I Am Nujood, Age 10 & Divorced
My head is spinning – I’ve never seen so many people. In the yard outside the courthouse, a crowd is bustling in every direction: men in suits and ties with yellowed files tucked under their arms; other men wearing the zanna, the traditional ankle-length tunic of northern Yemen; and all these women, shouting and weeping so loudly that I can’t understand a word. It’s as if I were invisible. No-one sees me: I’m too small for them. I’m only ten years old, maybe not even that. Who knows?
People say judges are the ones who help people in need. So I have to find one and tell him my story. I’m exhausted. It’s hot under my veil, I have a headache, and I’m so ashamed.
I notice a man in a white shirt and black suit walking towards me. A judge, perhaps, or a lawyer? “Excuse me, mister, I want to see the judge.” “Over that way, up the steps,” he replies with hardly a glance at me, before vanishing back into the throng. My feet feel like lead when I finally step onto the marble floor.
I spy a group of men in uniforms. If they see me, they might arrest me. A little girl running away from home. Trembling, I discreetly latch on to the first passing veil, hoping to get the attention of the woman it conceals. “I want to talk to the judge.”
Two big eyes framed in black stare at me in surprise.
“What judge are you looking for?”
“Take me to a judge – it doesn’t matter which one!”
She stares at me, astonished.
“Follow me,” the woman finally says. The door opens onto a room full of people, and at the far end, behind a desk, a thin-faced man with a moustache. It’s the judge at last. I sit down, rest my head against the back of the chair and await my turn.”
“And what can I do for you?” A man’s voice rouses me from my dozing. It is a curiously gentle voice. I rub my face and recognise, standing in front of me, the judge with the moustache. The room is almost empty.
“I want a divorce.”
KHARDJI
In Khardji, the village in Yemen where I was born, women are not taught how to make choices. When she was about 16, Shoya, my mother, married my father, Ali Mohammad al-Ahdel, without protest. And when he decided four years later to choose a second wife, my mother obediently accepted his decision. It was with that same resignation that I at first agreed to my marriage, without realising what was at stake. At my age, you don’t ask yourself many questions.
Omma – Mama – gave birth to me the way she delivered all her 16 children: at home. I grew up watching Omma take care of the house and itching for the day I would be old enough to tag along with my two big sisters when they fetched water from the spring. I was two or three years old when a violent dispute broke out between my father and the other villagers. All I knew was that Mona, the second daughter and 13 years old at most, had suddenly gotten married. We had to leave right away.
Our arrival in Sana’a was a shock. The capital was a blur of dust and noise. We moved into a slum building in the Al-Qa neighbourhood. My father finally landed a job as a sweeper for the sanitation authority. Two months after our departure, Mona arrived with the husband who had so suddenly imposed himself on her life.
In the neighbourhood school, I’d done very well my first year, and had just begun my second. One February evening in 2008, Aba told me he had some good news.
“Nujood, you are to be married.”
The news came out of nowhere. I didn’t really understand. At first I felt almost relieved, because life at home had become impossible. Aba had never been able to find full-time employment after losing his street-sweeper job, so we were always late with the rent. My brothers joined the street vendors who tap on car windshields at red lights, hoping to sell a packet of tissues for coins. Then it was my sister Haïfa’s and my turn to try it. I didn’t like that.
More often now, Aba was spending his afternoons chewing khat with neighbours. He claimed it helped him forget his troubles. It was during one of those khat sessions that a man of about 30 had approached him.
“I would like our families to be united,” the man had said.
His name was Faez Ali Thamer, and he worked as a deliveryman. Like us, he came from Khardji, and he was looking for a wife. My father accepted his proposal. As next in line after my two sisters, I was the logical one to be married off.
That evening, I overheard a conversation between Mona and our father.
“Nujood is too young to get married,” Mona insisted.
“It’s the best way to protect her. She won’t be raped by a stranger and become the prey of evil rumours. This man seems honest. He has promised not to touch Nujood until she’s older. Besides, we haven’t enough money to feed the whole family.”
My mother never said a thing. She seemed sad, but resigned. In our country it’s the men who give the orders.
MY WEDDING
My wedding preparations moved rapidly ahead, and I soon realised my misfortune when my future husband’s family decided that I must leave school. I loved school. It was my refuge, a happiness all my own.
