Behind the Veils of Yemen

by Audra Grace Shelby

  “Ma’a sha’allah [What God wills],” Zahra whispered. “Ma’a sha’allah.”

  The doorbell buzzed from the front of the house. Zahra ignored it as she squeaked a toy in Qasar’s face. His fretting developed into a fussing cry.

  “Bas, bas,” Zahra said firmly, repeating, “Ma’a sha’allah,” as she kissed the baby’s damp forehead.

  The doorbell buzzed again. Qasar’s cry evolved into an angry scream. “He is hungry,” Fatima explained to her sisters’ worried looks.

  She rummaged in the diaper bag for a clean bottle.

  “I will feed him.” Aisha rose to take the formula, but Fatima held it away. Clutching it close, Fatima gripped her wailing son and pulled him from her older sister.

  “Asalam alaykum. [Peace be upon you].” A woman entered the room and handed her heavily embroidered balto to Yasmine, who had answered the door. “Kaif halikum? [How are you all?]”

  Her words were scarcely louder than Qasar’s wails. She made her way to each of us, kissing our cheeks twice before mopping the perspiration from her face with a wadded tissue. She thumped heavily down in the space Fatima had left behind.

  Fatima smiled apologetically as Qasar screamed. “I must feed my son,” she told the woman and left the room. Aisha frowned.

  “His cry is strong, ma’a sha’allah.” The woman nodded approvingly. Then she turned to me. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Audra,” I answered. “And you, what is your name?”

  “Om Hamid,” she responded, dabbing the soggy pink tissue again.

  I cringed, regretting how easily I had given my name. I had forgotten that a woman’s personal name was not freely distributed. It was considered disrespectful. In public a woman was referred to as the wife of someone or as the mother, om, of her eldest son. I should have responded, “Om Jaden,” until I knew the woman better.

  Yasmine saw my discomfort. “Audra has three children, she told Om Hamid. “Two sons and a daughter.”

  The woman nodded approvingly. “Ma’a sha’allah.” Qasar wailed in the background. “Ma’a sha’allah,” she repeated softly.

  “Does the baby always cry this much?” Aisha asked, her face a wave of concern.

  “Ahyanun [Sometimes],” I answered, thinking it best not to add, “You should have heard him on the bus.”

  “I think he has colic,” I explained.

  Om Hamid asked Aisha a question I did not understand. She asked if they had done something to the baby. “What does that word mean?” I whispered to Yasmine.

  “It is a special pouch with writings from the Holy Quran and special herbs to keep away the Evil Eye,” Yasmine explained.

  “Oh, those.” I kept my voice even. I had heard about the pouches mothers trusted to protect their infants. Without them compliments could not be given. But with the tiny pouch dangling from a cord around her baby, a mother felt confident that her child was safe from the Evil Eye. She could proudly receive praises for her baby without fear.

  Fatima returned to the room with a half-empty bottle and a contented Qasar sleeping in her arms. She squeezed between me and Om Hamid on the mufraj and tossed a sideways glance at Aisha.

  Om Hamid began a volley of admonitions. “You must feed your son biscuit mashed in tea. It will make him fat. And stir honey in his milk. It will make him strong. Ma’a sha’allah.”

  “You must feed him many times in the day, even when he is not crying,” Aisha scolded. “He is too thin.”

  “And put honey from Zabid into his water,” Zahra added. “It will give him good health.”

  “No, Fatima,” I whispered in English. “Babies should not have honey. It is dangerous for them when they are small.”

  Fatima took each comment, including mine, with a tolerant smile. But she rolled her eyes when we took our bags upstairs to our room later. We would sleep in the room she had slept in as a child. It was tiny, with twin iron cots, a small cupboard spilling over with clothes and a sliver of yellowish rug. A single window with a rotting seal was open and unscreened. It was next to a warped door that led to the flat cement roof, where laundry baked on a wire clothesline.

  “My sisters think I am their baby still.” Fatima scowled. “They think they must take care of my baby and me. I thought it would be different.”

  She frowned as she fanned herself with a square of cardboard. “It is hot,” she said.

  I agreed. “Maybe we can bring the fan upstairs?” The room did not have a ceiling fan, which was good since I could touch parts of the ceiling with my hand.

