Behind the Veils of Yemen (8 page)

Lord, I am not making an impact on these Muslim women. Instead they are impacting me!
I cried quietly.

A taxi pulled up beside us. Fatima gave directions as I slid silently into the backseat. We rode to Fatima’s house without talking, where she got out and left me with wishes for a pleasant Friday. I continued on to my house, passing burned-out streetlights and stray cats snarling with dogs over garbage. At a stoplight I watched a group of men sitting on a sidewalk, sharing stewed beans from an aluminum pan.

Lord, how many times will I fail Yemen’s traditions while being caught up in my own?
I asked inwardly.
How can I help them when they are giving more than I am?

At home I showered off perfume-scented sweat and changed into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of soft leggings. I joined Kevin and the children on the mufraj and cuddled Jaden and Madison on each side with Jack on my lap in between.

I opened our worn copy of bedtime stories. “Won’t we be glad when our crate comes and we have other books to read?” I asked.

Halfway through the story Jack fell asleep. The other two appeared soon to follow. I closed the book and kissed each curly head as we said our prayers together. Kevin took Jack in his arms and helped me up from the mufraj. We walked hand-in-hand to tuck Madison into her white metal cot and the boys into their brown ones.

Kevin kissed them in turn after me and went to our bedroom. I stood in the boys’ doorway. Moonlight poured through their window, creating a river that flowed over their little bodies and spilled light and shadows onto the floor. A breeze ruffled the edge of their safari-print curtains. I leaned against the white plastered door frame.

As I watched them sleeping, I thought about all the Bible stories I had read and the times I had rocked them to sleep with “Jesus Loves Me.” I had immersed them in the love that God poured on me.

What if they had been born Yemeni? Would I be telling them about Mohammed instead of Jesus? Was the difference only in what we had been taught?

I shook my head to clear the horrible questions that seeped in like a virus.
Lord, help me!
I cried.
Answer these doubts as only You can.

I walked slowly to my bedroom, where Kevin was slumped against the pillows snoring softly. I caught the book that was sliding off his chest and put it on the table beside him. It was a book about Christianity and Islam.

“Lord, show me the difference,” I whispered. “Then use me to show others the difference.”

I kissed Kevin’s cheek and turned off the light.

The sky rumbled with dark clouds. The scent of rain saturated the air. Kevin and I hurried the children down the sidewalks, maneuvering Jack’s stroller around blowing garbage. We arrived at the
suq
, an open-air Yemeni market. On one side of the entrance women sat on the ground with round stacks of pancake-like bread. They wrapped them in newspapers and waved as we approached.

On the other side of the entrance four men displayed aluminum trolleys with mounds of glossy dates pressed together in sticky cubes. They flicked swarming flies with rags tied to sticks and called to us to sample a date.

A young man stepped out from among them, lowering a round pan of baklava and sesame-seed pastries from his shoulders. “
Hallee
, hallee [sweet],” he cried. Everyone seemed oblivious to the threat of rain.

Kevin maneuvered Jack’s stroller through the suq entrance, dodging a wheelbarrow of mangoes coming out. Madison and Jaden clung to me tightly, their sides plastered against mine. We bumped into a muddy arena lined with stalls made of skinny tree trunks and thatched reed awnings. Tables under them were piled high with vegetables or fruit.

“Welcome, welcome!” vendors called, their cheeks bulging with qat.

“Let’s do this quickly so we can get home before the deluge.” Kevin bounced the stroller to the nearest stall.

I was glad Jack was asleep. Having had his pink cheeks pinched and his white hair stroked by the countless people we passed, he had burrowed his face deep into the corner of the stroller and fallen fast asleep.

“
Kilo tomat, loh somat, wa kilo khiyar
[A kilo of tomatoes, please, and a kilo of cucumbers],” I said, pointing.

The man grinned broadly. “Arabie good!
Tamam
[Good]!” He gave Kevin a thumbs-up sign.

Kevin practiced Arabic phrases while I shook lumps of mud off potatoes and stacked them on the vendor’s scale. The fresh tomatoes and leafy greans smelled rich and earthy. My mouth watered for a bite, but I knew that camouflaged under their appearance were amoebas and other evils that could be removed only by a soak in bleach water.

The vendor waved a bunch of fresh mint at me. “
Baqshish,
” he said, rewarding us for buying from him. “
Ensha’allah
[God willing] you will come back to me again.”

