Leaving Yemen

Having finally bought my ticket for the States, or rather, having finally had my sister and power of attorney buy my ticket on my behalf, this whole “leaving Yemen” thing suddenly became more real. Spending lots of money will often have that effect on me. I’ve been sad all week as people have come to me and insisted I stay and regaled me with stories about how they haven’t been sleeping or eating since they found out I was leaving or how they went home and cried for hours thinking about it. Walking through the camp several times this week I even felt tears pricking behind my eyes, although I think that might have been because the hot steamy wind was blowing chunks of sand into them, but I will count it as a sign of my humanity and compassion. So I was going to write about all the things that I am going to miss when I leave Yemen, and then I thought about the things that I won’t miss. And then I realized that even though there are things that I will be glad to leave behind, I will kind of miss them because they made great stories, helped people to feel sorry for me (I’m counting on that translating into lots of nice things that will be done for me when I get back to the States, Joanna), and eventually (as was the case during one horrible terrible camping trip I was dragged to in Syria) I will be able to find these little hardships kind of amusing. So I’m just going to make a list of the things that I won’t have anymore when I am no longer a resident in a country on the brink of civil war, the majority of whose population lives on less than $2 a day (that last bit of the sentence is courtesy of every single article ever written about Yemen in the last six months). Here goes:

· Being Amina Nuur Jaamac- the Somali name that Mosman (Mohamed Osman) and I came up with. Everywhere I walk in the camp, there’s always someone who knows that name and they yell, “Amina, Amina!” after me. A few know Amanda, but they usually forget it and call me Amina anyway. Most also know the “Nuur Jaamac” which in Somali culture at the names of my Father (Nuur) and my Grandfather (Jaamac). I hope they like their new names. I actually chose those names because in my mind they sound more feminine and I like them. Nuur is a girl’s name in Arabic, but a man’s name in Somali. Also I didn’t want to join the crowd of “Mohamed’s” as I think there are too many of them. Although I do find it convenient in a way because whenever someone asks if I know him (and I know that I should know him, but I can’t remember his name), I say, “Yeah, you’re Mohamed, right?” And half the time I am right and they are amazed! Incidentally, I came up with Mosman’s name, but he didn’t appreciate it much and resents the fact that others now call him that as well. I knew it was catchy!

·Sandstorms

· Fasoulieh (spicy beans) and khubz tawa (large, soft, flat naan-like bread)

· Rocks

· Living in the Women’s Section and talking to boys through the wall at night when I’m not wearing ‘outside clothing.’

· Flamingoes in the Gulf of Aden

· Crazy Khadra—she really is crazy. I like her because she scares the crap out of Filip who has actually run for cover a few times when he’s seen her coming. She is thin and black and chews qat perpetually. Occasionally a violent stone-thrower, she is also sometimes very affectionate. Apparently her son is very smart and doing well in Aden, but I’ve never met him. I wonder what happened to her to make her crazy, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.

· Swarms of moths. I really think that God should have thrown this plague in for the Egyptians. Moths are seriously annoying and when you kill them they squish disgustingly.

· Being attacked by children who want to hug me, kiss my hand, and/or get candy for me. Just so you know, they hug me even when I don’t have candy! Love these cute African babies…like the Yemeni ones too, I just don’t see them that much.

· Being screamed at by children who have never seen a white person and find my odd skin color terrifying.

· Convincing a couple of those children to love me anyway (to see my true colors shining through, of course) by shear perseverance involving candy and learning the word for “high five” in Somali.

· Livestock-goats, donkeys, especially camels wandering around. I like to see goats who have climbed to the top of the shrubby little desert trees and camels with crows perched on their heads.

· UNDSS text messages telling me that “gunfire has been heard in Ma’alla district. Please avoid the area” or “Demonstration in Crater near al-Ahli Bank and road blocks in Tawahi. Please use alternate routes” and of course “Celebratory gunshots being fired in honor of the president’s speech. Stay inside away from windows.”

· Wearing a burqa to sneak out of the camp and avoid potential kidnappers.

· Going to church with a lovely Pakistani family, a couple of Ethiopians, a Filipino, a Canadian, and a Brit—the beautiful diversity of the family of God!

· Checking the car for bombs before we start it. Pretending to be joking about having someone check the car for bombs before we start it so that we can check anyway. This is a recent development since a British captain (not my British captain though, Thank God) was killed by a bomb in his car last week. It has made things more exciting for us. It seems this incident is not connected to him being a foreigner, but rather to the work he was doing. Still, you never really know in Yemen.

