is good for him to feel your touch. When you lift him out of the incubator, keep the tube from slipping by holding him like this.” She demonstrated. “And tell the nurse I said you could,” she added gruffly.
Gratitude flowed wordlessly from Fatima’s wet eyes. She sat between us on the bed with her son in her arms. For a while she said nothing. She rocked him gently, taking him to a quiet place in her thoughts. Her grip on him slowly relaxed.
Fatima began to chat, introducing other women nearby and pointing out their babies as the mothers smiled proudly. One woman held out bananas. Another held up the prayer cap she was crocheting.
“Tamam [Good],” I said.
Fatima chatted pleasantly through the hour, never once releasing her hold on her son. Then Shirley began gathering her hejab and handbag to leave.
Fatima reached out to clasp my arm, gripping me to the bed. “No, please, Audra. Stay with me. Only one hour more.”
I looked at Shirley. I knew that Kevin and the children would be waiting to go home. It was near suppertime. But I could not walk away from Fatima’s pleading eyes.
“You could stay a little longer,” Shirley suggested, wrapping her hejab. “I can give the kids a snack, and Kevin can pick you up later.”
I hesitated. Fatima tightened her grip on my arm. “Please,” she whispered, “only a little longer.”
I nodded to Shirley. “Thanks,” I said. “Tell Kevin I’ll be by the front gate at five o’clock.”
After Shirley left, Fatima smiled wide at me. She turned the baby to display him again. “He is going to be strong,” she said proudly. “I have a son!”
“Mahbrook [Congratulations]! I came to see him after he was born, but you were not in your room. Did the women tell you?” I asked.
Her face darkened. “Yes,” she said tersely. “They told me.”
I searched her eyes. “What’s wrong, Fatima? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing.” She hesitated. “My friends came to see me at the private hospital only. When we moved to the public hospital, no one came.”
“No one? None of your friends has been to see you for two days?” I was shocked.
“You only,” she answered. “My mother-in-law will come after tomorrow. And my husband comes to bring food, but he cannot stay with the women.”
She took my hand and squeezed it, holding it close. “You are my friend,” she whispered.
The next afternoon as I walked into the ward Fatima bolted from her reclining position and stood tapping her feet until I reached her. Her eyes were shining like polished stones. Grinning broadly, she hugged me, hurrying through the formal greetings.
“Audra!” she said breathlessly. “Qasar is much better today! The doctor says he can swallow. He will soon take his milk from a bottle, not the tube!”
“Al hamdulilah,” I replied. “God has
done this, Fatima. We asked Him in Jesus’ name.”
“Akeed [Of course].” Fatima lifted the baby from the incubator, careful not to dislodge his oxygen tube. “Ensha’allah, he will grow strong! Ensha’allah.”
“Ensha’allah,” I whispered.
Fatima laid the sleeping infant back in his incubator. We sat on the bed to begin our chat but were interrupted by someone calling from across the room.
“Fatima!” It was Huda, the bride’s mother from the wedding. Two of her daughters hovered behind her, peeking out to look warily at us. They waved, delighted that we had seen them. They huddled close and bumped between the crowded cots, their eyes wide with fright as their glances darted between Fatima and the other women in the ward. They would not look at the incubators or the babies in them.
When they reached us, they hugged Fatima quickly and rushed breathlessly through their greetings. Still pressed tightly together, they cooed hurriedly over Qasar, reaching into the incubator to pinch his cheek.
“Ma’a sha’allah, ma’a sha’allah” they repeated.
I looked around the room, bewildered by their odd behavior. I tried to see what was frightening them. I could see only babies and their mothers and the single, white-veiled nurse who moved between them.
Fatima made room for them and patted her cot, but they would not sit down. They continued to clutch each other, averting their eyes from everything except us. Then, as quickly as they had entered, they abruptly whispered their good-byes and left. Still clinging tightly together, they bumped back through the cots and scurried out of the ward.
I turned my gaping mouth to Fatima. “What was that all about?” I asked. “What was wrong?”
Fatima waved her hand in the air, unbothered by their behavior or my astonishment. “They do not like hospitals,” she said casually. “They are afraid from them.”
I was confused. “Afraid of what?” I looked back toward the entrance.
Fatima smiled and took my hand. “You are qawia, Audra, strong in your heart. You do not understand this.”
She tucked my hand into hers. “When the doctor tells me to take Qasar home, we will plan my forty-day party. It is a big celebration, like a wedding. You must be there with me.”
I nodded, still staring at the entrance. I could not comprehend the fear that Fatima obviously accepted. “Fatima, what are they afraid of?” I repeated.
Fatima sighed. “Life. Death. Khalas [Enough], Audra. Khalas. You do not understand this. Will you come to my forty-day party? You must be with me.”
I looked back at Fatima and blinked. “Akeed [Of course]! I would love to.” I looked at the sleeping infant. “I will continue to pray for Qasar. I will ask my friends to pray, too.”
“Yes, yes, you must,” Fatima whispered. “You must.”
We celebrated Qasar’s birth with a beautiful party at Fatima’s apartment 44 days after his birth. Fatima was right; it was like a wedding, complete with lovely dresses and overdone makeup. I shared Fatima’s joy, humbled when she gave me the place of honor next to her. We sat together at the front of the room. Women called out blessings in Mohammed’s name as I cringed. I thanked the Lord for sparing Qasar’s life.
The first week of September passed, and Madison and Jaden began school. I stood by the gate as they climbed onto the bus together. I waved as they pulled away, my heart catching in my throat. “First day of school,” I sighed.
That afternoon Kevin came racing into our bedroom. “Guess what!” he hollered, bouncing onto the bed.
