Behind the Veils of Yemen Read online

  Another man appeared from the alley, with another close on his heels. Both were running. They had tucked their long thob tunics into their knee-length boxer shorts so their legs would be free to run even faster. They, too, screamed at me and waved wildly with their arms. I caught the word besurah [quickly], and I accelerated my pace until I was running. I did not look back again. I reached my gate out of breath and thrust my key into the lock.

  The gate would not open. It had been bolted with the bar from the inside. The shouting and banging grew louder behind me. I hammered on our iron gate.

  “Kevin! It’s me!” I shouted. “I can’t get in!” I pounded harder. The noise was getting closer. “Kevin!” I screamed.

  The gate cracked open less than a foot and an arm grabbed mine, yanking me inside. It was Nicolaus, the colleague in charge of our team’s security.

  “Praise God you’re safe!” he said. “Are you okay?” He bolted the iron bar behind me.

  “What on earth is going on? I’m fine. What’s this all about?” I smoothed my sleeve down and rubbed my arm.

  “There’s a riot in Tahrir Square, and it’s moving this way. They’re smashing windows, denting cars, breaking anything they can find. They would love to get hold of a foreigner right now.”

  I felt my eyes grow wide. “That’s what those men were telling me. But why? What for?”

  “The price of gasoline and flour went up—almost doubled. The people are rioting against the government for the price increases.”

  Panic began to choke my voice. “Kevin’s not back?” I ran to the front porch. “He was supposed to get back from Taiz this morning.” I yelled into the house. “Kevin!”

  Nicolaus rushed after me. “They haven’t gotten back, but I’m sure they’re fine, Audra. Johnny is driving. He’s been through this kind of thing before.”

  I threw my hejab and my balto at the coatrack inside but missed. Both pieces of black slithered to the floor. “Jack, baby, Mommy’s home!” I called. “Jack!”

  I turned back to Nicolaus. “Do they know about the riot? They’re going to drive right into it.”

  “We’re praying that they won’t. Hopefully Johnny will hear about it and take a different route. We haven’t been able to reach him on his cell.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m just glad you’re safe. Your language helper lives near Tahrir, doesn’t she?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, right down the street. But what about Madison and Jaden?” My hand went to my throat. “Their bus is due in an hour and a half. They can’t drive through the middle of a riot. That bus is filled with foreign children.”

  Nicolaus chuckled. “In an hour and a half this will all be over. The men will stop to eat lunch and chew qat.”

  Then his face sobered. “The president has called out the army. They’re setting up positions at every intersection.”

  “Mommy! Mommy!” Jack ran to me and grabbed my legs, dropping wooden blocks to the floor.

  I steadied myself to keep from falling. “Hi, punkin!” I picked him up. “Did you have a good morning?”

  “Yeah. But Rose wouldn’t let me play outside.” He poked out his lower lip.

  Our housekeeper, Rose, appeared from the kitchen. She had changed her flip-flops to street shoes but was still in her faded work smock. “Bad trouble today, missus,” she said. “Not good in the streets. Maybe I wait one hour before I ride debab [minibus] home.”

  “Yes, Rose. You should,” I agreed.

  The crowded minivan debabs stopped at Tahrir on their taxi routes through the city. “It is better that you wait. You can eat lunch with us and take your rest for as long as you need.”

  A loud clanging jarred the gate, striking a tingle down my spine. Rose’s eyes grew wide. My arms tightened around Jack. Nicolaus’s eyes pinned mine, but he said nothing. A man began shouting outside the gate. I could not make out his words. The clanging grew to a loud bang that made the gate shudder in its hinges.

  “Audra! Let me in!” It was Kevin.

  I thrust Jack at Rose and tore out of the entryway, losing a shoe as I ran to the gate. “Kevin! You made it through!”

  I slid the bolt from the gate and threw my arms around his neck. He hugged me, pushing me back into the yard as he bolted the gate behind us. The shouting and banging had faded in the distance.

  He grinned. “Lots of excitement around here!”

  I linked my arm tightly through his as we walked back toward the house. “There was a riot in Tahrir,” I said. “I was afraid you’d drive right into it.”