· Swarms of mosquitoes in the girls’ bathroom that make it sound like a helicopter is in the room with you while you’re sitting on the toilet. An awkward feeling.

· My Adeni AC which occasionally, usually in the middle of the night, bursts into a squeaky sound much like the violin music used in horror films to signal the entrance of the ax murderer or the impending doom of a secondary character. My body has been trained to respond with trepidation to this sound and I find myself awaking in a panic looking for the creepy little girl with scary eyes who should be standing over me with a knife. Still, I’m really grateful for the 22-hour electricity we have in Aden.

· Having a sauna for a bathroom.

· Having naturally heated hot water coming from my faucet that is hot enough to make tea at certain hours of the day.

· Running with Osman, the driver for CSSW who talks like he’s got a wad of qat in his mouth even when he doesn’t. Most of the time I have no idea what he’s saying, but I am so good at pretending. We have had many great conversations, most of which have likely been on completely different topics. We usually run around in circles for about 3 minutes (me holding up my abaya so I don’t trip on the skirt) and then he goes off to do his 7arakat (literal translation=moves) which include some intense stretching and high kicks while I put in my music and keep walking around and around the compound like an insane hamster.

· UNDSS security emails from Simon Butt. I am going to miss that guy.

· Swarms of flies that attack me while I’m trying to shower.

· Showering and then finding myself dripping with sweat two minutes later.

· Showering with no electricity so I have to grope around to find my shampoo.

· Hanging out with Oromos on the weekend, drinking strong coffee, eating wonderful spicy Ethiopian food, smoking sheesha, and playing with cute kids.

· Running, hiking, exploring the rocky Adeni mountains with the Captain.

· Swimming in the sea with the Captain.

· Learning random seaman’s facts from the captain-how to tell when the sun will go down by measuring with my hand and how to tell how far it is to the horizon on a clear day and how to count between the wave cycles.

· Eating “spicy goat” with the captain.

· Practicing driving a standard car with the captain.

· Finding unexploded mortars in the mountains with the Captain and carefully walking away.

· Doing anything at all with probably the coolest 70 year old man in the world. What is cooler than a British sea captain living in Yemen, climbing and swimming during his free time, and generally being awesome?

· OK, I’m really going to miss the Captain.

· Kafa dying my hair with henna.

· Speaking Arabic as fast as I can with Nusaiba because that’s how she talks…

· Practicing Somali.

· Flirting outrageously with the Yemeni security escorts and check point personnel. They taught me how to shoot a Kalashnikov but I didn’t actually pull the trigger because I didn’t want to kill any of the nearby camels and/or people. They love me. Always be charming to people with guns.

· Wearing the same clothes two days in a row because everyone else does.

· My home gardening team. Man, I love those guys so much! Abdulqadir, Jihad, Jeylani, Osman, Mandela, Abdirizak, Yusuf, and even crazy Isaq—ok, maybe especially crazy Isaq. There is something about being patted on the head by a seven foot tall skinny Somali man in a sarong that I find charming.

· Pulling off an event I’ve planned even when I have to improvise to fill in gaps left by the Aden team not procuring the stuff that I requested decades previously.

· Hearing heart-breaking stories that make me love these people more than I ever thought I could.

· Shada, Abdishukur, and Shayma-my favorite kids that I have actually dreamed of adopting if their mother didn’t get better.

· Washing my clothes by hand. Not rinsing them. Hanging them up on the line.

· Washing my clothes in the washing machine in Aden which I often leads to floods when the water overflows because I forget to turn off the stupid hose.

· Being able to love the poor, the oppressed, the down-trodden. Being able to proclaim the Good News of the Gospel of Peace to a people who have seen violence all their lives and show them where to find freedom for the captives.

I’m going to miss this place! There’s a lot I’m looking forward to in my future—seeing family, loving nephews, niece and the Unborn, the next adventure… But knowing that I have a future to look forward to while others do not is what makes leaving here one of the hardest things I’ve done in a while. Never before have I felt so much like I’m abandoning people I love when the wanderlust catches me again. Many caring friends, more than just my mom even, have been reminding me that I’m not the savior of these people. While I know that’s true, I hate that I am another person they’ve learned to love who they must say goodbye to, possibly forever. I hate that I’m leaving during the most miserably hot time of year when the situation in their ‘refuge’ country is uncertain. I don’t know what’s going to happen to these people I care about. I know I was supposed to come here, and I’ve done my best in a difficult place. As usual, I came to give, work, help, love and I’m leaving with so many memories wonderful blessings, special friends, exciting stories, and enlarged CV. I’m also leaving behind another piece of my heart in another precious country, and again, wondering why I do this to myself and when I won’t have any more pieces left to leave behind…but I love it and doubt I’ll stop anytime soon. Of course that means that I’ll continue to sporadically update this blog with sappy paragraphs like this one and longer stories of random things that amuse me.

