"Faster, Nujood, faster!" Mona shouts excitedly.

I feel the wind in my face, so cool and fresh. Mona laughs, the first time in a long while that she has laughed so lightheartedly. And this is the first time we've ever been on a swing together--I feel like a feather on the wind. It's so good, recovering this feeling of innocence.

"Omma's flying! Omma's flying!" Monira giggles from the swing next to ours.

Mona's yelping with joy. She doesn't want to stop.

After a few minutes, my scarf blows loose in the wind, and for once, I don't rush to readjust it. My hair tumbles down around my shoulders, rippling in the breeze. I feel free. Free!

August 2008.

I've eaten a "bizza." That was a few days ago, in a very modern restaurant where the waiters all wore caps and shouted their orders into a microphone.

The bizza tasted so strange! It crunches under your teeth, like a big khobz flatbread, with lots of good things to eat on top: tomatoes, corn, chicken, olives. At the table next to us, there were ladies wearing scarves who looked like the women in the Yemen Times offices. They were very stylish, and even used a knife and fork to bring the pieces of bizza to their mouths.

I tried to imitate them, cutting my slice the same way. At first it wasn't easy; I got bizza everywhere. As for Haifa, she saw a girl empty a bottle of spicy tomato sauce over her plate, so she wanted to try that, too. Except that, from the first mouthful, her throat was on fire and her eyes got all red! Luckily, one of the waiters finally left his mic to bring her a big bottle of water.

Now we have a new game: when we help Omma prepare meals, we pretend we're customers in a "bizzeria" who've come to choose their favorite dishes.

"How may I help you?" asks Haifa, laying out the sofrah in our main room.

"Let's see, today, I think I'll have a cheese bizza."

Actually, I say cheese because when I rummaged through our pantry bag, I realized that that's all we have left to eat. Too bad; we'll cope.

"Come to the table," announces Haifa, inviting the rest of the family to join us.

We've barely begun to eat, though, when someone knocks on our front door.

"Nujood, are you expecting more reporters?" Mohammad asks me suspiciously.

"No, not today."

"Then perhaps it's the water truck, to fill the cistern. But he usually comes in the morning."

Frowning, Mohammad gets to his feet, still chewing his mouthful of bread, and hurries to the front door. Who could be visiting us at this hour, in this stifling August heat? During very hot weather, visitors usually come at the end of the day.

Mohammad's cry startles us all.

"Fares!" he shouts. "Fares has come back!"

I feel faint. Fares, my beloved brother, whom I haven't seen in four years! Supporting herself against the wall with trembling hands, our mother staggers to the front door, and we're all close behind her, with little Rawdha trying to sneak ahead of us by slipping between our legs. Our tiny hall has never seemed so long.

The young man at the door has a gaunt face and deeply tanned skin; how he has changed! Tall and thin, Fares is no longer the adolescent in the photo I've studied so often, down to the slightest details. Now I must look way up to observe him closely. His eyes have a harder look, and his forehead bears a few dark creases, like Aba's. He has become a man.

"Fares! Fares! Fares!" moans our mother, clinging to his white tunic, hugging him tightly.

"We've missed you so much," I tell him, when it's my turn to kiss him.

Ramrod straight, Fares is silent. He seems exhausted; his eyes are empty, almost sad. Where has it gone, the ebullience that suited him so well?

"Fares, Fares!" Rawdha sings like a robot, without really understanding that this tall gentleman is her big brother, who left our home when she was still nothing but a little bitty baby.

Since that short phone call from Saudi Arabia, two years after his flight, we hadn't heard a thing from him, until an unexpected call one evening, just last month. When Omma recognized his voice on the other end of the line, she shrieked with joy. Then we'd all torn the phone from her hands, one after another, to listen to him. He'd seemed distant, very far away, but it had warmed my heart to know he was alive.

"Are things going well for you, over there?" our father had hastened to ask, his voice cracking, on the verge of tears.

