Behind the Veils of Yemen by Audra Grace Shelby

Author:Audra Grace Shelby
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Muslims, Yemen (Republic), church work with women, Muslim women, religious life in Yemen (Republic), missionary work, evangelism, sharing the gospel
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

As the maghreb prayer call deafened us from the mosque one block away, Fatima, Aisha, Zahra and I sat on the rug in the living room around the supper we had purchased from a nearby mata’am. Foule [spicy beans stewed with onions, tomatoes and peppers] steamed in a bowl on the aluminum tray beside a stack of hot khobz [flatbread].

I bowed my head and prayed softly in English. Aisha and Zahra watched curiously. They said nothing, waiting for me to finish.

“We thank God before each meal we eat,” I explained to my onlookers. “We want to honor Him for providing food.”

Aisha nodded. “Tamam [good].” She gestured for us to begin. We tore pieces of bread and dipped hungrily into the beans, leaning aside for Aisha’s three children to have their turns.

I tried to eat sparingly to allow all an equal share. “Eat, eat!” Aisha urged me, glaring at her children to back away until I had scooped again.

We ate together from the blue melamine bowl until the last drop of beans and the last flake of bread were gone. The children licked their fingers. Aisha gave them a small bag of cheese curls to share and sent the younger two outside to play. She handed the tray to her nine-year-old son to carry back to the restaurant while she settled herself on the mufraj with Qasar.

Fatima and I splashed tepid water on our faces and arms and brushed our hair. I was surprised when Fatima kissed Qasar and almost eagerly handed Aisha the diaper bag. I wondered if she had given in to her older sister’s authority.

Fatima grinned and pulled my arm. “We will go to town by ourselves!” she exclaimed. I grinned back as she seized her opportunity for freedom.

We covered ourselves in our stifling black drapes and went into town.

The sun was yielding to dusk, throwing streaks of orange and pink across the sky as it slowly succumbed to the dark. Fatima and I strolled arm in arm through alleys lined with bulging carts and noisy vendors. We entered a muddy square crammed with wooden carts stacked high with clothing, fruit, housewares and shoes. Men, women and children mulled in and out between them. Bare lightbulbs dangled on electrical cords overhead.

“I am hungry.” Fatima pulled me toward a boy on a bicycle with a mounted glass box.

I gave the boy money and watched him roll two cones from a stack of notebook paper. He filled each one with hot fries and sprinkled them with salt, drizzling hot sauce on top. We thanked him and ducked into a secluded corner to eat. We licked our fingers discreetly and tossed our empty wrappers into an overflowing garbage bin.

We continued our way through the carts, ignoring the calls of the vendors. The alleys had been hosed with water. We stepped carefully between puddles, avoiding rotten fruit and discarded garbage. We stopped to admire bolts of fabric. Fatima sighed over crinkled red satin. I uncovered pale blue cotton printed with American flags and chuckled at finding it there.

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