Jurassic Park 3

Last July Benji and I somehow convinced his wife-my sister to watch Jurassic Park 3 with us. This masterpiece of cinematography is probably familiar to most of you due to the multiple awards it has won and its great critical acclaim. Joanna, afraid of dinosaurs in spite of the fact that they don’t exist anymore (some people argue that they never existed) was not easy to persuade. I guess we must have led her to believe that there was some swashbuckling romantic action or maybe she just didn’t have the energy to argue with us after chasing her son around all day. Anyway, I’d already seen JP3 on a train in China, and its main draw for me was the idea of wandering around in an abandoned museum-ish thing (modern ruins if you will), and, of course, dinosaurs whose existence I continue to believe in faithfully. So I wanted to watch it again for those reasons and also because I like to convince other people to watch dumb movies, something that Marian and Josh can attest to.

So why am I bringing up Jurassic Park 3? Because of the stellar acting? To revel in my powers of coercing others to do things they don’t yet know that they don’t want to do? To convince you that dinosaurs exist? In fact, it is none of these things, but my actual logic may be hard for you to grasp. Today I finally traveled back to Kharaz after much begging, pouting, and generally making a nuisance of myself in order to convince people to let me go. The trip from to and from Kharaz always reminds me of JP3. First, there is a large abandoned (well, technically never completed) hotel resort area that we pass by on our way out. The part that we can see is a large pink wall that stretches on for miles. This wall is the exact shade of pink that is most often the background for a Hello Kitty face. It is surrounded by dead palm trees in varying stages of decay. The door is wide and welcoming, but blocked by a pile of sand. I don’t know what is behind the wall. I know it was built by a foreign businessman (some say Emirati, others say Japanese) who dreamt of providing rich Gulfies with their own all-inclusive resort. All inclusive which is including an amusement park (see my blog entry about Fun City), a golf course, a 5-star hotel, and the beach. Apparently he built the wall and ran out of money. I guess that pink paint is expensive. Some people say there is the beginning of a hotel deep inside the compound, and I like to think of it existing, infested by wandering camels and evil crows. Camels I find to be reminiscent of dinosaurs, the brontosaurus kind of dinosaur that eats grass and has a long neck. You know, the kind made famous in the plethora of Land Before Time movies which were created to drive babysitters crazy. Later the Barney market developed-- another attempt to further discredit dinosaurs and torture childcare workers. But Barney is a mutant psycho T-rex who lures in his prey with a façade of family-friendly kindness. At least he is not a Teletubby, the most terrifying of all creatures conjured up for childhood entertainment.

So back to the journey which connects to the dinosaur theme by virtue of the fact that the car that we were driving could possibly be carbon-dated back to the Jurassic period, offering more proof that dinosaurs and humans coexisted. I would offer to try to discover its origins, but as far as I know it remains broken down by the side of the road where we left it. I’ll definitely look for it on my way back to Aden later.

Because recently the villagers decided that shooting at NGO cars and/or hijacking them is a fun way to get free transportation, ADRA has decided not to drive our cars into the camp for the time being. Because I whined and moaned, they agreed to hire one of the refugee cars that drives refugees from their summer homes in the urban slums of Basateen to their refugee homes where they can collect free rations and live in a tent. I’m usually not allowed in these cars because they are not “official” and I would be stopped at police checkpoints, but some papers were drawn up and I was approved for travel. The power of a good temper-tantrum. Abdullah, a coworker whose awkwardness has driven many a foreign female to extreme lengths, was to choose “a good car” for our journey which also included one other Yemeni of Indonesian descent (cool, huh?!) colleague named Khaled Jawi (Khaled the Java person). Sadly, Abdullah made that fatal mistake common to man and immortalized in many a cliché: he picked the one with the best paint job. In this case, judging the book by its cover brought us to a sputtering standstill a few miles past the pink wall, maybe half an hour into our journey. While the men worked to fix the car, Abdullah and I wandered down to the beach. When we came back, he was pressed into service as a car pusher, and my services were refused. I jogged alongside shouting encouragement instead. A convenient handle on the side of the car should have helped Abdullah guess that this car was meant for pushing. But in spite of the enthusiastic efforts of the men and a nearby friendly car, the engine refused to be coaxed into working. Much pushing and hacking at the inside of the engine went on for quite some time. I went to the beach again and sat down to work on my ankle and wrist tans. They will be golden-bronze in no time.

