Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [133]
My women are, however, more likely than the men to invite me home. It’s easier for them; they don’t have to worry about jealous wives. The first time I have lunch at Zuhra’s house, I am struck by how joyful a place it is. She and her three sisters drag me to their bedroom after we eat, and we lie on the bed looking at scores of photos and a series of home movies. One stars Zuhra and Shetha (her sister now married and living in Dubai) playing old village women wrapped in the traditional Sana’ani setarrh (a red and blue cloth now worn only by the elderly). Ghazal, Zuhra’s youngest sister, dances toward them in a skimpy dress. She doesn’t cover her face or glittering eyes and exudes self-confidence. “Put something on!” Zuhra says in the film. Aping the old gossips who sit around judging the younger generation, they ask Ghazal if maybe she is American. Are you praying in America? Who is your father? (Two questions Zuhra says are often asked of young girls.) We all roll around on the bed laughing and poking each other.
“This is what we are like all the time,” Zuhra says. I have a pang of envy. When I was a child I fantasized about having a big, noisy family. Zuhra and her sisters and mother are as close as I can imagine any family being. “We’re like Little Women!” Zuhra says. I am surprised she knows the book. And I think they might have a bit more fun than those March sisters.
IBRAHIM IS ONE OF THE FEW MEN who dares to invite me home. I go to his house, some forty minutes outside of Sana’a, for lunch one Friday afternoon. Ibrahim and his wife, Sabah, live with a passel of relatives and children. Upstairs, I take off my shoes and settle in a large carpeted room, where the curious eyes of little people soon surround me. A plastic sheet is spread on the ground, and platters of fish, salads, breads, rice, chicken, radishes, and zahawek (the spicy Yemeni salsa I love) are piled in front of me. Because I am the only non—family member present, men and women eat together. If I were a man, I could eat only with the men. Sabah is very pretty and asks me the usual questions. Am I married? Yes, of course. Do I have children. I hesitate. No, I say, waiting for the usual cry of dismay. But to my surprise, she brightens. “Like me!” she says. “You are like me.” I hadn’t realized that Ibrahim had no children. He and his wife are both in their thirties and have been married since they were around twelve. Such early marriages are common in Yemen, though there is a growing movement to increase the minimum matrimonial age. I constantly hear reports, from both Yemenis and westerners, of young girls forced into marriage before their bodies and psyches are prepared. These appall me, and I find it horrifying that it is acceptable for grown men to find twelve-year-olds sexually appealing.
But Ibrahim and Sabah share a genuine affection that isn’t often obvious between husbands and wives here. It is unusual for a Yemeni man to stay with a woman who hasn’t given him children. Yet Ibrahim and Sabah occupy themselves with caring for their herd of nieces and nephews and appear happy.
ALL THIS PROGRESS with the rest of my staff leaves me with just two people to worry about: al-Asaadi and Zaid.