"Heavens! Follow me; we simply have to talk," she said.

So much has happened these last few days that my head is still in a whirl. During the entire weekend-- Thursday and Friday, in Yemen--Judge Abdel Wahed and his wife were especially good to me. I was treated to toys, tasty food, hot showers, and good-night kisses, like a real child. Inside the house, I even had permission to take off my married woman's veil, the one my mother-in-law makes me adjust as soon as it starts to slip. What happiness, not to fear blows from a stick, or tremble at the thought of going to bed, or flinch at the slightest sound of a door closing. Yet in spite of all this kind attention, my nights are still very uneasy, because as soon as I fall asleep, I feel as though the storm were lying in wait for me, and if I close my eyes for too long, the door might fly open again, and the monster return. What terror, what suffering! Judge Abdel Wahed says that this is normal, that I'll need time to forget all my pain.

When he brought me back to the courthouse on Sat.u.r.day morning, it was hard to return to reality. At nine o'clock we were already sitting in his office, along with the other two judges, Abdo and Mohammad al-Ghazi, who smiled kindly at me when I came in. But here's the thing: Mohammad 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.

"Why is that?"

"It's a little complicated for a child your age, and hard to explain," he answered. Then he talked about several obstacles. Like many children born in Yemeni villages, I didn't have any identification doc.u.ments--not even a birth certificate. And I was too young to initiate proceedings against anyone. Such reasons were easy for a learned man like Mohammad al-Ghazi to understand, but not me. Still, I felt, I ought to keep a positive outlook; at least I had found some nice judges who wanted to help me. After all, they were not obliged to take up my case and could have ignored my plight, as many others had, and advised me to go home to fulfill my duties as a wife. A contract had been signed, and unanimously approved by the men of my family. According to Yemeni tradition, it was therefore valid.

"For the moment," Mohammad al-Ghazi told his colleagues, "we must act quickly. So I suggest that 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! That's very serious punishment. Would Aba ever forgive me? I was suddenly consumed with shame and guilt. And I felt dreadful when they asked me to go with the soldier who would arrest them, to make sure he found the right address. My family hadn't seen me all weekend and must certainly have thought that, like my brother Fares, I had run away forever. I didn't even want to imagine what my mother must have wondered when my brothers and sisters started clamoring for the bread I'd been sent to buy for breakfast. Besides, I was thinking about how my father had recently fallen ill, and had even begun coughing up blood. Could he survive imprisonment? If he were to die, I'd never forgive myself.

But I had no choice. Abdo had explained to me that when people are suffering, the evildoers must be punished. So I got into the car with the soldier. When we arrived at my parents' house, however, the door was locked. I felt strangely relieved, and a few hours later, when the soldier went back there, he no longer needed me to show him the way.

That very evening, the judges decided to find a safe place for me to stay. In Yemen there are no shelters for girls like me, but I couldn't very well remain forever with Abdel Wahed and his family, who had already done so much for me.

"Who is your favorite uncle?" one of the judges asked.

My favorite uncle? I thought the best choice would be Shoyi, Omma's brother, a former soldier in the Yemeni army, now retired: a big, strong man with a certain prestige in my family. He lived in Beit Boss, a neighborhood far from ours, with his two wives and seven children. True, he hadn't opposed my marriage, but he represented the forces of order, in a way--and he, at least, did not beat his daughters.

Shoyi was not very talkative, which suited me fine. He didn't ask me too many questions, and he let me play with my cousins. That evening, before falling asleep, I thanked G.o.d for not allowing Shoyi to reproach me for my boldness, or even mention my running away. Basically, I think my uncle was as discomfited as I was by the whole thing.

The next three days seemed long to me, full of the same tedious things. I spent most of my time at the courthouse, hoping for a miracle, some unforeseen solution. Unfortunately, the future wasn't clear. The judges had promised to do their utmost to grant me a divorce, but they needed time. It's funny, but going every day to that big, bustling courtyard, I finally became used to the tremendous crowd that had so impressed me at first. I could recognize the young tea and juice vendors even at a distance. The boy with the scale was always busy weighing visitors who had time to kill, and now I sometimes smiled encouragingly at him. As for me, though, whenever I returned to the courtyard I felt a pang of discouragement. How many times would I have to go there before I could again become just an ordinary little girl? Abdo had warned me that my case was most unusual. But what do judges do when faced with one like that? I had no idea.

But I believe I am learning the answer from Shada, the beautiful lawyer with sungla.s.ses. When she came up to me for 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 completely rearranged her heavy schedule. She began calling her family, friends, and colleagues; several times I heard her say, "I have to take on an important case, a very important case."

