political parallax

Rereading the last post makes me want to vomit so here is something else:
Aden has a fairly small expatriate community, most of whom know of each other, if they haven’t met a few times anyways. On Thursday (which is like Friday in the west) my Italian friend Federica who was just recently let back into the country hosted a dinner party for about fifteen people. I went with my friend Faie who was the only Yemeni person attending, I was the only American person and one of just two not working for a development or relief organization. The other was a Somali-Italian named Mohammed with an interesting story I will share.
Mohammed looks ethnically Somali with the typical high cheekbones, large front teeth, close-set eyes, and a skin color darker than you can imagine. Until recently though, for most of his 23-year life, he has carried an Italian passport. He grew up in Italy with his family and started playing basketball on the Italian national team. Somehow, while he was visiting friends or family in Somalia (probably Puntland not Somaliland but I’m not certain), his passport was stolen or lost or expired or something. For a year and a half he hasn’t been able to return to his family and friends and girlfriend in Italy. Despite knowing only Italian and English, knowing neither the Somali language nor Arabic, he’s spent time in Somalia, Djibouti, and now has come to Yemen as a refugee.
There are a number of refugee communities around Yemen, mostly along the coast. They are primarily fenced-in camps where refugees await some sort of living or work permit in-country. Within the Aden municipality there is a neighborhood, Basateen, designed specifically for refugees, mostly Somali. The schools are overcrowded fitting eighty students into a classroom designed for twenty; there is a clinic providing healthcare for those proving they are identified refugees; there is a community center where relief and aid workers spend time; the neighborhood lacks running water in nearly all the clapboard homes and shops but it has been made available to the madrassa or Islamic schools.
On occasion my school makes activities for the scholarship students, one of which a few months ago was to tour Basateen, and then engage in a cultural exchange with the refugees. It was rather hot and dusty wandering around the neighborhood and the students absolutely hated it. In the community center after the tour, the students had brought food to share with the refugees, and the refugees brought treats to the students to complete the cultural exchange and broaden understanding. My students did not partake in the Somali food and the conversation was pretty limited, although it wasn’t entirely their fault. We were hosted by a Somali woman who was too shy to really talk and a man who mostly wanted to kvetch about conditions instead of sharing a story to personalize his experience and to practice his English despite there being a Somali-Arabic translator. The students could not have cared less, and with a decent reason they all identified later in a forced writing session. Yemen has enough of its own problems it needs to deal with.
Even for non-Yemen standards, Federica’s dinner party was exceptionally good fun. She brought real cheeses from Italy, different pork products, and red and white wines which we all appreciated a bit more than we probably should have, especially Mohammed. And let me tell you, after a few glasses of wine he became the most Italian person I have ever met. His emphatic gestures and lyrical accent are unmistakable, practically a caricature. He lives in Basateen and predictably, he hates it. He told us some about living in the especially devout neighborhood, “I watcha a movie and they saya ‘Whya you do that?’ I listen toa music and they ask ‘Whya you do that?’ I playa a basketball and they saya ‘Whya you do that?’ Fucka man! What I asupposed to do?” He’s been away from Italy for about eighteen months already. He can’t get a job here in Yemen because he doesn’t know Arabic (or Somali). He can only wait for the Italian embassy in Sana’a to hear from Italy about his passport approval which probably isn’t going to happen on his own due to Italian xenophobia and racism. As he succinctly puts it, “Burlesconi is justa Mussolini witha another name.”
His story reminds me of course of Taryn’s incident during our first couple months in Yemen. Her passport was stolen and she was not allowed into the American embassy despite having registered. Our friend Matt wasn’t admitted then even though he had registered and was carrying his passport. Recently, the American and UK embassies have closed some days due to threats. Additionally, scheduling an appointment for something as simple as getting extra visa pages in my passport (which I need before I can get an exit visa to leave Yemen), is something I have been trying to do since before Thanksgiving. These stories beg the question: just how well is the social contract working?
Through this year in Yemen I have learned intimately the inner-workings and goings-on of a foreign body politic. This knowledge is a perspective gained which I will be able to draw upon all of my life when combating the political malaise throughout America. I, too, am often guilty of this stultifying apathy because it is more often difficult to see just how political decisions affect you without seeing an alternative. For this I am very grateful, it has been an unforeseen reward to my experience.

maybe an apricot

There are five new teachers this semester at AMIDEAST, and the school director Edward has led us on excursions around Aden three times now. The first was a driving tour to show us the layout and familiarize us with the different subcities followed up with an afterschool special by the sea about the USS Cole and the perils of qat. The second time was a hike of the Tanks which are British built cisterns in the crater canyons and then a walk around the shops in Crater itself. While I don’t particularly like Edward, I do appreciate his company for a couple reasons, the first being that he makes an excellent guide of both the geography and the culture, if a bit jaded.
Whenever I start a new job I like to imagine what it might be like as a career, and this is fairly easily evidenced by looking to the older generation. From my perspective, things generally turn out two ways, each with good points and bad. For instance, while rafting, I looked at Charlie Baldwin and Rob Dees as one outcome. Both guys are happy and make excellent friends, but neither have achieved the kind of stability in life which I desire. The alternative I saw was Dave Slover and Carrol White (although I dreamt of Mark Angel). Both are secure with their lives, but have been embittered by years in the river tourism industry and lack a contentment of place. As I saw it, rafting was not the life for me.
Starting out in the TEFL industry, I am eager to consider my options. The school director Edward is the son of an American emissary in the Levant, came to Yemen on a Fulbright scholarship, and he and his wife have been living in Yemen for the majority of the past decade. I don’t know how they met nor how he came to take her job as the director of the school. As the only western person working within the TEFL industry who hasn’t reverted to Islam, he currently stands as the only guide I know to offer a glimpse into what it would be like should I choose this as a career path. Having said all that, he’s a real fruit.
On Friday, the holy day, the last day of my weekend, Matt and I went on a hike with the school director Edward and his wife in the afternoon. Taryn was sick, the sky was unusually overcast, and I was annoyed for no particular reason, so I let Matt do most of the talking with Edward and his wife as we hiked to a fairly secluded beach. They chatted about Yemeni politics after the civil war, Middle East viewpoints on the Iraq war, the relevance of the recent kidnappings in Sana’a, and (the lack of) contingency plans. Given the setting and considering the company, I was irritated less by the content of conversation than I was by the choice of topic. Everything came to a head for me as I was lounging on the beach staring at the point where sea becomes sky, and Edward, returning from a swim to block my view, asked me, “So what do you miss the most?”
“Uh,” I paused, “that’s sort of a loaded question.”
“No it isn’t a loaded question at all,” he scoffed. “I mean you can’t get a bacon cheeseburger or go see a blockbuster movie here like you could.”
“Sure. I miss bacon… bands, beer, bikes, blues, books, booze.”
What I miss the most though, are my friends. I miss being around people who would never ask me such an impossible question. I miss the rich history I had developed in Oregon, where my intentions could be understood with just a knowing look. I miss the bonds I have made that took years of tiring experiences and which as a result are stronger than I ever thought possible. That is to say, that I’m just impatient to form those connections with people here, and reluctant to do so knowing that my stay is intentionally temporary.