I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorce Part 5

Then come the gifts: a man who says he represents a Saudi benefactor who has been moved by my story slips a bundle of 150,000 rials into my hand. That's almost 750 dollars! I've never seen so much money.

"This girl is a heroine; she deserves a reward," he exclaims. Another man talks about an Iraqi woman who wants to give me some gold.

I'm surrounded by crackling flashbulbs, and by reporters. One of my uncles stands up from a bench and calls out to Shada: "You've sullied the reputation of our family! You have stained our honor!"

Turning to me, Shada whispers, "He's just babbling."

She takes my hand and leads me away. After all, I have nothing more to fear from my uncle, since I won. I won--I'm divorced! And the marriage--gone for good. It's peculiar, this feeling of lightness, of returning suddenly to my childhood.

"Khaleh Shada?"

"Yes, Nujood?"

"I'd like some new toys! I feel like eating chocolate and cakes!"

Shada gives me a big smile.

So this is what happiness is. Ever since I left the courthouse a few hours ago, something wonderful has been happening to me. In the street, the din of the traffic jams has never seemed so sweet to me. When we pa.s.sed a grocery store just now, I thought about having a big ice-cream cone, and I told myself, I bet I could eat a second one, and even a third. ... Spotting a cat in the distance, I felt like running over to pet it. My eyes are shining, as if they were discovering for the first time the slightest bits of beauty in being alive. I feel happy. This is the best day of my life.

"How do I look, Shada?"

"Beautiful, simply beautiful."

To celebrate my victory, Shada gave me some brand-new clothes. In my new pink sweatshirt and my pre-faded blue jeans embroidered with colorful b.u.t.terflies, I feel like a new Nujood. My long, curly hair is pinned up in a twist and set off with a green ribbon, and I'm feeling fine. Especially since I have the right to take off my black veil, so now everyone can compliment me on my hair!

We have an appointment at the Yemen Times with Hamed and a few other journalists. The building is impressive, three stories high, with a uniformed guard watching everyone who comes and goes through the main door, like the guards at the villas of the chic neighborhoods in Sana'a that I love to draw. A little dizzy with emotion, I hold on to the wooden railing as I climb the marble steps of the big staircase. The windows are so clean that the sunshine makes little yellow circles on the white walls, and there's a nice smell of floor wax in the air.

On the second floor, Nadia, the editor in chief of the Yemen Times, welcomes me with a hug. I would never have imagined that a woman could manage a newspaper. How can her husband accept that? Seeing my astonishment, Nadia laughs gaily.

"Come, follow me."

In her large, bright office, Nadia pushes open a door--to a child's room, where the floor is strewn with toys and little cushions.

"This is my daughter's room," she explains. "Sometimes I bring her along with me to the paper. That way, I can be a mama and keep working."

A room just for her daughter! The universe that is opening up to me is so different from mine. I almost have the impression that I've landed on another planet. It's intimidating--and fascinating.

And the surprises are just beginning. When Nadia invites me to follow her to what she calls the editorial room, I am dumbfounded to discover that most of the journalists are women. Some wear black from head to toe, raising their niqabs only to take a sip of tea. Others wear orange or red scarves, which allow a few blond curls to escape and complement their blue eyes and milk-white skin. These women wear polish on their long fingernails, and they speak Arabic with a strange accent. They must be foreigners (Americans, or Germans?), perhaps with Yemeni husbands. They have certainly studied long years at universities to earn their positions here. And like Shada, they probably drive their own cars when they come to work.

I imagine them drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, like the women on television. Maybe they even wear lipstick when they go out to dinner downtown. One of them is on the phone; it must be a very important call. I listen and let myself drift along on her melodious language. English, I suppose. One day, I'm going to speak English, too.

Watching them is endlessly interesting: I'm particularly struck by their ability to concentrate while they tap away on machines with their eyes glued to the screens I see atop every desk of pale wood. To be able to work while watching Tom and Jerry--what talent, and what luxury!

"Nujood, those are computers," Hamed exclaims, amused by my enthusiasm.

"They're what?"

"Computers! Machines connected to keyboards that allow you to write articles and send letters. You can even store photos in them."

Machines that let you write letters and keep photos? These women are not only attractive, but also very modern. I try to see myself in their place in ten or twenty years, with shiny nails, holding a pen. I wouldn't mind being a journalist. Or a lawyer. Or maybe both? With my computer, I would send letters to Hamed and Shada. I would work hard, that's for sure, and I would have a job that would allow me to help people in trouble and bring them a better life.