  Fatima wiped her face and neck with the hem of her orange dera. “I have become spoiled in Sana’a.” She grinned ruefully. “This was my home, but now I do not like the heat.” She wrinkled her nose. “Who can sleep in this heat? Qasar will be crying all the night.”

  I thought about the women who were passing him around downstairs. I did not think the heat would be the problem.

  Fatima sat up abruptly. “Wait. Mabrooka has a flat with an air conditioner. She spends most of her time in Taiz. Maybe we can sleep at her flat.”

  “But your sisters are expecting us to stay with them. Won’t they be offended?” I asked.

  Fatima shrugged. “I will explain to them about the heat. They will understand.”

  I realized whom Fatima would say could not tolerate the heat. “Fatima, I can sleep here. Mosh mosh kila [No problem]. I am fine.” I knew Fatima would use a foreigner’s discomfort rather than her own to appeal to her sisters.

  “Please, Fatima,” I repeated. “I don’t want your sisters to think I don’t want to stay with them.”

  Fatima had made up her mind. “After maghreb we will go into town. Then we will sleep at Mabrooka’s house.”

  I hesitated. Sweat trickled down my damp T-shirt. The prospect of air-conditioning was appealing, but I did not want to be the reason we needed one.

  As the maghreb prayer call deafened us from the mosque one block away, Fatima, Aisha, Zahra and I sat on the rug in the living room around the supper we had purchased from a nearby mata’am. Foule [spicy beans stewed with onions, tomatoes and peppers] steamed in a bowl on the aluminum tray beside a stack of hot khobz [flatbread].

  I bowed my head and prayed softly in English. Aisha and Zahra watched curiously. They said nothing, waiting for me to finish.

  “We thank God before each meal we eat,” I explained to my onlookers. “We want to honor Him for providing food.”

  Aisha nodded. “Tamam [good].” She gestured for us to begin. We tore pieces of bread and dipped hungrily into the beans, leaning aside for Aisha’s three children to have their turns.

  I tried to eat sparingly to allow all an equal share. “Eat, eat!” Aisha urged me, glaring at her children to back away until I had scooped again.

  We ate together from the blue melamine bowl until the last drop of beans and the last flake of bread were gone. The children licked their fingers. Aisha gave them a small bag of cheese curls to share and sent the younger two outside to play. She handed the tray to her nine-year-old son to carry back to the restaurant while she settled herself on the mufraj with Qasar.

  Fatima and I splashed tepid water on our faces and arms and brushed our hair. I was surprised when Fatima kissed Qasar and almost eagerly handed Aisha the diaper bag. I wondered if she had given in to her older sister’s authority.

  Fatima grinned and pulled my arm. “We will go to town by ourselves!” she exclaimed. I grinned back as she seized her opportunity for freedom.

  We covered ourselves in our stifling black drapes and went into town.

  The sun was yielding to dusk, throwing streaks of orange and pink across the sky as it slowly succumbed to the dark. Fatima and I strolled arm in arm through alleys lined with bulging carts and noisy vendors. We entered a muddy square crammed with wooden carts stacked high with clothing, fruit, housewares and shoes. Men, women and children mulled in and out between them. Bare lightbulbs dangled on electrical cords overhead.

  “I am hungry.”
Fatima pulled me toward a boy on a bicycle with a mounted glass box.

  I gave the boy money and watched him roll two cones from a stack of notebook paper. He filled each one with hot fries and sprinkled them with salt, drizzling hot sauce on top. We thanked him and ducked into a secluded corner to eat. We licked our fingers discreetly and tossed our empty wrappers into an overflowing garbage bin.

  We continued our way through the carts, ignoring the calls of the vendors. The alleys had been hosed with water. We stepped carefully between puddles, avoiding rotten fruit and discarded garbage. We stopped to admire bolts of fabric. Fatima sighed over crinkled red satin. I uncovered pale blue cotton printed with American flags and chuckled at finding it there. We continued our stroll.

  Suddenly Fatima stopped and gripped my arm. She scowled at the cart in front of us. Her soft face went hard as she clenched her teeth. Her eyes looked both injured and fierce.