On my wedding day, my female cousins began to ululate and clap their hands when they caught sight of me arriving. I, however, could hardly see their faces, my eyes were so full of tears. I advanced slowly to avoid tripping over my outfit, which was too big for me. I’d been hastily dressed in a long tunic of a faded chocolate colour, which belonged to the wife of my future brother-in-law. A female relative had gathered my hair into a chignon that weighed down my head.
Barely two weeks had passed since I had been spoken for. The women celebrated my wedding in my parents’ tiny house; there were 40 of us. Meanwhile, the men gathered at the house of one of my uncles. Two days earlier, when the marriage contract had been signed, the event also had been men only. My dowry had been set at 150,000 rials, (about $740).
At sundown the guests took their leave and I dozed off, fully clothed. The next morning, Omma woke me. My little bundle was in front of the door. When a car horn sounded outside, my mother helped me cover myself in a black coat and scarf.
“From this day on, you must cover yourself when going out into the street. You are now a married woman. It is his honour that is at stake.”
I nodded sadly.
In the back of the SUV waiting in front of our door, a short man was staring at me. He wore a long white zanna and had a moustache. His short wavy hair was mussed and his face poorly shaved. He was not handsome. So this was Faez Ali Thamer!
When the motor rumbled to life and the driver pulled away, I started crying, silently, with my face to the window as I watched Omma grow smaller and smaller.
A woman was waiting for us on the threshold of one of the stone houses in Khardji. I felt immediately that she didn’t like me. My new mother-in-law was old, with skin as wrinkled as a lizard’s. She gestured me to enter. The inside of the house had hardly any furnishings: four bedrooms, a living room, a tiny kitchen.
I fairly fell upon the rice and meat that his sisters had prepared. After our meal, some grownups from the village gathered to chew khat. No-one seemed surprised by my tender age. Later I learned that marriages to little girls are not unusual in the countryside. There is even a tribal proverb that says, “To guarantee a happy marriage, marry a nine-year-old girl.”
How relieved I felt when they led me to my room. A long woven mat was lying on the floor: my bed. I didn’t even need to put out the light to fall asleep.
I would rather never have awakened. When the door crashed open, I was startled awake. I’d barely opened my eyes when I felt a damp, hairy body pressing against me. Someone had blown out the lamp, leaving the room pitch dark. It was him! I recognised him from that overpowering odour of cigarettes and khat. He began to rub himself against me.
“Please, I’m begging you, leave me alone,” I gasped.
“You are my wife!”
I leapt to my feet. The door was not completely closed, and spying a glimmer of light, I dashed towards the courtyard.
He ran after me.
“Help! Help!” I shrieked, sobbing.
My voice rang in the night, but it was as if I were shouting into a void. I ran, panting for breath. I stumbled over something, and scrambled to my feet to take off again, but arms caught me, held me tightly, wrestled me back into the bedroom, pushed me down on the mat. I felt paralysed, as if I had been tied down.
Hoping to find a female ally, I called out to my mother-in-law.
“Amma! Auntie!”
There was no reply.
When he took off his tunic, I rolled into a ball to protect myself, but he began pulling at my nightshirt.
I tried to get away again, moaning, “I’ll tell my father!”
“You can tell your father whatever you like. He signed the marriage contract.”
“You have no right!”
He started to laugh, nastily.
“You are my wife. Now you must do what I want!”
Suddenly it was as if I’d been snatched up by a hurricane, flung around, struck by lightning, and I had no more strength to fight back. Something burning invaded the deepest part of me. No matter how I screamed, no-one came to help me. It hurt, awfully. I shrieked one more time, I think, then lost consciousness.
RUNNING AWAY
I had to adjust quickly to a new life. I had no right to leave the house, no right to complain, no right to say no. During the day, I had to obey my mother-in-law’s orders: cut up the vegetables, wash the floor, do the dishes. Whenever I stopped for a moment, my mother-in-law pulled my hair.
One morning I asked her permission to go play with the children my age.
“Impossible! That’s all we need, for you to go ruining our reputation.”
He left every morning and returned right before sunset. Each time I heard him arrive, the same panic seized my heart. When night fell, I knew what would begin again. The same savagery, the same pain and distress. On the third day he began hitting me, first with his hands, then with a stick. And his mother egged him on.
Whenever he would complain about me, she would tell him, “Hit her even harder. She must listen to you – she’s your wife.”