An hour and a half later, we gave up and Khaled and I crammed into the friendly refugee car built to hold a maximum of 10 people which was now holding almost twice that, plus baggage that couldn’t be tied to the roof of the car. Abdullah, as punishment for choosing a bad car, was designated as the person who was to stay and watch the stuff until the rescue car arrived. They wouldn’t let me stay even though I didn’t want to cram in the car with a bunch of people who had already been forced to wait for us and now were going to be forced to squish in their seats (which they paid for) next to a couple of foreigners (Khaled is a Jawi after all). As my foot developed a cramp and sweat dripped down my back and sand flew in my face and crunched in my teeth, I hoped that we would not clip one of the many large sand piles that were creeping into the road and tip over. I didn’t really want to die in a refugee car on the way back to Kharaz—not while there’s still a chance I might get to evacuate Yemen by boat.

Anyway, I’m back. I might go to Sana’a this weekend to get more pages in my passport as I’m a bit worried about having only one page left, and what if I have a long layover somewhere on my way back to the US and I can’t leave the airport because I don’t have enough pages in my passport? But I might stay here if it looks like I can’t get back next week. With the uncertain situation in the country, and the lack of diesel for our cars, transportation is becoming a bit difficult. That’s why I’m voting for the UNHCR to purchase a helicopter for the use of their personnel and the IPs (Implementing Partners of which ADRA is one). All of their overpaid workers could donate a tiny percentage of their salaries and we could buy it right away. Then, if we did evacuate, we could just fly over to the nearest boat and head to Djibouti. And since Jurassic Park 3 is not a movie based on real events (Joanna), there is only the smallest of chances that we will get knocked out of the sky by a flock of pterodactyls.

Me preparing to hitchhike, but at this point it just looks like I'm giving the 'thumbs up' to the driver--"Good job staying on the road, Mr!" I did amuse myself by waving enthusiastically at all passing vehicles. I'm sure that they enjoyed having a crazy foreigner divert them from the monotony of blue sea, brown sand, camels, and shrubs.

Last Day in Kharaz

I really shouldn’t be writing about my last day in Kharaz when I’ve been back here for two weeks now, but I am constantly reminded of that last eventful day whenever I run into someone I haven’t seen since then. So to recap: before my lovely green, rainy, perfect Indonesian holiday with my parents and old friends, I was hurriedly finishing up projects so that I wouldn’t have to do too much once I got to Indo. That was a good idea because I mostly did nothing except enjoy myself thoroughly while I was there. But let’s rewind to that last Kharaz day…

I had a long list of things to do that day, and I was wishing for Hermione’s time-turner to help me be in more than one place at the same time. Home Gardening project (now to be referred to as HG) deadlines were flashing before my eyes, and I was trying to make sure that my guys knew what to do to finish up the year and meet the UNHCR impossible goals (they did, by the way, because they are mumtaztik). I was also trying to make sure that the nutrition training I had planned was happening and that people were attending the training and being served their expected complimentary beverages. I also had to receive a few loan payments and write receipts, as well as finish gluing photos on certificates to give out during the ceremony I had planned for later that morning. Keep in mind that everything had to be finished before 1:00 which was the designated time for the convoy to leave if we wanted to have a security escort, which we did because the last time an ADRA car left without a security escort they were hijacked and the car was taken.

Everything was going smoothly until the last bit of the ceremony when I was giving out certificates to the vocational training students. They were also promised toolkits that they could use in their future jobs, but in spite of the fact that I emailed, texted, google-chatted with, and called the person in charge of procuring those things an impressive number of times over the past few weeks, he still hadn’t even bought them. So I decided to hold the party and give out the certificates with the promise of the toolkits soon. Unfortunately, that was a bad idea, and when I began to hand out certificates without the toolkits, a riot broke out in the party room. The students refused to accept the certificates without the tookits. So I was angry with Anwer for not following through with his side of the work which I cannot do from Kharaz, and I understood the frustration of the students because they should have gotten their toolkits and certificates a month earlier. But I was also annoyed with the students who did nothing to receive all the vocational training that ADRA provided for them, and yet they were demanding that we provide them these things as if we were violating their sacred human rights by not providing the toolkits. Anyway, that’s human nature, I guess, and ADRA’s not in it for the thank you, and this isn’t really my project either so I wasn’t expecting thanks anyway. But I was tired and that made me less excited about taking the blame for other people’s mistakes.

