Mohammad, my big brother, is not pleased. Ever since the session in court, he often yells at Haïfa 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 amusement park, and Eman has promised to take us there-an adventure not to be missed! I grab Haïfa’s hand to take her with me, so she won’t be left to face Mohammad’s anger by herself. I will never abandon Haïfa, my protégée. 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 passersby, 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 mass 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 passersby.”
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 circumstances.
The driver heads for the southwest quarter of the city. Along the way we pass 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 Haïfa.
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 grass.
“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.”