by Jean Sasson
I forced a smile, for I have learned in life that some people will never change. From the day she had matured into a great beauty, Italia had been nurtured by her family, society, and culture to use her looks to their greatest advantage, as surely as her father had nurtured the crops he grew on the terraced mountains of Yemen.
Italia, I believed, would do nothing more than devote her life—and her beauty—to marrying wealthy men. Or at least that was my belief at the time.
***
In the years that followed her marriage, I built a friendship with Italia, but it was only when Kareem’s father grew bored of her that her true plans emerged. I discovered that Italia was more thoughtful and intelligent than her actions had implied. After Kareem’s father mentioned that he was planning to divorce, for a scrumptious feast every day soon loses its appeal, Italia outwitted her husband, inducing him to award her vast riches as a divorce settlement, something he had never done before. While he had not once sent his ex-wives away destitute, never had he given many millions of dollars to a woman with whom he had grown weary.
But Italia was triumphant where his other wives had not been. At the end of her eighth marriage, the beauty Italia returned to the country she had never forgotten, and the people she loved, with $30 million, a vast sum of money for a previously impoverished girl from Yemen.
Although I lost contact with Italia once she moved out of Saudi Arabia, Sara was in occasional communication, for they had made an association in their work devoted to the plight of child brides. Never was I more astonished and proud than when I discovered that Italia had become a mighty force in the arena of educating and saving abused girls in a number of countries where they were being held in sexual bondage. Italia was using her divorce wealth to further the cause of such girls and free those poor unfortunate victims, so I knew that wherever she might be, she was happy, for nothing guarantees happiness more than helping others.
In early 2015, when Saudi Arabia launched its military action, bombing Yemen, it was not surprising that Sara had difficulty reaching Italia, for the entire infrastructure of the previously destitute country was acutely affected. A worried Sara was fearful that Italia had been trapped by the intense bombing and was no more. When Sara spoke of her worry, Kareem and Assad exchanged amused glances before laughing heartily at Sara’s fears.
“Darling,” Assad told his wife, “Italia is the sort of woman who can catch a bomb with her teeth and send it back to the pilot.”
Sara did not find their witticism amusing and raised her concern again because it was as if Italia had disappeared from Yemen. But after numerous attempts, Sara located Italia through the investigative endeavors of a Yemeni tea boy who had worked for Kareem’s father while Italia had been one of his wives. The young man had been treated kindly by Italia during her time living in the palace and through his Yemeni contacts he located her on the outskirts of Sanaa. It seems that courageous Italia had moved from her village to be near the main conflict so that she might help others.
Resourceful as ever, Sara succeeded in placing a call through to Italia in Yemen, something exceptionally difficult due to the bombing campaign against the Houthi rebels there. Sara set the phone on loudspeaker, so that we might both hear Italia’s words. She answered quickly, touched that our thoughts had turned to her. Thankfully, Italia claimed to be safe, despite the chaos in Yemen.
I easily envisioned the melodramatically disposed Italia as she excitedly made conversation. “Royal ladies,” she laughed, “I am unharmed. At least for the moment. God is saving my head from those bombs. However, I had some very difficult experiences with a few of those woman-hating rebels. Did you know they claimed to be ready to curb male domination? But no, they are trying to push women even further into the abyss.”
Sara interrupted, “Italia, tell us if you are all right. We have been worried.”
Italia laughed again, more loudly this time. “I am good. But let me tell you a funny story. One day, when I went to visit a good friend, I forgot to pull my long hair back, so a few hairs escaped from beneath my shawl. One of those illiterate men glared at me, in the same manner as those excessively intense mutawa used to do in the Riyadh souks when they looked so mean, giving the impression that they yearned to pound your head with their long sticks. Anyhow, that silly rebel had the impudence to ask if I was married. I said, ‘None of your business,’ and he shouted, ‘Get married! Stay at home!’ I shouted back at him, ‘I have been married more times that you can count, ignorant man.’