Aba wanted to know everything from Fares: For whom was he working? Did he like it there? Was he earning a good living? In answer, my brother had simply repeated the same question several times, as if possessed: "And you, how are you?" Then he told us, "I'm very worried about my family. I've heard things. Please tell me that everything's all right."

And he was worried--you could hear it in his voice. He explained to us that over there, rumours were circulating about our family. All the way out there, in Saudi Arabia, so remote that I couldn't even find it on a map! Yemeni travelers had told Fares that we'd had some problems, but they hadn't given him any details. And then one day Fares had seen a photo of our father and me in a local paper. But after years of playing hooky--he'd abandoned school at the end of the first year--he was simply incapable of reading the article beneath the picture, so that mysterious story had kept tormenting his mind, until he could no longer sleep.

Rumors carried by travelers, a photo in a Saudi paper: the news of my divorce had indeed traveled beyond my country's borders. At Fares's insistence, Aba quickly filled him in on what had happened in the past few months.

"Now I understand a little better," my brother said.

"Fares, my son, please, come home!" our mother had begged him, sniffling.

"I can't, I have work to do," he'd replied, and then the line had gone dead.

The call must have lasted about ten minutes, but that was enough to plunge Omma back into utter despair. She had recovered her taste for life after my divorce, but now she flew off the handle at the slightest thing. She wanted to see her son again, to smell him, to touch him. She simply couldn't bear seeing our family threatened anymore--some of us bolting, others being carried off. Why did fate always persecute her? Hadn't she, too, the right to be just a little bit happy, like other mamas?

Her nightmares returned. Fearing that Fares had decided to abandon his family for good and had called just to ease his conscience, she felt she would never see him again. Her insomnia came back to plague her at night, and my heart broke to see her suffer. My divorce had opened my eyes about many things, making me more sensitive to the unhappiness of others.

And now, on this hot, oppressive day, my Fares has returned. A Fares much calmer and quieter than the one I remember, but those bushy eyebrows and that curly hair could belong only to my brother. I want to know everything about him. Does his boss treat him well? Has he made new friends in Saudi Arabia? And hey--surely they must eat good bizzas over there?

Refusing to let go of him, our mother pulls him by the arm into our second room. Fares isn't saying much; slowly, he takes off his shoes before collapsing onto a cushion. I don't take my eyes off him. In a flash, Omma brings him a gla.s.s of chai, hot tea, from which he takes a few quick swallows.

"So, tell us a little," Aba urges him.

Fares sets his gla.s.s down on the sofrah.

"In four years, I wasn't able to save up a thing. I'm so sorry. If only I'd known," he murmurs, bowing his head.

Silence falls in the room. Then my brother's face relaxes a little, and a faint smile appears.

"You remember, Aba? I was so angry at you, that day, for having yelled at me when I came home empty-handed after going to beg some bread from the baker. I was eaten up by shame; I'd had enough of scrounging left and right for bits of change. I dreamed of new clothes, like all boys my age, but at home we had barely enough to buy food. The next day I woke up with the crazy desire to depend on no one but myself. I wanted to succeed, to earn money with a decent job, and buy myself the clothes I wanted. So I left, resolving not to return here until the day when my pockets were stuffed with money."

Fares pauses for a sip of tea.

"In the neighborhood there were people who talked about the chance to travel to Saudi Arabia. They said that over there a man can earn his living, and even send money back home to help his family. That was exactly what I needed. I wanted to try that adventure; I was full of ambition and had nothing to lose. I was young, thoughtless; I never imagined how hard things would be.

"It took me four days to reach Saudi Arabia. First I took a share taxi north to Sa'ada. The road to the city was full of army checkpoints, and I began to realize that the trip would be long and difficult. In Sa'ada, I met a 'pa.s.ser,' who offered to get me over the border for five thousand rials, about twenty-five dollars. That was expensive, but given my situation, I wasn't about to turn back. At least the man knew his business; he said he would use paths that would outsmart the border guards. Since I didn't have any identification papers on me, I decided to rely on him."

"We were so worried!" exclaims Aba. "We thought you'd disappeared for good."

Absorbed in his memories, Fares simply goes on with his story.

