Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [166]
All of this had made the decision to return to Yemen with Theadora after giving birth to her in London a difficult one. I kept her in England for three months so that she could grow strong enough to travel and receive her first vaccinations.
We hated being away from Tim, who hated being away from us. But trepidations about returning to Yemen remained. I was afraid of bathing Theadora in nondrinkable water. I was afraid of the diseases she could catch there. I was afraid of not getting her on a plane fast enough in an emergency.
One night in London I dreamed I had plucked a bunch of pale green grapes from a grove hidden in a snowy winter forest of shivering pines. Cupping the icy fruit in my fingers, I painstakingly peeled away the skin, exposing a miniature of my daughter, about the size of my thumb. She was perfectly formed, pink and blue-eyed. I showed her to friends who had gathered around. I wanted them to say how beautiful she was, but they only gazed at her in horror, appalled that I had exposed her to the elements so tiny and vulnerable. I woke thinking, if I take my baby to Yemen, isn’t that how people will react?
We debated whether Theadora and I should go instead to Vermont tostay with my parents. But after some reassuring conversations with our doctor and others in Yemen, we decided to stay together as a family. We had wanted Theadora because we loved each other and wished to raise her together. Not 7,000 miles apart. So, with a suitcase full of just-in-case, Western pharmaceuticals, I carried her back to Yemen.
Theadora had been happy in Sana’a, playing outdoors every day in the garden, surrounded by people who doted on her. She had her own room and plenty of other rooms to explore. I took walks with her in the Old City, where I showed her my first Yemeni house and where passing women touched her round cheeks and fair hair and asked me if she were a doll.
But since the attack on Tim, the decision whether to stay in Yemen was no longer ours—it was the Foreign Office’s.
A couple of days and many security meetings later, it became clear that Theadora and I, along with the rest of the spouses and partners of the embassy staff, were going to have to be evacuated. Many would return to homes Britain, but we had nowhere to go. We had no other home.
Tim hadn’t stopped working since the attack, maintaining energy and buoyancy I wouldn’t necessarily expect from someone who had just narrowly escaped an attempt on his life. But when he told me Theadora and I were to be sent away, he finally broke down. “Suicide bombers I can cope with,” he said, “But not losing you.”
“You’re not losing me. You aren’t losing us. It’s only for a short while….” But it was hard to be consoling when I was crying too.
“I thought Theadora was going to learn to walk in Yemen. I wanted her to see Soqotra. I wanted us to go camping together, to have pictures of her here. There is so much I wanted to do here with you.”
“I wanted to take her to Shahara with us and walk over the bridge. I wanted her to meet Zuhra’s baby. I’ll never see Zuhra again,” I said. I hadn’t been able to see Zuhra since Theadora was born because she had typhoid. She was also pregnant, due in less than a month. Now she would never meet Theadora, and I would never meet her little boy.
We also worried about our staff. Every morning when I carried Theadora downstairs, Negisti hurried to take her from me. Emebet, Rahel, and the rest of the household staff also adored cheery little Theadora. The enormous, echoing residence felt cozier and more of a home with her in it.
When Tim and I sat down with the residence staff to explain about the evacuation, Negisti pulled her apron over her face and wept. Emebet and Salaam were also in tears. We couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort them.
On our last morning in our house, I gave photos of Theadora to each of the staff and taped more pictures to the refrigerator. We took only two suitcases. Everything else we had to leave behind: all of Theadora’s books and toys, her bed,