Behind the Veils of Yemen (10 page)

Gratitude flowed wordlessly from Fatima’s wet eyes. She sat between us on the bed with her son in her arms. For a while she said nothing. She rocked him gently, taking him to a quiet place in her thoughts. Her grip on him slowly relaxed.

Fatima began to chat, introducing other women nearby and pointing out their babies as the mothers smiled proudly. One woman held out bananas. Another held up the prayer cap she was crocheting.

“Tamam [Good],” I said.

Fatima chatted pleasantly through the hour, never once releasing her hold on her son. Then Shirley began gathering her hejab and handbag to leave.

Fatima reached out to clasp my arm, gripping me to the bed. “No, please, Audra. Stay with me. Only one hour more.”

I looked at Shirley. I knew that Kevin and the children would be waiting to go home. It was near suppertime. But I could not walk away from Fatima’s pleading eyes.

“You could stay a little longer,” Shirley suggested, wrapping her hejab. “I can give the kids a snack, and Kevin can pick you up later.”

I hesitated. Fatima tightened her grip on my arm. “Please,” she whispered, “only a little longer.”

I nodded to Shirley. “Thanks,” I said. “Tell Kevin I’ll be by the front gate at five o’clock.”

After Shirley left, Fatima smiled wide at me. She turned the baby to display him again. “He is going to be strong,” she said proudly. “I have a son!”

“
Mahbrook
[Congratulations]! I came to see him after he was born, but you were not in your room. Did the women tell you?” I asked.

Her face darkened. “Yes,” she said tersely. “They told me.”

I searched her eyes. “What’s wrong, Fatima? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing.” She hesitated. “My friends came to see me at the private hospital only. When we moved to the public hospital, no one came.”

“No one? None of your friends has been to see you for two days?” I was shocked.

“You only,” she answered. “My mother-in-law will come after tomorrow. And my husband comes to bring food, but he cannot stay with the women.”

She took my hand and squeezed it, holding it close. “You are my friend,” she whispered.

The next afternoon as I walked into the ward Fatima bolted from her reclining position and stood tapping her feet until I reached her. Her eyes were shining like polished stones. Grinning broadly, she hugged me, hurrying through the formal greetings.

“Audra!” she said breathlessly. “Qasar is much better today! The doctor says he can swallow. He will soon take his milk from a bottle, not the tube!”

“Al hamdulilah,” I replied. “God has done this, Fatima. We asked Him in Jesus’ name.”

“
Akeed
[Of course].” Fatima lifted the baby from the incubator, careful not to dislodge his oxygen tube. “Ensha’allah, he will grow strong! Ensha’allah.”

“Ensha’allah,” I whispered.

Fatima laid the sleeping infant back in his incubator. We sat on the bed to begin our chat but were interrupted by someone calling from across the room.

“Fatima!” It was Huda, the bride’s mother from the wedding. Two of her daughters hovered behind her, peeking out to look warily at us. They waved, delighted that we had seen them. They huddled close and bumped between the crowded cots, their eyes wide with fright as their glances darted between Fatima and the other women in the ward. They would not look at the incubators or the babies in them.

When they reached us, they hugged Fatima quickly and rushed breathlessly through their greetings. Still pressed tightly together, they cooed hurriedly over Qasar, reaching into the incubator to pinch his cheek.

“Ma’a sha’allah, ma’a sha’allah” they repeated.

I looked around the room, bewildered by their odd behavior. I tried to see what was frightening them. I could see only babies and their mothers and the single, white-veiled nurse who moved between them.

Fatima made room for them and patted her cot, but they would not sit down. They continued to clutch each other, averting their eyes from everything except us. Then, as quickly as they had entered, they abruptly whispered their good-byes and left. Still clinging tightly together, they bumped back through the cots and scurried out of the ward.

I turned my gaping mouth to Fatima. “What was that all about?” I asked. “What was wrong?”

Fatima waved her hand in the air, unbothered by their behavior or my astonishment. “They do not like hospitals,” she said casually. “They are afraid from them.”

I was confused. “Afraid of what?” I looked back toward the entrance.

Fatima smiled and took my hand. “You are qawia, Audra, strong in your heart. You do not understand this.”

She tucked my hand into hers. “When the doctor tells me to take Qasar home, we will plan my forty-day party. It is a big celebration, like a wedding. You must be there with me.”

I nodded, still staring at the entrance. I could not comprehend the fear that Fatima obviously accepted. “Fatima, what are they afraid of?” I repeated.

Fatima sighed. “Life. Death.
Khalas
[Enough], Audra. Khalas. You do not understand this. Will you come to my forty-day party? You must be with me.”

I looked back at Fatima and blinked. “Akeed [Of course]! I would love to.” I looked at the sleeping infant. “I will continue to pray for Qasar. I will ask my friends to pray, too.”

“Yes, yes, you must,” Fatima whispered. “You must.”

We celebrated Qasar’s birth with a beautiful party at Fatima’s apartment 44 days after his birth. Fatima was right; it was like a wedding, complete with lovely dresses and overdone makeup. I shared Fatima’s joy, humbled when she gave me the place of honor next to her. We sat together at the front of the room. Women called out blessings in Mohammed’s name as I cringed. I thanked the Lord for sparing Qasar’s life.

The first week of September passed, and Madison and Jaden began school. I stood by the gate as they climbed onto the bus together. I waved as they pulled away, my heart catching in my throat. “First day of school,” I sighed.

That afternoon Kevin came racing into our bedroom. “Guess what!” he hollered, bouncing onto the bed.

I looked up from the blouse I was ironing. “What?”