“That ruffian had no knowledge of how to react to a strong woman. He scowled some more, and then stomped off to pursue a woman less spirited. Yemeni women are forced to live like mice, sitting quietly in the corners, nibbling on the cheese when no one is looking. But not this woman.”
I interjected before she could get into another story that told us nothing of what we needed to know. “We want to know if you need anything, Italia.”
“Yes, in fact. There is something I need, desperately.”
“And, what is that?” I asked.
“Electricity.”
“Electricity?” I stammered.
“Yes! Electricity! I have become an electricity refugee. My millions are not helping me now. There are no generators to be bought in this country. Now I spend much of my day being driven from one establishment to another, looking for a generator so that I might have some electricity to power up my phone and computer. Electricity! Tell that old prince of mine to instruct those Saudi pilots not to drop their bombs on the electrical plants.”
“I would give you a generator if I knew how to get one to you,” Sara replied sweetly.
“I know you would, Sara. You are a gem.” Italia coughed loudly. “Those bombs are making rubble out of this neighborhood. My lungs are aching from the dust even now.” And then she laughed as she said, “If only you could tell that old prince of mine that I would appreciate it if they discontinued bombing in this neighborhood!”
She knew Kareem’s father was no longer in a powerful position, as his advanced age kept him confined in his home more often than not. But Sara and I exchanged woeful looks, for both of us felt terrible that in this war, as in all wars, civilians were too often harmed, were too often the victims.
“Ladies, I am so pleased you cared enough to call. But I must go now. My friend Fiery has organized a meeting at the university to discuss women’s rights under the Houthis. I am giving my support to this woman because she is fearless. Fiery the Fearless is what we call her.”
“I have not heard of this fearless Yemeni woman,” I said, although since the bombing war began I had greatly increased my knowledge of everything that was going on in Yemen, and most particularly how the girls and women were faring.
“I am not surprised. Fiery does not come from the wealthy class. Her father was a professor at Sanaa University until he dropped dead of a heart attack. Such people never meet Saudi royals. Or any royals, for that matter. But she is educated and resourceful and determined. I believe that she will change the history of women in Yemen.
“All right. I must leave you. Please call later. If my phone is charged, I will answer. If I do not answer, send a generator!
“Do not worry about your beautiful friend Italia. The rebels have less time to scheme these days, so they are leaving the women alone, at least temporarily. They are busy shoring up their defenses. The fools believe that the GCC armies are going to invade the country. I told them that I know the Saudi royals better than anyone in this country and the attacks will be limited to the sky.
“I leave you now . . .” Then Italia startled us by making an unexpected promise: “but before long I will bring Fiery to visit you in Saudi Arabia. You shall meet this fearless woman for yourself.”
The telephone connection was cut. Sara clicked off her mobile phone, a look of approval on her face. “Sultana, it appears there was more to Italia than good looks. I believe she can take care of herself much better than any of us had expected.”
&n
bsp; I nodded in agreement. My thoughts were with Italia in Yemen, and the friend she called Fiery the Fearless. I doubted that I would ever meet this fearless Yemeni woman, although I was titillated by the idea, as nothing intrigues me more than talking with women who fight for freedom against archaic societies and within patriarchal-controlled countries.
But once more Italia would surprise me with her gifts of persuasion; she was a woman who could make the impossible possible.
Fiery the Fearless
Through Italia, Sara and I soon met the woman known as Fiery, a woman unlike Italia in so many ways but as similar as a twin in others.
Fiery was born into a conservative Yemeni family who held dear the female tradition of obedience to men. Her father, Jamil, was a highly respected scholar in the Faculty of Education at Sanaa University in Yemen. The university was first opened in 1970 as the primary university in the Yemen Arab Republic, now known as the Republic of Yemen.
