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.