by Nujood Ali
3. The Judge
Judge Abdo cannot conceal his surprise. “You want a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“But… you mean you’re married?”
“Yes!”
His features are distinguished. His white shirt sets off his olive skin. But when he hears my reply, his face darknes. He seems to have trouble believing me.
“At your age? How can you already be married?”
Without bothering to answer his question, I repeat in a determined voice: “I want a divorce.”
I don’t sob, not even once, while speaking to him. I feel trembly, but I know what I want: I want an end to this hell. I’ve had enough of suffering in silence.
“But you’re so young and frail,” he murmurs.
I look at him and nod. He starts nervously scratching his mustache. If only he’ll agree to save me! He’s a judge, after all. He must have lots of power.
“And why do you want a divorce?” he continues in a more natural tone, as if trying to hide his astonishment.
I look him straight in the eye. “Because my husband beats me.”
It’s as if I had slapped him right in the face. His expression freezes again. He has just realized that something serious has happened to me and that I have no reason to lie to him. Point-blank, he asks me an important question: “Are you still a virgin?”
I swallow hard. I’m ashamed of talking about these things. It’s deeply upsetting. In my country, women must keep their distance from men they don’t know. And this is the first time I’ve ever seen this judge. But in that same instant I understand that if I want to win, I must take the plunge.
“No. I bled.”
He’s shocked. Abruptly, I have the feeling that of the two of us, he is the one who’s flinching. I can see his surprise, see him trying to conceal his emotions. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to help you.”
I feel strangely relieved, actually, to have been able to confide in someone at last. My body feels so much lighter. I watch him grab his phone with a shaking hand. I hear him say a few things to someone who must be a colleague of his. As he talks, he waves his other hand all around. He appears determined to try to rescue me from my misery. If only he can solve the problem once and for all! With a bit of luck, he’ll act quickly, very quickly, and this evening I’ll be able to go home to my parents and play with my brothers and sisters, just like before. In a few hours, I will be divorced. Divorced! Free again. Without a husband, without that dread of finding myself alone, at nightfall, in the same bedroom with him. Without that fear of suffering, over and over, that same torment.
I am celebrating too soon.
A second judge joins us in the room, and he dashes my enthusiasm to bits.
“My child, this might very well take a lot more time than you think. It’s a delicate and difficult case. And unfortunately, I cannot promise that you will win.”
This second man is named Mohammad al-Ghazi, and according to Abdo, he’s the chief judge. Mohammad al-Ghazi seems embarrassed, ill at ease. In his entire career, he says, he has never seen a case like mine. They both explain to me that in Yemen girls are frequently married off quite young, before the legal age of fifteen. An ancient tradition, adds Judge Abdo. But to his knowledge, none of these precocious marriages has ever ended in divorce-because no little girl has, until now, showed up at a courthouse. A question of family honor, it seems. My situation is most exceptional, and complicated.
“We’ll have to find a lawyer,” Abdo explains, somewhat at a loss.
A lawyer-but what for? Of what use is a court if it can’t even grant divorces on the spot? I couldn’t care less about being an exceptional case. Laws are for helping people, yes or no? These judges seem very nice, but do they realize that if I go home without any guarantee, my husband will come get me and the torture will start all over again? No, I don’t want to go home.
“I want to get divorced!”
I frown fiercely to show I mean it.
The sound of my own voice makes me jump. I must have raised my voice too loud-or is it these big white walls that make everything echo?
“We’ll find a solution, we’ll find a solution,” Mohammad al-Ghazi murmurs, straightening his turban.
But he has more than one cause for concern: the clock has just struck two in the afternoon, when offices close. Today is Wednesday, and the Muslim weekend is about to begin. The courthouse will not reopen before Saturday. I realize that they, too, are worried about my going back home, after what they’ve just heard.
“It’s out of the question, her going home. And who knows what might happen to her if she wanders the streets alone,” continues Mohammad al-Ghazi.