"We crossed the border on foot in the middle of the night. I have never been so scared in my life. Along the way, I encountered other Yemenis, some of them younger than I was. Like me, they didn't really know what awaited them on the other side, and had only one thought: to make their fortunes. It was walking through the darkness that made me understand the real risk I was taking. If I'd been caught by soldiers, they would have immediately sent me back to Sana'a.

"My relief at crossing the border was quickly overwhelmed by my confusion: Now what? Where should I go? It was the first time I'd ever set foot in a foreign land. Tired, I walked on until I reached the outskirts of the town of Khamiss Mousheid. What a disappointment! That part of Saudi Arabia is no better than Sana'a. A man from whom I had asked directions offered to put me up for the night. He lived out in the countryside with his wife and children.

"The next day, when he offered me a job, I accepted right away. I truly had no other choice. He raised sheep, and put me in charge of a herd of six hundred animals. I had to take them out to pasture every day, with the help of one other shepherd, who was from the Sudan. I worked twelve hours a day, from six in the morning until six in the evening. At night I shared my room with the Sudanese, in a tiny stone house in the middle of nowhere, furnished with only two little mattresses. There was no television, no refrigerator, no toilet, no air-conditioning. I lost all my illusions."

Fares pauses again, swallowing hard; his voice is growing hoa.r.s.e, probably from fatigue after his journey.

"From then on, it was one disappointment after another. The boss grew more demanding every day. We had to feed the animals, water them, take them out into the fields. The workdays kept getting longer. It took me a month to realize how precarious my position was, when I received my salary for the first time: two hundred Saudi rials, a little over fifty dollars for thirty days' work, enough to buy myself some candy at the corner store--which belonged, strangely enough, to my boss.

"I was shaken. I figured out that I would have to work for at least a year to ama.s.s the necessary money to come home to Sana'a. I didn't have enough to phone you. Besides, I was too proud to admit my failure. The first time I called you, it was only to make you believe that all was well. The second time, two years later, it was because I was so worried."

He bows his head, and heaves a deep sigh.

"Once I'd hung up the phone, I couldn't help thinking about Omma's tears on the other end of the line. I couldn't sleep at night for thinking about them. I counted every last bit of my money: I had just enough to return to Sana'a. One morning last week, I went to tell my boss good-bye. I'd made up my mind: it was time to go home."

"And now what do you plan on doing?" asks Mohammad.

"Well, I'll do what the others do. I'll sell chewing gum in the street," replies Fares resignedly.

How he has changed! Fares, once so ambitious, today seems ready to accept defeat. I can still see his impudent expression when he stood up to Aba, like a colored drawing I would have thought could never be erased. I remember his cheekiness, which exasperated Aba but gave me a good laugh. If he had been with us at the bizzeria the other day, he would have been the first to make airplanes from the restaurant's paper napkins, and wing them over to the next table. It was in thinking about his impetuous energy that I'd found the strength, in April, to run away to the courthouse. His escape had given me the courage to fly with my own wings. I feel I owe him something.

Fares, beaten, no--that isn't like him. I would never have imagined that he would give up. It makes me sick at heart. One day I must manage to help him in turn. I don't really know how, but in the end, I'll find a way.

September 16, 2008.

The wind is blowing in Sana'a, the wind at summer's end that heralds the return of cool evenings and the first sprinkles of rain. Once again, my little brothers and sisters will be able to play in the puddles with the other neighborhood children. Outdoors, the trees will soon turn yellow, and the blanket peddlers will reappear at the intersections.

For me, this wind is finally a back-to-school wind, the moment I have so longed for. I had trouble sleeping last night; before dropping off, I was careful to fill my new brown cloth backpack with brand-new notebooks. On a sc.r.a.p of paper, I practiced writing my name, and Malak's name, too. I thought a lot about my former cla.s.smate, but unfortunately I'm registered at a different school, so I won't see her.

In my dreams I saw crisp blank notebooks, colored pencils, and lots of girls my age all around me. My nightmares finally stopped a few weeks ago; I no longer wake up in a sweat, weeping, my mouth dry, thinking about the door bursting open and the oil lamp being knocked over. Instead, I've been dreaming about school, like a wish you say boldly out loud, hoping it will finally come true.

