Story and photography by Jill

I was stuck. Not on the Wordle word of the day. Not on how to escape from a boring conversation at a party. Not even on how to complete my tax return. I was a white girl with about five words of Arabic, stuck with nowhere to go and no-one to help me, in a big city in Yemen.

I was at the tail end of a fascinating six weeks travelling around that beautiful country. It was the kind of place where you felt you’d stepped back a thousand years into something like Arabian Nights. It was thrilling. I’d been travelling from city to city, visiting friends of friends, using the local bus service and in public, always wearing a hijab and abaya (a long black overdress). I’d gained confidence in managing by myself, felt very safe and was treated very respectfully. Putting on a hijab is an artform which I’d nailed. Getting the right amount of tension in the wrapping so that it doesn’t slip off, let a strand of hair peek out, and declare you to be immodest!

I was proud of myself for causing a small scene on one particular bus trip. I had found my allocated seat and waited for the bus to slowly fill up. I was surprised when an older man, dressed in a grey thobe (the tunics worn by men) and headscarf sat next to me. Actually I was insulted! I knew it was dishonourable to be seated next to a man not my husband! Just because I was a foreigner, I would not stand for it! So I shamed him publicly. I waved my hands and loudly exclaimed, “Haram! haram!”. Everyone looked around at this strange foreigner. He grumpily rearranged his wives so I could sit between them, and away we went, without further incident.

After a great few days with some British friends, I was back on the bus. Things seemed easy this time, as I was seated next to a woman! She was in black from head to toe, her face covered with a niqab. She had sparkling, kind eyes. I looked out the window for hours at donkeys, herds of camels, majestic rugged mountains, men wearing long thobes with jambiya (decorative curved swords) tucked into their belts, women fully covered in black scurrying along the streets, and children playing. Fatima seemed to have a little bit of English! We enjoyed minimal conversation, smiles and gestured jokes.

By midday we were nearing our destination and I pulled out a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. My British friends had told me to call this number when I was close. They said a trusted taxi driver, who knew English, would arrange to pick me up from the bus and take me to a particular guesthouse. They reassured me no address was needed. In fact, there was no such thing as building numbers or street names. Just landmarks and locations connected by relationships.

I rang the number. No answer. No worries. I waited and rang again. No answer. I waited. Rang again. No answer. We had nearly arrived. This was not the kind of country where a woman could get off the bus, grab her suitcase, sit in a Starbucks, order a latte, and wait. No, no, no. For one thing, there was no Starbucks, and this culture had no allowance for women to be hanging around in public. Women are the queens inside their home and can be pretty outrageous! But the outside world belongs to the men. Women only transit through, to get from A to B, with minimal attention.

I started to feel very stressed. I was stuck and vulnerable. I had no options.

Fatima was reading me. She somehow communicated, “Don’t worry habibti (dear), come with me. Come to my house!” Come to her house??? I felt numb and confused. My brain took over. Logic said … Well frankly, this was my only option. To accept the hospitality of a niqab wearing, Arabic speaking, Muslim, Yemeni woman. A stranger. What was the likelihood that her, or her family, were bad people and intended to harm me? Again logic took over. It was unlikely.

So, we got off the bus. We found our bags. Her brother was there waiting with a kind face. The two of them spoke animatedly and warmly, and I could tell it was about me. He grabbed my bag, and I felt resigned, “Ok, I guess that’s decided… ? I hope mum will forgive me if this is a bad decision…”.

A taxi took us to their small apartment. As we entered, Fatima’s mum and sisters kissed my cheeks with great warmth. They indicated I needed to change clothes, to get into something more comfortable. They gave me a short sleeved, shapeless, colourful dress. A classic Yemeni woman’s “house dress”. Fatima took off her black outfit and put on something similar. We snacked. I pulled out photos of my family. Fatima’s sister, Miriam, had more English. She pointed to a picture of my short, balding dad and said “Sean Connery!”!! I couldn’t see the likeness myself, but it was very sweet! I gleefully savoured the anticipation of telling my family about this. “Dad will be SO chuffed!!! My brother will think it’s hilarious!!!! Mum will enjoy an opportunity to tease him! Hmmm, maybe it will even change Dad’s [negative] opinion about Muslims …?”.

