Behind the Veils of Yemen (19 page)

“You must seek a full wedding set—a necklace, earrings and bracelet. Maybe two rings also.” The woman stretched her plump arm to jingle her gold bracelets in front of the girl. Several rings flashed on her chubby fingers. “The groom must give much gold for you.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the woman next to her as she took a long draw on the water pipe. “See how her husband values her?” She nodded appreciatively at the plump woman. “You are a pretty girl, Hadil. Your father is known in your village. You will get much gold.” She passed the water pipe to a thin woman in a fraying dera.

The thin woman wore no jewelry. Her face was worn and wrinkled, but not by time. Her hard, weathered hands raised the pipe to a thin mouth filled with brown teeth. “The gold will provide for you,” she agreed softly. “It is important for your children.”

The future bride looked down at her hands, blushing at the mention of children. “Ensha’allah,” Hadil whispered shyly.

I watched Hadil, but I was thinking of other prospective brides I had seen with their mothers. After a bride’s price was decided with the groom, mothers took their daughters into gold shops to haggle with shopkeepers, pursuing the most gold they could buy with the money. I shifted on my cot. I had also seen women bargain in the shops to sell back their wedding gold while big-eyed children clung to their skirts. Those women were not brides or widows; they were the mothers of hungry children, married to qat-chewing men.

Hadil’s eyes flashed with excitement as her mother, Amal, described her prospective groom. “He is a good boy, the son of my husband’s sister. He works in a shoe factory in Taiz. He will be a good husband to Hadil.”

Hadil smiled, looking through the open doorway, past the warped tin fence of her father’s compound. I saw dreams in her eyes. I imagined her sitting in her white gown on her decorated throne in the center of the women’s celebration. My eyes caught those of Nasimah, who sat next to Hadil. Nasimah was one of Hadil’s girlhood friends, a bride married less than a year. Gold necklaces gleamed below her heavily made-up face. Earrings sparkled at her ears, but there was no sparkle in her eyes, and her red-painted mouth did not smile. She listened wordlessly to the advice, offering no suggestions. She had no dreams in her eyes.

I leaned back against the faded cushions and munched popcorn from my saucer. The last rays of afternoon sun filtered through the high, open windows. The tin roof crackled overhead as it cooled from the daytime heat. A rat scuttled across a ledge behind the women, who ignored it.

Hadil brought in a tray and proudly offered the cake she had baked. It was a yellow cake swirled with chocolate. I wondered where she had baked it. Her mother cooked on a two-burner gas cooktop in the yard and baked her bread in a fire pit made from cement.

Hadil seemed to know my thoughts. “I baked it at my friend’s house. She has an oven and a blender, like you make bis bas [salsa],” she explained.

A graying old woman with a lined face and missing teeth leaned forward. “You should use the
motkhenna
for bis bas. It is the best way.” She turned to scrutinize me. “You have a motkhenna, yes?” she asked. “Every bride must have a motkhenna for her kitchen.”

I tried to understand what she was talking about. “What is a motkhenna?” I asked.

The old woman’s eyes widened with surprise. “You do not have a motkhenna? Bring it and show her,” the woman commanded Hadil. “Maybe she calls it by another name.”

Hadil motioned for Nasimah to help her. They returned lugging a heavy, rectangular stone slab and a stone rolling pin.

“This is a motkhenna,” the old woman said triumphantly. “It is important in the kitchen. You can grind wheat or corn for cakes and bread. And you can grind vegetables and tomatoes for sauces. It is daruri [essential] for every wife’s kitchen. You must get one from the suq!” She clicked her tongue at me in disapproval.

I smiled. “Yes, I must get one. Thank you for showing me.”

The old woman sat back against her cushions with a pleased smile wrinkling her face. She seemed glad to give instruction to a foreign woman. I chuckled inwardly. How could I describe my high-powered food processor to a woman who thought me ill-equipped without a stone grinding slab? I smiled. I would indeed buy a motkhenna, but not for my kitchen. I would display it in my curio cabinet.