  “We knew something was up. There were tires burning in the street when we drove into the city.” He held my arm as I bent to retrieve my shoe. “When we saw the smoke, Johnny took the back roads. We were fine on those. Nobody was around.”

  “Yeah, everyone was at Tahrir,” I muttered. “I hope Madison and Jaden make it home okay.”

  “They should be fine coming from the school. The streets are deserted in that direction.” Kevin dropped his arm from my waist as we filed through the door.

  Jack ran to him, scowling at me for passing him off to Rose. He nestled his small, blond head under Kevin’s chin. Nicolaus was on the phone.

  “Well, I think the worst is over for today.” Nicolaus said as he replaced the receiver. “Emma said the streets are empty near our house. The crowds left after the soldiers fired tear gas. It sounds like everyone has gone home to chew qat.”

  Nicolaus smiled and ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Good old Yemen,” he said. Then he frowned. “It’s probably better to stay in for a few days, though. Foreigners are a target during things like this to use as leverage against the government. You know how Yemenis love to take hostages.”

  Kevin laughed. “Great ministry opportunity! A chance to visit remote villages.”

  “Yeah,” I added dryly. “Think how our Arabic would improve.”

  Nicolaus grinned. “I can think of easier ways.” He put on his jacket. “Seriously, be careful. If you need anything or something happens, call me.”

  He looked back over his shoulder. “These are the times we just have to trust the Lord.”

  “Oh, I trust Him,” I yelled as he walked out the door.

  Kevin followed Nicolaus to the gate with Jack still in his arms. As Kevin opened the gate, I heard the children’s bus pull up.

  I twirled a strand of hair in my fingers and looked at my satchel, full of language notes. I chewed my lip. Fatima relied on our Arabic lessons. It was the majority of her family’s income. If I did not go for a lesson, she would not get paid. I sighed and looked out of the window at the still blue sky.

  “I will trust You, Lord,” I said aloud. I left my bag where it was and hurried to greet my children.

  It was three days before I ventured to Fatima’s house. The city had become smothered by the military. When I finally stepped out of our iron gate, I saw a beige jeep with no roof sitting at the end of our street. A gray machine gun was straddled on its flatbed, guarded by two soldiers in camouflage who were chewing qat. Their AK-47s swung lazily at their sides as their arms reached back and forth for the qat leaves stuffed in a black plastic bag.

  “Sabbah al-kher [Good morning],” I murmured, moving in front of the machine gun’s long nose. I peeked inside it before crossing to the other side.

  Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder on the cobbled sidewalk, crowding it in a thick, long line. Their guns were thrust forward on the bricks like they were ready to churn them into butter. I stared at the plastic shields across their faces and chests and saw myself mirrored in them. I chuckled as I passed just inches from their machine guns. One day I am going to tell my grandchildren about this, I mused.

  Soldiers roamed every street. Rattling old taxis crept through alleys where people stood in shadows.

  I felt like I had been hiding, too. I had paced our floors until I had counted every tile. I had re-read books and replayed games with the children until we all had grown tired of them.

  “Lord,
I have got to get back to Fatima,” I had prayed. Then I had called Nicolaus.

  “I can’t wait any longer, Nic,” I had said. “Kevin has his lessons at home, so he’ll be here with the kids until they go back to school next week. But I need to get back to language study.” Then I had chuckled. “The Lord is my Light and my Salvation. Whom shall I fear? I trust Him, Nic. He’ll take care of me.”

  And now I was on my way to Fatima’s house, content to trust God. Or so I thought.

  Fatima’s worried frown eased into a wide smile as she pulled me inside her door. She hugged me three times before allowing me to remove my shoes. “I am happy you are here! It has been three days!” she said.

  The baby was crying in the living room. I put my shoes on the rack next to hers and unsnapped my balto. “How have you been, Fatima?” I asked. “How is Qasar?”

  She grimaced and rolled her eyes. “I am tired. Qasar is crying all the time. My ama [paternal aunt] says he is not eating enough.”

  “How is your ama?” I asked cautiously.

  She answered slowly, as if she disbelieved her own words. “She came and cooked in my house and cleaned my kitchen. Can you believe it?”

