Leaving Camp

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I’ve lost my job.

Let that sink in for you – it still hasn’t for me. I was woken at midnight, told to pack emergency items and that first thing in the morning, I would be leaving the camp for a short time. I did so, and being my minimalist self, I packed only 2 outfits, necessary documents, my iPod and computer.

The last photo I took in the camp - our staff creating a fence for our seed production garden

That day I did not leave first thing in the morning. The day was spent half working as usual in the busy office, signing papers, writing my report, talking to staff. Half on the phone with people who didn’t quite seem to have it together, trying to arrange for me to either leave, or deeming it safe enough to stay.

Finally at 2:30 in the afternoon, I grabbed my pack and entered a private taxi. We left the compound gates, leaving behind our police escort. They were hanging out chewing khat right outside the compound gates, waiting for us. But no one had told our taxi driver to wait for them. I tapped his shoulders and told him to wait, giving the police a moment to scramble and catch up to us. One in front, one in back – we drove the 2 hours to the city.

There was some laughter and jokes – the whole thing was really silly and overdone. I was so safe in the camp, and had been for 5 months. What was all of this sudden ruckus? And honestly, if I were in danger on the road, we were screwed. Who else drives with armed policemen in front and back of you? Is this not a bright red target saying, “The foreigner is right here!”

We arrived in the city with no problem, and I giggled about getting a last minute vacation, which I planned to take advantage of before heading back to camp. A security advisor arrived almost immediately and burst my bubble. “Hi, nice to meet you. You must be the girl who kept me up all night.” And so ensued a nice little lecture about how I was no longer safe in the camp, and could not stay there. I was in such shock from his words, that I decided he must be a bit of a drama queen, overplaying the whole deal. I tried keeping his words out of my mind and kept on track that I was on vacation for a week or so. Admittedly with the 18 hours of drama behind me and what he had said, I was shaken and became a bit paranoid for a few days.

I wore the abaya and niqab whenever outside alone, or at night. I was told to mostly stay at home unless with people I knew and to text my boss whenever I left and returned home. I was being babysat and didn’t care for it, but figured it was for my best interest, so fine.

Probably overkill but I felt invisible and therefore very safe with all the uncertainty flying around

There was some other minor drama, where the embassy tried to order me home through email, and offered to help arrange it as quickly as possible. They don’t like the liability or the headache – understandable, but not appreciated. “You don’t know me, don’t try to take me home” I think that’s a lesson I learned from R & B song lyrics in 7^th grade.

Finally an irritated embassy contacted the state department in DC, who contacted my org’s HQ and pressured them to make me leave. So it was decided, at a level far above my head that I should no longer be here. Not for any intense specific threat towards me personally, but because a certain group in Yemen would like to kidnap Americans and that group learned there is one living in the camp. Although I’ve been stubbornly unhappy about this whole deal, maybe everyone is right. If they know, it is a danger for me to live in the camp. Okay. Heartbreaking; but fine. I can handle it I think, give me a couple days. But leave Yemen? They don’t know me personally, they have no idea where I am. In the cities, I am just another foreigner, at risk as much as any other foreigner is. So if I need to go home, make all of them leave with me. Not possible? Okay, then leave me be.

What to do now? There are some positions here or there that I’ve been offered to move into. Really, I am grateful for my org for offering me another job, and even grateful to all the different security groups involved for looking out for my safety. Just sayin… it’s like pulling a woman out of her violent home life when she herself hasn’t made the choice to leave. It’s probably going to save her in the long run to make her leave, but she isn’t going to be happy about it because it wasn’t her choice – she wasn’t ready.

I would like to stay in Yemen and take one of these jobs, but also am looking at jobs in Lebanon, Jordan and South Sudan. We’ll see what happens in the next month.

On a lighter note, I like to find humor in everything. Here are the jokes that have come from this:

“I’m ready to go. I have my kidnapping clothes on [abaya] and my kidnapping toolkit [books and snacks].”

“I don’t appreciate how this went down. I’d like to lodge a complaint with Al Qaeda’s manager about this whole situation.”

And from all this, ideas for Yemeni Hallmark cards, all credit must go to a dear friend here, not myself:

Sorry for shooting you, hope you get better soon….. Sincerely, your ____[family member name here]_______

(Yemenis have a lot of guns and seem to use them a lot, even in family disputes)

Congratulations on the breakthrough!