So after the party that turned into a riot, I hopped in the car and drove around to finish up some HG business. On the way back to the compound, my former boss, whom I love and miss, got in the car with us. He and Filip, who took his position, sat in the back, and I sat in the front by myself as befits a lady. But I was turned around in a very unlady-like fashion so as be able to passionately relate my tale of party-woes to Mohamed Osman. I was fairly animated, and I happened to be speaking in Arabic because I’d already told Filip the story in English, and I didn’t think he’d want to hear it again (he doesn’t speak Arabic). Unfortunately, the driver also found my story interesting, and he made the mistake of turning to watch me tell the story with all my dramatic flair and in so doing ran into a pole.

To be honest, it is not really easy to get into an accident in Kharaz. There are less than 10 cars that actually exist in this area and while there are no paved roads, only tracks in the dust and rocks, everything is mostly flat and driving over rocks makes it difficult and uncomfortable to drive very fast. The biggest danger is the children, but kids here are still afraid of cars, unlike those in Aden who make games of throwing rubber balls under the wheels of nearby vehicles, hoping that they won’t get squished. Knowing this, I was not wearing my seatbelt, and the next thing I knew, there was a loud crash and I was in the floor of the car.

Mohamed Osman ran to my door and started trying to pull me out of the car which I didn’t really want since I was still trying to catch my breath. I knew I wasn’t seriously injured, but people kept gasping at me and trying to drag me to the hospital. Then I realized I had blood dripping down my face, which makes sense as I am pretty sure my head bumped into the windshield a little bit.

I allowed myself to be escorted to the hospital, and I was sent in another car that happened to come our way at that point from the compound, and I was followed by the large crowd that had gathered nearby, including Ishaaq, my tallest and craziest HG assistant. In the crowded clinic, I was rushed past women carrying sick babies as if I had something really serious. As I expected, the doctor glanced at me, wiped off the blood, and said, “You’re ok. I’d give you a bandage, but we just ran out.” And that was that.

Later, another NGO gave me some band-aids from their first aid kit, and the nutritionist who had finished giving her training that day, cleverly fashioned one into something that could go over the bridge of my nose. She insisted on spraying my cuts with her version of an anti-septic: knock-off “Docle & Gabbanna” perfume which left a lingering sickly smell about my face for the rest of the day. Plus, once the bandages were on I looked like I’d been in a serious accident. People came from near and far to gaze at me and offer condolences. My entire HG team showed up in my office as Ishaaq had spread the news. It was interesting to have 8 big farmers filling up our little office, hovering over me to make sure I was ok.

Al-muhim, I survived, and I even made it back to Aden that day in spite of the fact that we had to go in a slightly broken-down vehicle that puttered out a couple of times on the road and even blew out a tire later on. Fortunately, the security car stayed with us to help out.

That’s the story…and it is also the last thing everyone remembers about my time here. Since I’ve been back, people have been checking me for scars and exclaiming over the fact that I came back, not being scared away because of the horrors of my car accident. But they can’t get rid of me that easily! Maybe Anwer will push me to the brink though…he STILL hasn’t gotten me all the stuff I need for the toolkits.

Kharaz Security

Security is a big deal in Kharaz reportedly. I am constantly warned of danger and chastised for leaving the compound alone. The biggest worry is that I will be kidnapped by local Yemenis who will use me as a bargaining chip in their feud with the government. In other places in the past this has proved effective, but until recently it was not a threat that local Yemeni tribes were using against the NGOs in this area. For example, once a car with two foreigners in it was hijacked, but the foreigners were allowed to go free, walking the rest of the way to the camp. Since that time, it has been mandatory for all NGO cars going to and from Kharaz to be escorted by Yemeni soldiers/policemen in their armed cars. This is inconvenient for all people who like to follow a schedule and minimize pointless waiting time. Yemeni policemen are not overly concerned with promptness.

In my four short months in Yemen, we’ve already been evacuated from the camp two times due to threats from local villagers. The first time, an angry villager, expecting to be paid for work he never did, roused a bunch of his tribesmen and started stalking the camp with their rusty weaponry, looking for NGO cars to hijack and yelling that he would kick out all of the NGOs. We were gone for a month. Last week we were evacuated suddenly after a fax (no, not a carrier pigeon, but a fax) was sent to the UNHCR office in Aden warning of an impending attack on the NGO compound. This time we were gone for a day. That is life here in Kharaz…frustrating when there is work to be done in the camp and we can’t get to it, but exciting because you never know where you’re going to end up.

