by Nujood Ali
Whenever he would complain about me, she would tell him hoarsely, “Hit her even harder. She must listen to you—she’s your wife.”
“Ya, beint!” he’d yell, and run after me again.
“You have no right!” I sobbed.
“I’m tired of your whining—I didn’t marry you to listen to you snivel all the time,” he would shout, baring his big yellow teeth.
It hurt me to be talked to that way, with such contempt, and he made fun of me in front of others. I lived in permanent fear of more slaps and blows. Occasionally he even used his fists. Every day, fresh bruises on my back, new wounds on my arms. And that burning in my belly. I felt dirty everywhere. When women neighbors visited my mother-in-law, I heard them whispering among themselves, and sometimes they would point at me. What were they saying?
Whenever I could, I would go hide in a corner, lost and bewildered. My teeth chattered when I thought of the coming night. I was alone, so alone. No one to confide in, no one to talk to. I hated him—I loathed them all. They were disgusting! Did every married girl have to go through the same agony? Or was I the only one to suffer like this? I felt no love whatsoever for this stranger. Had my parents felt any for each other? With him, I finally understood the real meaning of the word cruelty.
Days and nights went by like this. Ten, twenty, thirty? I no longer remember precisely. In the evening, I was taking longer and longer to fall asleep. Each time he came to do his vile things to me at night, I lay awake afterward. During the day, I dozed, abandoned, distraught—I was losing all sense of time. I missed Sana’a, and school. My brothers and sisters, too: Abdo’s constant liveliness, Morad’s clowning, Mona’s jokes (on her good days), little Rawdha’s nursery rhymes. More and more, I thought of Haïfa, hoping she wouldn’t be married off like me. As the days passed, I began to forget the details of their faces: the color of their skin, the shape of their noses, the folds of their dimples. I needed to see them again.
Every morning I wept, begging my in-laws to send me to my parents. I had no way to contact Aba and Omma; there was no electricity in Khardji, so a telephone? Forget it. No planes passed over my village, no buses came, no cars. I could have sent my family a letter, but I didn’t know how to write much more than my first name and a few simple words. Still, I had to find some way back to Sana’a.
Escape? I thought about it a few times. But where to? Since I knew no one in the village, it would have been hard for me to seek refuge with a neighbor or beg a traveler on a donkey to save me. Khardji, my native village, had become my prison.
Then one morning, worn down by all my crying, he told me he would allow me to visit my parents. At last! He would go with me and stay with his brother in Sana’a, but afterward, he insisted, we had to return to the village. I rushed to gather my things before he changed his mind.
The trip home seemed quicker than our previous journey, but the same hideous images still disturbed my sleep whenever I nodded off: the bloodstained sheet, my mother-in-law’s face looming over me, the bucket of icy water. And suddenly, I would start awake. No! I would never go back, never. Khardji, the end of the earth: I never wanted to set foot there again.
“It is out of the question for you to leave your husband!”
I had not expected my father’s unyielding reaction, which quickly put an end to the joy of my return to Sana’a. As for my mother, she kept quiet, simply raising her arms to heaven and murmuring, “That’s how life is, Nujood: all women must endure this; we have all gone through the same thing.”
But why hadn’t she said anything to me? Why hadn’t she warned me? Now that the marriage vows had been said, I was trapped, unable to retreat. No matter what I told my parents about my nightly suffering—the beatings, the burning, and all those dreadful personal things I was ashamed to speak of—they still insisted that it was my duty to live with him.
“I don’t love him! He isn’t nice to me. He hurts me. He forces me to do nasty things that make me sick.”
“Nujood,” repeated my father, “you are a married woman now. You must stay with your husband.”
“No, I don’t want to! I want to come home!”
“Impossible.”
“Please, please!”
“It’s a matter of sharaf, you hear me?”
“But—”
“Listen to me!”