(AQ once dug a tunnel to a police station and freed some of their men)

Let’s keep it in the family

(Some Yemenis fond of marrying their cousins)

Sook Al Juma (Friday Market)

The market brings together Somalis and Yemenis alike

I wake up early Friday morning and head to the market. I try to rotate between a few different vendors for the same items, so that I am a regular customer but still getting variety. I buy eggplant and tomatoes and eggs, and fish if it is available. Sometimes I buy little spices that I have no clue what they are, or one time a white root vegetable that I knew nothing about and would never eat. But I bought it for the experience, to talk to people and to support the local economy. Why not?

Old Soviet trucks at the market

I contemplate going home then to watch movies all day, but decide it best to go to one family's home who have invited me for lunch. They let me play with the kids as they finish up lunch and then I eat fried fish with rice and 'bespes', my favorite spicy sauce. After, I am tired. It is nap time and plus I have been in the sun all day. So I tell them I need to rest and they understand because they do too. I lay on one mattress and the little girls are on another. The rest of the family goes to sleep in another room and they tell me to wake them when I awake. I used to find the idea of sleeping at someone's home so strange. I can't sleep well with noise around me and without being entirely comfortable. But I've learned that it doesn't matter if I actually sleep or not, just to relax and lay there in their home, it makes me like one of them and teaches me to calm the f down and not need a plan of action all the time.

Today I actually did sleep, for maybe 20 minutes. I laid there for another 20 before getting up and joining the one woman awake. The mom was applying henna to her feet and hands, and although she spoke no English at all, I sat next to her. We had a short conversation about nothing in particular, and then sat in silence while her henna dried. I think a half hour must have gone by before we spoke again. Finally her husband came out and began chatting with me about life in America. I used to dread if such a conversation came up, because they don't understand American life and think everyone there is rich and carefree. Now I LOVE these conversations. I find ways to explain simply how life really is in America. I explain how the good thing is that there is opportunity. That no matter how poor you are, there is always freedom and opportunity to change your circumstance. But then I explain how absolutely everything there comes with a cost, and I list the typical expenses each month. And I love to explain how everyone has a car. Today, the woman asked me (through her husband) "But all the resettled Somalis there seem to get a car so quickly, how is that possible?"

And I explain how the banks will give money to people, even poor people, and that it is a good thing in one way, because it allows everyone to purchase large items, but it is a bad thing as people become strapped with payments. The conversation continues like this, and they begin asking interesting questions about life there and I am eager to let them know. The key is to give a balanced view - the opportunity and the difficulty.

I'm ready to go home. But they want to show me their garden in the next home over, where the brother's father lives. I see the garden and drink tea, and after 4 hours of sitting with them, I am off. I decide to stop by another home as it is on the way. The women are washing clothes so I say a quick hello to them and their goats and then am on my way again. I decide that it would be impolite to have visited the one girl's home without visiting her best friend, who lives in the next block. I go there and am ushered inside. I sit on the floor with the whole family - 7 children and a mother. The oldest child is 19 and she is one of our community workers, hence how I know them. None of them speak English very well, so we speak in broken Arabic, Somali and English together. I learn that the mother, Rahma, has had 12 children but 5 have died. I couldn't quite understand why they each died, but 2 died in Somalia and 3 here in Yemen. The father left them shortly after the last one was born. The only income for the family is the community worker, who makes about $150 a month. $150 to feed and cloth 8 people. It is enough of course, and they are also given rations of food every month from UNHCR - a sack of flour, rice and sugar, sometimes beans and then oil. And they make do for the rest. The 4 little ones, ranging in age from 5 to 13, all attend a private English class in the evenings, in addition to the English class they take in school. I ask them to practice for me and they begin rattling off their memorized scripts.

"Why is it important to learn English?" one stammers.

"Because it is number one int'national language in the whole world." says another.

But when I ask them slowly "What is your favorite color?" none of them can answer. It isn't something they have memorized yet.

Yemenis have a knack for sitting and selling out of their cars.