A couple of weeks ago, on the weekend, I dutifully checked with the guards about leaving the compound. I don’t often do this, but there had been some threats recently, and my coworker with a mommy complex made me swear to check before I left. Abu Jamal, a jovial Yemeni guard with a long pointy white beard, a large rounded gut, always clad in traditional Yemeni garb, greeted me at the gate and assured me that my five-minute walk to the Women’s Center in plain view of the compound would be perfectly safe. He laughed at the worries of Nusaiba and others, but offered to escort me if I wanted. I declined. Ten minutes later, I was in the Women’s Center, and I hear a knock on the door. It’s Abu Jamal and he is yelling at me to come on get out now! I grabbed all my stuff and went to find out what happened. He whisked me into the ambulance which he had somehow commandeered, squeezing us both into the passenger seat and we zoomed back to the compound. During our very short ride, he informed me that a truck full of Yemeni men with weapons had come by the compound just after I left, swearing to kidnap the first red person they saw. Never having heard of myself being referred to as a “red person,” I checked to make sure they were talking about me. “Oh yes,” I was informed by the driver of the car who was himself ironically covered with henna mud in the process of dying his hair, beard and face an orangey-red in the fashion of some Yemenis, “Foreigners like you are red.” I’m not sure if the armed men actually saw me and thus made their threat, but I was told by my boss that this is the first time Yemenis in this area had actually threatened kidnapping of a foreigner even though this was a common practice in other parts of the country. He was concerned and I was kept under lock and key for the rest of the weekend. I was mostly amused by how the story grew. That night I got a phone call from Aden asking me if I had been hurt by my would-kidnappers, and for the next week people kept coming to me to make sure I was all right. Somehow the story grew to me being almost kidnapped or beaten up or chased by evil Yemeni villagers. Fortunately, it all blew over quickly and I was only escorted to work in the camp one time—by a scrawny unarmed soldier boy who probably would have run away as fast as his little legs could carry him if anything had really happened. But with him, I was safer than on my own, I guess.

More recently another threat to my security was from a crazy Somali refugee who decided to follow me and my microfinance assistant, Abdifatah, around in our work. He kept trying to offer us cigarettes, and we refused. Abdi tried to get him to leave, but he refused. He kept trying to walk closer and closer to me, and finally Abdi gave me his phone to carry, pushed up his sleeves and said: “I’m going to fight him.” I laughed at him (he’s kind of a tough guy), and we kept walking and Crazy Guy didn’t try anything else until we got back to our office. Then, I am guessing, he said something that made Abdi mad, maybe something about Al Shabab as he claims to be on their side and Abdi hates Al Shabab enough that even a crazy guy might push him over the edge on that point. Abdi went into the office and got a fold-up metal chair and starts to threaten to hit the guy with it. I’m thinking this is going to turn into something TV worthy and considering changing into my bikini and high heels, but I got distracted because at that moment the oldest car in the world carrying the oldest living man in Yemen put-putted up to my office and died. I noticed that it was carrying some much-needed supplies for my gardening project so I started poking around in the back of the truck while Methuselah undid the padlock on the hood of the car to start his own poking around the engine, trying to make it stop smoking. I was making sure everything was there, keeping an eye on Abdi and Crazy who was picking up rocks to throw at Abdi (there is never a shortage of large rocks here in Kharaz). Another man ran to get the armed security men I told you about before. An armed soldier (they will come armed if they’re going to fight a refugee) showed up and told Crazy to leave. But Crazy, in the true sense of “crazy,” says the equivalent of “Bring on your gun! I’ve got a rock!” At that point my boss shows up trying to get me to go to a wedding which I know I can’t make it to since I now have to deal with Crazy, have a meeting with a potential loan client and his guarantor, and unload and register everything in the Oldest Truck in the World. While my boss, not a very big man at all, is talking to me, Crazy comes up to him and starts waving his finger in Mohamed Osman’s face and yelling stuff at him. Mohamed replied calmly, and Abdi got out the chair again. I was told later that Crazy was warning Mohamed not to talk to me. I’m not sure if he was trying to protect me or warning Mohamed away from the infidel foreigner with uncovered hair. Crazy then put his flipflops on his hands and started doing push-ups to show his toughness. At this point, the owner of the Oldest Truck who had been busily working away under the corroded rusty hood, oblivious to the mayhem around him, had managed to get the truck to gasp out a few more miles, and I got in the truck to go with him to unload everything. As I was very slowly driving (rolling) away I saw four armed soldiers come and forcefully escort Crazy, ranting and raving, away to our little Kharaz jail.

