Stop Being Mean to Yourself by Melody Beattie

Author:Melody Beattie
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

chapter 8

Locked in the Box

Sunset was the sacred signal that broke the daily fast. At dusk, the quiet village of Giza came to life.

This day was no exception. The men and boys scurried about the sandlot with a vitality obscured during daylight hours by hunger and the sheer strain of abstinence. Three camels knelt on the far end of the lot, smiling mysteriously as if they possessed a secret unknown to any other creature or being.

I followed Essam past the perfume shop and down the dirt path leading to his home. In his hand he held a white cardboard box of treasured delicacies from the village bakery—half a dozen lemon bars made with flaky, golden pastry and a dozen date-filled Egyptian cookies.

We had already eaten a scrumptious meal. Now we were going to his house to eat dessert and take tea with the women.

“So how old are the women when they get locked in the box?” I asked.

Essam stopped short.

“The box?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “How old are they when they have to get in the box?” I pointed to the house.

He smiled in recognition. “Oh, you mean when do they have to begin staying at home.”

I nodded.

“When a girl turns fourteen, she is expected to stay at home. It is the women’s job to cook, clean, and raise the children,” he said.

“Do they have to stay in the house for the rest of their lives?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Are they ever allowed out?”

“Sometimes to go to market,” he said.

“How boring,” I said. “I hope you put music in the box to make it better for them.”

Essam looked at me as if he didn’t completely understand. How would this gentle man understand? I thought. He’s not been locked in the box.

He held the door open for me. I entered, then waited to follow his lead. We walked through the room where I had first met the women, the room with all the rugs and pillows on the floor. He led me around the corner to the left, into a more formal living room. This room was small. It contained a sofa, a chair, and an end table.

Two of the women I had met yesterday stood waiting to greet me. Essam introduced me to the older of the women, his aunt, and the younger woman, his sister. The women looked frail and tired. His aunt looked especially weary. Essam’s nephew, a thin, fair-haired boy about nine years old, sat on the sofa amidst school books and papers. He clutched the nub of a pencil in his hand and sat poring over his homework. With the shyness of a young boy, he barely looked at me when we were introduced. Later I saw him peeking. A vibrant teenage girl with blazing eyes and shiny dark hair walked boldly up to me. She held my hand in a warm hello that didn’t need words. She was stunningly beautiful. Her radiance instantly reminded me of my daughter, Nichole.

No one in the room spoke English except for Essam, so he translated for us.

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