I lived in permanent fear. Whenever I could, I would hide in a corner, lost and bewildered. Days and nights went by like this. I missed Sana’a and school. My brothers and sisters. I thought of Haïfa, hoping she wouldn’t be married off like me.
One morning, worn down by all my crying, he told me he would allow me to visit my parents. At last! He would go with me and stay with his brother in Sana’a, but afterwards, he insisted, we had to return to the village. I rushed to gather my things.
“It is out of the question for you to leave your husband!” I had not expected my father’s reaction, which quickly put an end to the joy of my return. As for my mother, she kept quiet, simply murmuring, “That’s how life is, Nujood: women must endure this.”
But why hadn’t she warned me? Now I was trapped.
“Nujood,” repeated my father, “you are a married woman now. You must stay with your husband. If you divorce your husband, my brothers and cousins will kill me! Honour comes first.”
I was going around in circles, with no escape in sight. My father, brothers, uncles – no-one would listen to me.
I went to see Dowla, my father’s second wife, who lived with her five children in a tiny apartment across from our street. I climbed the stairs, holding my nose to avoid the stench of garbage and communal toilets. Dowla opened her door wearing a long red and black dress and a huge smile.
“Nujood! What a surprise to see you again. Welcome!”
I liked Dowla. Tall and slender, she was prettier than Omma, and she never scolded me. The poor woman hadn’t had an easy time of it, though. My father neglected her completely. Her poverty forced her to beg in the street.
She invited me to sit on the big straw pallet that took up half the room, next to the tiny stove where water was boiling.
“Nujood,” she ventured, “you seem very worried.”
I poured out my heart to her and my story seemed to affect her deeply. She thought quietly for a moment, then poured some tea. Handing it to me, she leaned over and looked into my eyes.
“Nujood,” she whispered, “if no-one will listen to you, you must go straight to court.”
“To what?”
“To court!”
But of course! In a flash, I saw images of judges in turbans, lawyers in a hurry, men and women coming to complain about family problems, thefts, squabbles over inheritances. I’d seen a courtroom on a show I used to watch at the neighbours’ house.
“Go to the courthouse,” Dowla continued. “Ask to see the judge – his job is to help victims.”
I hugged Dowla tightly in thanks. She slipped 200 rials into my hand, the entire pittance – worth barely 70 cents – she’d managed to beg that very morning.
The next morning I waited impatiently for my mother to get up. “Nujood,” she said, handing over 150 rials, “buy some bread for breakfast.”
“Yes, Omma,” I replied obediently.
I took the street leading to the corner bakery. At the last minute, however, I changed direction, heading for the main avenue. I brought the folds of my scarf over my face. For once, this niqab turned out to be quite useful. I jumped in the yellow-and-white minibus to the centre of town, hoping to get out of my neighbourhood before my parents realised I was missing.
The door closed. Through the windows I watched the city stream by. “End of the line!” shouted the driver.
With trembling fingers I handed a few coins to the conductor. I had no idea where the courthouse was, however. I was overwhelmed with anxiety. Huddled by a streetlight, I was trying to collect my thoughts when I caught sight of a taxi. I’d taken such taxis, going to Bab al-Yemen with Mona.
I raised my hand and signalled him to stop.
“I want to go to the courthouse!” I exclaimed to the driver, who stared at me in astonishment. The driver had no idea how grateful I was to him for not challenging me with questions.
With a sharp stab on the brake, he pulled his car up by the courtyard gate in front of an imposing building. The courthouse! I hurried out of the taxi and handed him the rest of my money.
THE JUDGE
Judge Abdo cannot conceal his surprise. “You want a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“But . . . you mean you’re married?”
“Yes!”
His features are distinguished. His white shirt sets off his olive skin. But when he hears my reply, his face darkens.
“At your age? How can you already be married?”
Without bothering to answer his question, I repeat in a determined voice: “I want a divorce.”
He starts nervously scratching his moustache. If only he’ll agree to save me.
“And why do you want a divorce?” he continues.
I look him straight in the eye. “Because my husband beats me.”
It’s as if I had slapped him in the face. His expression freezes again. Point-blank, he asks me, “Are you still a virgin?”
I swallow hard. I’m ashamed of talking about these things. But in that same instant I understand that if I want to win, I must.
“No. I bled.”
He’s shocked. I can see his surprise, see him trying to conceal his emotions. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to help you.”