In reality, I think my biggest danger here is the wild dogs. I was out early one morning and a couple a dogs were sniffing around. They barked, but I ignored them until one came up and nipped at me. Fortunately for me not wanting to have to go get rabies shots, he only caught the hem of my long black dress. I grabbed a convenient rock (of which I told you previously there are plenty) and chucked it at him and he ran away. Ever since then, I always load up on rocks to throw at attacking dogs just in case. I’ve been attacked a couple of times since then, but the rocks work. I have never wanted to throw rocks at dogs before, but these dogs have mauled people before in the camp. The maintenance people tried to kill them, but compassionate refugees kept some in their houses and they were never able to eradicate them all. It did help me understand some of the fear that people have for dogs now. But I still don’t get why some of the girls I live with in the compound are deathly afraid of the tiny new born kittens living in our yard. “Are you afraid of the big cats?” I asked them. “No. Just the little ones. They are so creepy,” they informed me.

So you see between my weapon of choice (rocks) and Abdi’s weapon of choice (the chair) and security’s weapon of choice (the Kalashnikov), I don’t see how THIS red person is going to be kidnapped any time soon. But if I am, don’t worry, their demands will be promptly faxed to the UNHCR, and I’m sure I’ll be released soon.

Christmas

It's kind of sad, but here it is:

I was going to write about some of the funnier moments that happened this week, and there were several, but I just wanted to take a moment to do something out of character and be serious. First, I will explain that I love Christmas. I start listening to Christmas music the day after Thanksgiving every year. But this year, whether it was the fact that my Thanksgiving meal was eggs and hot peppers with Somali bread or the fact that I am in a dusty desert surrounded by refugees living in tiny huts or the fact that I couldn’t decide where I was going to spend Christmas--whatever the reason, I didn’t want to listen to Christmas music. I was not depressed or sad to be missing Christmas…I wasn’t thinking about Christmas at all. And I love Christmas…so it was strange for me. I tried to listen to Christmas music but turned it off after one song. But this last week, maybe because of the nearness of Christmas in Indonesia (ticket prices finally decided for me), I started listening again. And then I started singing along. And all week I have heard over and over again the words from the second verse of “Oh Holy Night” (a song that is resurrected and murdered by various divas and divos without fail every Christmas): Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother, and in His name all oppression shall cease!

This week I’m grieving the oppression I see around me. I am especially hurting over the fate of a little boy I recently came to love. Khaled’s story touched my heart right away when I first met him. He’s an Oromo, a minority Ethiopian ethnic group that has been persecuted in Ethiopia and sometimes is allowed refugee status in Yemen if their story is horrific enough. Khaled’s parents are divorced and both remarried. Neither new family wants him, and he has been passed along in the camp foster system from family to family, all Somali, who don’t want him either because he makes trouble and runs away. Finally, after trying every foster family in the camp and the orphanage in Aden, Khaled decided he wanted to work in the village. This week I found out that he has been working in the village, but that he is living with a man who is sexually abusing him. I wanted to run in and get him out. I pestered my boss and the social counselors who all told me that we can’t deal with this, a different NGO is in charge of protection. I know that NGO won’t do anything. And I don’t know what else I can do. Khaled’s story is common here.



Every day I am approached by refugees asking for assistance who don’t yet know that I’m only in charge of gardens and small business loans. These people are desperately seeking help for medical procedures that can’t be done in the camp. Some of them want food for their children since the rations they received were full of worms. Others just want a blanket because it’s gotten cold here at night and they are worried about the health of their families. These people left everything they knew hoping for a better life, and frankly, in many cases, it’s worse here in the middle of nowhere in an unknown land far from family and friends.

So where is my hope? What am I even doing here? I keep asking myself that because it’s about time to renew my contract, and I find myself wanting to run away again to start a new adventure somewhere else. I am afraid, knowing that I can’t change lives, and I can’t bring the light of Jesus to this place. I am the only believer here. What can I do? I know that I can’t do anything, but I know that Jesus can. And I know that it is true that in His name all oppression will cease. It may not be right now, but that time is coming because He came and fought for us and won. And this Christmas, in beautiful green and rainy Indonesia, I will celebrate the end of oppression and suffering that will come even here in the dusty and dry Yemeni desert where 13,000 Somali refugees are hoping for it. Please pray for me, my precious Somali refugee friends, and the volatile country of Yemen where we all live. Pray for the light of Jesus to come to this place to break the chains of slavery, violence, suffering, and abuse.

