She looked curiously at me. She glanced at my Bible again and shrugged before going into the kitchen. She returned with a tray of rootee [small baguettes] spread thickly with soft cream cheese that the children had fetched fresh from the baqala [grocery store]. I had another cup of tea, this time lightened with forbidden milk. Aisha was feeding Qasar.
After breakfast Fatima washed her arms and legs in the laundry room spigot to prepare for her morning prayers. While she recited them, I took a shower down the hall.
I need not have worried about the absence of hot water heaters. The water tank sat on the roof, exposed to full sun, and it sent water through the taps that was hot enough to scald. I took a quick shower.
I heard voices in the living room and went to join them. Aisha was on the mufraj next to a plump, graying woman who was holding Qasar. A white plastic jug of water sat on the floor beside them next to a tall green bottle of olive oil. Qasar was squirming and trying to fuss. He was naked, kicking his legs and bursting intermittent yowls as the woman took water from the jug and rubbed it sparingly over his head and body. She repeated this with a heavier dousing of olive oil, chanting phrases from the Quran with a rhythmic rise and fall in her voice.
Fatima sat near Aisha. Her face was intent on Qasar. She looked ready to snatch him. I remained by the door, not sure if I would be welcome. After several minutes the woman finished her recitation and bounced Qasar up and down on her lap. She grinned broadly, exposing gums where missing teeth had been. She pinched Qasar’s cheek hard and kissed her fingers before handing the crying baby back to Aisha.
“Ma’a sha’allah,” she said loudly, a wide grin creasing her caramel face.
Fatima took Qasar from Aisha and tried to comfort him as she gathered his clothes. She fastened his diaper as the women began to speak to her. They spoke rapidly, their tone firm and scolding. I strained forward in the doorway to understand. I caught the words eib [shameful] and zalan [angry].
Fatima looked down as she dressed her son. She seemed to ignore their harsh words. She busied herself snapping Qasar’s jumpsuit. But I saw a tear slip silently down her cheek. She cuddled Qasar in her arms and looked up at me, tears brimming in her eyes.
“They say the God is angry that I named my son Qasar and that is why he cries,” she said in English. “They say I should change his name to Mohammed. Then the God will not be angry and my son will stop crying.”
Pain pierced my heart and pricked tears to my own eyes as I looked into hers. I leaned against the door frame and swallowed. I tried twice to speak. The eyes of all three women were on me, waiting for my response.
I cleared my throat. “Fatima,” I spoke slowly. “God is not like that. He cares what is in a heart. Not what is in a name.” I looked at the faces fixed on mine. “God is not like that,” I repeated. “You can trust Him.”
The old woman glared at me. She did not understand my English, but she knew what I had said. I met her hard eyes with my own steadfast ones.
Fatima thanked the two women and wiped her eyes. She stood and turned to me with her tears changed to bright excitement.
“Audra, the woman put water on him from Mecca. It will make him well. It is water from Mecca!” She kissed the baby and hugged him tightly before handing him back to Aisha.
“He will be better now,” she said confidently. She kissed the healer’s wrinkled cheek and thanked her again.
“Come.” She motioned to me. “We will bring tea.” I watched Aisha count riyalls into the healer’s hand before I followed Fatima to the kitchen.
Fatima heated the kettle while I spooned tea into teacups. “We must go back to Sana’a tomorrow,” she said, pouring hot water.
I was stunned. “Tomorrow? But I thought we were staying a week!”
Fatima shook her head angrily. “It is too hot,” she said. “The heat is not good for Qasar. That is why he cries. We will come back when the weather is cool.” I nodded blankly, wondering if the weather would ever be cool in Aden.
At noon we returned to the family house. The white box fan again was placed in front of us, and I tightened my grip on my ponytail.
Zahra plumped a cushion and slid it behind my back. “Take your rest,” she said proudly. “We will fix for you sayadiya.”
“Sounds delicious!” I smiled. I leaned toward Fatima. “What’s sayadiya?” I whispered.
“Fish cooked the Adeni way. You will like it. Bis bas [hot salsa]!” She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. A smile played on her lips as she drifted away in her thoughts. She seemed happy since the healer woman’s visit, filled with a new source of hope.