Three young boys materialized, jostling wheelbarrows as they jockeyed for position nearest us.
“Arabeeya,
arabeeya [wheelbarrow]!” the tallest cried.

He was barefoot and not much older than Madison. His torn shirt had once been white and his muddy green pants were open at their broken fly zipper.

I smiled, thanking him, but I shook my head. “Lah, shukran.
Nemshee.
[No, thank you. We are walking.]”

When we had convinced them that our no meant no, the boys saluted and raced their wheelbarrows to compete for a woman purchasing two kilos of Lebanese squash.

Kevin and I grinned at each other. “Yemeni entrepreneurs start young,” Kevin said.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “but I bet they don’t go to school. More illiterate adults.”

We entered a concrete block building at the back of the suq. I fought the urge to hold my nose. The smell of raw fish, raw meat and animal blood surged over me. Wooden tables of melting ice were stacked with fresh seafood.

“
Gamberi,
gamberi!” A vendor waved handfuls of huge shrimp.

Another waved a squid. “
Calameri
good!”

I shook my head and walked to the meat vendors who waited across from them. They poised sharpened knives to carve meat from the piles on the tables or from the skinned animals hanging from ceiling hooks. Proudly displayed were the heads that had once been attached to the meat. Each animal had been slaughtered according to Islamic rite, bled to death by a slashed throat. Each head provided the appearance of the meat’s freshness and the vendor’s religious integrity.

I avoided eye contact with the men, as Fatima had taught me modest women should. I also avoided the open eyes of the animals presiding over their meat. Kevin bought two kilos of what appeared to be rump meat. I hung the bag from the stroller handle to begin our trek home. The afternoon prayer call wailed out as thunder grew louder.

“We’ve got to hurry, guys! Let’s see how fast we can walk!” I took Madison and Jaden’s hands.

“We’re going to have to hustle!” Kevin pushed Jack’s stroller briskly down the sidewalk.

Just as rain began to pelt us, we reached our gate out of breath. “Hurry!” I shouted. “Run for the house!”

We made it to the porch. As Kevin unlocked the door, thunder cracked and water poured from black clouds. “That was close!” We panted in unison and ducked inside. The telephone was ringing, and I ran to answer it.

“Allo, Audra?” It was Fatima. “My
am
[uncle on father’s side] died last night. The visitation for the women will be on Thursday, after tomorrow. Can you come?”

I unsnapped my balto. “I’m so sorry, Fatima. Of course I’ll be there.”

I hung up the phone with a sense of dread. I knew that burial took place soon after death. When a man died, Yemeni men carried the deceased’s body on an open cot with a beating drum and a procession of male friends who called out words about Mohammed on their way to the cemetery. Afterward the deceased was honored with long hours of loudspeaker Quran recitations that wailed like monotonous pain. I did not know what to expect from the women.

On Thursday I scoured my wardrobe for a black outfit to wear to the funeral visitation. I had purchased tea, sugar and tinned milk, as instructed by Fatima. A woman’s hospitality requirements were not relieved during difficult times. Since many women would gather, friends were expected to help supply refreshments. I heard the telephone ring as I pulled a black blouse from my wardrobe. I turned to see Kevin standing in the doorway. His face was somber, his eyes looking cautiously at mine.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nigel called.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Sweetheart, they’ve lost our crates. The Boones’ crate arrived in port on schedule, and ours were supposed to be with theirs, but they weren’t. The freight company can’t track them. They seem to have disappeared.”

My legs gave way, and I sat down on my shirt on the bed. I stared at him as words began to stumble out. “They’ve . . . they’ve lost them?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Will they be able to find them?”

Kevin shrugged. “Nobody knows. They traced them to Jordan, but there’s no trace after that.”

Tears stung my eyes. “Do they think they were stolen?”

“They don’t know. Maybe.” Kevin sat down, putting his arm around my shoulders. “They’ll keep trying to find them. If they don’t, insurance will replace everything.”

I shook his arm from my shoulders. “No, it won’t!” I cried. “I don’t want it replaced. I want the things we had! Our things!”

Kevin fidgeted with his hands. “I know, honey.” He raised one hand slowly to smooth my hair. “We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

I sat on the bed, feeling as dark as the black clothing I would wear. I dressed and kissed the children good-bye, leaving them with cheerful words I did not feel.

The widow lived in an unpainted concrete block house with a flat tin roof and an unfinished room on the side. A pen of sheep bleated at the back of the dirt yard where children ran barefoot in the dust. Sofia, Fatima’s cousin and sister-in-law, greeted me at the door. She was my height with light skin and hair dyed to a reddish blond. She was dressed in a tight black jumper with a black turtleneck underneath.