My tour of the premises ends at the conference room, "Where we hold all our important events," Nadia tells me.

A man shouts, "Bravo, Nujood!"

A chorus of voices then cheers, "Nujood won, Nujood won!"

When I go through the big door I see some thirty faces, all looking at me with eager eyes, and applause rings through the room. Nods, smiles, and blown kisses welcome me, and I pinch my right hand to convince myself I'm not dreaming. Yes, it's all real, and today, the "important event" is me.

I'm showered with gifts. First, Hamed hands me an enormous stuffed red bear, so tall it comes almost to my shoulders. On its round tummy there's a large heart decorated with letters I can't read.

"It's English writing. It means, 'I love you,'" Hamed says.

I don't even know which way to turn with all the packages being handed to me from every side. I untie the ribbons one by one, and it's surprise after surprise: a little battery-powered piano, colored pencils, pads of drawing paper, and a Fulla doll, like the ones in Judge Abdel Wahed's house.

When I try to find words to express my grat.i.tude, only one comes to mind: "Shokran! Thank you!"

And I give everyone a big smile.

Then Nadia invites me to cut a cake: it's chocolate, my favorite flavor, with five red cherries on top. And suddenly I remember one of my escapades on Hayle Avenue, with Mona. How many times, with my nose pressed to the boutique windows, had I dreamed about a wedding celebration with presents and evening gowns? Things hadn't turned out that way.

Compared to dreams, reality can be truly cruel. But it can also come up with beautiful surprises.

Today I finally understand the meaning of the word party. If it were a dessert, it would be sugary, and crunchy, perhaps with something soft inside, like my favorite coconut candies.

Holding my big stuffed bear in my arms, I announce, "A divorce party--that's really better than a wedding party!"

"And on this very special occasion, what can we sing for you, Nujood?" asks Nadia.

"I don't know."

While I hesitate, Shada has an idea: "Why don't we sing 'Happy Birthday'?"

"Happy 'birthday'? What's a birthday?" I ask, a little confused.

"A birthday is when people celebrate the day someone was born."

"All right, but there's a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that I don't know when I was born."

"Well, then, from now on, today will be your birthday!" exclaims Shada.

The room fills with applause.

"Happy birthday, Nujood! Happy birthday!"

I feel like laughing and laughing. It's so simple to be happy, when you're among friends.

June 2008.

My divorce has changed my life. I don't cry anymore. My bad dreams are starting to go away. I feel stronger, as if all these ordeals have toughened me. When I go out in the street, sometimes women in the neighborhood call to me, congratulating me and shouting "Mabrouk!"--a word once tainted by evil memories, but which I now like to hear again. And shouted by women I don't even know! I blush, but deep down I'm so proud.

Since I always keep my ears open, I'm even managing to better understand all the family mysteries swirling around my sisters and brothers--especially around Mona. Her story is like a complicated puzzle that puts itself together piece by piece. ... "Wait for me, I'm coming with you," Mona yells, running after the car.

Today two women have come to my home to see me: a foreign journalist and Eman, a women's rights activist. I recently left my uncle's house and returned to live with my parents, because in my country, there are no shelters for girls who are the victims of family violence. It's good to be home, and although I am indeed still angry at Aba, he himself has reason to resent what I did. Actually, we all seem to be pretending to have forgotten what happened. For the moment, it's better that way.

My parents have just moved to a new neighborhood, Dares, which lies along the road to the airport. Our little house has only two small rooms, decorated with simple cushions leaning against the walls. At night, the noise of the airplanes approaching to land often wakes us up, but at least I know that here I can keep an eye on Haifa, to protect her. If anyone dares to come ask for her hand, I will immediately protest. I'll say, "No! It's forbidden!" And if no one listens to me, I'll call the police. In my pocket I preciously guard the telephone Hamed gave me, a shiny new cell phone like Shada's, so that I can call her at any time.

Mohammad, my big brother, is not pleased. Ever since the session in court, he often yells at Haifa and me. He takes my father aside, telling him that all this publicity about our family isn't good for our reputation. He's jealous, I'm sure of that: it shows in the faces he makes every time a reporter comes knocking at our door. To my utter amazement, my story has traveled swiftly around the globe, and every week new journalists arrive from lands with names as exotic as France, Italy, or even America. Just to see me!

"With all these foreigners lurking in the neighborhood, Nujood is drawing shame to our family," my brother grumbles to Eman as soon as she arrives.