Qasar was fussing in the bedroom. I heard Aisha croon, “Bas, habibi, bas [Enough, my love, enough]. Eat, eat.”
Aisha had fixed hot tea, heavily sweetened with sugar and cream and thickened with a mashed wheat meal cookie. Qasar did not seem to like it. I sighed.
Two hours later Zahra appeared in her torn housedress, sweating profusely and carrying an aluminum pan filled with red rice and a circle of small, whole fish.
“Sayadiya,” she said proudly, placing the pan on the floor in front of us.
“It looks delicious,” I said. I bowed my head to pray.
Zahra and Yasmine waited. When I finished, Zahrah mumbled, “Bismillah [in the name of God],” and motioned for me to dive in. “Eat, eat!” She handed me a large serving spoon.
I scooped spoonfuls of fish and rice, dipping my spoon into the bis bas as they had shown me. “This is very good,” I said. “Momtaz [Excellent]!”
The sisters ate with me, dipping their fingers into the bis bas and scooping handfuls of rice and fish into their mouths. The children ate between us.
Zahra waved a greasy finger, speckled with rice and tomato pieces. “The children want to know if you will eat the fish head,” she said, sucking her fingers. “It is their favorite part.”
I patted my stomach. “Al hamdulilah,” I answered. “I am satisfied. Please, let them have it.”
The children waited for Zahra. “You do not want the head? You are sure?” Zahra asked.
“I am sure,” I smiled. “Please, let them have it.”
At a brief nod from Zahra, all three children dove for my fish head. Sami, the older boy, won. The girls sighed, waiting to see if other fish heads would be left. Zahra’s would not. It was poised in her hand to be sucked.
After the midday meal we rested. Fatima fell asleep as soon as she stretched out on her cot in the upstairs room. I lay on mine and watched a yellow wasp buzz in and out of the unscreened window. It was making a nest in a corner of the low ceiling. A chicken squawked outside in the neighbor’s yard. I heard children laughing. After the chicken squawked a second time, a woman began scolding and clapping her hands. The children’s laughter stopped.
At four o’clock, we freshened our sweating bodies with hot water from a spigot and combed our hair. Downstairs Aisha was pacing the floor. She was trying to soothe Qasar, who did not want to be soothed.
Aisha’s face was a radar of worry lines. “He is not well,” she said to Fatima. “He cries too much and eats too little. He needs to go to the doctor.”
The relaxed pleasure on Fatima’s face was wiped away by a wave of concern. Fatima took Qasar from Aisha and felt his head. “Yes,” she said, her voice rising. “He feels hot.”
“Fatima,” I interjected. “It is hot.”
“Maybe he has fever,” she said, ignoring me. She looked at Aisha. Both women placed their hands on the baby’s perspiring head. “Yes, yes, he has fever. We must take him to the doctor.”
Fatima rushed to the mufraj. “I will get my bag.”
I grabbed my purse and snapped my balto, trying to keep up with Fatima and Yasmine. They were out of the door before I had wrapped my head scarf.
Qasar was wrapped in blankets like a mummy. I heard his muffled cry in Fatima’s arms. I was about to object over the heat but I stopped, astonished to see that Yasmine was wearing a veil. Her sisters, like Fatima, did
not.
I looked back at Fatima. “Fatima, you should wait until we are in Sana’a. You could take Qasar to see Doctor Alison. Remember her? She came to see you in the hospital.” I was almost out of breath as I tried to keep pace.
“But he feels hot. He has fever.” Worry rose in her voice.
“Fatima, the weather is hot. And he is wrapped in a heavy blanket. That will make him too hot.” I was panting myself.
Fatima looked at me with surprise, almost stopping in the street. She spoke sternly, jerking her head toward the rustling trees. “There is rih (wind)!”
I tried a different approach. “Fatima, wait. Doctors in Yemen give everyone the same treatment, whether they need it or not. They give vitamins and antibiotics. It will not be good for Qasar to take medicine he does not need. Do you understand this?”
Fatima brushed me aside. “If my baby is sick, he must see the doctor.” Her worried eyes were not seeing me.
