Assisting the displaced

The stories I wrote during my trip to Haradh and the displacement camps last month have now all been posted on the UNICEF website. The latest one is about volunteers who work in the camps to spread awareness about the need for proper hygiene and sanitation:

Volunteers bring hygiene awareness to displaced communities in Yemen

Last week they posted a story about a school that has taken in nearly 2,000 students from displaced families:

Displaced by conflict, students crowd a village school in northern Yemen

A ceasefire was announced about two weeks ago and is slowly being implemented in the conflict area. As yet, though, the situation is still too unstable to allow people to return and it is still unclear what they would be returning to. There is very little information available about the condition of infrastructure and services.

I read today that in previous rounds of this conflict, only about 40 per cent of the displaced people actually returned home after ceasefires were announced. More than half of them remained displaced, and the current round of fighting has seen more people fleeing their homes than ever before.

How to Tie a Yemeni Headscarf

I spent the whole afternoon shopping in the old city today. Our last stop was with Mohammed, who sells scarves and shawls. I asked him to show me how Yemeni men wear their head scarf. Here's his demonstration:

 

First fold the square in half to form a triangle, and put the straight edge against your forehead.

 

Keeping one hand still, bring one of the points around the back of your head and down by your ear.

Now do the same on the other side.

 

Lift one point up and across your forehead again.

Tuck in the tip.

 

And do the same on the other side.

Buy a camel and go for a walk in the desert.

My Morning Commute

 

Not being able to communicate with my driver, Mohammed, is such a missed opportunity. The guy used to be a policeman and there's so much I want to ask him about, but we can only communicate in the vaguest of hand gestures and conversations with other people who speak our respective languages.

This morning he fished around for a cassette tape and then proudly played the one American song he seems to have been able to lay his hands on. It was Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting," a song I adored when I was a senior in high school about 20 years ago! I started to sing along, to acknowledge my appreciation for this touch of home he was able to provide for me. On the way home this afternoon, it was back again, this time on repeat... I wonder if now I'll have to hear that song several times a day for the rest of my stay here. A very sweet gesture, though. Shoukran!

Mohammed has been extremely reliable and dependable and he sort of treats me like he's my uncle or something. I am always happy to see his smiling face waiting for me. I come out my gate and there he is every morning. We take off towards the office and head out on the divided highway that runs north-south through the city. The sun is rising to my right, coming up above the mountains that surround the city. In the distance is the obscenely sized al-Saleh mosque, built by the president at some ridiculous cost -- I've heard reports of $20 million and $120 million! Either way it's a vulgar cost for a country that can't provide its citizens with their basic needs.

 

We swing a U-turn just past the mosque and head back on the other side of the highway, past Pizza Hut and KFC and in the direction of Fun City amusement park. The need for U-turns can be infuriating sometimes... Whenever possible, Mohammed takes a little shortcut that requires us to lawlessly drive the wrong way in oncoming traffic for a short stretch. It's something that would probably drive me crazy in another country, but here it's kind of funny to me and it shaves a good five minutes off the drive. Not that I mind though. It's an easy commute -- 15 minutes maximum. 

When we get in the area of the office, we turn right and pass a tea shop where dozens of men are always sitting on the ground having their breakfast. I always wonder who they are and what they will do with the rest of their day. If I could, I'd ask Mohammed. I'm sure he'd have a story to tell.

A Valiant Effort

Hilarious moment: One of the office drivers had been promising to come over to my apartment to help me fix my washing machine. Yesterday we left early for a meeting and on the way we realized we had just enough time to go to my place, fix it and still make it in time for the meeting. All was going well and, in spite of Sanaa's maddening road system that requires you to go from A to B via D, E and F, it looked like we were going to make it. We took a shortcut and then, Bam!, got stuck.

A truck broke down coming in the opposite direction, right in front of a parked car, leaving no room for other cars to pass. The truck driver got out of the cab and looked bewildered for a moment. He probably hadn't had enough qat yet. Then he walked back behind the rear wheel -- this is a 3-ton truck, mind you, the kind that has tires about 6-feet high -- and gave a push! Like he was going to be able to just bump the truck out of the way!! Hilarious.

Battle on the Bridge

 

Look at this bridge. Isn't it beautiful? Doesn't it look like something out of a fairy tale?

I really want to go there and visit it, but it's in an area of the north where fighting has been ongoing, leaving the region off limits for travel.

I was bemoaning the lack of access to some of the most amazing parts of the country to my Yemeni friend the other day. When I brought up the bridge at Shaharah and how I'd really like to visit it, he said: "Do you know my grandfather fought the Turks there? My family was loyal to Imam Yahya and my grandfather was killed there, on the bridge, with his jambiya in his hand."