I feel relieved. I watch him grab his phone with his shaking hand. With luck, he’ll act quickly, and this evening I’ll be able to go home to my parents and play with my brothers and sisters, just like before. Divorced! Without that dread of finding myself alone, at nightfall, in the same bedroom with him.
A second judge joins us in the room, and he dashes my enthusiasm to bits.
“My child, this might very well take a lot more time than you think. And unfortunately, I cannot promise that you will win.”
This second man is Mohammad al-Ghazi, the chief judge. He says he has never seen a case like mine. They explain to me that in Yemen girls are frequently married off quite young, before the legal age of 15. An ancient tradition, adds Judge Abdo. But to his knowledge, none of these precocious marriages has ever ended in divorce – because no little girl has, until now, showed up at a courthouse.
“We’ll have to find a lawyer,” Abdo explains.
Do they realise that if I go home without any guarantee, my husband will come get me and the torture will start all over again?
“I want to get divorced!” I frown fiercely to show I mean it. The sound of my own voice makes me jump.
“We’ll find a solution,” Al-Ghazi murmurs, straightening his turban.
The clock has just struck two, when offices close. Today is Wednesday, and the Muslim weekend is about to begin. “It’s out of the question, her going home,” he continues. A third judge, Abdel Wahed, volunteers to help. His family has room to take me in. I’m saved, at least for the moment.
At nine o’clock Saturday morning we were sitting in Abdel Wahed’s office at the courthouse with Abdo and Mohammad al-Ghazi. Al-Ghazi was very worried.
“According to Yemeni law, it is difficult for you to file a complaint against your husband and your father,” he told me. Like many children born in Yemeni villages, I didn’t have a birth certificate, and I was too young to initiate proceedings against anyone. A contract had been signed and approved by the men of my family. According to Yemeni tradition, it was valid.
“For the moment,” Mohammad al-Ghazi told his colleagues, “we must act quickly. I suggest we place Nujood’s father and husband under temporary arrest. If we want to protect her, it’s better to have them in prison than at liberty.”
Prison! Would Aba ever forgive me? I was consumed with shame and guilt.
In Yemen there are no shelters for girls like me, but I couldn’t remain with Abdel Wahed and his family, who had already done so much for me.
“Who is your favourite uncle?” one of the judges asked.
I thought the best choice would be Shoyi, Omma’s brother, a retired soldier with a certain prestige in my family. He lived with his two wives and seven children in a neighbourhood far from ours. True, he hadn’t opposed my marriage, but he, at least, did not beat his daughters.
Shoyi didn’t ask me many questions and let me play with my cousins. Basically, I think my uncle was as discomfited as I was by the whole thing.
The next three days I spent most of my time at the courthouse, hoping for a miracle. How many times would I have to go there? Abdo had warned me that my case was most unusual. But what do judges do when faced with one like that?
I am learning the answer from Shada. People say she is one of the best lady lawyers in Yemen who fights for women’s rights. She’s beautiful and smells of jasmine. As soon as I saw her I liked her. She doesn’t cover her face. Shada wears a long, black, silky coat, with just a coloured scarf on her head.
When she came to me the first time, I saw how she looked at me with great emotion before exclaiming, “Heavens!” Then she checked her watch, opened her appointment book, and rearranged her heavy schedule, calling family, friends and colleagues; several times I heard her say, “I have to take on a very important case.”
This woman seems to have endless determination.
“Nujood, I won’t abandon you,” she whispers to me. I feel safe with her. She knows how to find exactly the right words, and her lilting voice comforts me.
“Can you promise me that I will never return to my husband’s house?”
“I’ll do my very best to keep him from hurting you again. But you must be strong, because it may take some time. The hardest part is over. The hardest part was having the strength to escape, and you carried that off beautifully.”
“And now, may I ask you a question? How did you find the courage to run away – all the way to the courthouse?”
“The courage to run away? I couldn’t bear his meanness anymore. I couldn’t.”
THE DIVORCE
The great day has arrived sooner than expected. The courtroom is full. Shada’s media campaign has paid off – I have never seen so many cameras. Beneath my black scarf, I’m perspiring heavily.
“Nujood, a smile!” shouts a photographer. A row of cameras forms in front of me. I cling to Shada. Her scent reassures me, the smell of jasmine I now know so well.
Deep down I feel frozen solid, unable to move. Just how does a divorce happen? What if the monster simply says no? If he begins threatening the judge?
At the entrance to the courtroom, the cameras begin to jostle for a good view.