When I opened my eyes this morning, the first thing I felt was my heart beating excitedly. Then I tiptoed off to brush my teeth and comb my hair. The other women and girls of the family were still sleeping, lying in a row on the floor in the little back room. Next door, in the main room where the men sleep, flies were buzzing around. Before I put on my new schoolgirl's uniform--a long green dress and a white scarf--I ran cool water over my face for a long time.

"Haifa, rise and shine, we'll be late!"

Her hair every which way, half her face creased by the pillow, my little sister has trouble waking up. While I dash to the door to wait for the taxi, Omma helps her dress and put on her shoes. Now she can't find her head scarf. Never mind, she'll wear a different one--a bit stained, it's true, but we'll do better tomorrow. The driver is already here, sitting behind the wheel. The international humanitarian a.s.sociation that is paying our school fees and moving expenses has sent him to be our "school bus."

"Are you ready?" he asks us.

"Yes."

"Well, let's go!"

Now my heart is really pounding. I grab my backpack and pull it proudly over my shoulders. Before climbing into the taxi, we kiss Omma, to whose dress little Rawdha is clinging as she waves bye-bye to us. Suddenly she spots some sheep trotting along in the distance and lets out a peal of laughter. Our little concrete house, at the very end of a no-exit dirt road, is behind a Coca-Cola factory and a field where half the land lies fallow, so shepherds bring their flocks there at daybreak.

Sitting side by side in the backseat, Haifa and I smile conspiratorially at each other when we hear the engine start up. Without saying a word, we both know that at this moment we are insanely happy. And nervous. I've waited so long for the day when I could finally draw new pictures, learn Arabic, study the Koran and arithmetic. When I had to leave school last February, I knew how to count to a hundred. Now I want to learn to count to a million!

My nose pressed to the window, I glance up at the pure blue sky. This morning, the wind has chased away every cloud. The streets are astonishingly empty; the shopkeepers haven't raised their corrugated-iron curtains yet. For once, the old neighbor who constantly complains about the stream of journalists coming to our door hasn't come out to spy on us from his front steps. The corner bakery is still closed, with no one waiting in line. Most unusually, this year cla.s.ses are beginning around the same time as Ramadan, and half the city is still asleep.

This is the first time I am fasting between the morning and evening prayers, like the grown-ups. For a few days at the beginning it wasn't easy, especially because of the heat that dries out your throat and makes you very thirsty, and I even thought I might pa.s.s out, but I've quickly learned to love this long month of reflection and celebration, during which our lives differ from the normal routines we follow the rest of the year. When the sun dips behind the houses in late afternoon, we eat things suitable for Ramadan: dates, s...o...b..--a barley soup--and floris--little turnovers of potatoes and meat. And we stay up late, sometimes until three in the morning! At night the restaurants are packed with people, and the neon signs for clothing and toy stores stay lighted for long hours. Downtown, not far from Bab al-Yemen, it's so crowded that it's almost impossible to move.

When I awoke this morning around five o'clock, for the first prayer of the day, I thanked G.o.d for not abandoning me these last few months. I asked him to help me remain in good health and have a successful second year in primary school. I also prayed for help for Aba and Omma, for them to earn some money so that my brothers can stop begging in the streets, and Fares can smile again the way he used to. If only school could be compulsory for all children; that would keep boys like him from being forced to hawk chewing gum at red lights. I also thought a lot about Jad, my grandfather; I miss him, but I told myself that up above, he must be proud of me.

The taxi has just turned onto the main avenue, the one leading to the airport. Once we've gone through the army checkpoint, we peel off to the right, pa.s.sing several concrete houses whose flat roofs sport satellite dishes. Maybe one day there will be a television in our home, too. The driver presses a b.u.t.ton and the rear windows open automatically. In the distance, I can hear girls singing, their voices growing louder as we drive along.

"Here we are," announces our chauffeur, parking in front of a big black iron gate.