This is what I mean about history feeling like it happened yesterday. I will now not be able to look at a picture of Shaharah bridge without picturing a hand-to-hand battle between invading Ottomans and my friend's rebellious grandpa. 

Virtuous Flowering Blossom of the Desert

In Iran, my name first aroused curiosity and then suspicion. Zahra is a very common girl's name in Iran, so hearing it made most people think I was of at least half-Iranian parentage. When I protested that I was, in fact, Canadian, they assumed I was some sort of stuck-up brat whose family had fled Iran at the time of the Revolution and who had refused to learn her own language, culture and heritage.

In Yemen, my name mostly seems to arouse reverence. "Do you know what it means?" they ask excitedly. "Yes, it means 'flower'," I answer, only to be politely corrected and then guided into the various and deeper levels of meaning the name seems to carry for many people here. "Not just flower," they say. "The most beautiful flowering blossom." Others say it means 'beauty' or 'brightness' or 'the shining one.'

"It literally means flower," one young man told me, "but it implies aspects of virtue and high moral standing." Other people just smile and say, "I love that name," giving me a congratulatory look, as though as a very wise baby I had chosen the name for myself.

This, to me, is just one example of the deeply romantic spirit of the people I have encountered here in Yemen.

I'm now reading a book called "Travels in Dictionary Land," by a Brit who has been in Yemen for years and clearly is in love with the place. I can see why, and I can't help but smile as I read of his experiences. I am glad to be reading it now, after being here for a month, so I can relate to what he is saying. Like this:

My reading revealed that others, too, had been bewitched by Yemen. 'Never', wrote one medieval visitor, 'have I seen glances more penetrating than those of the Yemenis. When they look at you, they dive into you...'

Iranians love to hark back to their storied history, but when you are in the country you look around and think, "that was long ago and far away." Here, people don't bring up their past nearly as often, but you can feel it all the time. History never seems far away. As I read about Shem, son of Noah and founder of Sana'a, or the Sabaeans or the Sultans of Lahj, it all feels like it could have happened yesterday.

What Happens in Sana'a, Stays in Sana'a

I've been told that Sana'a, and all of Yemen really, is a common stomping ground for Saudis who want to go somewhere where they can drink, do drugs and pick up girls. How true this is, I don't know for sure, but it makes sense. I was told that after they kicked the troublemaker out of my old place they found whiskey and drugs in his apartment.

With the "Rowdy Saudi" incident firmly behind me, I am happy to say I'm now safely installed in a new apartment that is larger, better equipped and on a quieter street than the last place. I went to the nearest supermarket yesterday evening, which is a complete adrenaline rush as you have to dart across a busy divided street to get there... This town REALLY needs some pedestrian overpasses.

Internally Displaced

I started this week sick to my stomach and ended it homeless, thanks to a rowdy Saudi Arabian who caused a scene in my apartment building two nights ago. The incident made me call UN security in the middle of the night, which prompted my office to insist that I find another place to stay.

A colleague kindly offered to take me in for a few days while other accommodations are found, so now I find myself in an enormous house living out of a suitcase once again. The house, I must say, is grand with lots of sunlight streaming in from all sides, so the situation is an improvement over the windowless sitting room where I've spent the past few weekends. But it's amazing how attached I had become to that place in just under a month. As I hastily packed my things yesterday evening, I was actually sad to be leaving what had so quickly become the "familiar."

Anyway, now that I'm in a new environment, one without constant access to internet and satellite TV, I am rediscovering the joys of reading and listening to music. I'm reading a book by Robert MacNeil, who is most famous for co-anchoring the MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour on PBS for decades. The book, called Burden of Desire, is set in Halifax in 1917 when a major explosion destroyed a large part of the downtown area. It's a good read, both for the historical setting and for the character development, and I find myself hoping I don't read it too quickly.

Alien Invasion

I just discovered ants in my living room -- lots of them. I probably should stop eating all my meals on the sofa in front of the TV. Or at least I should start being a little neater as I eat all my meals on the sofa in front of the TV.

Even though I was not very happy to see them scurrying out from under my coffee table and chair, I did feel sort of bad as I crushed them under the sole of my sandal. As a sort of punishment, perhaps, I now have the feeling of little things crawling all over me...

What's the average lifespan of an ant? Couple of days? Couple of hours? It couldn't be years, could it?

Well, I'm back from a quick Google search armed with the information that worker ants live about 45-60 days. Oh, and they have about 250,000 brain cells, which is "the largest among all the insects."