Jamil was hired in 1974 with a satisfactory salary, which meant he could offer an appropriate dowry to wed a colleague’s sister. The two men were professors in the same department and had similar pursuits, which were a love of reading and of travel, although Jamil had never journeyed further than neighboring Saudi Arabia. Neither man was married, even though both were seeking a virtuous woman to wed, as they had been raised with conservative values, in harmony with the majority of Yemeni citizens.
After Jamil’s associate mentioned that he had three beautiful sisters who were of an age to marry, Jamil eagerly investigated further, as his parents were both deceased and he had no sisters or aunties in the area to seek information about potential brides, as all had married men from small villages well outside Sanaa. But after his colleague said that his eldest sister, named Pearl, was not only beautiful but also a good woman without ambitions for education or a career, Jamil plunged into marriage negotiations without seeking an intermediary to discover additional personal information regarding the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life, for he was not the sort of man to divorce or to take a second wife.
Living in one of the most conformist countries in the Arab world, Jamil never saw his bride before the wedding night. He was excited, though, to meet her and could think of little else in the days leading up to the wedding. But once alone with his bride, Jamil plunged into disappointment. When he at last saw his wife unveiled, he could not conceive why his friend and colleague had called his sister beautiful; his new bride was so homely that there was simply no beauty to be seen. But Jamil was an honorable man and there was nothing to do but to accept that he had been duped into marrying a woman so physically unattractive that she would tempt no man.
Jamil felt despondent, although he kept his emotions suppressed even after his colleague, who was now his brother-in-law, boasted about his good fortune to marry an exceedingly beautiful woman from a family with important connections at the university.
Ironically, over time, Jamil became attracted to his wife, for she was a good-natured woman with a sense of humor; she made him laugh and was pleasant to be around. In fact, Pearl had many qualities that suited Jamil. She was frugal, buying nothing more than what was needed for daily life, and she kept an immaculate home. Most importantly, she was an attentive wife and mother. Jamil was quickly a contented man. His contentment at home extended to his place of work, where he soon became known as one of the most cordial professors on the university staff, with his personality gaining him many devoted friends. As time passed, he was promoted into a high position in his department and his salary was increased.
The very kindhearted Jamil took no comfort from his brother-in-law’s marriage of misery when he learned from Pearl that her brother’s salary was not sufficient to purchase the fine clothes, jewels, and house furnishings that his overindulged wife demanded, for she had been accustomed to an extravagant lifestyle when living in her wealthy father’s home. There were also difficulties with children, or the lack of them, for the couple had failed to conceive. In Yemen, nothing is more important than the birth of a child.
Pearl’s brother was a miserable man, married to a beautiful but manipulative woman.
Jamil felt so pleased that his brother-in-law had misled him into marrying Pearl that he did not condemn his brother-in-law when he complied with his wife’s demand for a divorce. Jamil did not believe in divorce, but he saw his brother-in-law’s point of view in this case.
Jamil and Pearl took enormous pleasure in their children, two sons and three daughters. All were obedient children, for they had been raised to obey God’s commands, given to all Muslims through the Prophet Muhammad. None of the children were acknowledged for good looks, although the two sons were moderately attractive, and two of their three daughters were pleasing enough to look upon, with smooth skin and attractive features.
Fiery, their second daughter, was nearly identical to her mother in appearance and was known by everyone in the community as the “homely” daughter. Clearly, she was no beauty, and neighbors cruelly predicted that this child would be the daughter to tend to her parents in their old age, for no man would seek her for a bride. Fortunately, though, Fiery inherited her mother’s fun and dynamic personality. The child was well liked by everyone who met her. She was also the most intelligent of the five children, with an obvious high IQ.
Although Jamil thought it best that women remain in the home and support their husbands by assuming responsibility for home and children, after observing his daughter, Fiery, he felt the urge to make an exception. Fiery, he knew, was an unusual girl who would do well to pursue education and a career. When speaking about Fiery, Jamil always commented that the girl was born with a book in her mouth. Indeed, Fiery was so curious about the world that she devoured more books than the family could afford to purchase, furthering Jamil’s intentions to ensure that Fiery received the best education he could afford.