The afternoon wore on and I couldn’t believe how relaxed I felt. Safe. Cared for. We sat around on floor cushions. Mid-afternoon a huge platter of rice and chicken was served. We drank cardamon flavoured, milky, sweet tea, and Miriam told me she had a dilemma. An offer of marriage! But she wasn’t sure if she should accept or not. Goodness, tell me more! It felt surreal. What the heck was I doing, sitting in this home, hearing about these women’s actual lives, when I was a complete outsider!! Her dilemma was this. The offer was to be a second wife. Goodness, I was not in Kansas anymore!!! Fatima expressed her disapproval by raising her eyebrows and clicking her tongue. Both Fatima and Miriam appealed for me to take their side. I tried to ask, “Well, how many wives did God give Adam?”

I kept calling that jolly taxi driver. Nothing. The brother tried too. Eventually, in the late afternoon, my phone rang. The pickup was organised. He arrived. Everyone headed downstairs with me. The brother carried my suitcase and put it in the car. They insisted on paying the taxi fare. We swapped phone numbers, embraced and I was off, waving from the back window.

What an incredible afternoon. Fatima and her family had completely won my heart. Their kindness felt like a warm blanket on a freezing day, it was a mixture of generosity and care that met me in my vulnerability and need. I marvelled and thanked the Lord. I decided that I wanted to come back and live amongst people like this. And six years later, I did. I packed my suitcase and moved from Perth to the Middle East (not Yemen!). I’ve been here ten years and counting.

The Lord’s kindness reached me unexpectedly, through a niqab wearing, Arabic speaking, Yemeni, Muslim woman. Through a stranger. And it changed my life.

This memory makes me pause. Makes me stop and remember how many times the Lord’s kindness has unexpectedly sat with me. In different shapes and sizes, over many years.

My third year of medical school was grueling. For months that year, a dear friend picked up my dirty washing basket from my dorm room, took it home with her and brought it all back, clean and folded! Meanwhile, I studied hard. Amyloidosis, caseous necrosis and Yersinia enterocolitica. I scraped a pass!

Doctor life was exhausting. My dear housemate loved op-shopping, and had the patience and creativity to hunt. I’d come home from a 15 hour shift and find lovely dresses, in my size, laid out on my bed. My wardrobe expanded beyond safe, black, polyester pants, and I found new joy and confidence in going to work, just by wearing something beautiful.

I dislike packing and moving, I find it overwhelming and I feel shame at struggling to organise my stuff. I moved to Sydney for a wonderful three years to study post grad, but the flipside was having to pack up to move there, and then back West again. My dear mum flew over, to help me get it done. Fast forward five years and I was now packing up my life in Perth to head overseas. Only two suitcases allowed! So, another dear friend, busy with a family of four, study and work, committed to coming over every Monday morning for weeks, to resolutely help me declutter, “You can only keep three dresses, choose wisely …”!

When I was exploring opportunities to move overseas, I hit some dead ends. Another door opened, but it required me to travel for an exploratory trip and interview, and my money was running out! My dear housemate at that time told me, “Go! Don’t worry about paying rent for the next few months!”. I went on the trip, and I ended up in that location a year later.

We had a rehearsal the day before our wedding. There was quite a turnout, with musicians, pastors, family and friends from near and far. We needed a plan for the timing of the music and walking down the aisle. People looked to me. I was overwhelmed with everything and ducked out for a quick cry. One of my dear bridesmaids bravely stepped in to take charge, and everyone’s stress dialled down.

My new husband and I were finally moving into our apartment, after months of travel and house sitting. In the decluttering and packing process I kept losing things, like my hairbrush and my passport! A dear friend said, “Hey, I’m going to cook for you”. We had delicious lemon chicken to pull out of the freezer on exhausting days, and it felt like everything would be ok.

When has the Lord’s kindness unexpectedly sat with you? How did it change your life?

In what way is the Lord inviting you to be his kindness, to someone in need? Do you believe he could use it to change their life?

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When a Stranger in a Niqab Rescued Me

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