Free Behind the Veils of Yemen by Audra Grace Shelby Page A

women. I chewed on the inside of my lip, struggling with my own definition of bad manners.
    Tired of waiting, the woman moved to a new line of questions. “Where does your husband work? What is his salary? What do you pay for your house?”
    I straightened my dress and adjusted my legs to mask my discomfort. I feigned a lack of comprehension, stumbling around in Arabic to avoid answering. I was spared when two girls entered the room with a large CD player. The women began to clap, and I sighed with relief as rhythmic male crooning poured into the room.
    Two teenage girls stepped into the narrow strip of floor as the rest of the crowd clapped and yelled. One of the girls tied her long black hejab [head scarf] around her hips as a sash and faced the other girl from the opposite end of the floor. Both began to shimmy and step toward each other with the music, their hips shaking and their arms and hands moving in rhythm.
    I was amazed. I had never seen such a beautiful harmony of hips, hands and feet. I could not keep from gawking. Girls as young as ten began to dance and swivel their hips with amazing skill, shaking things I did not know could be shaken. In pairs, girl after girl, woman after woman sashayed across the floor as others clapped and yelled a high-pitched, curdling trill.
    Then one young woman danced up to me and pulled my arms to join her. I pulled back, shaking my head with an emphatic no . I wanted to learn each fascinating step, but I wanted to learn them in front of the mirror on my closed bedroom door. The girl would not accept my refusal. She continued to pull me up to dance.
    When I reluctantly stood, a sea of clapping erupted. The women called out encouragement, trilling me forward. I moved my gold sash from my waist to my hips, wondering if I could make it sway at all. I swallowed and took my place on the floor, closing my eyes as the music played.
    I stepped to the music, feeling like my hands had become my feet and my hips had become immobile. I curled my wrists in and out as I tried to sashay, wondering if everything was moving at the same time but not daring to look. Painfully I made it across the floor, grateful when I reached my partner and the dance ended.
    Applause thundered from the crowd of women around me. I was startled by it but smiled my appreciation as I sat down, my cheeks flaming. I mopped my sweaty forehead and neck with the handfuls of tissues that had been instantly offered. I looked around at the women. They were beaming at me. I realized they were pleased more by my willingness to dance with them than they were by my skills in dancing. I smiled back at the faces smiling at me. I felt like I had danced over the threshold and into their lives.
    We continued to wait for the bride. I fanned myself with a flimsy square of pink tissue. More women had squeezed into the room. Younger girls were shuffled off the mufraj to the floor. I guessed there to be seventy bodies in a room built for thirty. Kirkadey , a dark red drink made from hibiscus leaves, was served around the room by the bride’s mother. I downed my small glass and set it back on the tray to be refilled for others.
    Sweat trickled down my chest. The heavy scent of perfume no longer lingered. It had failed to mask the odor of hot, sweaty bodies. I looked longingly at the four tall windows behind me. They were latched tightly closed to shut out the danger of peeping males. Water beaded on the glass, dripping down in rivulets. I fanned myself faster and tried not to think about the fresh breeze that had also been shut out. I turned my eyes away.
    For the first time I noticed the dancers were all girls and women under thirty. Women my age and older were seated on cots in the outer reception hall. They seemed disinterested in the dancing. They shared apple-spiced tobacco in a water pipe and chewed skimpy leaves of qat while talking about the eight or nine children they had birthed and the years of hard work they had survived. I looked