  “Your mother-in-law?” I was astonished. “Sahee? Al hamdulilah! [Really? Praise God!]”

  “Yes, she is proud of her grandson. But she thinks he cries because he is hungry. She said the milk from me is not good. I give him the powdered mix now.” She looked down at her hands.

  I picked up the wailing baby from the mufraj. His thin black curls were wet with hair oil and perspiration.

  “Shh, shh, Qasar,” I kissed his damp cheeks and patted his padded bottom. The blue jumpsuit I had given him hung loose and baggy. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Your hala [maternal aunt] Audra has you.”

  Qasar continued to wail. Fatima shook a painted tin rattle in front of his face. “Bas, bas, Qasar! Enough, habibi [my love].”

  We sat on the thin mufraj. Qasar’s wail softened to a whimper and then to a few soft shudders as he slowly succumbed to sleep. I laid him gently between us on the mufraj.

  “Al hamdulilah,” Fatima sighed.

  She raised her hands upward, shaking them hard at the ceiling. “Al hiyat taub! [The life is tiring!]” Her frustration spewed like steam from a pressure cooker. She seemed caught, exploding from the pressure but unable to be free of the cooker.

  I reached out and touched her arm. “He won’t be like this forever,” I said. “He is only two months old. Is he eating well?”

  “He drinks slowly.” She looked at the sleeping infant. The tension in her eyes softened only slightly. “My friends say I should give him biscuit and tea.”

  “He is too young, Fatima,” I countered. I had seen women spoon cookies mashed in hot tea into the mouths of their newborns.

  “If you are not nursing him, then he only needs formula. Maybe you should try a different one. Some babies have allergies to some formulas. Have you asked a doctor about this?” I immediately regretted asking.

  “The doctor said ensha’allah he will be strong and healthy.” Her voice was a monotone. “He said I drank cold water when I was pregnant. That is why the cord wrapped around his neck. The doctor said that is why he cries.” She glanced down at her hands again.

  I gritted my teeth, wishing I had accompanied her to the doctor. There were things I would have said to him.

  “Fatima, that is not true. It was not your fault.” I lifted her eyes to mine. “The doctor is wrong, Fatima. American doctors would not say this.”

  Her eyes searched mine, and she smiled a little. “Audra,” she paused. “I want to take him to my family in Aden.” She straightened the band on her ponytail. “They want to see him. Maybe there he will not cry so much. Maybe he will get better.”

  I waited for her to continue. She looked at me and looked away. “The trip is long, more than five hours. Ahmed cannot go with me, and I cannot travel alone.” She smiled tentatively. “Audra, will you go with me?” She was almost whispering.

  I tried not to show my surprise. “Me? When?”

  “After one week. Now it is not too hot.”

  “In one week? That is soon.” I thought of my children. I had been away from them overnight only once before. “I don’t know, Fatima,” I hesitated.

  “Please,” she urged. “I must see my sisters, but I cannot travel alone.”

  I sighed. I longed to be inside a Yemeni home for more than an afternoon visit.

  “I could not stay long,” I said cautiously.

  “One week only.” Her eyes were pleading.

  “Maybe. I will ask my husband.”

  She clapped her hands with excitement. “I will tell my sisters we are coming.”

  “Fatima!” I exclaimed. “Wait! How do you know my husband will say yes?”

  She smiled. “Because you are Amrekia [American].”

  A week later we were on the bus. The security guard in his olive green suit almost passed my seat as he walked down the aisle to check tickets and travel papers. To him I was every other black-shrouded woman. But I made the mistake of glancing up as he passed, and my blue eyes caught him. He whirled around and asked for my passport.

  I handed it to him grudgingly. I knew he would add it to the roster of foreigners traveling in the country. Security forces maintained surveillance on all foreigners and their activities. Some of it was for the foreigners’ protection.

  I smiled at the alarm in Fatima’s eyes. She jostled Qasar in her lap and started to protest as the man walked away with my passport.

  “He’ll bring it back,” I assured her. But I was annoyed. I had wanted to blend in and be insignificant, like any other Yemeni woman.