I could sit for hours with these kids practicing English. When I was a PCV, I failed to realize just how important English was until my last few months. I was always more concerned about myself and my desire to learn their language. And I justified it by saying, I am the one in their country, so I need to learn their language. They should speak to me in their language so I can learn. Oh my self-centered American little child. You could not believe the doors that open for those who can speak English. It literally can change around entire families lives to have one of their children speaking good English. And how rare an opportunity to find someone who speaks it as their native tongue! So now I give them all they want. I speak to them in English time and time again, and encourage them to practice with me as much as possible.

For as much privilege as I've had in my life, I am happy to find any way to give back to people here, to let them soak in some of the fortune and knowledge that I've been granted by a lifetime of opportunity. And in return, I learn more everyday to die unto self, to not always think of me me me and my desires and my wants and my schedule and my plan, and instead focus on people.

Waiting for the market to finish so they can go home...

When I come home in the evening, I pass the largest mosque in camp. It is the only one that is painted and has a small steeple with the crescent star above it. It is my guidance back towards the compound. There are people in the street, boys playing with a deflated ball, women greeting each other as they return from the market, men in long white robes leaving the mosque and crows gathering along the power lines. There are random pieces of goat leg or a chicken foot on the ground but I don't even think twice about it as I walk over them. As I approach the wadi (a dry river bed or channel which fills up during the rains), I see a group of small boys have found a piece of plastic which they are taking turns sitting on, then sliding down the sandy rocks into the wadi. It's like what my nieces may be doing right now in Utah, sliding down the snowy slopes on a sled. Almost the same. I ask to take their picture and once they see it, they giggle endlessly. How funny they look going down the hill!

Sledding!

I pass one of the camp crazies, who stops me to ask me if I am in fact a crazy person? "Maybe" I say, and continue walking. I make my way back to the compound just before it gets dark. I think back to the morning, when I had considered sitting at home watching movies on my laptop. I am so happy I chose instead to build relationships and share time with people. Just sitting; with people.

Mortifying Moments

Warning, this post discusses poop.

There was only 1 mortifying moment in my few years abroad when I have cried in front of people, in response to my humiliation. Well, until now. Now there are 2.

I have been lonely here, I'm not afraid to admit that. It is a hardship post anywhere in Yemen, but I am out in the desert in the middle of nowhere living in meager conditions and the only foreigner here. With all the issues that I face in the work, with staff, with my roommates, with the culture here, I realized that all of it would be much more bearable if I had foreign friends to hang out with from time to time. In 4 months, not having anyone close by who can actually relate to me, understand me completely has been hard.

Operation Find-A-Friend:. I looked on couchsurfing, facebook, internations, linkedin… With security so tight these days, I figured I wouldn't find them out on the streets. I asked my boss if she knew of any foreigners in Aden to make friends with - she said she knew an older woman working at an English language institute who could introduce me to a few of the foreign teachers there. Perfect! We set a date and time for me to go. I don't know exactly what my boss told this motherly woman friend of hers but…

I walk into the lounge of the institute and there are teachers everywhere. These are hip, young Yemenis, a few Somali and one American woman at the time. My boss's friend stands me in front of everyone and says,

"This is Rabecca and she is very very lonely. She needs a friend; can we make her feel welcome here?" She repeats the same speech in the next office over.

Perhaps it was a mixture of the truth said out loud, and my mortification of the whole room hearing this and giving me ooohs and awwws, I started to cry. Just a little. Oh f**k. I began thinking of the rumor mill and how by the time I returned to camp tomorrow, everyone would know what was said and done.

Nevertheless I now have a plethora of Yemeni friends, a Canadian and 2 Americans when I go to Aden. Lovely, just lovely. Life goes onJ

The first mortification was probably much worse. I was in my rural town in Ethiopia, when I visited our rural 'hospital' because I was sick. I hadn't gotten really sick before in my town and figured the right thing to do was visit a doctor and get on medication (sigh… now I have a strong stomach and charcoal pills). First, there was much excitement that I had come to visit the hospital. I was paraded around and the nurse told everyone, "This is Ribka, she has diarrhea!" Then they asked me for a poop sample, but they couldn't find a container. Finally, someone drinking a juice offered the cap to their juice bottle.

