Free Behind the Veils of Yemen by Audra Grace Shelby

arching her eyebrows at me and folding her arms across her chest. All three girls stared at me with equally lofty eyebrows. They straightened their backs and lifted their heads. They seemed higher as they looked down on me.
    One girl’s smile turned to a sneer. “Mussihiya,” she repeated.
    The other girl seemed perplexed and agitated. “But she is friendly and nice. She is habooba [lovely]!” Her bewildered whisper was loud in the room. I smiled appreciation at her, but my smile faded at the other girl’s haughty eyes.
    That girl leaned closer. “Islam is hallee [sweet],” she said loudly.
    Conversations between the women around us grew silent. They nodded their heads vigorously in agreement and focused on me, waiting collectively for my response. I looked to Fatima, but she was waiting with them. I grappled for words and wrestled with pride. I had never before been treated as inferior because of my faith and nationality, especially by the people of an impoverished country.
    Lord, help! I prayed inwardly.
    Out loud I slowly responded, “The way of Jesus is sweet. It is enough for me. Jesus is all that I need to walk with God.”
    “ Ma’a sha’allah [What God wills],” one woman whispered.
    The girl protested. “But we have Isa [Islamic name for Jesus] in our Quran. He is one of our prophets.”
    She was interrupted as two of the bride’s sisters entered the room carrying trays of perfume. The women turned from me to the perfumes, eager to spray their necks, arms and dress fronts. The room had grown crowded, and the smell of perspiration had risen with the heat. Now heavy perfume saturated the air, intended to cover unpleasant odors.
    I squelched my urge to cough and sneeze as my eyes watered. When the tray reached me, I declined the heavy dousing. I had spritzed myself earlier with a quiet, feminine scent. I did not see it among the ornate bottles on the tray.
    Fatima touched my arm, her eyes full of concern. “You must wear perfume for your husband, Audra. It will please him, and he will love you.”
    “I am already wearing perfume,” I answered.
    Fatima leaned closer to sniff. “It is not enough. Here, you must wear these.” She handed me a little red bottle and a large purple one. “Yours is not strong enough.”
    I did not want more perfume. I knew what Kevin’s reaction would be. It would not be amore . He would wrinkle his nose, hold me at arm’s length and push me toward the shower. But I sighed and turned my neck to let Fatima spray one scent after the other.
    A woman I had met at Fatima’s house came over to greet me. She kissed my hand in a tradition I quickly learned to repeat. Holding my right hand in hers, she kissed it and with her hand thrust it back to me. I kissed her hand and she pulled it back to kiss mine again. When she had both given and received adequate kisses, she smoothed her pink dera to sit beside me. Her neck was heavily laced with gold chains. A circle of jasmine buds was pinned around her curly black hair.
    “ Intee Amrekia? Kaif al Yemen? [You are an American? How (do you like) Yemen?]” A gold crown flashed on a front tooth.
    “Hallo gidan [Very nice],” I answered.
    She asked me how many children I had, and I answered, but then her next question confused me. I thought I had misunderstood, and I turned to Fatima for help.
    Fatima quickly translated, “What kind of birth control do you use?” and turned back to her own conversation.
    I sat silent, staring at the woman’s kohl-lined eyes. I tried to smile. I leaned back to Fatima and whispered in English, “Do you really talk about such things with strangers?”
    Irritated by my repeated interruption, Fatima responded sharply, “Of course, why not?” She turned her back to me and resumed her conversation.
    I thought over the rules of conversation Fatima had taught me. I was not to discuss politics, wars or any unpleasant subject while visiting women. Those were considered men’s issues and bad manners for