  “My husband buys films from carts like these.” Her words were clipped.

  I looked at the stacks of videos and discs, amused to see current American hits reproduced on the alley cart. “You do not like films?” I asked, not comprehending her disgust.

  Her eyes sparked. “Not these films, Audra,” she snapped. “Other films. They are hidden. You must ask for them so the police will not know.”

  She looked at me, anger burning in her eyes. “Films of women,” she spat out.

  I understood. “Oh,” I said. “Those kinds of films.”

  My heart flinched to see her pain. “I am so sorry, Fatima,” I whispered. I slipped my arm around her shoulders. I did not know what else to say.

  “Why, Audra?” she asked, hurt rising in her voice. “I told Ahmed that it is harram [forbidden]. But still he does this.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “He watches them with his friends. They are husbands! They have good wives! Is this what husbands do? How can we trust them to take care of us?” Her pain choked her words.

  I took her arm and led her away from the cart. “No, Fatima. This is not what husbands should do. It is wrong.”

  I handed her a tissue. “Fatima, it is not your fault that he does this,” I said firmly. “It is your husband who is doing the wrong. Not you.”

  Tears slowly trickled down her smooth, olive cheeks. She wore no makeup, not even lip gloss. Her husband forbade her to wear it in public. I had seen him make her wipe it off when she left parties. He would not let his wife appear beautiful to other men, this man who watched pornographic films.

  Anger gritted my teeth. Kevin stands proudly when I look my best, I thought. These men cover their wives’ beauty to keep it for themselves. But even that is not enough, not even with the four wives they are allowed by Islamic law.

  Fatima wiped her eyes with the tissue I offered and quickly glanced around at the families weaving in and out. “Tiyeb [Okay],” she said. “Khalas [Enough].”

  Her eyes caught sight of a man on a white bicycle trolley. “Ice cream,” she said, tossing her tissue to the street. “Come!”

  I grimaced at the tissue soaking up mud, but I nodded at the cart. “Ice cream is always good!” I agreed.

  Seven of us gathered at Mabrooka’s apartment. Zahra, who was childless and divorced, remained at the house with Yasmine, who was still single. The humid night air hummed with cicadas and the occasional screech of a bird I did not recognize. We were on the outskirts of the city. The constant honking of cars and trucks had given way to a braying donkey and barking dogs. Fatima and the children were as anxious as I was for Aisha to unlock the door. Dripping with sweat, we hovered around her, eager for the air-conditioned bedroom.

  I was grateful for Mabrooka’s absence. She was the sister of Aisha’s dead husband and was also the sisters’ first cousin. Mabrooka’s husband had divorced her because he found divorce cheaper than maintaining two wives. Mabrooka spent most of her time in Taiz, a four-hour drive away, and she left her apartment key with Aisha when she was gone.

  The apartment was one of several built side by side in a one-story row, each with a cement pad as a courtyard. The courtyards were separated by tall iron fences that matched the white iron bars on the windows. Most of the windows were dark.

  “Mabrooka means ‘congratulations,’ doesn’t it?” I asked Fatima.

  “Yes. It comes from the word for ‘blessing,’ ” she said.

  I inwardly thanked Mabrooka for the blessing of an air conditioner. Aisha unlocked the door, and we followed her inside. Hot air burst in our faces like a cloud of steam from coals in a sauna. The apartment had not been opened for several days. The heat had been stored inside, waiting to vent on anyone who opened the door. I wiped my face.

  We made our way quickly to the room with the air conditioner. Aisha lagged behind to open the screened windows. The bedroom was large and long, lined on one wall with a king-sized bed and a twin bed, and on the other with a triple pine wardrobe. A red paisley rug covered part of the ceramic-tiled floor.

  We found the light switch and turned it on. Fatima laid her sleeping baby on the large bed. Aisha’s children curled up on the rug and promptly went to sleep on the floor.

  Fatima walked over to the air conditioner and studied the switch. I eyed it, trying to be patient. I could almost taste cold air. Fatima found the right button and pushed it. The air conditioner sputtered and groaned. It tried to blow and moaned in its attempt, but then it was silent. I swallowed.