Abdo has an idea: Why couldn’t I take refuge at his house? He still can’t get over my story and is willing to do anything to tear me from the grip of my husband. But he must quickly withdraw his offer when he remembers that his wife and children have gone to the country for a few days, leaving him on his own. Our Islamic traditions stipulate that a woman must not be left alone with a man who is not her mahram, her close blood relative.
What to do?
A third judge, Abdel Wahed, finally volunteers his help. His family is at home, and they have room to take me in. I’m saved, at least for the moment. He, too, has a mustache, but he is more stocky than Abdo. His wire-rimmed glasses make him look very serious, and he’s quite imposing in his suit. I hardly dare speak to him. But I pull myself together; it’s better to overcome my shyness than to go home. And besides, what reassures me is that he seems like a real papa, who takes good care of his children. Not like mine.
His big car is comfortable and perfectly clean. There is even cool air coming out of little vents, which tickles my face. It’s nice. I barely open my mouth during the ride. I’m not sure whether it’s from timidity, uneasiness, or because, finally, I feel all right with these grown-ups taking care of me.
“You’re a very brave girl,” says Abdel Wahed, breaking the silence. “Bravo! Don’t worry-you have the right to demand a divorce. Other girls before you have had the same problems, but unfortunately they didn’t dare talk about them. We’ll do everything we can to protect you. And we will never allow you to be sent back to your husband, never. That’s a promise.”
My lips curve into a little crescent moon. It’s been so long since I smiled.
“Perhaps you don’t realize it yet,” adds the judge, “but you’re an exceptional girl.”
I blush.
When we arrive at his house, Abdel Wahed hurries to introduce me to his wife, Saba, and to his children. Shima, their daughter, must be three or four years younger than I am. In her bedroom she has lots of Fulla dolls, a Middle Eastern version of the American Barbie with blond hair that all the little girls in Yemen dream about.
“You poor thing,” says Shima. “Haram! It’s not fair!”
In Islam, anything forbidden and punishable by divine law is haram, so the child’s indignant reaction is only natural: Shima’s mother has explained to her that a bad man has beaten me. Shima frowns, imitating an adult scolding someone. I’m touched by her sympathy. With a smile of complicity, she motions for me to come away and play with her, then takes me by the hand.
As for the four boys, they’re busy watching cartoons. There are two televisions in this house-what luxury!
“Please feel right at home,” Saba says to me in a soft and welcoming voice.
So this is what family life is. I’d been so scared that I would seem like a freak to them, but they have quickly adopted me, and I am quite at ease. They make me feel that I can tell them everything without being judged. Without being punished. That evening, sitting cross-legged in the living room, is the first time that I have the strength to tell my story.
4. The Wedding
February 2008
With Mona, I’d lose all track of time while strolling along Hayle Avenue. Sometimes we pressed our noses so long against the front window of our favorite shop that the evening cl
othes disappeared behind the steamed-up glass. The white wedding dress on a plastic mannequin always caught my fancy. A dress for a lady! And what a contrast with all those women in the street, draped from head to toe in black.
“Insha’Allah, God willing, you’ll have one like this the day of your wedding,” Mona would whisper, her sparkling eyes framed by the niqab that covered the rest of her face whenever she left the house.
Mona rarely smiled. Fate had not smiled on her with a joyous wedding. Married in a hurry, she’d had to make do with a blue dress, and aside from that detail, she was always evasive about the circumstances of her marriage. Ever since her husband had abruptly disappeared to who knows where, it had become a closed subject. I imagined he was traveling somewhere, far away from Yemen, but I was careful not to ask a single question. If I did, Mona would simply murmur that all she wanted for me was that I be happy and wind up with an affectionate and respectful husband.
I would never have imagined that my wedding day would arrive so quickly.
