Behind the Veils of Yemen (13 page)

“Sayadiya,” she said proudly, placing the pan on the floor in front of us.

“It looks delicious,” I said. I bowed my head to pray.

Zahra and Yasmine waited. When I finished, Zahrah mumbled, “Bismillah [in the name of God],” and motioned for me to dive in. “Eat, eat!” She handed me a large serving spoon.

I scooped spoonfuls of fish and rice, dipping my spoon into the bis bas as they had shown me. “This is very good,” I said. “
Momtaz
[Excellent]!”

The sisters ate with me, dipping their fingers into the bis bas and scooping handfuls of rice and fish into their mouths. The children ate between us.

Zahra waved a greasy finger, speckled with rice and tomato pieces. “The children want to know if you will eat the fish head,” she said, sucking her fingers. “It is their favorite part.”

I patted my stomach. “Al hamdulilah,” I answered. “I am satisfied. Please, let them have it.”

The children waited for Zahra. “You do not want the head? You are sure?” Zahra asked.

“I am sure,” I smiled. “Please, let them have it.”

At a brief nod from Zahra, all three children dove for my fish head. Sami, the older boy, won. The girls sighed, waiting to see if other fish heads would be left. Zahra’s would not. It was poised in her hand to be sucked.

After the midday meal we rested. Fatima fell asleep as soon as she stretched out on her cot in the upstairs room. I lay on mine and watched a yellow wasp buzz in and out of the unscreened window. It was making a nest in a corner of the low ceiling. A chicken squawked outside in the neighbor’s yard. I heard children laughing. After the chicken squawked a second time, a woman began scolding and clapping her hands. The children’s laughter stopped.

At four o’clock, we freshened our sweating bodies with hot water from a spigot and combed our hair. Downstairs Aisha was pacing the floor. She was trying to soothe Qasar, who did not want to be soothed.

Aisha’s face was a radar of worry lines. “He is not well,” she said to Fatima. “He cries too much and eats too little. He needs to go to the doctor.”

The relaxed pleasure on Fatima’s face was wiped away by a wave of concern. Fatima took Qasar from Aisha and felt his head. “Yes,” she said, her voice rising. “He feels hot.”

“Fatima,” I interjected. “It is hot.”

“Maybe he has fever,” she said, ignoring me. She looked at Aisha. Both women placed their hands on the baby’s perspiring head. “Yes, yes, he has fever. We must take him to the doctor.”

Fatima rushed to the mufraj. “I will get my bag.”

I grabbed my purse and snapped my balto, trying to keep up with Fatima and Yasmine. They were out of the door before I had wrapped my head scarf.

Qasar was wrapped in blankets like a mummy. I heard his muffled cry in Fatima’s arms. I was about to object over the heat but I stopped, astonished to see that Yasmine was wearing a veil. Her sisters, like Fatima, did not.

I looked back at Fatima. “Fatima, you should wait until we are in Sana’a. You could take Qasar to see Doctor Alison. Remember her? She came to see you in the hospital.” I was almost out of breath as I tried to keep pace.

“But he feels hot. He has fever.” Worry rose in her voice.

“Fatima, the weather is hot. And he is wrapped in a heavy blanket. That will make him too hot.” I was panting myself.

Fatima looked at me with surprise, almost stopping in the street. She spoke sternly, jerking her head toward the rustling trees. “There is
rih
(wind)!”

I tried a different approach. “Fatima, wait. Doctors in Yemen give everyone the same treatment, whether they need it or not. They give vitamins and antibiotics. It will not be good for Qasar to take medicine he does not need. Do you understand this?”

Fatima brushed me aside. “If my baby is sick, he must see the doctor.” Her worried eyes were not seeing me.

I fell behind as we climbed the stairs to a second-floor clinic housed above a pharmacy. We entered a small room with bare cement floors and two open windows. Four rows of wooden benches were crowded with men, women and whimpering children. A wall clock above a table had stopped at 8:30, probably months or even years earlier.

A woman veiled in white rose from her chair and beckoned us. She listened as Fatima and Yasmine explained their need for the doctor, but her eyes were on me, along with the eyes of every other person in the room. She directed us to the crowded front bench, motioning for two men and a boy to give us their seats. They moved to the sills of the unscreened windows.

“Glissee [Sit].” The receptionist gestured at the empty space. She looked at her watch and wrote the time in the notebook on her table.

We sat, leaning against the slatted back. I smiled at the woman next to me who nodded but did not smile back. She studied me, her eyes fixed on mine as if she were looking for something.