“When are you leaving for Amrika?” Amal asked, taking my hand possessively. “I will miss you.”

A second rat scuttled along the upper ridge of the wall. “I will miss you, too,” I answered, squeezing her hand. “I will leave after one week. But I will be back after three months. It will not be long. You must come and visit me!”

“Oh, no!” Amal’s eyes grew wide. “I am afraid of Amrika. They will rob me on the street or shoot me there!” Her voice trailed to a whisper. “They will rape me.”

“No, Amal!” I was shocked. “Why would you think this?”

“My friend tells me. She watches the news from Amrika on the television. Every day there are killings and robberies and raping of women!”

I stared at her in amazement. “It is true there are bad things that happen, Amal. But those things are few. There are many good things, too. The news does not give the truth of what life is like in Amrika.”

I paused and cleared my throat. “Amal, do you know that my friends are afraid to come to Yemen?”

She was astonished. “But why?” she asked.

“They are afraid they will be killed by terrorists.”

“Oh! But we are not like that, Audra. Only a few!” she exclaimed.

I smiled. “Aywa [Yes]. And Amrika is not like all the bad news you hear. Only a few.”

“Ah.” Amal nodded. “
Fahamt
[Understood].”

“The doctors are good in Amrika?” she asked cautiously. Her eyes went to her newborn son, asleep in the cloth hammock tied between rusting legs of a cot. He had been injured during delivery, his hip permanently crippled.

The old woman leaned forward. “Your doctor is a man or a woman?” she asked sharply. She waited for my answer. All of the women leaned forward with her to hear.

I struggled, not wanting to lie but unable to admit that my obstetrician was a man. I remembered Fatima’s respiratory infection. Her husband had refused to let a male doctor use a stethoscope, even on top of her balto. I looked around at the women. They were afraid of hospitals, terrified of being touched by a male physician. Their babies had been delivered at home.

“There are many good women doctors in America,” I said slowly.

The women relaxed against their cushions. The old woman nodded approvingly. “Daruri [Essential],” she said.

“There is a good woman doctor in Sana’a,” Amal ventured. “Your baby could be born in Yemen.”

I smiled apologetically. “I must return to America, Amal. I have much sickness with this pregnancy. Diabetes. A kidney infection. My blood pressure is high. See how big my legs are?” I lifted the skirts of my dera. “I must go home to my family for the birth. But I will return, and my baby will grow up in Yemen.”

The women were delighted. “Ensha’allah,” echoed around the room as they clapped. Amal squeezed my hand in hers. “You will have a strong son, ma’a sha’allah,” she said.

“Oh no—I want a girl!” I exclaimed. “I have one daughter and two sons. I want my daughter to have a sister.”

“No, no! Girls are not good. For them there are many problems!” the women chorused. “Ensha’allah you will have many sons. You are young!”

I laughed. “Four children are enough. I am too old for more!”

Amal looked shocked. “No, Audra,” she scolded. “You are not old. Women have babies here until they are fifty, even older!”

I looked at Amal, whom I guessed to be my age. Amal had six children living. She had lost one to malaria, and now her newborn appeared sickly. “Will you have more children?” I asked.

“Ensha’allah [God willing]! More sons!” she declared firmly. Then she sighed and whispered, “But not many more. I am tired.”

Jack burst through the doorway, startling us. His face was streaked with dirt. “I’m thirsty,” he announced.

Amal took the communal cup from a huge plastic jug and poured water into it. Jack drank it and asked for more.

“What have you been doing?” I asked, trying to wipe some of the grime off his face.

“Breaking soda bottles.” He gulped his third cup of water.

“Breaking bottles? Where?” I tried to keep my voice low.

“In the street against the wall. If they don’t break, we hit them with rocks.” His blue eyes gleamed. “It’s fun!”

“But, honey, you’ll get glass all over the road. People could cut their feet! You don’t just break bottles!”

Amal looked quizzically at me. She could not understand my English, but she recognized my tone of voice. “Leave him, Audra. They are playing. They are boys!”

