I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorce Part 4

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 att.i.tude. 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses through the neighborhood every day, taking pa.s.sengers 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+elded 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers 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 rus.h.i.+ng cars, their horns blaring, trying to pa.s.s 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 accomplice 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! G.o.d willing, my life was going to change completely.

April 15, 2008.

The great day has arrived sooner than expected. What a crus.h.!.+ 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 pa.s.sed 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 rea.s.sures 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 rea.s.sures 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 s.h.i.+ver: I recognize Aba and ... the monster, escorted by two soldiers in olive-green uniforms and black kepis. The prisoners look furious. Pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d, 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 s.e.xually abused her, when she hadn't even reached the age of p.u.b.erty and was not ready for s.e.xual 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 than 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 divorcee in the world.