Posts tagged ‘Yemen’
written on the walls
Here are some writings and drawings on some walls in Aden, Yemen
I never saw anybody writing or drawing on walls, but I think it’s safe to assume that the authors and artists are children and teenagers.
Some of the drawings are very symbolic. I’ll leave the analyses to you.
Where possible, I have translated some of the Arabic words and phrases. Some don’t need translation.
The brick wall featured above is the outer wall of Qala’a Seera, or Seera Castle, an Ottoman (or Portuguese) fort perched on a small mountain. The fort looks over the Aden Gulf on one side and the Seera and Crater districts of Aden on another. Lots of young people come up here to chew qat and take in the view (and a few couples come up here despite the stares).
Skull and crossbone stuff in Aden is more popular than you might imagine; air fresheners, t-shirts, jewelry, etc. The Arabic words written around the image are names of the artist(s) and their friends, I think.
A Kalashnikov with bayonet on the right. The writing, from the top left and down, is hard to read, but a few words say: ”al Jihad..Hamas…men of Palestine” and the name “Othman” in the bottom right corner.
The word ‘Gaza’ is written on the upper left, next to what appears to be a military helicopter. ’The Arabs’ is written below and to the left of ‘Gaza’, near what looks like a faucet.
Hey Arabic readers, can any of you decipher this?
Again, I had some trouble with the Arabic, but this is quite possibly a rendering of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. Drawings of the Dome, and the al-Aqsa Mosque, appear on walls throughout the city. 
Here’s another example of the Dome of the Rock. The word ‘Palestine’ is written across the dome.
These words are printed on a few walls across the street from a beach. It may be a private school or group. The word “Allah” is painted to the right.
Soccer is wildly popular in Yemen, but the Yemeni national club is nothing to write home about. According to embarrassed locals, the players chew too much Qat and chain smoke. European and South American clubs are very popular. On this wall, Arsenal gets a transcontinental shout out.
Kids and young adults play soccer just about anywhere it is possible to do so. One group of students I know practices on a ‘field’ that consists of two iron pipes at either end of a long, open dirt space covered with jagged rocks. The field sits atop a British-era landfill.
Get on the bus!
The following videos were shot from the minibuses I take to get around Aden.
My neighborhood
Here are a few videos of my neighborhood, Khormaksar (خورمكسر).
More soon inshallah.
Unification
This is a monument commemorating the unification of North and South Yemen. Many southerners, Adenis in particular, dislike the north. After unification, the more politically powerful (and populous) Northerners took over Aden’s port and began to send the majority of the profits to Sana’a. People have told me that Important government and economic positions were taken from Adenis and given to Northerners.
The president of Yemen, Ali Abdullah Saleh, is from the north and is widely reviled here in Aden.
This monument is adjacent to a wide swath of brick sidewalk that is used for pro-Government parades. A large painting of Saleh is hung above the whitewashed stone bleachers that look over the area.
Beyond the parade grounds is a neighborhood of embassies, delapidated houses, crumbling structures and a few new constructions. It is also where I work.
Walking to the Aden Mall
Walking into the main entrance of the Aden Mall.
In case you didn’t already know
A Jewish Cemetery in Aden
A Jewish cemetery in Aden
The following are pictures that were taken in what remains of a Jewish cemetery in the Ma’ala district of Aden, Yemen.
I have never taken any photos of a cemetery before, so I don’t know if doing so is offensive. I’m sorry if it is.
I don’t know much about Aden’s Jewish population, but there was a substantial Jewish minority in Yemen before 1948. Most emigrated to Israel or elsewhere after that, although a few Jewish communities stayed in Yemen, mostly in the north. There was a Jewish community living in tumultuous Sa’ada district, north of Sana’a, until quite recently. But they were pushed out of that area by the Houthi rebels, and relocated to a gated community adjacent to the American Embassy in Sana’a called Tourist City. I saw a few of them there when I was looking for a Russian bar.
The cemetery is situated on a slope, in between two roads, one that goes up and through a mountain ridge, and one that goes towards Ma’ala, along the sea, towards Tawahi, which was the seat of the British occupation. There is a tall brick wall separating the cemetery from the street on the lower side, and a flimsy guard railing separating it from the street on the higher side.
Like many other large, open spaces in Aden, this one is frequented, and seemingly inhabited by homeless men. On the far edge of the cemetery, which borders an area that is in the initial stages of some sort of development, there is a shack made of stones and cardboard. In that shack there are two or three more cushions, a radio, and a bushel of roses. The first time I went to the cemetery, there were a few men resting there. Next to the shack is a stone-enclosed area with a patch of grass (and a few cats).
If you walk from the shack towards the main area of the cemetery, past a deep and dry well, around a corner, you will find a crude two parallel stacks of cinderblocks which are used as a toilet. In between the stacks is a pile of feces.
I used all caution and respect when walking around the cemetery. I didn’t move anything or in any other way alter the landscape. Most of the cemetery has been reduced to piles of rock, although some graves remain intact. One of the stones in the picture dates back to 1905, so it’s safe to say at least some of the damage has come from neglect. There are also signs of looting and vandalism throughout the cemetery, from stones that were obviously stripped of marble to marble engravings that were clearly smashed or desecrated for symbolic value.
I wrote this and took these pictures not to judge any one or to make a point.
So please don’t assume that these photos or words are meant to promote some socio-religious, politcal, or cultural idea or notion. Like the rest of you, I grew up with ideas and assumptions and all the rest. But I have tried my best to temper them. I try my best…
—
fourth of july fAkE lIfE
Fourth of July fAkE lIfE Fifth of July
Sometimes I think, wow I’m really in Yemen. This is real, for real, and I’m living a very tip-of-your-fingers-taste-of-your-tongue for real life. Yes, I can taste it. Yes, I can feel it. Yes, but no.
fAkE lIfE is so really fake and extremely fakely real.