Jamil often expressed amusement when he told Fiery how uncomfortable he had been with the name given to her by her mother. But he had agreed with Pearl that if he was going to select the names given to any sons they might have, she could name their daughters. Jamil was not a man to go against his word, so he endured Pearl’s choice when it came to Fiery.
Jamil had reacted as expected, giving his sons traditional names, Muhammad and Abdullah. Pearl had chosen Nadeen for their eldest girl, and Marwa for their youngest. But Jamil thought that Pearl was not thinking clearly when naming the middle girl. Pearl said that she chose an unusual name, the name Fiery, because her labor was so long and difficult with their second daughter that she pictured the baby as fiery and furious, kicking and clawing on her way to leave her mother and to enter the world.
Jamil and Pearl never broached the topic of marriage to Fiery because there were no suitors lining up or dispatching their mothers or sisters to offer a dowry. Indeed, they were both relieved when Fiery failed to express an interest in marriage. It was best that they had no knowledge of their daughter’s secret sadness, for she knew that she would disappoint her husband on his wedding night. She was a proud girl and strong, so she hid her unhappiness, putting on a bold face, telling all the older women in the neighborhood who chided her for remaining single that she had no interest in a dead household brought about by the selfishness of most men in Yemen. Over time, those feelings became real to Fiery, becoming part of her belief system, perhaps because she had expressed the idea so many times.
Fiery knew that her parents’ marriage was unusual in Yemen, only because her father was an intelligent man who had grown to love a woman who, despite her lack of beauty, was worth his affection. Fiery had heard few women praise their marriages, most confiding that women must accept that they are on earth to devote their lives to serving their husbands and raising good children. Women had to forget about any passion they might have for work outside the home. Those passions, they said, were reserved for men, who had a natural inclination to be self-centered.
Fiery startled the women when she told them that she looked
upon them as miserable wives stuck in mechanical marriages. After pausing with shock of Fiery’s words, most chuckled, sincerely believing that her harsh words stemmed directly from her unfulfilled life and her homely features, which they believed would never create excitement or offers of marriage. Every woman on Earth wanted marriage and children, as they saw it.
And so the years passed. Fiery occupied her days with classes and filled her nights with studying, earning high marks and securing four degrees before her father, Jamil, left a big hole in the heart of the family when he suddenly died from a heart attack while teaching one of his classes.
To support herself, and her mother, Fiery began teaching at a small university close to her mother’s home, where she would always live. Poor Pearl was so lonely; she missed Jamil so much that she walked around in a grief-stricken daze for several years. Eventually, she managed to pull herself out of the cycle of sorrow and found some enjoyment spending time with her grandchildren from her two sons and other two daughters. She was industrious, too, keeping house for Fiery, who soon found her passion as a revolutionary fighter for the rights of women, a fervor that had been building in her heart for years, for she knew that to be free is a human need, and Yemeni women were not free.
As an educated woman, she had been dismayed when she read that her beloved country of Yemen was considered the worst place in the world to be a woman.
All of these things I learned directly from Fiery.
***
Travel inside Yemen has always been unsafe. Very few of Yemen’s roads are paved. Only major cities such as Sanaa, Aden, and Taiz have paved roads. If one wants or needs to travel outside the main cities, one must take a four-wheel-drive vehicle or risk being stuck on the side of the road. Small buses are limited to a few regular routes. There are taxis, but the drivers are often unskilled and the vehicles are in need of repair. Most perplexing, some people drive on the left side of the road, while others drive on the right side. There are no railroads in the country. There is sea travel from the ports, but it is challenging to obtain the necessary permits. All of these difficulties occur when there is no war. With war, the difficulties and dangers of travel increase dramatically.