  After the guard returned my passport and the bus pulled away from the curb, a steward passed out bottled water, mint candy and green plastic bags. I returned my passport to my purse and tucked the green carsick bag into my seat pocket, chuckling. “That is not encouraging.”

  Fatima nodded. “The roads through the mountains are difficult. Many curves.” She bit her lip. “I get sick in the travel,” she admitted sheepishly. “Do you have medicine?”

  I immediately reached for my purse. I handed her a tube of motion sickness pills. “Have you taken this before, Fatima? Are you allergic to it?”

  She gratefully took the tube. “These are good,” she said. She opened her water and swallowed two pills.

  I soon regretted giving Fatima access to more than one pill. Within thirty minutes she was fast asleep. She did not stir for the three hours that Qasar wailed. She never moved during my multiple attempts to soothe him. She missed hearing the man who threatened to harm the driver if he did not stop the bus. She slept through the driver’s laughing refusal and the man’s subsequent upheavals into his green plastic bag. She also missed the smells as other passengers followed suit.

  I fanned my face with the book I had hoped to read and rocked Qasar until his screams finally softened into exhausted sleep. A gory American horror movie played on an overhead video screen. I turned away to look out of the window.

  “Lord, help me get through this,” I sighed and practiced reading Arabic billboards. It was a long trip to Aden.

  When we finally arrived and stepped off the bus, the heat sucked away my breath. Within seconds sweat trickled down my chest.

  “It’s hot.” I wiped my forehead on my balto sleeve.

  “Yes, but it is cooler now. In the summer it is quite hot.”

  I nodded. Compared to the low seventies we had left in Sana’a, Aden seemed hotter than its humid 95 degrees. But I knew the coastal summer could top 115, so I tried to be grateful.

  We flagged a taxi to Fatima’s house. I lugged our duffel bags while Fatima carried Qasar, who was still sleeping. We arrived at a two-story row house, painted the same peeling yellow as the houses on either side. We opened the rusted gate to a tiny courtyard shaded by a gnarled tree that dripped yellow leaves into a dry stone fountain.

  “Ahlen! [Hello!]” Fatima called.r />
  The scarred wooden door flung open. Three women stood behind it, straining around each other to see us. With wide smiles and gleeful shouts, all three fell upon us. I was smothered by gripping hugs and profuse kissing. Qasar blinked in a sleepy stupor.

  The eldest and widest of the three sisters was introduced as Aisha. She wiped damp hands on her cotton housedress and took Qasar from Fatima. She cradled him in kisses and disappeared into the house ahead of us. Fatima and I followed in the vise-grip of the other two.

  Inside a small living room, we took off our baltos and hejabs and sat on a fraying blue mufraj. Yasmine, the youngest of the three, sat with us. She was beautiful with bright eyes that flashed and thick black hair clasped at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a peach rayon dress so wrinkled that I wondered if she thought it was fashionable. Yasmine held Fatima’s hand, asking questions too quickly for me to translate.

  The shortest of the sisters, Zahra was twice the width of Yasmine but not as large as Aisha. She had sad eyes and gray peppered hair. She smiled and took my face in her cool hands. She kissed my cheeks repeatedly before moving to slide a large white fan into the room. She placed it to face us a few feet away and turned it on high. I gripped my ponytail to keep it from whipping across my face and tried to follow Zahra’s Arabic. I responded to her questions while trying to keep hair out of my mouth.

  Aisha returned from the back with Qasar, who was asleep again. Wisps of graying hair escaped from the bun knotted on the back of her head. She was frowning. Her light brown eyes were fixed on Fatima. She sat heavily on the floor, covering the baby with a thick fleece blanket as a shield against the fan. Worry rippled across her face.

  “He is so thin, Fatima. What is wrong with him? Is he eating?” Aisha asked.

  Fatima had not told them about his birth. I waited for her to explain what had happened and how far he had come from his critical first days, but she did not. She gushed light prattle, holding her chin high as she talked. I said nothing.

  Aisha jiggled her legs as Qasar began to stir under the hot blanket. “Bas [enough], bas, habibi [my love]. Bas,” she crooned.