We have an appointment at the Yemen Times with Hamed and a few other journalists. The building is impressive, three stories high, with a uniformed guard watching everyone who comes and goes through the main door, like the guards at the villas of the chic neighborhoods in Sana’a that I love to draw. A little dizzy with emotion, I hold on to the wooden railing as I climb the marble steps of the big staircase. The windows are so clean that the sunshine makes little yellow circles on the white walls, and there’s a nice smell of floor wax in the air.

On the second floor, Nadia, the editor in chief of the Yemen Times, welcomes me with a hug. I would never have imagined that a woman could manage a newspaper. How can her husband accept that? Seeing my astonishment, Nadia laughs gaily.

“Come, follow me.”

In her large, bright office, Nadia pushes open a door-to a child’s room, where the floor is strewn with toys and little cushions.

“This is my daughter’s room,” she explains. “Sometimes I bring her along with me to the paper. That way, I can be a mama and keep working.”

A room just for her daughter! The universe that is opening up to me is so different from mine. I almost have the impression that I’ve landed on another planet. It’s intimidating-and fascinating.

And the surprises are just beginning. When Nadia invites me to follow her to what she calls the editorial room, I am dumbfounded to discover that most of the journalists are women. Some wear black from head to toe, raising their niqabs only to take a sip of tea. Others wear orange or red scarves, which allow a few blond curls to escape and complement their blue eyes and milk-white skin. These women wear polish on their long fingernails, and they speak Arabic with a strange accent. They must be foreigners (Americans, or Germans?), perhaps with Yemeni husbands. They have certainly studied long years at universities to earn their positions here. And like Shada, they probably drive their own cars when they come to work.

I imagine them drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, like the women on television. Maybe they even wear lipstick when they go out to dinner downtown. One of them is on the phone; it must be a very important call. I listen and let myself drift along on her melodious language. English, I suppose. One day, I’m going to speak English, too.

Watching them is endlessly interesting: I’m particularly struck by their ability to concentrate while they tap away on machines with their eyes glued to the screens I see atop every desk of pale wood. To be able to work while watching Tom and Jerry-what talent, and what luxury!

“Nujood, those are computers,” Hamed exclaims, amused by my enthusiasm.

“They’re what?”

“Computers! Machines connected to keyboards that allow you to write articles and send letters. You can even store photos in them.”

Machines that let you write letters and keep photos? These women are not only attractive, but also very modern. I try to see myself in their place in ten or twenty years, with shiny nails, holding a pen. I wouldn’t mind being a journalist. Or a lawyer. Or maybe both? With my computer, I would send letters to Hamed and Shada. I would work hard, that’s for sure, and I would have a job that would allow me to help people in trouble and bring them a better life.

My tour of the premises ends at the conference room, “Where we hold all our important events,” Nadia tells me.

A man shouts, “Bravo, Nujood!”

A chorus of voices then cheers, “Nujood won, Nujood won!”

When I go through the big door I see some thirty faces, all looking at me with eager eyes, and applause rings through the room. Nods, smiles, and blown kisses welcome me, and I pinch my right hand to convince myself I’m not dreaming. Yes, it’s all real, and today, the “important event” is me.

I’m showered with gifts. First, Hamed hands me an enormous stuffed red bear, so tall it comes almost to my shoulders. On its round tummy there’s a large heart decorated with letters I can’t read.

“It’s English writing. It means, ‘I love you,’” Hamed says.

I don’t even know which way to turn with all the packages being handed to me from every side. I untie the ribbons one by one, and it’s surprise after surprise: a little battery-powered piano, colored pencils, pads of drawing paper, and a Fulla doll, like the ones in Judge Abdel Wahed’s house.

When I try to find words to express my gratitude, only one comes to mind: “Shokran! Thank you!”

And I give everyone a big smile.

Then Nadia invites me to cut a cake: it’s chocolate, my favorite flavor, with five red cherries on top. And suddenly I remember one of my escapades on Hayle Avenue, with Mona. How many times, with my nose pressed to the boutique windows, had I dreamed about a wedding celebration with presents and evening gowns? Things hadn’t turned out that way.

Compared to dreams, reality can be truly cruel. But it can also come up with beautiful surprises.

Today I finally understand the meaning of the word party. If it were a dessert, it would be sugary, and crunchy, perhaps with something soft inside, like my favorite coconut candies.

Holding my big stuffed bear in my arms, I announce, “A divorce party-that’s really better than a wedding party!”

“And on this very special occasion, what can we sing for you, Nujood?” asks Nadia.

“I don’t know.”

While I hesitate, Shada has an idea: “Why don’t we sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

“Happy ‘birthday’? What’s a birthday?” I ask, a little confused.

“A birthday is when people celebrate the day someone was born.”

“All right, but there’s a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that I don’t know when I was born.”

“Well, then, from now on, today will be your birthday!” exclaims Shada.

The room fills with applause.

“Happy birthday, Nujood! Happy birthday!”

I feel like laughing and laughing. It’s so simple to be happy, when you’re among friends.

June 2008

My divorce has changed my life. I don’t cry anymore. My bad dreams are starting to go away. I feel stronger, as if all these ordeals have toughened me. When I go out in the street, sometimes women in the neighborhood call to me, congratulating me and shouting “Mabrouk!”-a word once tainted by evil memories, but which I now like to hear again. And shouted by women I don’t even know! I blush, but deep down I’m so proud.

Since I always keep my ears open, I’m even managing to better understand all the family mysteries swirling around my sisters and brothers-especially around Mona. Her story is like a complicated puzzle that puts itself together piece by piece… “Wait for me, I’m coming with you,” Mona yells, running after the car.

Today two women have come to my home to see me: a foreign journalist and Eman, a women’s rights activist. I recently left my uncle’s house and returned to live with my parents, because in my country, there are no shelters for girls who are the victims of family violence. It’s good to be home, and although I am indeed still angry at Aba, he himself has reason to resent what I did. Actually, we all seem to be pretending to have forgotten what happened. For the moment, it’s better that way.

My parents have just moved to a new neighborhood, Dares, which lies along the road to the airport. Our little house has only two small rooms, decorated with simple cushions leaning against the walls. At night, the noise of the airplanes approaching to land often wakes us up, but at least I know that here I can keep an eye on Haïfa, to protect her. If anyone dares to come ask for her hand, I will immediately protest. I’ll say, “No! It’s forbidden!” And if no one listens to me, I’ll call the police. In my pocket I preciously guard the telephone Hamed gave me, a shiny new cell phone like Shada’s, so that I can call her at any time.