“Aba, I—”
“If you divorce your husband, my brothers and cousins will kill me! Sharaf, honor, comes first. Honor! Do you understand?”
No, I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t understand. Not only was he hurting me, but my family, my own family, was defending him. All that for a question of—what was it? Honor. But this word everyone kept using, exactly what did it mean? I was dumbfounded.
Haïfa watched with big eyes, understanding still less than I did about what was happening to me. Seeing me burst into tears, she slipped her hand into mine, her way of telling me she was on my side. And once more, horrified, I wondered: What if they were planning on marrying her off, too? Haïfa, my little sister, my pretty little sister … Let her at least have a chance to escape this nightmare.
Mona tried several times to defend me, but she was too timid, and anyway, who would have listened to her? Here it’s always the oldest, and the men, who have the last word. Poor Mona! I realized that if I wanted to break free, I could count on no one but myself.
And I was running out of time. I had to find a solution before he came back to get me. I had managed to wangle his permission to stay with my parents for a while, but I was going around in circles, with no escape in sight. “Nujood must remain by her husband’s side,” my father kept saying. Whenever he wasn’t there, I hurried to talk to my mother, who cried and told me she missed me, but could do nothing for me.
I was right to be afraid. He soon came visiting, to remind me of my duties as a wife. I tried to refuse, but it was no use. After some argument, he agreed to let me remain a few more weeks in Sana’a, but only if I stayed with him at his brother’s house. He didn’t trust me, suspecting that I would run away if I stayed too long with my parents. So for more than a month, I was plunged back into hell.
“When will you stop all your moaning? I’m fed up with it,” he complained one day, glaring and shaking his fist at me.
“When you let me go back to my parents’ house!” I buried my face in my hands.
Thanks to my stubbornness, I finally won a new reprieve.
“But this is the last time,” he warned me.
Back home, I realized I would have to act quickly if I wanted to get rid of that man and avoid being dragged back to Khardji. Five days passed, five difficult days during which I kept running into walls. My father, my brothers, my uncles—no one would listen to me.
Knocking on every possible door in search of someone who would, I went to see Dowla, my father’s second wife, who lived with her five children in a tiny first-floor apartment in an old building at the end of a blind alley, right across from our street. Driven by my anguish at the thought of returning to Khardji, I climbed the stairs, holding my nose to avoid the stench of garbage and communal toilets. Dowla opened her door wearing a long red and black dress and a huge smile.
“Ya, Nujood! What a surprise to see you again. Welcome!”
I liked Dowla. She had olive skin and long hair, which she kept braided. Tall, slender, she was prettier than Omma, and always endlessly patient—she never scolded me. The poor woman hadn’t had an easy time of it, though. Married late, at twenty, and to my father, who neglected her completely, she had learned to rely solely on herself. Her oldest boy, Yahya, eight, was born handicapped; still unable to walk, he required special attention, and his tantrums could last several hours. In spite of her poverty, which forced her to beg in the street to pay her paltry rent and buy bread for her children, Dowla was incredibly generous.
She invited me to sit on the big straw pallet that took up half the room, next to the tiny stove where water was boiling. She often had to fill her little
ones’ bottles with tea instead of milk. Hanging from hooks on the wall, the plastic bags she used as her “pantry” looked far from full.
“Nujood,” she ventured, “you seem very worried.”
I knew that she was one of the few members of my family who had opposed my marriage, but no one had bothered to listen to her. She, on whom life had not smiled, had always shown compassion for those even less well off than she was. I felt I could trust her, and knew I need hide nothing from her.
“I’ve so much to tell you,” I replied, and then I poured out my heart.
Frowning, she listened to my story, which seemed to affect her deeply. She thought quietly for a moment, busying herself at the stove, then poured me some boiling tea in the only glass Yahya had not yet broken. Handing it to me, she leaned over and looked into my eyes.
“Nujood,” she whispered, “if no one will listen to you, you must just go straight to court.”
“To what?”
