by Nujood Ali
“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.”
“It’s going to work out. It will be all right,” she whispers to me.
I would never have imagined stirring up so much interest. Me! A silent victim for so many months, suddenly propelled into the spotlight, facing all these journalists. Shada had promised me that they wouldn’t come, that it would just be us. Whatever can I say to them if they start asking me questions? No one ever taught me how to answer questions.
“Shada?”
“Yes, Nujood?”
“All these flashes-I feel like… George Bush, the important American who’s on television so much.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, and smiles.
I pretend to smile back. But deep down I feel frozen solid, unable to move, with the strange feeling that my feet are nailed to the ground. I do understand, however, that if I am frightened, it’s because I really don’t know what I’m up against: Just how does a divorce happen? I forgot to ask Shada. I never heard anything about it in school. My best friend, Malak, and I always told each other everything, but we never talked about this. Maybe we thought it was just for adults, and we were obviously too little to bother with grown-up stuff. I don’t even know whether my teachers were married or divorced-I never thought to ask them. So I can’t very well compare my situation to that of any of the women I know.
And then, like a blinding flash that brings on a headache, a chilling thought occurs to me: What if the monster simply says no? What can I say, in fact, if he decides to oppose our separation, if he begins threatening the judge with his jambia, backed up by his brothers and the men of the village?
“Don’t worry, it’s going to go well,” Shada reassures me, patting my shoulder.
I look up at her. I don’t believe she slept much last night; she has little bags under her eyes. She seems exhausted. I feel bad, because it’s my fault, all of this. And yet, even though she’s tired, she’s still beautiful and elegant-a real city lady. I notice that she’s wearing a different scarf, a pink one, to match her tunic. One of my favorite colors! And she’s in a long gray skirt with high heels. I’m so lucky she’s right beside me. Shada, my second mother.
Suddenly I see a hand waving at me from the crowd. Finally, someone I recognize. It’s Hamed Thabet, a reporter for the Yemen Times, my new friend. A real big brother, not like Mohammad. Someone Shada knows introduced him to us. He’s tall, with brown hair, a round face, broad shoulders, and his kindness touched me immediately. I don’t know exactly how old he is; I didn’t dare ask him. We met a few days ago, in the courthouse yard, almost in the same spot where Shada found me that first time.
He asked me if he could take my picture, and then we went to a small restaurant near the courthouse, where he pulled out his pen and notebook to ply me with questions about my parents, my marriage, Khardji, my wedding night. I flushed with shame telling him my story, but when I saw him wince as I described the bloodstain on the sheet, I understood that he sympathized with me. I even saw him quietly tapping his pen on the table, as if he were trying to hide his feelings, but I couldn’t help noticing his distress. He was angry, felt terrible for me, and it showed.
“But you’re so little! How could he do that?” he murmured.
Strangely enough, I didn’t cry this time, and after a few minutes of silence, I continued.
“I wanted to play outside, like all children my age, but he beat me and kept making me go back into the bedroom with him to do the nasty things he wanted. He always used bad words with me…”
By the time we said good-bye, Hamed’s notebook pages were black with writing. He had written down even the slightest details. Then he managed to sneak into the prison to take pictures of Aba and the monster with his cell phone. A few days later, Shada told me that Hamed’s article had been published and had caused a huge stir in Yemen. He was the first journalist to break my story to the public. I was upset at the time, it’s true, but now I know that I owe him a great deal.
At the entrance to the courtroom, the cameras begin to jostle for a good view.
I shiver: I recognize Aba and… the monster, escorted by two soldiers in olive-green uniforms and black kepis. The prisoners look furious. Passing in front of us, the monster lowers his eyes, then abruptly turns back to Shada.
“Proud of yourself, hey? I didn’t have a real celebration for my marriage, but you’re certainly throwing a party for us here,” he snarls.
How dare he speak to her like that? Just what I dreaded is now happening, but Shada remains marvelously calm. She doesn’t even blink. This woman has a strength of character that astounds me. She doesn’t need to wave her arms all around to express her feelings; the look in her eyes reveals all the contempt she feels for him. That look is enough. I’ve learned a lot from her, these past few days.
“Don’t listen to him,” she tells me.
Try as I might to control my emotions the way Shada does, I can’t. Not yet, at least. My heart pounds; I can’t help it. After all that he has done to me, I hate him so much! When I look up, I find myself staring into Aba’s eyes. He seems so upset. I have to keep calm and reasonable, but I’m afraid that he’ll be mad at me forever. “Honor,” he said. Seeing his face, I begin to understand what that very complicated word means. I can see in Aba’s eyes that he’s angry and ashamed at the same time. All these cameras pointed at him… I’m so furious at him, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him, too. The respect of other men-that’s so important here.
“What a mob scene!” exclaims a security guard. “The courtroom has never been so full.”
There is a fresh barrage of camera flashes: someone important has arrived. It’s Mohammad al-Ghazi, the chief justice of the tribunal. I can identify him thanks to his white turban, knotted behind his head. He has a thin mustache and a short beard, wears a gray jacket over his white tunic, and proudly displays his jambia at his waist.