I looked up from the blouse I was ironing. “What?”
“I just got off the phone with Nigel. They found our crates! They were in Jordan! They were taken off the ship by mistake. They have been sitting on the dock this whole time!”
I leaped toward Kevin, catching the tottering iron before it fell to the floor. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” I shouted.
“Me neither! They are supposed to arrive in Hudaydah tomorrow and be trucked to Sana’a next week!”
Madison, Jaden and Jack hurried into our room with panicked eyes. I grabbed their hands. “They found our crates! Our stuff from home!” I cried.
“Our books and toys?” Madison asked.
“Yes, honey! Everything! They’ll bring them to us next week!” I danced with them around the room. “They found them!” I cried. “They found them!”
Eight days later our crates were delivered to our house. Trucked all night from Hudaydah, they arrived at our gate at 5:30 in the morning. I watched from the window as Kevin directed the semitrailer to back through our gate. Neighborhood men returning from prayers clustered to watch the truck park in our driveway.
Two men jumped out of the cab and climbed on top of the crates. They pried them open to hoist boxes onto the backs of waiting men and braced them until the men steadied themselves under the weight. I was amazed by their strength. They were short, wiry men barely taller than I and not much heavier, yet they carried boxes double their weight, groaning and grunting as they stacked them on our front porch.
I cringed as a huge box tottered back and forth. Shouts in Arabic thundered when the box fell with a thud to the ground. I turned away from the window.
I coaxed the children into eating most of their breakfast before their school bus arrived. Shirley took Jack to her house to play. I tucked my hair into my hejab and rolled up my sleeves.
Kevin hauled boxes into the living room, and I sorted their contents, creating mounds on the floor that quickly evolved into chaos. Because we had been allowed to pack according to volume not weight, we had filled every possible crack with items such as toothpaste, underwear, socks and sewing thread. I sorted clothes and carried cooking pans into the kitchen, singing praises to God that our crates had been delivered.
“You are Lord over everything,” I whispered. “You are Messiah! The living Lord!” I carried another armload into the bathroom.
I felt God nudge my heart. I stopped walking. I wanted to shelve the nudge to ponder in a quieter moment when I was not so busy. But I knew God was speaking to me.
I laid an armful of towels on the floor and went to my bedroom to sit on the bed. Okay, Lord. Here I am. What are You trying to tell me?
The words of praise I had just said came back to me: “You are Messiah. The living Lord.”
Suddenly other words returned to me, words I had prayed weeks before but had locked away when our crates had been lost: Lord, could You bring in our crates the week after school starts?
My heart began pounding. I focused on the voice of God moving in me.
I remembered more questions I had asked the Lord: If I had been raised to believe Islam, would I be a devout Muslim instead of a devout Christian? Was the difference only in what we had been taught?
In the quiet of my beating heart, the answer whispered clearly: You asked for your crates to arrive the week after the children began school. The Boones’ crates were delivered on time, but your crates were lost, beyond the reach of man. Yet I knew where they were and when they would be delivered. Now you have your crates, delivered at the time you asked. Only I could do that.
Tears began to fill my eyes. I sat quietly, understanding the answer I had been seeking, an answer that had been with me all along. The difference in my faith was that Jesus is alive. I talked with Him, and He talked with me because He was not someone dead and gone. He interactively and authoritatively reigned in my life. Whether I had been taught about Him or taught about someone else did not change who He is. It did not stop His living presence. No teaching or religion could change or substitute that.
I remembered Fatima’s words. “You are qawia, strong in your heart.” I realized that what made me strong was living strength, given by Someone who could only supply it if He was alive.
“You are Messiah!” I whispered.
I wiped my face and stood by the window, gazing into the cloudless, blue sky. I looked at the yard and saw the ruts in the gravel where the truck had been. Next to them was a mo
und of dirt that looked like a grave in a cemetery. It was the hole we had filled that had been left by the uprooted tree, a tree that had appeared strong on the outside but had been dead on the inside. It had no living source to nourish and sustain it. It became firewood.
I looked again at the sky. “Thank You, Lord,” I whispered. “Thank You for answering my doubts and helping me remember the difference.”
I returned to my unpacking. My excitement over our belongings had waned. I was in awe of God, humbled by His attentiveness to me. Jesus had again proven enough to meet my need, and I was content to trust Him.
But I would not remain content. Little did I know that in the months ahead a greater question of trust loomed. Only then, God would ask the question of me.
The mountains seemed dipped in the pale blue ink of the October sky. But they were darker, like smudges in watercolor. They floated far beyond the concrete buildings jutting out above me like rocks from an ocean. Looking up at the blue, I walked crooked on the sidewalk, practicing my Arabic but thinking of endless sky.
I recited words from my lesson, rolling them around on my tongue, interchanging verb forms. I passed a man sitting in a doorway with mounds of raw cotton spilling out around him. He was stuffing the inside of a mufraj cushion, packing it with the hilt of his curved jambiya [dagger].
“Where you from?” The man’s r’s were heavily rolled.
I flipped mentally through my vocabulary, searching for the words he had spoken. I had not heard them before and could not place their meaning. I was two blocks away before I realized the words he had spoken were English.
I kept walking. I entered the street next to mine and was startled by a loud noise coming from two streets away. People were shouting amid the sound of breaking glass, metal clangs and thuds. I slowed my walk to peer down the alley.
A man ran up from the side street. He screamed at me, waving his arms frantically with a volley of Arabic too rushed for me to understand. He ducked into a doorway, turning once more to rant before slamming his door behind him. I kept walking, craning periodically to look back at the bolted doorway.
Behind the Veils of Yemen Page 9