“To court!”
To court—but of course! In a flash, I saw images of judges in turbans, lawyers always in a hurry, men in white zannas and veiled women coming to complain about complicated family problems, thefts, squabbles over inheritances. Now I remembered what a courtroom was: I’d seen one on television, in a show Haïfa and I used to watch at the neighbors’ house. The actors spoke an Arabic different from ours here in Yemen, with a strange accent, and I thought I remembered that the program was from Kuwait. In the large room where the plaintiffs appeared one after another, the walls were white, and several rows of brown wooden benches faced the judge. We’d see the defendants arrive in a van with bars on the windows.
“Go to the courthouse,” Dowla continued. “As far as I know, that’s the only place where you’ll get a hearing. Ask to see the judge—after all, he’s the government’s representative. He’s very powerful, a godfather to all of us. His job is to help victims.”
Dowla had convinced me. From that moment on, my thoughts became much clearer. If my parents wouldn’t help me, well, I’d act all on my own. My mind was made up: I’d do whatever I had to. I was ready to climb mountains to keep from finding myself lying on that mat again, night after night, all alone against that monster. I hugged Dowla tightly in thanks.
“Nujood?”
“Yes?”
“Take this, it might help.”
She slipped two hundred rials into my hand, the entire pittance—worth barely a dollar—she’d managed to beg that very morning at a neighboring intersection.
“Thank you, Dowla. Thank you!”
The next morning I woke up with more energy than usual, and even surprised myself with my new attitude. As I did every morning, I washed my face, said my prayer, and lit the tiny stove to boil water for tea. Then, fiddling nervously with my hands, I waited impatiently for my mother to get up. Nujood, said my little inner voice, try to behave as naturally as possible, so you don’t arouse suspicion.
When Omma finally arose a little later and began undoing the corner of the black scarf where she usually hides her coins, I understood with relief that my plan might just work.
“Nujood,” she said, handing over 150 rials, “Off you go; buy some bread for breakfast.”
“Yes, Omma,” I replied obediently.
I took the money. I put on my coat and my black scarf, the clothes of a married woman. I carefully closed the door behind me. The nearby lanes and alleys were still half empty; I took the first street on the right, the one leading to the corner bakery, where the bread is deliciously crusty when it has just come out of the old-fashioned oven. As I walked along I heard the familiar song of the vendor who sells gas bottles every day from a little cart he pulls along behind his bicycle.
I was drawing closer and closer to the bakery, and could already inhale the wonderful smell of the khobz loaves, piping hot. Soon I saw that several local women were already in line in front of the tandoor. At the last minute, however, I changed direction, heading for the main avenue of our neighborhood. “The courthouse,” Dowla had told me, “all you have to do is go to the courthouse.”
Once on the avenue, I was suddenly afraid of being recognized. What if one of my uncles passed by? I felt shaky inside; hoping to hide, I brought the folds of my scarf over almost my entire face, leaving only my eyes uncovered. For once, this niqab I’d never wanted to wear again after leaving Khardji turned out to be quite useful. I avoided looking back, for fear of being followed. In front of me, buses were waiting, lined up along the sidewalk. In front of a grocery store selling plastic balloons, I recognized the yellow and white six-seat minibus that passes through the neighborhood every day, taking passengers to the center of town, not far from Al-Tahrir Square. Go on. If you want a divorce, it’s up to you, said my little voice encouragingly. I waited in line like everyone else. The other children my age were with their parents; I was the only girl waiting on her own. I looked down at the ground, to discourage any questions. I had the awful sensation that my plan was written on my forehead.
The driver got down from his seat to open the door, sliding it over to one side. The pushing began immediately, with several women elbowing one another to get inside. I jumped right in, hoping only to get out of my neighborhood as quickly as possible, before my parents realized I was missing and alerted the police. I took a seat in the back between an elderly lady and a younger woman, both veiled from head to toe. Sandwiched between their corpulent bodies, I was shielded from sight if anyone glanced in from the street. Luckily, neither of the women asked me any questions.