  Aisha came in to help. She switched the power off and on, unplugged the cord and re-plugged it. Then she tried again. The air conditioner groaned and shuddered but was silent again. My mouth felt dry. I had been prepared to sleep in Fatima’s bedroom without a fan, but then I had been offered refrigerated air. It was difficult to give it back.

  It was almost eleven. I was ready to curl up on the rug with the children. I was hot, sticky and tired. The house in which we had hoped was hotter than the house we had left. Fatima looked even more disappointed.

  “At least Qasar is sleeping,” I said.

  “But this heat! Who can sleep in this?” Exasperation cracked her voice.

  Aisha went to the phone and dialed a number. Her Arabic was too rapid for me to interpret. She went from gentle pleading to outright scolding the voice on the other end. She reminded me of women bargaining for underwear in the suq. I heard the word agnabiya [foreigner], and I knew I was the reason for the distress call. I rolled my eyes.

  “Tiyeb [Okay].” Aisha clicked off the phone and turned to us. “The neighbor’s husband is coming. He will fix it.”

  The doorbell rang almost immediately. I reached for my balto and hejab, as did Aisha and Fatima. Aisha welcomed a man wearing a crooked white T-shirt and a hastily wrapped futa (wrap skirt) that looked close to becoming unwrapped.

  The man held a handful of tools, greeting us with sleepy eyes and a gritted hello as he walked past us to the air conditioner. He grumbled a response to our greetings and went to work. Within minutes the air conditioner growled out air as it rocked grudgingly against the window. The air was not cold, but it was air and we were grateful. We thanked him profusely, and he nodded, declining the warm soda and cream cookies we offered. He yawned and left our apartment for his.

  Fatima and I took the king-sized bed, putting Qasar in between us. Aisha took the twin bed beside us. We left the sleeping children on the floor. We changed into cotton gowns and murmured good nights, falling asleep as soon as we hit the pillows.

  I awoke two hours later with my legs on fire—or at least they felt that way. I turned on an overhead light. Tiny red dots covered my ankles and calves. “Bed bugs,” I muttered. I rummaged around in my duffel bag.

  Fatima stirred. “What is wrong?” she asked, lifting sleepy eyes from her pillow.

  Aisha snored, her back toward us.

  “Something is biting my legs. Is anything biting you?” I whispered. “I have bug spray.”

  “No,” she mumbled and rolled to her other side. Qasar slept quietly on his back.

  I found the in
sect repellent and doused my legs well. I turned off the light and climbed back in bed. I tried to sleep but could not. I imagined tiny bugs crawling up and down my body. I spent what was left of the night slapping them under the covers.

  Morning came to me an hour before it came to Fatima. She and Qasar were sleeping soundly as I slipped out of bed. I stepped over the children, still sprawled asleep on the rug, and went into the hall. Hot air slapped me full force across the face. Even at 7:30 in the morning, the heat was brutally strong.

  I found Aisha in the kitchen striking matches, trying to light a burner under a teakettle. “Sabbah al-kher [Good morning],” I called out.

  Aisha jumped and spun around. She smiled and reached out to hug me. “Sabbah annur. Did you rest well?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Thank you for bringing us here. The air conditioner was lovely.”

  Her smile widened with pleasure. “How did you find the suq last night? How is Aden for you?”

  I knew “hot” was not the answer she was looking for, so I replied, “Wonderful. The people are lovely. Aden is very good!”

  She grinned as she spooned loose tea into two teacups. She poured boiling water and handed one cup to me. “Sukkar [Sugar]?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.” I pulled packets of sweetener from my pocket. “But I would like a little milk, please.”

  Aisha frowned and then smiled patronizingly. “In the morning you do not put milk in your tea. It will make you sleep. You use milk in the afternoon when you are resting. It will make you relax.”

  I was bordering on irritability. I did not like strong black tea without milk, and I could see a tin of powdered milk sitting on the counter. I stirred my tea.

  “Shukran [thank you].” I sipped my tea, trying not to flinch at the bitterness. I went to the mufraj and leaned back against the cushion to begin my prayer time with the Lord.

  Before I had finished Fatima padded into the room. She saw the small New Testament in my lap. “You are reading your Book?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “It is my daily bread. I cannot make it through the day without it.”