This woman seems to have endless determination. Abdel Wahed is right: she's an impressive lawyer. She must have lots of power; her cell phone never stops ringing, and everyone she encounters always greets her very politely.

"Nujood, you're like a daughter to me. I won't abandon you," she whispers to me.

I'm beginning to believe it. She has no reason to lie to me. I feel at ease with Shada, and I feel safe with her. She knows how to find exactly the right words, and her lilting voice comforts me. If the world came tumbling down, I know that she would stand by me. With her, I feel for the first time the maternal tenderness my mother, too preoccupied by all her family worries, did not know how--or rather, had no time--to give me.

But there's still one nagging question.

"Shada?" I ask timidly.

"Yes, Nujood?"

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Can you promise me that I will never return to my husband's house?"

"Insha'Allah, Nujood. I'll do my very best to keep him from hurting you again. All will be well. All will be well. But ..."

"But what?"

"You must be strong, because it may take some time."

"How much time?"

"Don't think about that right now. Tell yourself that the hardest part is over. The hardest part was having the strength to escape, and you carried that off beautifully."

When I sigh, Shada gives me a little smile and pats me on the head. She's so tall and slender. She impresses me a lot.

"And now, may I ask you a question?" she says.

"Yes."

"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."

In Khardji, life had become impossible. Tortured by shame and pain, I suffered in silence. All those horrible things he made me endure, day after day, night after night--whom could I tell about them? In fact, that first evening, I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

"Mabrouk! Congratulations!"

Early-morning light pours into the bedroom. In the distance, a rooster is crowing. Staring down at my naked little body, my mother-in-law taps my cheek to wake me. I can remember her face as if it were yesterday. Behind the old woman's shoulder I recognize my sister-in-law, the one who rode in the car with us. I'm still drenched in perspiration. Eyes wide, I look around at the disorder of the bedroom: the oil lamp has rolled over to the door, and the brown dress lies in a heap on the floor like an old dishrag. And there he is, on the mat, sound asleep. What a wahesh--what a monster! On the rumpled sheet, I see a little streak of blood.

"Congratulations!" echoes my sister-in-law.

With a sly smile, she studies the red stain. I can't say a word. I feel paralyzed. Then my mother-in-law bends down to pick me up as if I were a package. Why didn't she come earlier, when I needed her help? Now, in any case, it's too late--unless she was his accomplice in what he just did to me? Jabbing her hands into my ribs, she pushes the door aside with her foot and carries me to the narrow little bathroom, where I see a tub and a bucket. She begins splashing water on me, and oh, it's cold!

"Mabrouk!" both women say together.

Their voices buzz in my tired ears, and I feel small, so small. I've lost control of my body, my movements. I'm cold on the outside, but inside, I'm burning. It's as if there were something dirty in me. I'm angry, but can't manage to put my anger into words. Omma, you're too far away for me to call to you for help. Aba, why did you marry me off? Why, why me? And why didn't anyone warn me about what was going to happen to me? Whatever did I do to deserve this?

I want to go home!

A few hours later, when he finally wakes up, I turn my head away to avoid looking into his eyes. He heaves a great sigh, eats his breakfast, and disappears for the day. Huddled in a corner, I pray for G.o.d the Almighty to come save me. I hurt everywhere. I'm terrified at the idea of spending my whole life with this beast. I've fallen into a trap, and I can't get out.

I had to adjust quickly to a new life: I had no right to leave the house, no right to fetch water from the stream, no right to complain, no right to say no. And school? Out of the question, even though I was dying to write my name in white chalk on a big blackboard and sit on a bench to hear the teacher tell us new stories.

Khardji, my native village, had become foreign to me. At the house, during the day, I had to obey my mother-in-law's orders: cut up the vegetables, feed the chickens, prepare tea for any guests who dropped by, wash the floor, do the dishes. No matter how hard I scrubbed the grease-blackened pots, they would never return to their original color. The towels were gray and smelled bad. Flies buzzed around me. Whenever I stopped for a moment, my mother-in-law pulled my hair with her filthy hands. I wound up as sticky as the kitchen, and my fingernails were completely black.

One morning I asked her permission to go play with the children my age.

"You're not on holiday here," she grumbled.

"Please, just for a few minutes?"

"Impossible! A married woman cannot allow herself to be seen with just anyone--that's all we need, for you to go ruining our reputation. We're not in the capital here! In Khardji, people notice everything, hear everything, know everything. So you'd better be careful, and don't you dare forget what I've told you, understand? Or I'll tell your husband."