The little girl in her lap moaned softly, her head leaning on the woman’s arm. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, but she was shivering under a thick fleece blanket. I wondered if she had malaria, a common and dreaded disease in the coastal areas.

Flies buzzed around a half-empty soda bottle on the floor. An overhead ceiling fan moved slowly but created no breeze. One motorcycle and then another roared down the street outside. A car horn blared as children laughed on the sidewalk.

“Bas, bas,” a woman soothed a child crying on the bench behind us.

“Come.” The receptionist beckoned to us.

Fatima rose with Yasmine. She giggled into my ear as we left the bench. “It is good you are with us, agnabiya [foreigner]! They will not make a foreigner wait.”

I smiled apologetically at the woman we left behind, reaching out to stroke the head of the shivering little girl. The woman did not smile back. She sighed, drifting back into a blank stare.

Yasmine pulled my arm. “I am coming.” I tried not to voice my irritation.

The receptionist led us inside a small treatment room and closed the door behind us. The white-coated doctor rose from his stool to greet us. He shook my hand first, then bowed slightly to Fatima and Yasmine, who both began talking at once. He appeared to be in his late thirties. He was thin, with kind brown eyes and curly, gray-flecked hair. He glanced nervously at me as he took Qasar from Fatima and unwrapped him on a vinyl-topped table.

Qasar had been asleep, but he began to fuss as the doctor put a stethoscope on his chest and looked into his eyes and mouth. The doctor palpitated Qasar’s stomach and abdomen, then opened his diaper and studied the small tan splat.

The doctor handed the fussing baby back to Fatima. “He has a bacteria in his stool,” he said, scribbling a note on a prescription pad. “You must give him this medicine three times every day for ten days.”

He handed the prescription to Fatima. “And you must give him one dropper of this every day.” He gave her another one. “This will make him strong.”

“Will he be well soon?” Fatima asked, the anxiety unveiled in her voice.

The doctor smiled kindly. “Ensha’allah,” he said, patting Qasar’s head. “Ensha’allah he will grow strong and fat.”

Relieved, Fatima cradled Qasar and led our way to the receptionist’s table, where I paid for the office visit. Fatima tucked her prescriptions for vitamins and amoxicillin into her purse. We made our way down the stairs and into the street. Yasmine adjusted her veil to cover her face.

“Why does Yasmine wear the veil?” I whispered to Fatima.

“Because she is beautiful. The veil gives her God’s protection on the street.” Fatima talked absently. Her thoughts were on her infant.

“The bacteria my baby has—is it bad?” Her eyes darted back and forth across mine.

“No, Fatima, it is not bad.” I said. “Everyone has bacteria in their stools.”

I hesitated. I wanted to tell her that bacteria could be seen only through a microscope, but I was not sure if Fatima knew what one was. I sighed. “He will be okay,” I told her.

Fatima stopped. I followed her eyes to a withered old woman shuffling slowly down the sidewalk on the arm of a small boy. The boy stopped to let the woman hold out her quivering hand to a man leaving a honey shop. The woman blessed the man and begged him for money.

“
Muskina
[pitiful],” Fatima whispered.

I reached into my handbag for some coins. “
Aywa
[yes],” I whispered back.

Fatima looked thoughtfully at the blanketed bundle in her arms.
“Lahatha
[Wait],” she said. She pulled fifty riyalls from her diaper bag.

I flinched as I saw the bill. “
Hadtha katheer
[This is a lot],” I protested. It was a meager amount, but large in her budget.

Fatima nodded briskly. “
Daruri
[Necessary],” she answered.

“Daruri,” Yasmine agreed, adding a five riyall coin to Fatima’s bill.

I waited with a heavy heart as Fatima handed our money to the old woman, who smiled down at Qasar and whispered, “Ma’a sha’allah.” I sighed. I knew what Fatima’s good deed was costing her, but I grieved more for her reason behind it. Fatima seemed to be grasping at sources to trust, doing whatever she could to earn God’s favor for her son.

“I must take him to Sana’a tomorrow,” Fatima told Yasmine. “The heat is not good for him. He needs the cool.”

Yasmine started to protest, but then she looked thoughtful and nodded her head. “Yes,” she agreed. “That is best. You must take him back to Sana’a to the cool.”

I said nothing, but inwardly I wondered what Fatima would trust next if the cool of Sana’a wasn’t enough.
Well,
I sighed to myself.
At least I won’t be the excuse for shortening our visit.

