It was another classic day in Sana'a. The sun was rising brightly over the mountains, and the morning breeze was refreshing the small increment of skin that I let escape the covers. The morning prayer was coming to an end, and a hush was settling over the city. As the sun rose higher, the mountains all around me became more clear. When I went downstairs, I was greeted by Ibrahim, a young, tall, becoming Yemeni who works in the hotel lobby to cater to my every need.
We left the hotel and drove past the old city on our left, and the new on our right. The old is 700 years old. The new was built after Yemen's revolution, about 50 years ago when the all-powerful Imam was overthrown, and the theocracy with it. The two sections of the city are separated only by a small strip of a highway and an old and dried up riverbed that USAID has so kindly turned into an alternate and less-crowded road. I let the window down in the back, and put on my sunglasses. I sat, enamoured, by the glorious architecture, and the hum of the road. Ah, to be a foreigner in Yemen.
"We are foreigners," said my colleague. "Foreigners can do anything."
Ok, so maybe we can't do anything. But I was definitely enjoying that San Fransisco breeze blowing through my hair. Our movements are restricted, and I don't believe we can denounce Islam in the streets and get away with it, or speak about women's rights or gay rights...but you get the picture. I know what she means. We can be in public with our hair showing. We can let our ankles slide out from under our pants, and our shawls fall from over our long sleeves. We can eat at a restaurant and walk the streets, accompanied by men of course, at any hour that we please. Relatively speaking, when considering ourselves as women standing on Yemeni soil -- we are free. We are in this relative heaven.
Or are we in hell?
When I look around the streets, and see it caked in men, I am in hell. When I see women all covered up with only their sad, tired eyes as witness to the sunlight, I am in hell. And, yes, I am being judgemental. I am paying no attention to cultural sensitivities, of how they might be happy underneath it all, happier than me. I am judging in my Western way, sure I am. I can't help it. When I sense their hell, I am in it too.
As a foreign woman, I had the opportunity to explore Old Sana'a tonight -- on foot, accompanied by Tahir, Ivo and Bob. Three men. Ali then joined us, a 12-year-old young man, hell bent on being our friend and earning $5 USD for his services. We traced the seven-century old city, greeted by smiles, and glares. But much to my surprise, most people paid us no attention at all. Or if they did, they did it discretely, without us knowing, from behind the winding alleys and old stone towers. If a Yemeni woman did what I did -- I fear -- she would have all the attention of Old Sana'a for herself. She would be told to cover up, or go back inside. Go back and hide inside your shell, or else.
I don't know what goes on inside a Yemeni tower, or a Yemeni Niqab, so who am I to judge? As I walked, I realized I knew less and less. I saw so many shops selling elaborate dresses of every color, cut and shape. Many were sexy, too sexy even for Washington, D.C. Many were transparent. An array of different colored bras, some with glitter and some without, were displayed for the world to see. These Yemeni women -- they know more than their Niqabs. Maybe they know more than me. They are of life and color, only the world can never see. They live loudly under their costumes. But, in public, they are nothing. They are as anonymous and as quiet as a fragment of dust. I would love to spend a day and a night with a Yemeni woman inside her house, her safe space, just to know how it feels to hide all your color, and your life. I would like to hear her scream out loud.
They aren't all this way. My colleague and I talked with Dr. Jamila, the deputy minister of health. She -- yes, the deputy is a woman -- spoke confidently, with her whole face out there for the world to see. She wore fashionable boots and jeans under her Naqib. She studied in Russia. She is from a minority -- a well-to-do family. She speaks English fluently. She has a corner office. She likes holding coffee breaks, in public, for women only, women like my colleague and I. She wants Yemeni women to be able to choose when they want to have a baby, and she wants to give them every opportunity to have their babies the healthy way, with proper care --so that at public hospitals, like the one we are working in, women aren't dying every day in labor. But her hopes and aspirations are a long way from home. Because right now women do die every day, and for many women, they don't have a choice of when they want to get married or if they want to have a baby, or if one day they want to know what it is like to have their hair blowing in the breeze.
Because their colors are hidden, and they don't have a voice.
So, Am I in Heaven, or Am I in Hell?
On my way back from the Old City, my fellow group of men were reminscing about the beauty of the city, its glory. How it was so wonderful that the kids could run the streets and play safely. How the kids were taken care of by this community. "BOYS!" I wanted to scream, they were almost all boys, little men. Where were the little girls? They were inside hiding their colors. The boys are in heaven. The girls are in hell. Everywhere I looked, especially as the evening wore on, there were men. Short men, tall men, plump men, gaunt men, most men with bulging cheeks filled with quat. Many men were wearing skirts, and had shawls wrapped around their heads, or their necks or not at all. Some looked almost Western, and some looked like they could have stepped out of an ancient desert tribal war, with their daggers, and their sullen faces.
I remember them all. And I also remember the face of one woman, today. She was lying in the postpartum ward at Al Saba'een hospital. She heard our team was coming in and she quickly covered herself up with her blanket. But her face was bare. She must have felt naked. She stared blankly ahead. She might have been 17. She was remarkably sad, I think. Her color was gone. I hate to tell it like this. I wanted to bring you something more beautiful, more heavenly than the news about Yemen. I think maybe I've brought you something a little different. But, I can't bring you heaven. This is Yemen.
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