He left every morning and returned right before sunset. When he got home, he had his meal served to him on the sofrah and never helped clear the table. Each time I heard him arrive, the same panic seized my heart.

When night fell, I knew what would begin again. Again and again. The same savagery, the same pain and distress. The door slamming, the oil lamp rolling across the floor, and the sheets getting all twisted up. "Ya, beint! Hey, girl!" That's what he would yell before throwing himself on me.

He never said my first name.

It was on the third day that he began hitting me. He could not bear my attempts to resist him. When I would try to keep him from lying down on the mat next to me after he'd extinguished the lamp, he would start to hit me, first with his hands, then with a stick. Thunder and lightning, over and over. And his mother egged him on.

Whenever he would complain about me, she would tell him hoa.r.s.ely, "Hit her even harder. She must listen to you--she's your wife."

"Ya, beint!" he'd yell, and run after me again.

"You have no right!" I sobbed.

"I'm tired of your whining--I didn't marry you to listen to you snivel all the time," he would shout, baring his big yellow teeth.

It hurt me to be talked to that way, with such contempt, and he made fun of me in front of others. I lived in permanent fear of more slaps and blows. Occasionally he even used his fists. Every day, fresh bruises on my back, new wounds on my arms. And that burning in my belly. I felt dirty everywhere. When women neighbors visited my mother-in-law, I heard them whispering among themselves, and sometimes they would point at me. What were they saying?

Whenever I could, I would go hide in a corner, lost and bewildered. My teeth chattered when I thought of the coming night. I was alone, so alone. No one to confide in, no one to talk to. I hated him--I loathed them all. They were disgusting! Did every married girl have to go through the same agony? Or was I the only one to suffer like this? I felt no love whatsoever for this stranger. Had my parents felt any for each other? With him, I finally understood the real meaning of the word cruelty.

Days and nights went by like this. Ten, twenty, thirty? I no longer remember precisely. In the evening, I was taking longer and longer to fall asleep. Each time he came to do his vile things to me at night, I lay awake afterward. During the day, I dozed, abandoned, distraught--I was losing all sense of time. I missed Sana'a, and school. My brothers and sisters, too: Abdo's constant liveliness, Morad's clowning, Mona's jokes (on her good days), little Rawdha's nursery rhymes. More and more, I thought of Haifa, hoping she wouldn't be married off like me. As the days pa.s.sed, I began to forget the details of their faces: the color of their skin, the shape of their noses, the folds of their dimples. I needed to see them again.

Every morning I wept, begging my in-laws to send me to my parents. I had no way to contact Aba and Omma; there was no electricity in Khardji, so a telephone? Forget it. No planes pa.s.sed over my village, no buses came, no cars. I could have sent my family a letter, but I didn't know how to write much more than my first name and a few simple words. Still, I had to find some way back to Sana'a.

Escape? I thought about it a few times. But where to? Since I knew no one in the village, it would have been hard for me to seek refuge with a neighbor or beg a traveler on a donkey to save me. Khardji, my native village, had become my prison.

Then 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 afterward, he insisted, we had to return to the village. I rushed to gather my things before he changed his mind.

The trip home seemed quicker than our previous journey, but the same hideous images still disturbed my sleep whenever I nodded off: the bloodstained sheet, my mother-in-law's face looming over me, the bucket of icy water. And suddenly, I would start awake. No! I would never go back, never. Khardji, the end of the earth: I never wanted to set foot there again.

"It is out of the question for you to leave your husband!"

I had not expected my father's unyielding reaction, which quickly put an end to the joy of my return to Sana'a. As for my mother, she kept quiet, simply raising her arms to heaven and murmuring, "That's how life is, Nujood: all women must endure this; we have all gone through the same thing."

But why hadn't she said anything to me? Why hadn't she warned me? Now that the marriage vows had been said, I was trapped, unable to retreat. No matter what I told my parents about my nightly suffering--the beatings, the burning, and all those dreadful personal things I was ashamed to speak of--they still insisted that it was my duty to live with him.

"I don't love him! He isn't nice to me. He hurts me. He forces me to do nasty things that make me sick."

"Nujood," repeated my father, "you are a married woman now. You must stay with your husband."

"No, I don't want to! I want to come home!"

"Impossible."

"Please, please!"

"It's a matter of sharaf, you hear me?"

"But--"

"Listen to me!"