And anyway, I didn’t have a really clear idea of what marriage was. To me, it was a big celebration most of all, with lots of presents, and chocolate, and jewelry. A new house, a new life! A few years earlier, I’d attended various celebrations held for some distant boy and girl cousins, where there was music and dancing. Beneath their baltos, their long black coats, the women were elegantly dressed. Their faces were exquisitely made up, their tresses smoothed by the hairdresser, like the pictures on bottles of shampoo, with little butterfly barrettes in the bangs of the most coquettish girls. I always had great fun at those parties. I remember the henna decorations on the hands and arms of the young brides, with designs like flowers. It was so beautiful, the henna. And I would think, One day I’ll have henna on my hands, too.
The news came out of nowhere. When Aba informed me that my turn had come, I didn’t really understand. At first I felt almost relieved, as if marriage were an escape hatch, because life at home had become impossible. Aba had never been able to find full-time employment after losing his street-sweeper job, so we were always late with the rent, and the landlord regularly threatened to evict us.
To save money, Omma now cooked only rice and vegetable stews. She had begun teaching me how to help her with the household duties. We baked shafout, a kind of large pancake slathered with yogurt flavored with garlic and onion, and bint al-sahn, a delicious dessert prepared with honey. When my father brought home enough money, Omma would send one of my brothers out to buy a chicken she would cook for Friday, the Muslim holy day. Red meat? Forget it-too expensive. In fact, I hadn’t had any fatah, beef stew, since my first-ever meal in a restaurant, where some cousins had invited us to celebrate Eid. We’d even been allowed to drink some “Bebsi,” a black soda from America. And when we left the restaurant, a waiter sprinkled the grown-ups’ hands with perfume-and mine, too! It smelled wonderful.
Omma had also taught me to bake flatbread. She used to light the fire while I kneaded the dough, which she would then spread into the shape of a full moon before pressing it against the inner wall of the tandoor oven. One day, though, she had to relinquish her tandoor in exchange for a little money on the black market. Each time our purse was empty, she would sell a few of our possessions. Basically, she had given up relying on my father.
And then came the day when there wasn’t much left to sell. After they’d missed enough meals for want of money, my brothers finally joined the young street vendors who tap on car windshields at red lights, hoping to trade a packet of facial tissues or some chewing gum for a few coins. Even Mona joined them, but begging played some mean tricks on her. Within twenty-four hours she was picked up by the police and sent off to a detention center. When she returned home, she told us she’d found herself among ladies accused of going with several men at the same time, and that the women guards in the prison pulled everyone’s hair. When she had gotten over her fright, she went out again to beg and wound up once more nose to nose with the police. After that second incarceration, she gave up her risky escapades. Then it was Haïfa’s and my turn to try it. Hand in hand, we went out to scratch our nails on car windows, barely daring even to glance at the drivers, who quite often ignored us. I didn’t like that, but we had no choice.
On days when Aba didn’t lie too long in bed, he left home to go crouch on his heels like the other jobless men on one of the public squares in the neighborhood, hoping to land a day’s work as a laborer, mason, or handyman for a thousand or so rials-about five dollars. More and more often now, he was spending his afternoons chewing khat with some neighbors. He claimed it helped him forget his troubles, and this routine had become a ritual. Sitting cross-legged with the other local men, he would select the best green leaves from a small plastic bag and tuck them into a corner of his mouth. The emptier the bag became, the more swollen his cheek grew, until the leaves formed a ball he would chew for hours and hours.
It was during one of those khat sessions that a man of about thirty had approached him.
“I would like our two families to be united,” the man had said.
His name was Faez Ali Thamer, and he worked as a deliveryman, carrying packages everywhere on his motorcycle. Like us, he was originally from the village of Khardji, and he was looking for a wife. My father accepted his proposal immediately. As the next in line after my two big sisters Jamila and Mona, I was the logical one to be married off. When Aba returned home, his mind was already made up. And no one could change it.
That very evening, I overheard a conversation between Mona and our father.
“Nujood is way too young to get married,” Mona insisted.
“Too young? When the prophet
Mohammad wed Aïsha, she was only nine years old,” replied Aba.
“Yes, but that was in the time of the Prophet. Now things are different.”