I shiver: I recognise Aba and . . . the monster, escorted by two soldiers. The prisoners look furious. Passing in front of us, the monster lowers his eyes, then abruptly turns back to Shada.
“Proud of yourself, hey?” he snarls.
Shada doesn’t even blink. The look in her eyes reveals all the contempt she feels for him. I’ve learned a lot from her.
“Don’t listen to him,” she tells me.
My heart pounds. When I look up, I find myself staring into Aba’s eyes. He seems so upset. “Honour,” he said. Seeing his face, I begin to understand what that very complicated word means. I can see in my Aba’s eyes that he’s angry and ashamed at the same time. 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.
Mohammad al-Ghazi, the chief justice of the tribunal, sits down behind his raised desk. Judge Abdo joins him in the chair next to him.
“In the name of God, the Almighty and Merciful, I declare this court open,” announced al-Ghazi, inviting us to approach the bench.
Shada motions for me to follow her. To our left, Aba and the monster also move forward. I sense the crowd seething behind us. Part of me would give anything, right at this moment, to be a tiny mouse.
It’s Judge Abdo’s turn to speak.
“Here we have the case of a little girl who was married without her consent. Once the marriage contract was signed without her knowledge, she was taken away by force into the province of Hajja. There, her husband sexually abused her, when she hadn’t reached the age of puberty and was not ready for sexual relations. He also struck and insulted her. She has come here today to ask for a divorce.”
The big moment is coming, when the guilty are punished.
Al-Ghazi raps the desk a few times with a small wooden hammer.
“Listen to me carefully,” he tells the creature I hate. “You married this little girl two months ago, you slept with her, you struck her. Is that true, yes or no?”
The monster blinks, then replies, “No, it isn’t true! She and her father agreed to this marriage.”
I clutch at Shada’s coat.
“He’s lying!”
The judge turns to my father.
“Did you agree to the marriage?”
“Yes.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“My daughter is 13.”
Thirteen? No-one ever told me I was 13. I wring my hands, trying to calm down.
“I married off my daughter for fear she would be stolen.”
I don’t really understand what he is talking about. His answers are vague and complicated, and the judge’s questions are increasingly incomprehensible. Voices are raised. The accused men defend themselves. The uproar in the room grows louder as my heart pounds faster.
The judge motions for us to follow him into another room, away from the public. “Faez Ali Thamer, did you consummate the marriage, yes or no?” asks the judge.
I hold my breath.
“Yes,” admits the monster. “But I was gentle with her, I was careful. I did not beat her.”
His answer is like a slap in the face, reminding me of all those other slaps, the insults, the suffering.
“That’s not true!” I yell, beside myself with anger.
Everyone turns to look at me. But I’m the first to be astonished at my outburst. After that, everything happens quickly. The monster says that my father betrayed him by lying about my age. Then Aba becomes furious and says he had agreed to wait until I was older before touching me. The monster announces that he’s ready to accept the divorce, but on one condition: my father must pay back my bride-price. And Aba snaps back that he was never paid anything at all. It’s like a marketplace! How much? When? How?
In the end I am saved by the judge’s verdict.
“The divorce is granted,” he announces.
SEPT 16, 2008
My divorce has changed my life. When I go out in the street, sometimes women call to me, congratulating me. I recently left my uncle’s house and returned to live with my parents. We all seem to be pretending to have forgotten what happened.
My parents have moved to a new neighbourhood, Dares. Here I can keep an eye on Haïfa. If anyone dares to ask for her hand, I will protest. And if no-one listens to me, I’ll call the police.
My nightmares stopped a few weeks ago. Instead, I’ve been dreaming about school. This morning, the driver is here. The international humanitarian association that is paying school fees for Haïfa and me has sent him. I grab my backpack.
When I grow up, I’ll be a lawyer, like Shada, to defend other little girls like me.
One of the teachers invites us to sit down at the desks. I choose one next to a window. Glancing around me, I can’t help heaving a great sigh of relief. In my green and white uniform, I’m only one of 50 girls in this class. I am a pupil in the second year of primary school. When I get home, I will have homework to do, and drawings to make with colored pencils.
Today I finally feel that I’ve become a normal little girl again. Like before. I’m just me.
Epilogue: In April 2009, the Yemeni parliament passed a new law raising the legal age of consent to 17, but it was overturned the next day under pressure from conservative opposition parties. A change to the legal age of consent is still under negotiation.