"Aba, I--"

"If you divorce your husband, my brothers and cousins will kill me! Sharaf, honor, comes first. Honor! Do you understand?"

No, I didn't understand, and I couldn't understand. Not only was he hurting me, but my family, my own family, was defending him. All that for a question of--what was it? Honor. But this word everyone kept using, exactly what did it mean? I was dumbfounded.

Haifa watched with big eyes, understanding still less than I did about what was happening to me. Seeing me burst into tears, she slipped her hand into mine, her way of telling me she was on my side. And once more, horrified, I wondered: What if they were planning on marrying her off, too? Haifa, my little sister, my pretty little sister ... Let her at least have a chance to escape this nightmare.

Mona tried several times to defend me, but she was too timid, and anyway, who would have listened to her? Here it's always the oldest, and the men, who have the last word. Poor Mona! I realized that if I wanted to break free, I could count on no one but myself.

And I was running out of time. I had to find a solution before he came back to get me. I had managed to w.a.n.gle his permission to stay with my parents for a while, but I was going around in circles, with no escape in sight. "Nujood must remain by her husband's side," my father kept saying. Whenever he wasn't there, I hurried to talk to my mother, who cried and told me she missed me, but could do nothing for me.

I was right to be afraid. He soon came visiting, to remind me of my duties as a wife. I tried to refuse, but it was no use. After some argument, he agreed to let me remain a few more weeks in Sana'a, but only if I stayed with him at his brother's house. He didn't trust me, suspecting that I would run away if I stayed too long with my parents. So for more than a month, I was plunged back into h.e.l.l.

"When will you stop all your moaning? I'm fed up with it," he complained one day, glaring and shaking his fist at me.

"When you let me go back to my parents' house!" I buried my face in my hands.

Thanks to my stubbornness, I finally won a new reprieve.

"But this is the last time," he warned me.

Back home, I realized I would have to act quickly if I wanted to get rid of that man and avoid being dragged back to Khardji. Five days pa.s.sed, five difficult days during which I kept running into walls. My father, my brothers, my uncles--no one would listen to me.

Knocking on every possible door in search of someone who would, I went to see Dowla, my father's second wife, who lived with her five children in a tiny first-floor apartment in an old building at the end of a blind alley, right across from our street. Driven by my anguish at the thought of returning to Khardji, 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.

"Ya, Nujood! What a surprise to see you again. Welcome!"

I liked Dowla. She had olive skin and long hair, which she kept braided. Tall, slender, she was prettier than Omma, and always endlessly patient--she never scolded me. The poor woman hadn't had an easy time of it, though. Married late, at twenty, and to my father, who neglected her completely, she had learned to rely solely on herself. Her oldest boy, Yahya, eight, was born handicapped; still unable to walk, he required special attention, and his tantrums could last several hours. In spite of her poverty, which forced her to beg in the street to pay her paltry rent and buy bread for her children, Dowla was incredibly generous.

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. She often had to fill her little ones' bottles with tea instead of milk. Hanging from hooks on the wall, the plastic bags she used as her "pantry" looked far from full.

"Nujood," she ventured, "you seem very worried."

I knew that she was one of the few members of my family who had opposed my marriage, but no one had bothered to listen to her. She, on whom life had not smiled, had always shown compa.s.sion for those even less well off than she was. I felt I could trust her, and knew I need hide nothing from her.

"I've so much to tell you," I replied, and then I poured out my heart.

Frowning, she listened to my story, which seemed to affect her deeply. She thought quietly for a moment, busying herself at the stove, then poured me some boiling tea in the only gla.s.s Yahya had not yet broken. Handing it to me, she leaned over and looked into my eyes.

"Nujood," she whispered, "if no one will listen to you, you must just go straight to court."

"To what?"

"To court!"

To court--but of course! In a flash, I saw images of judges in turbans, lawyers always in a hurry, men in white zannas and veiled women coming to complain about complicated family problems, thefts, squabbles over inheritances. Now I remembered what a courtroom was: I'd seen one on television, in a show Haifa and I used to watch at the neighbors' house. The actors spoke an Arabic different from ours here in Yemen, with a strange accent, and I thought I remembered that the program was from Kuwait. In the large room where the plaintiffs appeared one after another, the walls were white, and several rows of brown wooden benches faced the judge. We'd see the defendants arrive in a van with bars on the windows.

"Go to the courthouse," Dowla continued. "As far as I know, that's the only place where you'll get a hearing. Ask to see the judge--after all, he's the government's representative. He's very powerful, a G.o.dfather to all of us. His job is to help victims."