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid! I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.”

Feuds

I love the girls I live with. I will say that right off because it’s true, and they are great and not just at cooking. They have taken me under their motherly wings and cooked for me and showed me how to clean properly in their special Yemeni way. Then, of course, they do not allow me to do any of the cleaning until I snatch the mop away from them and do it myself. They have been really kind to me. But I have discovered that 10 girls living together in very close quarters in Yemen are like 10 girls living together in very close quarters anywhere else. They fight about stupid petty things and then gossip about each other and build alliances with certain people and cut certain other people out. The difference is that Yemeni girls go one step further and refuse to eat with or in the presence of those people that they have declared to be the Enemy. It’s something about eating being a sign of friendship, and heaven forbid they give even the appearance of friendship with the Enemy. But since it’s Ramadan here and everyone is eating at the same time, that is very awkward. My first night here I unwittingly promised to eat with two different groups, thinking that we would all eat together. That was not the case. I soon found out that I had been co-opted into one group so that it became almost impossible for me to eat with the other group. Fortunately, I am the foreigner so apparently everyone on both sides of the feud can still like me and hang out with me. I am holding on to that as I delicately (and so far unsuccessfully) try to play peacemaker.

Meanwhile, I have developed my own personal feud -- with the swarms of flies that infest this whole area. Apparently, God has not seen fit to call off the plague of flies in Yemen yet. And I have discovered that I am not skilled with the fly swatter at all. It seems that it takes a very patient person to really master the art of fly swatting. I am not patient, and I usually end up screaming curses at the flying pestilence and swatting around wildly while they continue to buzz over my head, taunting me. So then I just give up and call Layaal who calmly destroys them all in under five minutes. She is one of those exceptionally gifted people. Also a great cook. And very skilled in the art of feuding. An amazing woman.

Note from the Ghost-Blog-Uploader: Amanda embedded photos in the Word document she sent me, and I tried to upload them on here, but I couldn't get the document to open on my mac, so I had to use Josh's PC, which I don't really know how to use, and it is a long and not very fun story. So no pictures. I'm sorry. Until Amanda sees fit to attach them to her email like a normal person would instead of putting them in a Word document. msf

Commitment Issues

Before coming to Yemen, I knew I would probably wear the headscarf and so I had worked that out in my mind already.Still I have found myself less and less committed to it. I can’t stop wearing it now because that would be shocking and scandalous, but I have found ways to wear it without wearing it. I loosely wrap it around my head and my hair still blows out around my face so it’s not really hidden at all. Sometimes, I even pull it off to fix the pins trying to hold my hair back (usually without much success). I have done that in front of my boss several times. I apologized, but he says he doesn’t mind. Still his favorite joke is that if I were to wear the niqab (everything covered but the eyes) or the burka then I could be his boss. I’m not sure how that would be possible since places where women wear burkas and niqabs rarely allow them to be bosses of anyone, but it did work in my favor when I agreed to wear the full hijab (just the face showing) so that he’d let me out at night to attend an event for newly arrived refugees. Now that I have found this chink in his protective (of me) armor, I plan to use it to my advantage. Soon I’ll be leaving the compound all by myself in full burka, but no one will know it’s me!Meanwhile, when I’m just wandering around under official escort doing my job, I have decided to go for the pirate bandana look, where I tie up all my hair in the scarf into a big knot. That way it’s off my neck and it’s slightly cooler.

This Ramadan is not finding me committed to fasting either. I have perfected the art of carrying around a water bottle in my bag and sneaking drinks when nobody is looking.I also sneak food whenever I’m in my room alone (not very often), and I am grateful every day to Brittany’s grandparents who packed her 200 granola bars which she did not eat while we were in France. Those granola bars have been a great source of nourishment for me since otherwise I’d have to wait until after Maghrib to get any food. And next weekend when I go to Aden for a few days in semi-civilization, I plan to eat whenever I want to. Of course the food won’t be as good because I won’t have my lovely roommates cooking wonderful stuff for me. They are trying to teach me how to make the food because I told them I wanted to learn, but no one really lets me actually do any of the cooking, and I doubt I’ll start when left on my own.But hypothetically I do know how to make lots of tasty Yemeni dishes now.



Here is where I tried a million times to insert a picture of the Fatoor Meal: soup, 3atr, samboosa, dates, and juice all on the floor of my room. But it did not happen. Hope you liked the blog without pictures. Next time if the internet is faster I'll get them on!