Kevin greeted me as I stepped off the bus in Sana’a the next afternoon. Ahmed stood beside Kevin, waiting to help Fatima. I greeted him politely and then grinned big at Kevin, giving him a discreet hug.

“That was a short week,” Kevin whispered, kissing my cheek. “I missed you, even though it was only three days.”

“It was a long three days,” I whispered back. “I’m ready for a vacation!”

“I thought that was one!” Kevin teased as he opened the van door for me.

“A vacation for whom?” I exclaimed.

I waved to Fatima as we drove past. “Ma’a salama [Good-bye]!” I called out.

Fatima was still groggy from motion sickness pills. She waved sleepily back. Ahmed was holding Qasar.

I leaned through the open window, letting my smile fade with the bus in the distance. “I’ll bet Qasar sleeps for a while,” I muttered. “He screamed the whole way home. In my arms!”

Kevin grimaced. “How’d you rate that privilege?”

“I did not take motion sickness pills.” I sighed. “Cool air rocks!” I said into the wind. “Praise the Lord for Sana’a. It was hotter than blazes in Aden.”

I looked at Kevin. “I meant what I said about a vacation. I think we should go home and plan one. A real getaway to an island far, far away.”

“We can do that,” Kevin said. “We’re allowed time off after six months of language, and it has been more than seven. I don’t know about an island far, far away, though. Where do you want to go?”

“Nassau,” I answered.

“As in the Bahamas? Yeah, right!” Kevin laughed. “How about Al Khokha on the Red Sea? There’s a new hotel there that’s supposed to be good.”

“Maybe.” I sat up. “Hey—let’s do it! Let’s go to Khokha. Palm trees and privacy—just our family!”

“Sounds great!” Kevin agreed. “But meanwhile, get ready to be attacked by the kids. They’re thrilled you came back early.”

“I can’t wait to see them, too,” I said. “I can’t wait to get away and just be together. A real family vacation.”

I looked at Kevin. “We need some serious paradise.”

“Paradise is good,” Kevin agreed, reaching to take my hand. “We can all do with a little paradise.”

We pulled into our driveway, and I laughed. Little faces were peeking from the living room window and jumping up and down as we parked the van.

Paradise,
I thought.
Lord, I’m ready.

I felt ready. But God was about to show me that I really was not.

“It may not be paradise, but it looks pretty good.” I rolled down the window as we entered the hotel compound. “Kids, can you smell the sea?”

Kevin steered the van down a sand-packed driveway. We passed cottages that looked like pairs of fat brick cylinders joined together by a wooden door. Each was roofed with reeds woven like Chinese hats. Concrete walls sheltered private patios behind them, next to beds of periwinkles.

“This will be great!” Kevin exclaimed.

“Yeah. Six whole days!” I answered. “And each room has an air conditioner!”

Tall palm trees rustled over sheets of woven bark tacked to weathered fence posts. The woven walls shielded the compound from goats and sheep and the eyes of village onlookers.

“Look at the date palms!” I pointed to a group of shorter palm trees. “See the dates? They’re like big clusters of grapes.”

“Can we eat them?” asked Jaden. “I’m hungry.”

“Those aren’t ripe yet. They’re still green. But we might be able to find some in the village.”

Kevin parked the van next to a long building walled on the lower half with bricks and the upper half with stained-glass sailboats. We got out of the van and stretched the stiffness from our legs after the six-hour ride.

“I’ll check us in.” Kevin went into a door marked “Office.”

I looked for a glimpse of the sea between the bars of a white iron gate. A small patch of blue-green water sparkled two hundred yards away. “I see it!” I cried. “I see the beach!”

The children huddled around me. “Thank You, Lord,” I whispered. “Thank You for sea and sand and fresh, salt air.”

We unlocked the door of our cottage and entered a short entryway that led to a center bathroom. The doors to the rooms on each side required separate keys. Kevin unlocked them both, and we tossed our duffel bags under twin cots made of wood with rope rungs. I flipped the switch on the air conditioner. Nothing happened.

“What is this!” I exclaimed.

“Khokha has no electricity, remember?” Kevin set our snack box in the entryway. ”They turn on the generator at sundown.”

“They turn it off during the hottest part of the day? Yeah, that makes sense.”

I wiped my face on my balto sleeve. “Why don’t we go into the village to buy our picnic stuff? Maybe the A.C. will be on when we get back.”