—
Now, I’m not much of a patriot, but I do miss those quiet nights in the land of the relatively free, sipping tall boys while others do in kind, quietly but openly, a bit hidden but not veiled.
I spent Uncle Sammy’s birthday eating eggs at a fish mokhbaza, sans booze of course, and driving around Sheikh Othman with my friends so that the other American, Sam Sam from Alabama, could see a camel (yes, yes, there are pictures). Plus, I was bummed because my hard-wrought love letter was read its rites even before it was D.O.A.
So the day after the fourth rolled around, and I decided that I really needed a slew of red, white and blue brew.
But the closest PBR tall boy is bobbing up and down in the surf outside of Jersey, so a Georgian (the state) friend and I settled for Heines at the bar here in Aden. I don’t know what this bar is called, but it’s about two city blocks beyond the Seaman’s Club (a wildly decadent, neon red nightclubish relic of the British occupation) in the Tawahi district of Aden.
The bar is situated along the busy thoroughfare of Aden’s port. You can look out from the rickety tables arranged on a gravel ground, beside the water, towards giant tankers and barges that have come in to drop this off, or to pick up that. Across the bay is a series of large cranes, which drop and pick up shipping containers. Nearby, there is a structure that looks like an inverted L. This is where the U.S.S. Cole was bombed in 2001.
But we didn’t sit outside. We walked into the bar / restaurant area and sat down. Groups of mostly middle aged men and a few women gazed at us as we sat down.
Like the Seaman’s Club close by, this bar is a hang-out for Yemeni and Saudi men, who never stopped drinking after South Yemen ceased being a socialist republic and came under the control of the more conservative / traditional north.
Women come here too. They are mostly prostitutes, according to expats, who may or may not really know (sexpats?). A few women came in fully veiled. They sat down and threw their niqabs back over their hijabs. Two of them were wearing a remarkable amount of foundation, which gave their cheeks a chalky pallor. The other woman, who was a bit bigger, had a black eye. All were chewing qat.
A few stray cats scurried in between the tables. My friend thought they were rats at first.
We ordered the beers and cheered to this and that. The Prince came up quite suddenly, but he made sure to kiss both of our hands and welcome us and to pledge his help for any problem we might encounter. He was drunk, and animated. He made sure we understood him when he said, ‘I am a prince from southern Yemen.’ And he was insistent that ‘we are all…from Earth.’ ‘This,’ he continued, pointing at my heart, ‘this is the most important! Surprise. Surprise.’
One of the uniformed guards outside, who had been checking bags and even looking under some men’s shirts, noticed the Prince talking to us. He walked in, and the Prince seemed to know why. He yelled something at the guard, then turned towards us. He said something in English, with emphasis on the word ‘surprise’, and then something else in English, or Arabic. Then he cursed the guard for grabbing his shoulder, but he seemed a bit relieved to be leaving.
Then the Californian came up to our table. He was a middle aged man with a stylish limp. He wore khakis, a black pin stripped shirt with the first four buttons unbuttoned, a New Era hat with a big $ on the front, and a belt buckle in the shape of a .45. “Excuse me. I’m sorry. You have to be careful.’ He patted my friend’s hand. “Yemenis, they aren’t good. Of course I am from Aden” he continued, now patting my hand, “you must be careful. They will…I’m from California.” He took out his wallet, and showed us his California driver’s license. “You see? I will be sitting over there. You need anything, you come over.”
Thank you. He nodded, and sat down with his friends.
My friend and I drank to this and that, shared some stories about Addis Ababa and love and hearts and minds, oh, and we surreptitiously discussed Jerusalem and its claimers using letters such as P and I.
The Cousin, who had been looking at our table as he slowly made his way through his own bottle of Gin, stood up at the Californian’s table, shouting and gesturing at the Californian. The Californian looked around anxiously, but didn’t stand.
The Cousin moved to another table, then came to our table. ‘Excuse me,’ he started, ‘you are American?’ Yes. ‘I was in argument with him,’ he said, pointing towards the Californian, who was anxiously watching him. ‘I was talking to the embassy today, in Sana’a. I talked to them today,” he continued, as the guard outside started to gesture towards him, “they…they transferred me to the Yemeni official,” he said incredulously. “I called them…my cousin. He owns a shop in New York. Very successful. Lots of money. He owns a shop. He bought trucks, you know, like to transfer gasoline. I found out accidentally. I’m drunk.” My friend excused herself to go to the bathroom.
“He’s going to drive the truck to the United Nations. He will use it as a weapon. I have a guilty conscience. I found out accidentally.” He started to weave a bit. “I want, I called the embassy. I tried to tell them.” By now, the guard was opening the door and looking towards the Cousin. “There are too many people in the United States. Innocent people. I have a guilty conscience. I don’t want to watch this on the news. I swear on my mother’s grave…will you, if you please, will you give me the number of the FBI or the CIA? Or I give you my number, and you tell them, the CIA or the FBI, or Homeland Security?”
My friend came back from the bathroom. The guard gently patted the Cousin on his shoulder. He looked a bit embarrassed, but a little relieved to be leaving.
Then the Californian came up. “You have to be careful,” he started, looking around, “just be careful. You need anything, you come to my table.”
We thanked him. My friend shot me a what-did-I-miss look. I shot her a you-really-really-don’t-want-to-know look, and we both raised our glasses quietly.
