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 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 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!