I fell behind as we climbed the stairs to a second-floor clinic housed above a pharmacy. We entered a small room with bare cement floors and two open windows. Four rows of wooden benches were crowded with men, women and whimpering children. A wall clock above a table had stopped at 8:30, probably months or even years earlier.
A woman veiled in white rose from her chair and beckoned us. She listened as Fatima and Yasmine explained their need for the doctor, but her eyes were on me, along with the eyes of every other person in the room. She directed us to the crowded front bench, motioning for two men and a boy to give us their seats. They moved to the sills of the unscreened windows.
“Glissee [Sit].” The receptionist gestured at the empty space. She looked at her watch and wrote the time in the notebook on her table.
We sat, leaning against the slatted back. I smiled at the woman next to me who nodded but did not smile back. She studied me, her eyes fixed on mine as if she were looking for something.
The little girl in her lap moaned softly, her head leaning on the woman’s arm. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, but she was shivering under a thick fleece blanket. I wondered if she had malaria, a common and dreaded disease in the coastal areas.
Flies buzzed around a half-empty soda bottle on the floor. An overhead ceiling fan moved slowly but created no breeze. One motorcycle and then another roared down the street outside. A car horn blared as children laughed on the sidewalk.
“Bas, bas,” a woman soothed a child crying on the bench behind us.
“Come.” The receptionist beckoned to us.
Fatima rose with Yasmine. She giggled into my ear as we left the bench. “It is good you are with us, agnabiya [foreigner]! They will not make a foreigner wait.”
I smiled apologetically at the woman we left behind, reaching out to stroke the head of the shivering little girl. The woman did not smile back. She sighed, drifting back into a blank stare.
Yasmine pulled my arm. “I am coming.” I tried not to voice my irritation.
The receptionist led us inside a small treatment room and closed the door behind us. The white-coated doctor rose from his stool to greet us. He shook my hand first, then bowed slightly to Fatima and Yasmine, who both began talking at once. He appeared to be in his late thirties. He was thin, with kind brown eyes and curly, gray-flecked hair. He glanced nervously at me as he took Qasar from Fatima and unwrapped him on a vinyl-topped table.
Qasar had been asleep, but he began to fuss as the doctor put a stethoscope on his chest and looked into his eyes and mouth. The doctor palpitated Qasar’s stomach and abdomen, then opened his diaper and studied the small tan splat.
The doctor handed the fussing baby back to Fatima. “He has a bacteria in his stool,” he said, scribbling a note on a prescription pad. “You must give him this medicine three times every day for ten days.”
He handed the prescription to Fatima. “And you must give him one dropper of this every day.” He gave her another one. “This will make him strong.”
“Will he be well soon?” Fatima asked, the anxiety unveiled in her voice.
The doctor smiled kindly. “Ensha’allah,” he said, patting Qasar’s head. “Ensha’allah he will grow strong and fat.”
Relieved, Fatima cradled Qasar and led our way to the receptionist’s table, where I paid for the office visit. Fatima tucked her prescriptions for vitamins and amoxicillin into her purse. We made our way down the stairs and into the street. Yasmine adjusted her veil to cover her face.
“Why does Yasmine wear the veil?” I whispered to Fatima.
“Because she is beautiful. The veil gives her God’s protection on the street.” Fatima talked absently. Her thoughts were on her infant.
“The bacteria my baby has—is it bad?” Her eyes darted back and forth across mine.
“No, Fatima, it is not bad.” I said. “Everyone has bacteria in their stools.”
I hesitated. I wanted to tell her that bacteria could be seen only through a microscope, but I was not sure if Fatima knew what one was. I sighed. “He will be okay,” I told her.
Fatima stopped. I followed her eyes to a withered old woman shuffling slowly down the sidewalk on the arm of a small boy. The boy stopped to let the woman hold out her quivering hand to a man leaving a honey shop. The woman blessed the man and begged him for money.
“Muskina [pitiful],” Fatima whispered.
I reached into my handbag for some coins. “Aywa [yes],” I whispered back.
Fatima looked thoughtfully at the blanketed bundle in her arms. “Lahatha [Wait],” she said. She pulled fifty riyalls from her diaper bag.
I flinched as I saw the bill. “Hadtha katheer [This is a lot],” I protested. It was a meager amount, but large in her budget.