Next I was led to a latrine in the hospital field. It was the only latrine I've ever seen this disgusting - it was flooded as the hole was filled and I couldn't bear to step inside as I'd be stepping in excrement. So I did my business next door to it, with the help of the nurse again. Then I was paraded around again, in the women's wing this time, introducing me to people and offering their greetings as I held my bottle cap of poop in my hand. Again, the introduction about my illness was explained.

This violated so many patient privacy laws back in the States and was embarrassing beyond belief. Plus, I was sick. And they told me: "The lab results showed nothing." At that point, after all that ridiculous running around and the whole town having seen my poop by now, I burst into tears. That surprised them. Then, many of them began laughing, as they thought I was crying because I was scared of my illness.

"Ribka, you silly girl, don't worry! You will just be sick for some time and then get better, no problem! Ayzosh!"

This was my latrine for 2 years - very clean and tidy compared to the hospital!

There was no ayzoshing from me at this time, no more being strong, holding up. I used their phone to call the Peace Corps medical doctor in Addis and cried to him on the phone that next time I'm sick, I want permission to go to the big town for treatment. He approved and life went on. J

Moral of the story: Don't get sick and don't ask for friends. Haha, I'm kidding. It's to not let these cultural mishaps get to me and look on the brighter side: good stories to share in my future cool life when I am surrounded by my friends.

February Wrap Up

Lobster! (and khat in his mouth, yum)

Fish market 

Visited the Aden Fish Market for the first time. Saw a shark gutted, ginormous fish and a beautiful lobster.

Started a regular running routine. I go at night in an enclosed field, which is part of our compound. It’s a bit creepy but I play my music and take off in circles and it feels great. Twice a week for now. UPDATE: The binat’s interest is perked and I’ve had a few days in a row of 3 girls running with me.

Sweeet!

Mosque of one of the 8 villages surrounding the camp (irrelevant photos I know)

Realized that I am addicted to dates. But is that a bad thing? Why go on dates when you can be sitting home in your pjs eating them? And I found date dhibs, which is like honey made from dates. Very amazing and probably super good for you.

On the road to Aden

There is a family of crickets living in my room. I originally thought I was hearing rather loud crickets outside every evening, until I began finding one after another coming from my closet. I really need to get them out of my room. Or maybe I need to be getting out of my room more.

UPDATE:  Every evening, one or 2 baby crickets come out and I scoop them up and take them outside. The noise is less now.

I hold back the women as one casts her ballot

IHeld elections for the Oromo people in the camp. Oromos are from Ethiopia and a strong, very proud people. Of course I heart them as they are from the motherland. I spent the whole morning holding back women in their lines, telling them to ayzosh, berchee, abshir jabadu, tarteeb, any mix of Amharic, Oromo and Somali I could think of to get them to wait patiently for their turn to vote.

Had lunch cooked by a man for me – first time here and so surprising since men are so uninvolved in domestic life. It was one of my Somali staff and he is a real gem. I played with his nieces and ate with them and talked to his sister-in-law while she henna’ed her feet… it was a lovely afternoon.

Village outside of Sana'a

Went to Sana'a for a long weekend- the first time since the few days I spent there when I initially arrived. Can't say it was refreshing necessarily, but there was some good times and a relaxing day at the spa.

On my way to the spa 2 hours northeast of Sana'a

Had a meltdown in weekend #3… hmmm… it's too complex to explain and I end up deleting everything I write about it. Perhaps when I find a clearer way to express myself, I'll write a post on it. Because the meltdown is definitely not overL

Instability in the south has affected my work, my movement, security and... The south was colonized by the British, and then groomed by the Soviets; 2 large reasons ahead of many other tribal/political issues which lend to why the south want to separate from the north. The complex issues feeding their separatist spirit have blossomed in the last couple years of unrest, and now they are declaring a ‘civil disobedience’ campaign. This has equaled small arms fire, burning tires, large protesting groups, a handful dead and dozens injured in the last 2 weeks of the month. It's peaceful now but this next month but March will be full of squirmishes like this as the National Dialogue is on the 18^th. Inshallah people tire of the violence and find peaceful ways to solve this problem or this already fragile state could take a turn for the worse. This would also mean my evacuation, booo…

Separatist protests found their way to the camp but they were very small, short and completely peaceful

Teaching the schoolgirls to laugh in photos

By month’s end, after the tumultuous middle, I am somehow feeling upbeat, refreshed, relaxed, happy. As the binat have told me, “It takes a big heart to be here. If your heart is small, you cannot take it.” 