The trip has taken barely five minutes. I feel a thrill of excitement and apprehension. Now the girls' song is so close that I recognize the words: an old nursery rhyme I must have learned last year. Behind this gate is my new school.

"Good morning, Nujood!"

Shada! What a surprise! I throw myself into her arms and hug her tightly. She made certain to come witness this great day. If only she knew how rea.s.sured I am to see a familiar face.

The gate opens onto a large graveled courtyard embraced on three sides by a gray-brick two-story building housing a dozen cla.s.srooms. All the girls wear the same green and white uniform that Haifa and I have on. I don't know anyone, and it's intimidating. Shada introduces me to the princ.i.p.al, Njala Matri, a woman veiled in black, except for her eyes.

"Kifalek, Nujood? How are you?"

Her voice is both gentle and confident. She invites us to follow her to her office at the far end of the courtyard. A pot of plastic flowers sits on the red tablecloth of the conference table, and a large poster of President Ali Abdullah al-Saleh decorates the main wall. At a desk, a teacher sits typing on a computer keyboard. After closing the office door, Njala Matri lifts the niqab from her face. She's so pretty! She has blue-gray eyes and milk-white skin.

"Nujood, you are welcome here. This school is your home."

I'm beginning to relax a little. The princ.i.p.al explains to us that the school, which is financed by donations from local residents, accepts about twelve hundred students each year, and has between forty and fifty per cla.s.s. Here, she insists, the women teachers listen to their girl pupils, who even have the right to speak to them after cla.s.s if they feel the need to ask questions of a more personal nature.

Hearing that, I feel relieved. I had begun to believe that I would never manage to return to school. One teacher had even opposed my attendance at first.

"You understand, she's not a little girl like the others," this teacher had whispered to Shada when we'd first visited the school. "After all, she's had relations, you know, with a man. That might have an effect on her cla.s.smates."

Shada must have considered other offers, and very attractive ones, but in her opinion they were too extravagant: studies abroad financed by an international organization, or attendance at a private school in Sana'a. Was I really cut out for that? Was I ready to leave my family, especially Haifa? No, not now. Not yet. So I chose the school in the nearby neighborhood of Rawdha, so that people would stop staring at me, so that I would be treated like everyone else, like my little sister.

"Well, hi there, Nujood! Oh, you are sooooooooo cute!"

Oops--not this time, I guess! A woman with blue eyes, perfect posture, and a mauve scarf awkwardly draped over her short hair has just appeared in the middle of the courtyard. Surrounded by schoolgirls, she's waving her hands around and talking loudly, but the words pouring out seem like gibberish. Must be a foreign language.

Shada explains to me that she works for Glamour, an important American women's magazine. She has come all the way to Yemen because of me. I'm going to have to tell my story again. Over and over. And once again, my face will freeze when we get to those personal questions I always find so painful to answer. And that anguish I try so hard to stifle will well up deep in my heart.

All of a sudden, the bell rings. Saved! Pointing with a stick, one of the teachers, Najmiya, signals to the girls to line up along the wall. I hurry to obey. Then she ushers my group into a cla.s.sroom, where she invites us to sit down at the desks lined up there in two sections. I choose one next to a window: not up in the front of the room, nor all the way in the back, but in the third row, next to two new cla.s.smates whose first names I haven't yet learned. My eyes glued to the blackboard, I try to decipher the letters our teacher has just written in white chalk: Ra-ma-dan Ka-rim. Ramadan Karim! Happy Ramadan! Like a puzzle finally solved, the words slip back into place in my memory. And my racing heart returns to its normal beat.

While the teacher is encouraging us to recite the words of our national anthem, I suddenly focus on the rustle of turning pages. This is the true sound of school, found again at last.

For a moment, I think about a story the princ.i.p.al told Shada a little while ago.

"Last year, one of our thirteen-year-old pupils left school suddenly, without giving a reason. At first I thought she would be back. And then the weeks went by, but we never heard any news of her. Until the day a few months ago when I learned that the child had gotten married and had a baby. At thirteen!"