I follow the judge’s every move; I don’t take my eyes off him for a second. I watch him sit down behind his raised desk, now cluttered with the microphones of radio and TV stations. I watch him set his files down in front of him. You’d think he was the president of the republic getting ready to speak. Judge Abdo joins him, sitting down in the chair next to him. Fortunately, they’re here to support me. I still can’t believe my eyes.
“In the name of God, the Almighty and Merciful, I declare this court open,” announces al-Ghazi, inviting us to approach the bench.
Shada motions for me to follow her. To our left, Aba and the monster also move forward. I sense the crowd seething behind us. A part of me feels incredibly strong, but I have no control over the rest of me, which would give anything, right at this moment, to be a tiny mouse. Arms crossed, I try to hold on.
Then it’s Judge Abdo’s turn to speak.
“Here we have the case of a little girl who was married without her consent. Once the marriage contract was signed without her knowledge, she was taken away by force into the province of Hajja. There, her husband sexually abused her, when she hadn’t even reached the age of puberty and was not ready for sexual relations. Not only did he abuse her, but he also struck and insulted her. She has come here today to ask for a divorce.”
The big moment is coming, the one I have been so anxious for, the moment when the guilty are punished. As in school, when the teacher would send us to the corner. I only hope I win against the monster. I hope he will accept the divorce.
Mohammad al-Ghazi raps the desk a few times with a small wooden hammer.
“Listen to me carefully,” he tells the repulsive creature I hate more th
an anything. “You married this little girl two months ago, you slept with her, you struck her. Is that true, yes or no?”
The monster blinks, then replies, “No, it isn’t true! She and her father agreed to this marriage.”
Did I hear correctly? How can he say…? What a liar! I detest him!
“Did you sleep with her? Did you sleep with her?” repeats Ghazi.
A heavy silence falls in the courtroom.
“No!”
“Did you hit her?”
“No. I was never violent with her.”
I clutch at Shada’s coat. How can he be so sure of himself, with his yellow teeth, his sneering smile, and his messy hair? How can he tell so many lies so easily? I can’t let him get away with this. I have to say something.
“He’s lying!”
The judge jots a few things down, then turns to my father.
“Did you agree to this marriage?”
“Yes.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“My daughter is thirteen.”
Thirteen? No one ever told me I was thirteen. Since when have I been that old? I thought I was nine or ten at the most! I wring my hands, trying to calm down, and I listen.
“I married off my daughter because I was afraid,” continues my father. “I was afraid.”
His eyes are bloodshot. Afraid? Of what?
“I married her off for fear she would be stolen, like her two older sisters,” he says, shaking his fists over his head. “A man already took two of my daughters! He kidnapped them. That’s already too much to bear. Today he is in prison.”
I don’t really understand what he’s talking about. His answers are vague and complicated, and the judge’s questions are increasingly incomprehensible. I’m too young to unravel all this nonsense. Words, words, and more words. Quiet at first, then hard, like stones hurled at a wall, and shattering. The rhythm gradually quickens; voices are raised; I hear the accused men defend themselves. The uproar in the room grows louder as my heart pounds faster. The monster whispers something to Mohammad al-Ghazi, who raps for silence.
“At the husband’s request, these proceedings will continue in camera,” he announces.
He motions for us to follow him into another room, away from the public. I feel calmer away from the crowd-after all, these matters are very personal. But the questions begin again behind closed doors. I must bear up.
“Faez Ali Thamer, did you consummate the marriage, yes or no?” asks the judge.
I hold my breath.
“Yes,” admits the monster. “But I was gentle with her, I was careful. I did not beat her.”
His answer is like a slap in the face, reminding me of all those other slaps, the insults, the suffering. What, he didn’t beat you? says my little inner voice. And all those bruises on your arms, those tears of pain? You must fight back.
“That’s not true!” I yell, beside myself with anger.
Everyone turns to look at me. But I’m the first to be astonished at my outburst, which isn’t at all like me.
After that, everything happens quickly. The monster is flushed with anger. He says that my father betrayed him by lying about my age. Then Aba becomes furious and says he had agreed to wait until I was older before touching me. At that point, the monster announces that he is ready to accept the divorce, but on one condition: my father must pay back my bride-price. And Aba snaps back that he was never paid anything at all. It’s like a marketplace! How much? When? How? Who’s telling the truth? Who’s telling lies? Someone suggests that 50,000 rials (about 250 dollars) be paid to my husband, if that would allow the case to be closed. It would take a workman four months to earn that much money. I’m lost. Will everyone just finish up this business and leave me alone, once and for all? I’ve had enough of these grown-up quarrels that make children suffer. Stop!
In the end, I am saved by the judge’s verdict.
“The divorce is granted,” he announces.
The divorce is granted! I can’t believe my ears. How curious, this sudden desire to run and scream to express my joy. I’m so happy that I don’t even pay attention to the fact that the judge has just announced that my father and the monster will be released, without even a fine to be paid or a signed promise of good conduct. For the moment, I just want to fully enjoy my regained freedom.
Leaving the small room, I find the crowd still waiting, noisier than ever.
“Say a few words for the cameras, just a few words!” shouts a journalist.
People crowd around to see me, applauding. I hear a great wave of congratulations on all sides: “Mabrouk!”
Behind me, I hear someone murmur that I must certainly be the youngest divorcée in the world.
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.
8. The Birthday
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 passed 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 butterflies, 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 intimida
ting-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.”