Fatima nodded briskly. “Daruri [Necessary],” she answered.
“Daruri,” Yasmine agreed, adding a five riyall coin to Fatima’s bill.
I waited with a heavy heart as Fatima handed our money to the old woman, who smiled down at Qasar and whispered, “Ma’a sha’allah.” I sighed. I knew what Fatima’s good deed was costing her, but I grieved more for her reason behind it. Fatima seemed to be grasping at sources to trust, doing whatever she could to earn God’s favor for her son.
“I must take him to Sana’a tomorrow,” Fatima told Yasmine. “The heat is not good for him. He needs the cool.”
Yasmine started to protest, but then she looked thoughtful and nodded her head. “Yes,” she agreed. “That is best. You must take him back to Sana’a to the cool.”
I said nothing, but inwardly I wondered what Fatima would trust next if the cool of Sana’a wasn’t enough. Well, I sighed to myself. At least I won’t be the excuse for shortening our visit.
Kevin greeted me as I stepped off the bus in Sana’a the next afternoon. Ahmed stood beside Kevin, waiting to help Fatima. I greeted him politely and then grinned big at Kevin, giving him a discreet hug.
“That was a short week,” Kevin whispered, kissing my cheek. “I missed you, even though it was only three days.”
“It was a long three days,” I whispered back. “I’m ready for a vacation!”
“I thought that was one!” Kevin teased as he opened the van door for me.
“A vacation for whom?” I exclaimed.
I waved to Fatima as we drove past. “Ma’a salama [Good-bye]!” I called out.
Fatima was still groggy from motion sickness pills. She waved sleepily back. Ahmed was holding Qasar.
I leaned through the open window, letting my smile fade with the bus in the distance. “I’ll bet Qasar sleeps for a while,” I muttered. “He screamed the whole way home. In my arms!”
Kevin grimaced. “How’d you rate that privilege?”
“I did not take motion sickness pills.” I sighed. “Cool air rocks!” I said into the wind. “Praise the Lord for Sana’a. It was hotter than blazes in Aden.”
I looked at Kevin. “I meant what I said about a vacation. I think we should go home and plan one. A real getaway to an island far, far away.”
“We
can do that,” Kevin said. “We’re allowed time off after six months of language, and it has been more than seven. I don’t know about an island far, far away, though. Where do you want to go?”
“Nassau,” I answered.
“As in the Bahamas? Yeah, right!” Kevin laughed. “How about Al Khokha on the Red Sea? There’s a new hotel there that’s supposed to be good.”
“Maybe.” I sat up. “Hey—let’s do it! Let’s go to Khokha. Palm trees and privacy—just our family!”
“Sounds great!” Kevin agreed. “But meanwhile, get ready to be attacked by the kids. They’re thrilled you came back early.”
“I can’t wait to see them, too,” I said. “I can’t wait to get away and just be together. A real family vacation.”
I looked at Kevin. “We need some serious paradise.”
“Paradise is good,” Kevin agreed, reaching to take my hand. “We can all do with a little paradise.”
We pulled into our driveway, and I laughed. Little faces were peeking from the living room window and jumping up and down as we parked the van.
Paradise, I thought. Lord, I’m ready.
I felt ready. But God was about to show me that I really was not.
“It may not be paradise, but it looks pretty good.” I rolled down the window as we entered the hotel compound. “Kids, can you smell the sea?”
Kevin steered the van down a sand-packed driveway. We passed cottages that looked like pairs of fat brick cylinders joined together by a wooden door. Each was roofed with reeds woven like Chinese hats. Concrete walls sheltered private patios behind them, next to beds of periwinkles.
“This will be great!” Kevin exclaimed.
“Yeah. Six whole days!” I answered. “And each room has an air conditioner!”
Tall palm trees rustled over sheets of woven bark tacked to weathered fence posts. The woven walls shielded the compound from goats and sheep and the eyes of village onlookers.
“Look at the date palms!” I pointed to a group of shorter palm trees. “See the dates? They’re like big clusters of grapes.”
“Can we eat them?” asked Jaden. “I’m hungry.”
Behind the Veils of Yemen Page 12