Five miles away, the Khokha village was a small conglomeration of cement block buildings that looked as bleached and weathered as the palm frond fences between them. We bought cucumbers, oranges and freckled bananas from what appeared to be the town suq, a cluster of four wooden tables huddled under a single thatched awning. A small entourage of children gathered to help us. Older eyes scrutinized us from the shade of a nearby tamarind tree.

We made our way to the baqala [grocery store] sandwiched between barefooted children. They crowded into the store behind us, squeezing us against the counter. The shopkeeper clapped his hands and shouted to shoo them away. Cheeks bulging with qat, he welcomed us. “Marhabah!”

We bought loaves of rootee and triangles of cream cheese as dozens of small eyes peered in through the windows. The shopkeeper lifted Jack high in his arms and kissed both of his cheeks. Jack started to protest, but the shopkeeper handed him a lollipop.

“Shukran [Thank you].” Jack smiled, handing me the sucker to unwrap. Jaden and Madison chorused “Shukran” for theirs as the shopkeeper chatted with Kevin.

Twice as many children had gathered to guide us away from the baqala. Jack gripped my skirt, frowning as small hands reached for his white hair. Madison smiled shyly as girls pushed to be near her. Jaden walked with Kevin. He tucked his head down as if he were walking through a windstorm.

“Mommy, what’s that?” Madison pointed to a round, thatched reed awning. “What’s that camel doing?” All eyes followed Madison’s pointing finger.

“
Zait
[Oil],” a man called from under the tamarind tree. He spat qat-green saliva. “
Ta’aloo,
ta’aloo [Come, come]!”

He sprang from his straw mat and waved us to the awning where a camel walked slowly in a circle. The camel was brown and dusty in his harness, bound to the spokes of a huge wooden wheel that was connected at the center to a giant stone pestle. As the camel walked in a circle, the pestle turned on a massive stone mortar. Oil poured from spigots below into plastic buckets on the ground.

“They are grinding sesame seeds into oil.” I pointed to a partially covered cart filled with burlap bags of seeds.

“
Tamam
[Good]?” the man asked, his teeth tinged with green.

“Tamam!” Kevin answered.

We clustered against the wooden rail. The camel ignored us. But the qat-spitting man suddenly grabbed Jack and hoisted him high, placing him on the wheel at the edge of the mortar. I gasped, reaching involuntarily to grab him back.

Jack grinned, his little white head bobbing as he went around on his carousel. I tried not to look at the edges of the grinding stone or the huge pestle rolling next to him. I held my breath, trying to smile as Jack came back into view.

After his third round Jack was finished. “I want down, Mommy!” he yelled. I exhaled my relief.

“Khalas [Finished]?” the man asked. He deftly reached behind the camel for Jack, returning him to my outstretched arms.

After a good night’s sleep under powerful air conditioners, we spent the morning playing in paradise. The Red Sea was deliciously cool, clear and salty, and the strip of beige sand was wonderfully deserted. The wind whipped small waves in the water that delighted Madison, Jaden and Jack. They splashed as Kevin swam nearby. I swam, too, wearing the long-sleeved dress and leggings I had made from swimsuit fabric. I grinned at Kevin’s whistle.

“At least I can swim without drowning,” I said. “I’m not going to sit and swelter while y’all splash and play.”

“Yeah, poor women.” Kevin looked thoughtful. “You never see them go in the water, do you? They sit in the sun in their black garb watching their husbands and children splash in the water.”

After dinner we sat around a white plastic table under the trees. The sky was dark and full of stars. The breeze gently rustled the palm fronds as a string of lightbulbs dangled overhead, spilling enough light for us to play a family game of cards.

Kevin looked at me across the table. We smiled at each other over the sleepy, nodding heads of our children.

“Tamam?” Kevin asked.

“Tamam,” I whispered back.

On our fourth morning we walked onto the beach as a fishing boat returned from its long night at sea. Less than thirty feet long, the small
dhow
[traditional Arab sailing vessel] was handcrafted of seasoned wood stained dark from years at sea. An outboard motor was fitted on the stern, and a naked mast stuck up from the middle. Its six sailors were bare-chested and deeply browned. A few wore ragged, unbelted trousers. Most wore the local futas [wrap skirts], rolled tightly at the waist.

The dhow pulled near to the shore, and two fishermen jumped out as a small white truck pulled up on the sand. Men spilled out of the truck bed, rushing to help the fishermen haul the large green net. They formed two lines opposite each other. They braced their legs in the sand and hauled the bulging net, hand over hand, in unison. They strained and pulled like a tug-of-war with the net. They heaved with grunts and shouting, sliding the net slowly forward to gut the sand with a wide, wet trench.