I rolled my eyes. “Where is Madison?” I asked Jack.

“She’s with the girls. They’re playing with the baby goats.”

“Tell Madison we will leave soon.” I squeezed Jack’s arm firmly. “No more bottle-breaking,” I warned softly.

Jack looked disappointed as he handed me the empty water cup. “All right,” he sighed. Then he scampered back to the boys waiting by the doorway. They went out to the alley together.

“You must come to visit me every day until you leave. Every day, please, Audra!” Amal grasped my arm tightly. “You will come tomorrow?”

“I will come as much as I can, Amal.” I felt the pinch of her clutching hand. My visits seemed to whet her appetite for more. I leaned back against the wall and sipped my small glass of hot tea. I felt blessed to share these women’s lives but inadequate to meet their needs. My thoughts went back to the beach in Hudaydah and our futile efforts to save Herbert. I felt small, like a bucket of water when an ocean was needed.

A few days later the midmorning sun burned through my dark balto as Jaden and I walked home from our errand to town. “I’m hungry.” Jaden stopped in front of a small baqala [grocery]. Can we get a snack?”

I looked at my watch. “I guess so. But we need to make it quick. These vegetables are getting heavy, and my feet hurt. We need to get home before the sun gets too hot.”

“Yeah, and you have to tell me what happens to Squiggles.” I nodded, glad for the break so I could contemplate the next lines of my latest story. I often created story adventures to keep the children entertained on our walks into town.

Jaden put his coconut cookies and mango juice on the shop counter. I added a bottle of water and handed the shopkeeper two hundred riyalls. The shopkeeper handed me back twenty as change. I looked at him.

“
Baqee arba’een
[There remains forty more],” I said.

The shopkeeper held my eye for a second, looked at my purchase and then back at me. “
Eshreen bas
[twenty only].”

I clenched my teeth and added each item out loud. “This makes one hundred forty riyalls. I gave you two hundred. You owed me sixty, but you gave me only twenty. I want the rest of my money. Baqee arba’een.” I drilled the counter with my fingers.

The shopkeeper hesitated a second longer, then opened his cash drawer. “Tiyeb [Okay],” he grunted, handing me forty riyalls.

“
Hadtha aib
[This is shameful],” I declared. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his back to me.

I handed Jaden the bag of cookies and juice, angrily breaking the seal on my water bottle as we walked outside. “I can’t believe he tried to do that,” I muttered.

“Can you finish telling me about Squiggles?” Jaden asked, munching a cookie.

“In a minute. I need to remember where we are.” I walked down the street, taking Jaden’s hand, still fuming over the shopkeeper’s change. I had seen shopkeepers count change for other women, women who could not read or write, add or subtract. Those women relied on the honesty of the men. They were treated as ignorant because they were kept ignorant.

“Well, I know better!” I said out loud.

Jaden looked puzzled. “Know what, Mommy? I think you were at the part where Squiggles was trying to get acorns up the big oak tree.”

I looked blankly at him. “Oh, yes. Let’s see. Squiggles had found a treasure chest of acorns but he wasn’t sure how to handle them alone.” I continued the story as Jaden and I walked on our way.

A motorcycle roared up the street, passing close beside us as we walked. Its rider, a young man in his twenties, wore a dirty T-shirt and a ragged futa. His turbaned
mushedda
[prayer shawl] flapped around his head. He roared past, then turned completely around in his seat. A grin leered from his yellow teeth as his eyes traveled up and down my balto. His motorcycle lunged sideways before he jerked it forward to recover himself.

“Wow, he almost fell off his motorcycle!” Jaden exclaimed.

“Yeah, well, he should have fallen off!” I spat the words out angrily and glared at the motorcycle as it faded in the distance. I was noticeably pregnant, fully covered in my balto and hejab, and I was walking with my eight-year-old son. The man ogled me as if I were wearing a bikini in a red-light district.

I jerked Jaden’s hand and marched on. I had seen men ogle other women on the streets, women who were veiled and fully covered, who modestly followed the confines of their religion. But I had never expected to be treated like them.