“Listen-this marriage, it’s the best way to protect her.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know perfectly well. She will be spared the same problems you and Jamila had. This way she won’t be raped by a stranger and become the prey of evil rumors. This man seems honest, at least. He’s known in the neighborhood. He comes from our village. And he has promised not to touch Nujood until she’s older.”
“But-”
“I’ve made my decision! Besides, you know we haven’t enough money to feed the whole family. So this will mean one less mouth.”
My mother never said a thing. She seemed sad, but resigned. After all, she had wed through an arranged marriage, like most Yemeni women, so she was in a good position to know that in our country it’s the men who give the orders, and the women who follow them. For her to defend me was a waste of time.
I kept hearing my father’s words in my mind: one less mouth. So that’s all I was to him, a burden, and he had seized the first chance to get rid of me. It was true that I hadn’t always been the good little girl he would have liked to have, but after all, isn’t getting into mischief part of being a child? And I loved him in spite of his faults, and that nasty smell of khat, and his insistence that we go beg for a few crusts of bread in the street.
The same problems you and Jamila had. What did he mean by that? All I knew was that a week had gone by, then another, and another, and Jamila had not come back. Like Mona’s husband, she had abruptly vanished. I had even given up keeping track of how many days I had gone without seeing her. She used to visit us so often, and now she had simply disappeared. I was quite fond of Jamila. Every once in a while, she had brought me sweets; although she was shy and not very talkative, she was thoughtful and generous. And Mona’s husband had never come back after his mysterious disappearance, either. Where had he gone? Grown-ups and their affairs were too complicated for me.
After her son vanished, Mona’s mother-in-law had demanded custody of her grandchildren, three-year-old Monira and eighteen-month-old Nasser. Heartsick, Mona had fought like a tigress to keep her children, and her tenacity had brought her a partial victory: p
leading the necessity of nursing her baby son, she managed to hold on to him. Now, haunted by the thought of losing him, she never took her eyes off him. Whenever he wandered off, she ran to catch him up in her arms, holding him tight as if he were a treasure she were trying to hide.
My wedding preparations moved rapidly ahead, and I soon realized my misfortune when my future husband’s family decided that I must leave school a month before the wedding night. I hugged Malak sadly, promising her that I would soon be back.
“One day, we’ll go together to the seashore,” she murmured, holding me close.
That was the last time I ever saw her.
I had to say good-bye as well to my two favorite teachers, Samia and Samira. With them, I had learned to write my first name in Arabic letters, from right to left: the curve of the noon, the sway of the jeem, the loop of the wow, and the pincers of the del: Nujood! I owed them so much.
Mathematics and Koran study were two of my favorite subjects. We had memorized the Five Pillars of Islam in class: the shahada, or profession of faith; salat, prayer for guidance; the hajj, the great pilgrimage to Mecca; zakat, alms to the poor; and Ramadan, the monthlong fast during which Muslims neither eat nor drink from sunrise to sunset. My classmates and I had promised Samia that when we were older, we would observe Ramadan like the grown-ups did.
My favorite subject, though, was drawing. With my colored pencils I used to draw flowers and pears, and villas with blue roofs, green shutters, and red chimneys. Sometimes I would add a uniformed guard to stand in front of the entrance gate because I’d heard that rich people’s houses were protected by guards. I always drew big fruit trees in the garden. Plus a pretty little pond, right in the middle.
During recess we played hide-and-seek and recited nursery rhymes. I loved school. It was my refuge, a happiness all my own.
I also had to give up my escapades at our next-door neighbors’ house, only a few yards from ours, where they had a transistor radio. My little sister Haïfa and I had taken to visiting them to listen to tapes by Haïfa Wehbe and Nancy Ajram, two beautiful Lebanese singers with long hair and heavy makeup. They had lovely eyes and perfect noses; we used to imitate them, batting our eyelids and wiggling our hips. We also liked the Yemeni singer Jamila Saad, who was a real star. “You think so much of yourself,” she warbled in one of her love songs, “You think you’re simply the best.”