The Binat

Bint = girl

Binat = girls

There are currently 11 binat living in the closed women’s compound, which is within the larger work compound. The guys also live within this larger one, but their rooms are scattered throughout and not enclosed like ours are.

The binat are a mystery to me. When I arrived, they were so kind to me, and I felt like a she-male, in that I could take part in all the men’s activities (lunch, sports, walking freely outside, etc.) but I was still one of the women. The binat are very protective of one another, to make sure that in such a place like this, without their families, that they are still upholding the strict Yemeni gender expectations. A typical Yemeni family would need a lot of reassurance in order to let their daughter, sister or wife come live in a camp setting like this. They’ll be under no supervision! Imagine the things they might do! They are unprotected, out in the wild, with all those men living close who are not their family. Oh, the bad things that could happen.

Rarely do they allow photos... guess which one is me?

For this reason, they are extraordinarily strict: They always eat inside the binat compound, they are covered when they go out, and some remain covered at all times - others take off the nicab once they’re safe inside their offices. They do not interact with the men at all, save for office activity or a rare goodbye celebration inside the office.

This is as close as I'll get to showing you the black baltos they wear

But I learned a new aspect of this today that astounded me. There is a Somali wedding in the camp tonight and the norm here is for the women to be invited to the big rec center, and the men congregate in the men’s center. The rec center is a 3-minute walk outside our compound and into the camp. I asked the women who was coming with me and they paused before discussing who would ask permission. … … Hold up. What? What permission?

“Because it is after dark,” they say, “We must have permission.” From who? “Well, it would typically be from our father, older brother, or from our husband if we’re married. But since we are here, the responsibility lies with our managers. What if something were to happen to us? Someone has to be held responsible!” I see… (mind you these are grown women, ranging in age from 19-38)

“And what if your manager was female or foreign?” Besides me, all the other managers are Somali or Yemeni males.

“As long as he is male they can give permission. But if she is female, we must ask someone else in her place.”

I found it so interesting the nonchalant way in which they explained this to me. They even made a joke that when I return to America and marry, I will ask my husband for permission, he will become surprised and ask why and I will tell him, “I learned this tradition while in Yemen!” [Clap twice if any of you who know me see this happening]

Completely veiled but she forgot her gloves

One girl explained to me later, “There are times when we have thoughts about this, about why it is this way and what is right. But often times we do not think about it at all, because this is our tradition and we want to carry on tradition.” Okay then, fine, no qualms here I guess.

As for me, I also have to get permission from a man to go tonight. The UNHCR field officer is the focal point for security and any foreign staff (aka me, being the only one) needs to inform him if they want to leave the compound after dark, in case there are any security problems. So I guess in this context, we are the same and I should accept my fate as a woman here. However, it’s still pleasing to know that if the UNHCR field officer were female, it would be her that I asked. Hmmm, at least I think so.

January Wrap Up

I began to sleep like a normal human being again. Learned to ‘keep it light enough to travel’.

One of our staff members died. It was of natural causes but he was so young – late 20’s. He left behind 2 adorable little ones and it was quite a tragedy. Rest in peace my dear.

Spent 2 Aden trips at the beach with small children. Splashing around with little Noor and her siblings was quite entertaining and somewhat relaxing. 

Ethiopian coffee ceremony meets Arabian shisha session

Tried shisha with some of my staff... I've never wanted to try it and always refused to go to hooka bars in the States but here, any chance to do something out of the ordinary and 'fit in' is taken gladly. Good thing there are no heavy drugs commonly used here, haha!

Spent an hour trying to download episodes from Season 4 Glee. Sighhh… got nowhere. Op! Update, I found a way! Takes bumping across 3 web sites and waiting 3 minutes, then downloading episodes for 2 hours each, but it worked!

It was peaceful with songs and speeches

Walked alongside rebel demonstrations – southern Yemen wants to break away from the north and sometimes holds massive protests in the streets – this one commemorated January 13, 1986 when a civil war broke out and killed thousands of southern Yemenis. I was told to stay inside for the day but I needed food. They were peaceful and included a lot of flags waving, men chewing khat, holding their guns and chanting/clapping. Once I returned to the house I watched the events happening outside my window on the television.