"She's the one who ought to be ashamed of you!" Eman shoots back.

Bravo, Eman! says my little voice. Mohammad doesn't quite know what to say, so he sulks off to a corner of the main room, while I hurry to put on my black scarf before he can forbid me from going out. I've never been to the amus.e.m.e.nt park, and Eman has promised to take us there--an adventure not to be missed! I grab Haifa's hand to take her with me, so she won't be left to face Mohammad's anger by herself. I will never abandon Haifa, my protegee. We are already in the car when Mona catches up with us, galloping along in her coat and niqab.

"Mohammad ordered me to accompany you," she gasps.

Mona seems distressed about something, but insistent, saying that she won't let us leave without her. We realize that we had better do as our older brother says. Mona slips into the front seat next to the driver. I think I understand what's going on: annoyed, Mohammad has surely decided to take revenge by sending Mona to spy on me. But I quickly discover that poor Mona has other intentions.

After we set out, Mona announces that before we go to the park, she would like to make a detour through our old neighborhood, Al-Qa. What a strange idea! Has Mohammad sent her on some special mission? Bewildered by Mona's insistence, Eman finally agrees and, making our way back to Al-Qa, we arrive in front of a mosque.

"Stop!" Mona tells the driver.

I've never seen her so upset. The car brakes suddenly. On the front steps of the mosque, a hand emerging from a long, shabby black veil reaches out to pa.s.sersby, hungry for the slightest little coin. The other hand cups the cheek of a sleeping little girl in a stained, too-small dress, her hair a ma.s.s of tangles.

"It's Monira!" I shout.

Monira, Mona's daughter, my tiny niece! But what is she doing here, in the arms of a beggar woman without a face, completely swathed in black?

"Ever since my husband went to prison, my mother-in-law has insisted on having custody of Monira," Mona murmurs, to everyone's astonishment. "She says that with a child, it's easier to soften the hearts of pa.s.sersby."

I'm openmouthed. Monira, that delicate little doll, condemned to beg in the arms of Mona's ragged mother-in-law? Mona's husband, behind bars? What's going on? So he's the man in prison, the one Aba mentioned in the courtroom. I can see that Mona is too busy tenderly kissing her daughter, whom she has torn from her veiled exhibitor, to give us any explanations.

"I miss her so much. I'll bring her back to you, I promise," I hear her say to the old woman in black, before she plunges back into the car, cradling her three-year-old in her arms.

The car suddenly smells musty; Monira is so filthy that we have trouble telling what color shoes she's wearing.

The car door slams and off we go. Tiny Monira is so happy to see her mother and aunts again that we almost forget our shock at having found her in such miserable circ.u.mstances.

The driver heads for the southwest quarter of the city. Along the way we pa.s.s another mosque, this one under construction, and it's so grand, so magnificent, that it looks like a castle. I peer out the window, admiring the six giant minarets.

For the moment, though, my thoughts are focused on Mona. When we reach the park, she slowly opens her heart to us.

"It's a long story," she says and sighs, allowing Monira to go hide behind a bush, chaperoned by Haifa.

The three women are all sitting cross-legged under a tree, with Eman and the journalist facing Mona as I listen in.

"Mohammad, my husband, was put in prison a few weeks before Nujood's marriage. He had been found in our oldest sister Jamila's bedroom. I'd been having my suspicions for some time, and finally, for my peace of mind, I had some people come who caught them red-handed, and the situation quickly turned ugly. The police came and took Mohammad and Jamila away, and they've been languishing in prison ever since. I don't know for how long."

Mona bows her head, and I stare at her, dazed, not really knowing what to say. It's hard for me to grasp the seriousness of what she's telling us, but it all seems terrible.

"In Yemen," Eman murmurs, "adultery is a crime punishable by death."

"Yes, I know," Mona replies. "That's surely why Mohammad is pressuring me to sign a paper that will allow the affair to be covered up. I am to pretend that we were divorced before his arrest. I refuse to visit him in prison, but that's the message he has sent to me. I won't give in! He made me suffer so much."

Mona hasn't ever been this talkative before; as she speaks, her hands are never still, and her eyes blaze in the little window of her niqab, which hides the rest of her face. My heart is in my throat as I listen to her quavering voice. And then, out of the blue, all of us burst into crazy laughter: crouching behind that bush, Monira has just pulled down her panties, and a thin yellow stream waters the sun-scorched gra.s.s.