Sofia solemnly kissed both of my cheeks. “Shukran [thank you],” she said softly, taking the tea, sugar and milk. She led me toward the mufraj room.

I caught a glimpse of Fatima as we passed the kitchen. Dressed in a thin housedress, Fatima was bent over a plastic tub filled with soapy water. Dirty cooking pots were stacked around her on the concrete floor. I started to object, knowing Fatima suffered back pain as she approached her eighth month of pregnancy. But Sofia hurried me past. I reluctantly complied. I knew my interference would embarrass Fatima, who would not want to be seen in that position.

But I would not let it go. I pretended I had not seen her. “Where is Fatima?” I asked Sofia. “I must see her.”

I hoped to rescue her from her chores as a new wife in her mother-in-law’s house.

“She is coming. Sit, sit.” Sofia gestured toward the thick red and black mufraj cushions.

I sat. I was apparently early; no one else had arrived. I had not yet learned that times given for arrival were earlier than times intended.

“I am coming after five minutes,” Sofia said, trying to look apologetic about leaving me. I nodded.

I took off my balto cloak in the quiet room and let my black hejab [head scarf] slip from my hair to my shoulders. I unlatched the window and pushed the dark drapes aside to invite fresh air into the somber room. I tried to see the sky, but my view was marred by a wall. I could see only a sliver of blue.

I sighed, wishing I could be up in the sky. I wanted to see the earth as a map spread with boundaries and destinations.
Then I could find our crates,
I thought to myself.

I looked at the sliver of sky. “You have the right perspective, don’t You, Lord?” I whispered. “We see mazes and lose sight of our destination. But You see it all, all the time.” I closed my eyes. “You see the end from the beginning. You are never confused by what is in between.” I thought of the doubts that reared periodically to torment me. “You are never confused, Lord. Help me not to be.”

I slumped down on the mufraj with a heavy sigh and traced the paisley rug with my black stockinged toe. It was pretty, a flourish of mauves and reds and black. I picked up an edge of the huge rug. Hiding underneath was ugly gray concrete. I dropped the rug quickly and tucked my feet under my skirt as Sofia entered the room with her widowed mother.

I rose to kiss the elderly woman and murmur sympathetic words. Around fifty years old, she was heavyset with gray-streaked hair and a caramel complexion surrounding sharp, dark eyes. She walked slowly to the center of the mufraj and took her place.

Two women trailed in behind her, each walking over to kiss her and murmur a medley of phrases I had not heard before. The widow responded with a series of words I did not understand. Other women entered, removing their veils and loosening their hejabs as they formed a solemn line to greet the widow. They repeated the same phrases injected with Mohammed’s name. Tears began to stream down the widow’s cheeks as she accepted kisses from each visitor and replied to their sympathies.

One woman was covered in more black than the others. She brusquely removed her black gloves and lifted her veil. Her jaw seemed to jut out at the sides, and her dark eyes were narrow. To my horror, the woman began to scold the widow loudly. I understood her Arabic.

“You must not cry. It is
harram
[forbidden],” the woman admonished. “You must say
al hamdulilah
[praise the God]. Your husband’s death was the will of the God. It was his fate. It is for you to say al hamdulilah without complaint or tears.” The woman dabbed the widow’s face brusquely with a clean, pink tissue.

“Yes, yes.” The other women nodded. “Al hamdulilah. It was the will of God.”

Looking ashamed and humiliated, the widow bowed her head. She wiped her eyes with another proffered tissue. “Al hamdulilah,” she whispered slowly. “Al hamdulilah.”

The black-shrouded woman ceased her scolding and seated herself opposite the widow. She folded her arms and nodded a thin smile at the approving faces around her.

It made me angry. I wanted to jump from my seat and shout, “No! That is not what God is like!”

I wanted to tell them about how Jesus had enveloped me with His love when my husband had been dying. I wanted them to know the living hope of One who spared people from eternal death. But I said nothing. I looked around at the women, their faces satisfied with the moment, and I kept silent, imprisoned by my own intimidation.

The widow straightened herself against her cushions and sat almost regally with her hands folded in her lap. She retrieved her black hejab and draped it around her hair again, fixing her empty, dark eyes on an obscure corner of the floor and keeping them there. She seemed to have covered not only her hair but also her heart.