“I just got off the phone with Nigel. They found our crates! They were in Jordan! They were taken off the ship by mistake. They have been sitting on the dock this whole time!”

I leaped toward Kevin, catching the tottering iron before it fell to the floor. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” I shouted.

“Me neither! They are supposed to arrive in Hudaydah tomorrow and be trucked to Sana’a next week!”

Madison, Jaden and Jack hurried into our room with panicked eyes. I grabbed their hands. “They found our crates! Our stuff from home!” I cried.

“Our books and toys?” Madison asked.

“Yes, honey! Everything! They’ll bring them to us next week!” I danced with them around the room. “They found them!” I cried. “They found them!”

Eight days later our crates were delivered to our house. Trucked all night from Hudaydah, they arrived at our gate at 5:30 in the morning. I watched from the window as Kevin directed the semitrailer to back through our gate. Neighborhood men returning from prayers clustered to watch the truck park in our driveway.

Two men jumped out of the cab and climbed on top of the crates. They pried them open to hoist boxes onto the backs of waiting men and braced them until the men steadied themselves under the weight. I was amazed by their strength. They were short, wiry men barely taller than I and not much heavier, yet they carried boxes double their weight, groaning and grunting as they stacked them on our front porch.

I cringed as a huge box tottered back and forth. Shouts in Arabic thundered when the box fell with a thud to the ground. I turned away from the window.

I coaxed the children into eating most of their breakfast before their school bus arrived. Shirley took Jack to her house to play. I tucked my hair into my hejab and rolled up my sleeves.

Kevin hauled boxes into the living room, and I sorted their contents, creating mounds on the floor that quickly evolved into chaos. Because we had been allowed to pack according to volume not weight, we had filled every possible crack with items such as toothpaste, underwear, socks and sewing thread. I sorted clothes and carried cooking pans into the kitchen, singing praises to God that our crates had been delivered.

“You are Lord over everything,” I whispered. “You are Messiah! The living Lord!” I carried another armload into the bathroom.

I felt God nudge my heart. I stopped walking. I wanted to shelve the nudge to ponder in a quieter moment when I was not so busy. But I knew God was speaking to me.

I laid an armful of towels on the floor and went to my bedroom to sit on the bed.
Okay, Lord. Here I am. What are You trying to tell me?

The words of praise I had just said came back to me: “You are Messiah. The living Lord.”

Suddenly other words returned to me, words I had prayed weeks before but had locked away when our crates had been lost:
Lord, could You bring in our crates the week after school starts?

My heart began pounding. I focused on the voice of God moving in me.

I remembered more questions I had asked the Lord:
If I had been raised to believe Islam, would I be a devout Muslim instead of a devout Christian? Was the difference only in what we had been taught?

In the quiet of my beating heart, the answer whispered clearly:
You asked for your crates to arrive the week after the children began school. The Boones’ crates were delivered on time, but your crates were lost, beyond the reach of man. Yet I knew where they were and when they would be delivered. Now you have your crates, delivered at the time you asked. Only I could do that.

Tears began to fill my eyes. I sat quietly, understanding the answer I had been seeking, an answer that had been with me all along. The difference in my faith was that Jesus is alive. I talked with Him, and He talked with me because He was not someone dead and gone. He interactively and authoritatively reigned in my life. Whether I had been taught about Him or taught about someone else did not change who He is. It did not stop His living presence. No teaching or religion could change or substitute that.

I remembered Fatima’s words.
“You are qawia, strong in your heart.”
I realized that what made me strong was living strength, given by Someone who could only supply it if He was alive.

“You are Messiah!” I whispered.

I wiped my face and stood by the window, gazing into the cloudless, blue sky. I looked at the yard and saw the ruts in the gravel where the truck had been. Next to them was a mound of dirt that looked like a grave in a cemetery. It was the hole we had filled that had been left by the uprooted tree, a tree that had appeared strong on the outside but had been dead on the inside. It had no living source to nourish and sustain it. It became firewood.

I looked again at the sky. “Thank You, Lord,” I whispered. “Thank You for answering my doubts and helping me remember the difference.”

I returned to my unpacking. My excitement over our belongings had waned. I was in awe of God, humbled by His attentiveness to me. Jesus had again proven enough to meet my need, and I was content to trust Him.

But I would not remain content. Little did I know that in the months ahead a greater question of trust loomed. Only then, God would ask the question of me.

The mountains seemed dipped in the pale blue ink of the October sky. But they were darker, like smudges in watercolor. They floated far beyond the concrete buildings jutting out above me like rocks from an ocean. Looking up at the blue, I walked crooked on the sidewalk, practicing my Arabic but thinking of endless sky.

I recited words from my lesson, rolling them around on my tongue, interchanging verb forms. I passed a man sitting in a doorway with mounds of raw cotton spilling out around him. He was stuffing the inside of a mufraj cushion, packing it with the hilt of his curved
jambiya
[dagger].

“Where you from?” The man’s r’s were heavily rolled.

I flipped mentally through my vocabulary, searching for the words he had spoken. I had not heard them before and could not place their meaning. I was two blocks away before I realized the words he had spoken were English.

I kept walking. I entered the street next to mine and was startled by a loud noise coming from two streets away. People were shouting amid the sound of breaking glass, metal clangs and thuds. I slowed my walk to peer down the alley.

A man ran up from the side street. He screamed at me, waving his arms frantically with a volley of Arabic too rushed for me to understand. He ducked into a doorway, turning once more to rant before slamming his door behind him. I kept walking, craning periodically to look back at the bolted doorway.

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.