April 15, 2008

The great day has arrived sooner than expected. What a crush! The courtroom is full to bursting; it’s amazing. Have all these people on the benches in front of the judge’s raised desk come just for me? Although Shada warned me that the preliminaries might take a great deal of time, her media campaign has paid off, and now, in this jam-packed courtroom, she seems as astonished as I am. One week has passed since our first meeting: a week spent contacting newspapers, TV networks, and feminist organizations. And this is the result: a miracle. I have never seen so many snapshot and film cameras in my life. I’m breathing faster and faster-are all these faces crowding in around me using up my oxygen, or am I simply a bundle of nerves? Beneath my black scarf, I’m perspiring heavily.

“Nujood, a smile!” shouts a photographer, elbowing his way over to me.

Almost immediately, a row of cameras forms in front of me. I blush, intimidated by all these flashbulbs. Besides, I can’t see anyone I know in this throng of faces, all looking at me. I cling to Shada. Her scent reassures me, the smell of jasmine I now know so well.

“Khaleh Shada? Auntie?”

“Yes, Nujood?”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s going to work out. It will be all right,” she whispers to me.

I would never have imagined stirring up so much interest. Me! A silent victim for so many months, suddenly propelled into the spotlight, facing all these journalists. Shada had promised me that they wouldn’t come, that it would just be us. Whatever can I say to them if they start asking me questions? No one ever taught me how to answer questions.

“Shada?”

“Yes, Nujood?”

“All these flashes-I feel like… George Bush, the important American who’s on television so much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, and smiles.

I pretend to smile back. But deep down I feel frozen solid, unable to move, with the strange feeling that my feet are nailed to the ground. I do understand, however, that if I am frightened, it’s because I really don’t know what I’m up against: Just how does a divorce happen? I forgot to ask Shada. I never heard anything about it in school. My best friend, Malak, and I always told each other everything, but we never talked about this. Maybe we thought it was just for adults, and we were obviously too little to bother with grown-up stuff. I don’t even know whether my teachers were married or divorced-I never thought to ask them. So I can’t very well compare my situation to that of any of the women I know.

And then, like a blinding flash that brings on a headache, a chilling thought occurs to me: What if the monster simply says no? What can I say, in fact, if he decides to oppose our separation, if he begins threatening the judge with his jambia, backed up by his brothers and the men of the village?

“Don’t worry, it’s going to go well,” Shada reassures me, patting my shoulder.

I look up at her. I don’t believe she slept much last night; she has little bags under her eyes. She seems exhausted. I feel bad, because it’s my fault, all of this. And yet, even though she’s tired, she’s still beautiful and elegant-a real city lady. I notice that she’s wearing a different scarf, a pink one, to match her tunic. One of my favorite colors! And she’s in a long gray skirt with high heels. I’m so lucky she’s right beside me. Shada, my second mother.

Suddenly I see a hand waving at me from the crowd. Finally, someone I recognize. It’s Hamed Thabet, a reporter for the Yemen Times, my new friend. A real big brother, not like Mohammad. Someone Shada knows introduced him to us. He’s tall, with brown hair, a round face, broad shoulders, and his kindness touched me immediately. I don’t know exactly how old he is; I didn’t dare ask him. We met a few days ago, in the courthouse yard, almost in the same spot where Shada found me that first time.

He asked me if he could take my picture, and then we went to a small restaurant near the courthouse, where he pulled out his pen and notebook to ply me with questions about my parents, my marriage, Khardji, my wedding night. I flushed with shame telling him my story, but when I saw him wince as I described the bloodstain on the sheet, I understood that he sympathized with me. I even saw him quietly tapping his pen on the table, as if he were trying to hide his feelings, but I couldn’t help noticing his distress. He was angry, felt terrible for me, and it showed.

“But you’re so little! How could he do that?” he murmured.

Strangely enough, I didn’t cry this time, and after a few minutes of silence, I continued.

“I wanted to play outside, like all children my age, but he beat me and kept making me go back into the bedroom with him to do the nasty things he wanted. He always used bad words with me…”

By the time we said good-bye, Hamed’s notebook pages were black with writing. He had written down even the slightest details. Then he managed to sneak into the prison to take pictures of Aba and the monster with his cell phone. A few days later, Shada told me that Hamed’s article had been published and had caused a huge stir in Yemen. He was the first journalist to break my story to the public. I was upset at the time, it’s true, but now I know that I owe him a great deal.

At the entrance to the courtroom, the cameras begin to jostle for a good view.

I shiver: I recognize Aba and… the monster, escorted by two soldiers in olive-green uniforms and black kepis. The prisoners look furious. Passing in front of us, the monster lowers his eyes, then abruptly turns back to Shada.

“Proud of yourself, hey? I didn’t have a real celebration for my marriage, but you’re certainly throwing a party for us here,” he snarls.

How dare he speak to her like that? Just what I dreaded is now happening, but Shada remains marvelously calm. She doesn’t even blink. This woman has a strength of character that astounds me. She doesn’t need to wave her arms all around to express her feelings; the look in her eyes reveals all the contempt she feels for him. That look is enough. I’ve learned a lot from her, these past few days.

“Don’t listen to him,” she tells me.

Try as I might to control my emotions the way Shada does, I can’t. Not yet, at least. My heart pounds; I can’t help it. After all that he has done to me, I hate him so much! When I look up, I find myself staring into Aba’s eyes. He seems so upset. I have to keep calm and reasonable, but I’m afraid that he’ll be mad at me forever. “Honor,” he said. Seeing his face, I begin to understand what that very complicated word means. I can see in Aba’s eyes that he’s angry and ashamed at the same time. All these cameras pointed at him… I’m so furious at him, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him, too. The respect of other men-that’s so important here.

“What a mob scene!” exclaims a security guard. “The courtroom has never been so full.”

There is a fresh barrage of camera flashes: someone important has arrived. It’s Mohammad al-Ghazi, the chief justice of the tribunal. I can identify him thanks to his white turban, knotted behind his head. He has a thin mustache and a short beard, wears a gray jacket over his white tunic, and proudly displays his jambia at his waist.

I follow the judge’s every move; I don’t take my eyes off him for a second. I watch him sit down behind his raised desk, now cluttered with the microphones of radio and TV stations. I watch him set his files down in front of him. You’d think he was the president of the republic getting ready to speak. Judge Abdo joins him, sitting down in the chair next to him. Fortunately, they’re here to support me. I still can’t believe my eyes.

“In the name of God, the Almighty and Merciful, I declare this court open,” announces al-Ghazi, inviting us to approach the bench.