When the engine started up, I felt my heart beat wildly; I remembered my brother Fares, and the courage he’d shown in fleeing our house four years earlier. He had succeeded, so why shouldn’t I? But did I even truly understand what I was doing? What would my father have said if he’d seen his daughter get on a public bus all by herself? In so doing, was I staining his honor, as he put it?
The door closed, and it was too late to change my mind. Through the window I watched the city stream by: cars trapped in the morning traffic jams; buildings under construction; black-veiled women; peddlers hawking jasmine flowers, chewing gum, and tissues. Sana’a was so big, so full of people! Between the dusty labyrinth of the capital and the isolation of Khardji, I liked Sana’a a thousand times more.
“End of the line!” shouted the driver.
We’d arrived, and the door had hardly begun to slide open when the hubbub of the stret invaded the minibus. I joined the press of women passengers hurrying to get off, and with trembling fingers handed a few coins to the conductor to pay for my ride. I had no idea at all where the courthouse was, however, and didn’t dare ask my fellow passengers for directions. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, as well as the simple fear of getting lost. I looked right, left; a policeman at a broken red light was attempting to keep some order among the madly rushing cars, their horns blaring, trying to pass one another on all sides. I blinked, half dazzled by the rays of the morning sun in the bright blue sky. How could I ever cross a street in such chaos? I would never make it alive. Huddled by a streetlight, I was trying to collect my thoughts when I caught sight of a yellow vehicle. I was saved.
It was one of the many taxis that crisscross the city at all hours of the day and night. In Yemen, as soon as a boy can reach the accelerator, his father buys him a driving license in the hope that he’ll land a job as a driver, to help feed the family. I’d already taken such taxis, going to Bab al-Yemen with Mona.
Thinking he would surely have every address in Sana’a at his fingertips, I raised my hand and signaled him to stop. A young girl, alone, in a taxi—that’s simply not done. But by this time, I couldn’t have cared less about what people might think.
“I want to go to the courthouse!” I exclaimed to the driver, who stared at me in astonishment.
I sat quietly in the back for the entire ride. His cheek bulging with khat, the driver had no idea how grateful I was to him for not challenging me with questions. He was, without knowing it, the silent accompli
ce of my flight. With my right arm pressed over my stomach, I tried discreetly to control my rapid breathing, and closed my eyes.
“Here we are!”
With a sharp stab on the brake, he pulled his car up by the courtyard gate in front of an imposing building. The courthouse! A traffic policeman impatiently waved him on because he was blocking the way. I hurried out of the taxi and handed him the rest of my money. After that exploit, I suddenly felt wildly daring. Confused and terrified, true, but full of spirit! God willing, my life was going to change completely.
April 15, 2008
The great day has arrived sooner than expected. What a crush! The courtroom is full to bursting; it’s amazing. Have all these people on the benches in front of the judge’s raised desk come just for me? Although Shada warned me that the preliminaries might take a great deal of time, her media campaign has paid off, and now, in this jam-packed courtroom, she seems as astonished as I am. One week has passed since our first meeting: a week spent contacting newspapers, TV networks, and feminist organizations. And this is the result: a miracle. I have never seen so many snapshot and film cameras in my life. I’m breathing faster and faster—are all these faces crowding in around me using up my oxygen, or am I simply a bundle of nerves? Beneath my black scarf, I’m perspiring heavily.
“Nujood, a smile!” shouts a photographer, elbowing his way over to me.
Almost immediately, a row of cameras forms in front of me. I blush, intimidated by all these flashbulbs. Besides, I can’t see anyone I know in this throng of faces, all looking at me. I cling to Shada. Her scent reassures me, the smell of jasmine I now know so well.
“Khaleh Shada? Auntie?”
“Yes, Nujood?”
“I’m scared.”