"Monira!" Mona says scoldingly, returning to her motherly role while a smile plays around her lips. But her eyes soon grow sad again. "Monira, my dear one. I'll be forced to bring up my two children alone--providing, of course, that my mother-in-law allows me to see them. As for Mohammad, he was never a good father. And he wasn't a good husband, either."

After a pause, Mona takes up her tale again.

"I wasn't much older than Nujood when I was forced to marry him. Our family and I were living happy days in Khardji, until that black hour when everything fell apart."

Slowly, I creep closer to hear better; I think I've already heard too much for my age, but now I definitely want to hear the end of this story. She's my sister, after all, and strangely enough, I feel responsible for her.

"Omma had just left for Sana'a to seek emergency medical treatment for her serious health problems--some doctors had advised her to consult a specialist in the capital. As usual, Aba had left early to see to his herd. I was alone in the house with my little brothers and Nujood, who was only a baby. A young man I didn't know came to the house; he must have been about thirty. He began making advances toward me, and no matter how hard I tried to chase him away, he managed to push me into the bedroom. I fought back, I screamed, I yelled 'No!' but--" She breaks off, then says, "When Aba came home, it was too late. Everything had happened too quickly."

I can't believe this! Poor Mona--she, too ... Her constant gloom, that depressed look in her eyes, the bursts of hysterical laughter--so this is why.

"Aba was furious. He immediately raised the alarm to find out what had happened, and began accusing the villagers of a plot, but none of our neighbors wanted to listen. Informed of the business, the village sheikh married us hastily, before rumors could spread from house to house and valley to valley. In the name of honor! He said it was best to stamp out such rumors right away.

"No one ever asked me what I thought. They stuck a blue dress on me, and by the next day I was his wife. Meanwhile, Omma had returned to the village; she raised her hands to heaven, blaming herself for ever having left. Aba was ashamed, and wanted revenge, saying that the neighbors were responsible, that someone had certainly meant to harm him by attacking his children. He felt humiliated, betrayed. One evening, everyone gathered to talk things over, and the discussion grew heated. They began to trade insults; jambias were drawn. A little later--that evening or the next day, I no longer remember very well--the neighbors came back with revolvers. They threatened us, ordering us to get out of the village right away. My parents left for Sana'a. My husband and I went to hide somewhere else for a few weeks, before finally rejoining the family in the capital."

I'm shaking inside. That hurried departure for Sana'a, my father's anger, Mona's sadness, her obsessive attention to me: now I understand.

"Years later, when our father told us that Nujood was going to be married, I felt sick about it. I kept begging him to think it over, telling him that Nujood was too young, but he wouldn't listen. He said that once she was married, she would be protected from kidnappers and the men always hanging around our neighborhood. He'd already had enough problems, he argued, because of me and Jamila. When the men of the family gathered to sign the marriage contract, they even talked about having a sighar, the traditional 'marriage exchange,' to wed the new husband's sister to my brother Fares, if he ever returned from Saudi Arabia.

"The evening of Nujood's wedding, I couldn't help crying when I saw her, lost in that dress, far too big for her. She was much too young! Hoping to protect her, I even went to talk to her husband. I made him swear before G.o.d not to touch her, to wait until she reached p.u.b.erty, to let her play with children her age. 'It's a promise,' he said. But he didn't keep his word. He's a criminal! Men are all criminals. Never listen to them. Never, never."

I can't take my eyes off Mona's niqab. How I would love, at this very moment, to see the slightest bit of her face, hidden behind that black net, and the tears I imagine are streaming down her cheeks.

I'm ashamed of having suspected her of wanting to spy on us. If only I'd known! All that suffering, for so many years, endured without a protest or complaint, never raising her voice or taking refuge under a sheltering wing. Mona, my big sister, the prisoner of a fate even more tragic than mine, trapped in a maze of troubles. Her childhood was stolen from her, as mine was from me, but I now understand that, unlike Mona, I've had the strength to rebel against my fate, and the good fortune to find help.

"Mona! Nujood! Look at us! Watch us!"

Looking up, we see Haifa sitting on a swing, with little Monira wedged between her knees, bubbling with laughter. Mona goes over to them, and I follow her. The swing next to the girls is empty.

"Nujood, help me fly away," she says.

Mona sits on the swing. I climb up behind her, placing a foot on each end of the wooden seat, and I grab the ropes on either side. Pumping with my legs, I start the seat swinging backward and forward, backward and forward, more and more quickly.