“It’s full of fishies!” Jack cried.

We moved closer. The net wriggled with fish of all sizes flapping and flaying inside. When the net reached the truck bed, the men scooped the fish with baskets and dumped them onto blocks of melting ice. The last few were wrestled directly from the net. Then the men who had come with the truck left with it, balanced between fish and ice on the truck bed.

The fishermen dragged the net back to the sea and washed it. They picked out seaweed, soda cans and other embedded debris and stacked the net carefully on the stern. They started the outboard motor and chugged down the beach. About fifty yards away, they killed the engine and secured the anchor, then gathered their meager belongings and held them high over their heads as they swam to shore.

I watched their wiry, brown backs glisten in the sun as they walked away from the water and disappeared into a grove of palm trees. “I wonder if that was a good catch or a bad catch,” I said to Kevin as I spread our towels on the sand. “The fishermen didn’t seem too excited.”

Kevin rubbed globs of sunscreen on his arms. “It’s probably just another day’s work to them.”

“I guess so.” I looked at the small dhow bobbing gently on the water. It seemed useless, floating with its outboard motor tilted powerless out of the water.

“Will the fishermen come back?” Madison looked up from the trench she was digging.

“Yes, honey. They’ll be back at sunset and fish all night again.”

“How can they see in the dark?” Jaden wrinkled his face in a puzzled frown.

“They can’t really. They use a lantern like that one hanging on the mast. God gives them light, too: the moon and the stars. They are like a map for the fishermen.”

“But what happens when clouds cover the sky and they can’t see the map?” Madison studied the boat.

“Well, I guess they have to concentrate on what they can see.” I kicked off my flip-flops.

Jaden folded his arms across his chest. “I would fish in the daytime,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s dumb to fish in the dark.”

Kevin laughed. “But sometimes the dark is when the best fishing takes place.”

At noon we went back to our cottage to prepare our patio lunch. I opened a can of Danish wieners, split open small rootee loaves and set out ketchup. We bowed our heads, thanking God for our meal and our vacation. We ate hungrily, gulping down hot dogs and several small bags of local chips.

Madison stood from her white plastic chair and turned slowly toward the patio door. Her food was half-eaten on her paper towel.

“Finished already?” I asked. “Do you want something else, honey?”

Madison did not answer. I turned to look at her. I dropped my cream cheese sandwich, knocking over my water bottle. “Madison, are you all right?”

Her face was tilted down. Her eyes seemed blank, focused on an obscure spot on the floor. Her mouth was jerking, her lip twitching upward on one side of her face. She did not answer me.

“Kevin, she’s choking!” I screamed.

Kevin’s chair flipped backward to the concrete as he jumped up to grab Madison. “Madison, honey, are you all right?” He jerked her face to look at him.

“Is she breathing?” I shrieked.

“I can’t tell!” Kevin yelled back. He spun her around and knotted his arms around her abdomen, jerking sharply upward. Madison did not respond. She seemed limp in his arms.

“It’s not helping!” I cried. “Maybe a hot dog’s caught in her throat!”

I forced my fingers into her mouth to see if I could dislodge it. Madison was unresponsive.

Jack began to cry. Jaden ran back and forth on the patio.

“What can I do, Mommy? What can I do?” Jaden sobbed, wringing his hands. Jack cowered in the corner of the patio.

“Pray!” I screamed at him. “Pray for your sister!”

“Dear God!” I shouted as I tried to dislodge what I assumed was stuck in her throat. “Don’t let her die! Don’t let her die!”

I was screaming. “Madison, darling! Can you hear me?” Then I yelled at Kevin, “Go get help! See if there’s a clinic near here.”

Kevin ran out of the cottage and down the path to the office. He was back in seconds.

“No one’s in the office, and it’s locked,” he panted. “They’ve all gone to the mosque for prayers. A clinic would be closed, too.”

He struggled to keep his tone even as he tried to breathe. “There might be a clinic open in Hays. Do you want to try and go there?”

Madison coughed. She cleared her throat and backed away, looking at us. No longer limp and unresponsive, she was bewildered and frightened. She did not seem to know what had happened.

“My mouth feels funny, Mommy,” she said. Tears began to fill her eyes.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “It’s okay.” I knelt on the doorstep and took her on my lap, gently stroking her back and arms. “You’re going to be all right.” I tried to still the quivering in my voice. My arms and legs were shaking like jelly. Silent tears gushed down my cheeks, but I hid them from Madison as I held her tightly in my trembling arms.