The Picture: An American Girl in Aden

Yemen, 1880

“As-salaam 'aleikum.”

“wa 'aleiku-ssalaam.” The visitors responded.

“Welcome, welcome. Please seat yourselves. Be at ease. You are honored guests in my humble home.”

Mr. and Mrs. Walter Carrstairs sat down nervously on a plush upholstered chaise. They were anxious not to cause their host any offence. This rich Yemeni’s home was the largest and most lavish they had visited on their travels, and ‘humble’ was not the first word that sprung to mind.

A slim dark-skinned servant girl entered the room carrying a small silver tray. She placed it lightly on a small table, gestured submissively to the Vizier, and left closing the door silently behind her. If your eyes were closed you would not have been aware of her presence, only the fragrance of what she brought into the room.

“Mint tea?” The Vizier offered.

“Shoo kran.” Mrs. Carrstairs politely replied. Such an offer was never to be declined. In any case, Mrs. Carrstairs had acquired a taste for it during her family’s two-month cultural tour of Arabia. They sipped, and exchanged small talk about the historical sites in Aden and the surrounding villages. She was quite taken with the swarthy but cultured Arab.

Walt Carrstairs, a Chicagoan industrialist who made his fortune building the transcontinental railway, could barely contain his irritation as his wife diligently made small talk with their host. Why the hell couldn’t these Arabs get to the point? There was a serious matter to be resolved. At the next pause he interjected.

“My daughter... Catherine.” Mr. Carrstairs fought to restrain his voice. “Can you help us or not?”

“Of course we must discuss Catherine. It was... a most regrettable incident. I am sure she meant no harm. However, you must accept that her actions at the Abaan Mosque caused grave offence. Were it not for that French trader, Monsieur Rimbaud, intervening on her behalf they say there might have been a riot.”

“Yes, that is what we heard. We hope to thank Monsieur Rimbaud personally, but right now I want to see Catherine. Where is my daughter?”

“She is... safe. Negotiations are proceeding between the mullah and the British port authorities. Naturally I have exerted every possible influence to appeal for leniency. I think that with a statement of contrition she will be spared prison, Inshaallah.

Mrs. Carrstairs allowed herself a fleeting smile. It was the best news she had heard for two days. “What about lashes? Somebody said she might receive twenty lashes?”

The Vizier sighed sympathetically. “I fear that will be the case, but for a healthy young woman it will cause no permanent damage. More tea?”

After agreeing that they would return in the late afternoon, the Carrstairs departed. It was hard to accept that for the first time in her life, somebody other than themselves was the arbiter of Catherine's fate.

***

The sixteen-year-old Catherine Carrstairs sat serenely on the stone floor of the prison cell; her ankles were folded in front of her, her knees spread wide. Heavy iron manacles had been locked on her wrists, connected by eleven equally heavy links. It was funny, she thought, because eleven was supposed to be her lucky number. She constantly fingered the jumble of chain on her lap like a crude rosary. Each bump, indent and rust spot on every link, she had memorized. She’d been in the same cell and wearing these same chains, and the same itchy garments for the best part of two days.

There was a cell mate, her only companion in this nightmare. Shazira was her name. That was all she knew about her. Catherine’s inability to speak Arabic had limited their communications to friendly gestures. Holding up the fingers of their shackled hands, they had at least ascertained the other’s ages. Shazira, was twenty-two, although Catherine thought she looked older.

From the small vent at the top of their cell, came the sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to midday prayers. Shazira had taught Catherine at least one Arabic word. ‘Salaat!’ she would say, unrolling her prayer mat, and insisting that Catherine do likewise and pray.

Catherine leant forward and rolled out her small woven prayer mat. She crouched on it to pray, following Shazira’s example. There was much to pray about.

“Dear Allah, please forgive me for running around your mosque with my shoes on. As I said to you before, I became confused when some men shouted at me. I ran away in the wrong direction, straight into the mosque, and saw that the men were still chasing me. That’s why I kept running and ended up in the hall where lots of men were praying to you. I was wearing a headscarf but it snagged on a floral display and came off me. That’s when I broke the big vase too, but it wasn’t done on purpose...

“...I know it was very wrong of me to kick the man, particularly in that place... I mean that place on him, as well as in the mosque. I hope he feels better soon... and bless Mr. Rimbaud for protecting me outside the mosque... and please look after Mom and Dad and tell them not to worry about me and that I love them very much... Amen.”

Her voice choked as it always did at those final words. She quickly wiped away a tear with a clumsy hand. Despite the emotion she felt better for having prayed. She was comforted to learn that Allah understood English. How her father laughed when she told him that! She didn’t understand what he found so funny. At a time like this it was very helpful to speak with Allah.

Yesterday in the cell, she and Shazira were given lunch after the midday prayers but today, disappointingly, nothing arrived. Shazira seemed agitated after the prayers, as if she were expecting something bad to happen. She was right. The sound of heavy footfalls was moving their way, becoming louder with every step.

Four men stood outside the cell door. They were prison guards and army militia. Catherine and Shazira stood nervously against the far wall. A man, holding the largest bunch of keys Catherine had ever seen, unlocked the door. She wondered why a man carried more shackles, as she and Shazira were already in chains. He bent down and attached those shackles to her ankles. They weren’t tight but rested heavily on her anklebones. The chain between them was ready to trip her the moment she started walking. A man gripped the chain between her hands and led her from the cell. Nobody had uttered a word. That was what Catherine found most scary.

The ankle chains were much worse than those on her wrists; they grazed her skin as she walked. Stumbling, she adjusted her stride, keeping her feet apart and made ungainly shuffling steps.

They entered a large, high ceiling room, perhaps more like small hall. Chairs lined the otherwise unfurnished room on all sides, but it was scene in the middle that most concerned Catherine as she gazed around.

Two women were kneeling on the floor about twenty-feet apart. Looking closer, Catherine could see they were each hunched over and attached with chains to a small wooden frame designed to keep them in their prayerful position. She was being led to the unoccupied frame between the two. They made her kneel down and lean over it. The frame was equipped with its own manacles for wrists and ankles but her captors did not remove her existing shackles, they simply locked the frame’s shackles alongside her own ones.

Doubly bound by chains, Catherine rested her belly on the wooden surface, obliging her to lean forward, while men meddled with the garment she wore. Something came free with a ripping sound. She felt a gentle breeze flow across her spine. Her back was completely bare.

In front of Catherine, Shazira was kneeling and being fixed to a slightly different kind of frame. Her left hand was held across a heavy block. Somebody spread her fingers flat and wide. U-shaped iron nails were hammered into the wooden surface, pinning down each finger without regard for the woman’s pain. The manacle was unlocked and removed from that wrist. It was no longer required.

All the men left the room. The door slammed, then there was silence; a terrible, fearful silence as the four restrained women contemplated their fate.