Danced in the kitchen with the women – felt so nice to move and laugh and feel free.

Henna’ed my hands in the simple way that many Lahj’ii women do: the tips of the fingers dipped completely with a stenciled print in the palm of the hand.

Holding my birthday present

Discovered another core food to add to my lifelong list of Food-I-Can’t-Live-Without – dates! I wasn’t too excited about them at first but the more I ate them, the more I loved them. They are mostly grown in Saudi Arabia and although they have a high calorie count, they are very nutritious, with

Dates come after honey, lemon, red wine, green tea, olive oil, raw dark chocolate bars and raw almonds. Essentials.

Turned another year older. This seems to come about every year, and I hope I never stop looking forward to it. I wasn’t successful in pulling off a beach trip, but the guys made me cake a flower lei and celebrated with me which was sweet.

Me and 10 guys drinking soda and eating cake for my 27th, aww

Favorite words learned this month:

Arabic: aish fee?  Local slang for ‘what’s wrong’ or ‘what is it’, or ‘you okay?’ Literally translates to what is in?

Somali: dip, meaning challenge diplo atahay means “You are a challenge”

Funny moment: The social unit manager stopping the home gardeners from doing their work.

“Why were they pulling out all the greenery? We need green to make the place look beautiful!”

“Uh, Mo, the area needs to be a seed production garden, so they’re pulling weeds”

“No, they need to stay, we need as much green as possible to keep the place beautiful”

“Sighhh, the weeds are not there for beauty, carry on…”

Yemeni Gangnam Style

I wrote 2  blog posts and left them on my other computer. But... fear not because what I am going to post below will make your day. At least it made mine. I've watched this video so many times by now and there are so many reasons to love it. First, it is silly fun just like the original gangnam style video and everyone could use more silly fun.

And second, it's coming from Yemen. How many films, shorts, comedians, funny news do you see coming out of Yemen?

Lastly, it shows streets of Sana'a, the old city and the traditional men's wear that you see all throughout the country (mostly in the north).

So enjoy. And share it with your friends!

Everything Is Okay in the Now

Home sweet home

I wasn’t given very detailed information about my job before I arrived. I remember telling people, as sort of a half-joke, that my job would be to run around, talking to different groups of people and making everyone feel happy. In essence, that is what I’m doing here, though there is much more to it. What I didn’t realize is that the harsh reality this place would affect me so much, so quickly, and mostly without my realizing it. Let me give you an average day here before I explain that further.

I’m in my office trying to check emails and finish a report. A woman comes in yelling with a baby at her hip. Her baby is one week old. She is demanding cash assistance from one of us to help with this newborn child. I have to cut in and explain to her that she needs to request such things from the field office. Then a group of 4 men come in – they are from the disability committee in the camp. They need us to assist them in preparing elections for the board members. Someone comes in to say that a man tried to attack one of our counselors in the field office. UNHCR has just emailed saying they are holding a training tomorrow and can I gather this specified number of staff to attend? Someone is screaming outside the door and I am praying the hot mess doesn't come closer. Perhaps someone is angry with another office today.

Another day in paradise

I am late for a meeting and then have scheduled to go with a community worker house to house for a while, something I try to do once a week so I have an idea of what the community workers face. In the camp there is no shade, no car and the sun is hot. We walk to door-to-door, or rather tent-to-tent on this day. The residents show me the dirt ground where their children are sleeping and broken stoves. I hold up my hands and shrug towards the community worker. Their job is to check up on the camp residents and see if there is any way to assist them, provide them with necessary items or refer them to counseling at the field office. We have 7 community workers who - in theory - visit every home every 2 weeks. There are over 2,000 ‘homes’ to visit -it is impossible. This is what leads to refugees showing up in the compound office, demanding assistance.

The social unit manager comes to me and says one of the counselors is refusing to assist any mental cases, as she is overwhelmed. Okay, let’s take this slowly...

By 1pm, I am exhausted and hungry. I come back to the women’s section of the compound and lay down until lunch is ready. The 12 women take turns cooking lunch and dinner for everyone, and they never let me cook, which gives me a break. Today it’s the older woman with a family in Aden, unlike most of the girls who are single. This woman can cook, thank goodness and by 2pm we are all sitting on the floor in a circle, around a large plate holding rice, lentil stew with canned tuna and arugala leaves. The girls use their hands to scoop the sauce-soaked rice, but I’ve given up on that. My feeble hands are too slow for how hungry I am and I use a large spoon. As I eat I listen to them speak Arabic to each other, trying to decipher their words. Occasionally one of the few girls who speak English well translates something. The counselor refusing to see mental patients is there, looking weathered and tired and explaining to the other girls what a day it was.

We sleep for an hour or so before working the evenings. Most days for me, this means 3:30 – 9. The evenings are usually a bit quieter, and I meet with my team.

I stay at the office until 9:30 without eating dinner. I am starving. I come back to the compound to find dinner just being served – only it is chicken, which I do not eat. It is not their fault, and I need to learn to plan better, but after such a long day, I am exhausted and upset. The ‘restaurant’ in camp is closed by now and I can’t go out by myself at night anyway. I’ve run out of my emergency stockpile of peanut butter and tuna, as I haven’t been to Aden in a few weeks. I snack on some oranges and honey before making hummus out of canned chickpeas and pouring it over bread to eat.

It’s time to go straight to bed. This is when my trouble begins. I’ve never experienced insomnia until now, but it’s been a couple weeks of restless nights lying awake. First I thought it was the sound of rats in the ceiling keeping me awake. Then I thought maybe it was the loud rumble of the air conditioner. Perhaps it’s the fact that I am constantly eating at 10pm, when I’m used to eating at 6 or 7. Maybe I was too hot from the stuffy room, or too cold from the chill of the AC. I tried yoga before bed, incense and meditation. Praying. Anything but still every night I don’t sleep.

Of course when it comes down to it, I am stressed. I am not sure how to be a manager or how to properly spend our tiny budget or how to provide support to weary staff, or how to please angry refugees who come to the office. I can’t think of any skills we can teach the people with the amount of money we have or the location we’re in. I have a car back home which is sucking up my money and sitting in a friend’s garage, a nuisance to him I’m sure. I’ve got my belongings back home in 5 or 6 or 7 different places, I can’t remember by now. And I can’t remember what those belongings are anyhow, so will I even miss them? The numerous things I left at my old workplace are still sitting at my desk as far as I’m aware – maybe they were thrown out; not sure.

The heaviness in my heart. I realized today that even though I kept smiling in the office, and kept telling myself I am here to make people happy and take some of their burden… I was letting all the issues of the entire camp weigh on my little shoulders. No matter how many serious issues are taking place around me, I need to be strong and make light of it in my heart. For the sake of the staff around me, it does no good to act in that typical American way that exclaims, “Oh, these poor poor people! How can I personally help them all? What can I do? Surely there is people I can call from back home, or ideas that my privileged, educated mind can conjure that will solve everything.”

Let those sweet thoughts come from someone in anywhere, USA who is watching the news at night. Let them come from some kind friend of mine who wants to know how they can help make the world a better place.

We're going to be alright? Yes!

But for me, for my job here in this camp, it is to take in the news and react as calmly and patiently, light-heartedly as possible. When I heard of the attack today, I called for a meeting to discuss it. I vowed we would speak to UNHCR and the police about keeping our staff safe. I gave the counselor a hug. I furrowed my brow and watched the crazy man from a distance as the police haggled with him. I asked what else we could do. I listened to several different accounts of what happened. I took in all the pieces and let them sit here, here inside my heart. But as I passed to my home with that weight inside me, I ran into another staff member – a counselor. He told me a few details and then said in his very broken English, “But it’s okay, it’s okay. It was no problem, just small small problem which is normal. Everything is okay in the now.” His words couldn’t have been more true. I felt the weight fall away and realized how silly I was being. When in a place like this… listen, be calm, take in the information and see what can be done. Simple. Do not think over and over how you could have changed it or how I can make the counselors feel safe or how we can punish the man or at least make him understand his wrongs. Just react calmly and look towards the future. Everything is okay in the now.

I’ve slept soundly every night since then.