Al Muhamasheen

“Clean your plate if it is touched by a dog, but break it if it’s touched by a khadem [meaning 'servant' in Arabic].”

Al muhamasheen "the marginalized ones" is the politically correct name for dark-skinned Yemenis, commonly refered to as Akhadem - "servants." No one really knows for sure, but the story is that they are descendants of the Ethiopian army that invaded Yemen some 1500 years ago. When the Ethiopians were defeated and driven out, those that remained became slaves of the local population. Slavery was officially abolished in 1962 and the caste systems was slowly dismantled in Yemen, but the muhamasheen, unlike any other group in Yemeni society, have maintained their role as reviled, ostracized outsiders.

Everyday on every major street you'll see men and occasionally women wearing orange jumpsuits, broom and dust pan in hand collecting all that is deemed unfit for human consumption and use. Street sweeper is the only position the majority of al muhamasheen are allowed to hold, and in the poorest country in the Middle East, they are poorest of the poor. They are denied access to education and health care, and are concentrated in festering slums without running water or adequate sanitation.

Tribalism

A group of women attacked our office this week. There were about ten of them. They came with sticks to bang on the gate. They threw stones into the courtyard that came very close to hitting the women and children who were waiting to see their caseworkers.

I happened to be outside when it started because the electricity had gone off and it had become unbearable in the office. I sat outside to catch the hot wind that's been whipping up dirt since the beginning of July. It was there I heard the screaming and the banging. All of us who were sitting in the waiting area jumped up to see what was happening, then rocks started to rain down into courtyard.

I found out a few minutes later that the gang of women were upset over the results of the election for the new camp committee. Apparently the new governing group, decided by the refugees themselves in a camp-wide election organized and monitored by the United Nations, is of a tribe that these women consider inferior. The new committee are Somali Bantu, also known as tin jarer or "hard hairs." The women, someone told me, are Darod, the tribe of the previous committee president, and are afraid they'll lose influence and benefits.

I heard all of this from coworkers who speak Somali and English. They could hear the women outside the gate shouting racial insults about the Somali Bantu. I guess they feel they're superior to the Bantu. I wondered how they'd feel if they were resettled in the US or Sweden and had to face prejudice and hatred themselves.

Our guards, two of whom are Bantu, tried to calm the women but had no luck. One of our staff had to run to the police station to get help, as our guards are forbidden from touching women even if they're being violent. During this, the women continued to scream, pound the gate, and throw rocks into the office yard. I made sure the children stayed under the awning.

The police arrived and grabbed a few of the women and took them to the jail. Our agency will, I heard, press charges and if found guilty, the women will serve about six months in prison. Since they're single mothers, they can choose whether or not to bring their children with them to prison for their terms.

After the action died down, I went back to the waiting area to listen to the conversations people were having. Sahra interpreted for me. Some women talked about how it was tribalism that made them refugees in the first place. They questioned why anyone would want it to continue here in Yemen. Some conversations got heated though, and we heard women accuse each other's tribes of being at fault for Somalia's problems.

It's unfathomable to me how such artificial differences as tribe could literally destroy a country and many aspects of its culture, especially considering that Somalis are almost entirely Muslim. In the Qur'an, sura 49, verse 13, it says:

"O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, so that you may know each other (not that you may despise each other). Verily the most honored of you in the sight of God is (he who is) the most righteous of you. And God has full knowledge and is well acquainted (with all things)."

One of my duties at work is leading peace and reconciliation training. I haven't done anything yet. I have no clue where to start. How can an American white man teach Somali refugees about reconciliation? In the West, conflict mediation is all about focusing on the issues and not the parties involved. How can that work here where, for many people, tribe defines who and what you are? Asking which tribe you belong to you is how many Somalis greet each other for the first time. Though I'm convinced that tribalism is mostly negative, I have no place telling anyone else that. It has to be changed from the inside if there's ever to be peace.

To read more about the Somali clan system:
http://www.freewebs.com/habarjecloonline/index.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somali_Bantu
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somali_people

My friend Jean-Marc Caimi took these three beautiful pictures. They're all at Kharaz camp. The top and bottom are at the school. The middle is in the Women's Activity Center. www.jeanmarcgallery.com

The Quiet Dignity Kid

The picture is of a kid in Basateen who seems to be everywhere. He has his eyes and ears open and tries to be a part of everything. In addition to being outgoing, he's smart and has a quiet dignity to him.

I saw him in the office today. He came to ask about rumours he's heard that the Yemeni government will expel all refugees from the country within six months. My immediate reaction was a smile and a drawn out "noooooo" but I realized he was genuinely worried.

I explained to this kid that there are close to 850,000 refugees in Yemen and that there's no way the Yemeni gvt could organize anything on a scale so grand. If you've seen the Yemeni military you know what I'm talking about. Soldiers in the same unit wear a dozen different uniforms; it depends on what was available at the time.

I got a kick out of the rumour but it's a little worrying that he was concerned about it. Maybe he was excited about it. Who knows? Oman might be better than Yemen for a lot of people. A change of scenery at least.

You hear many rumours in Basateen. A persistent rumour is that there are private individuals you pay who will resettle you in the US. I attempted to start a public awareness campaign to combat this lie (only the UNHCR can resettle you and you do not pay) but some of our staff insisted it's true. They said they personally know people who paid and were resettled. We had a heated conversation about it. They told me they don't believe the UNHCR. UNHCR is tricking everyone for some reason.

Compassion

Each day in Basateen reminds me of war's brutality. Its sickness and cruelty penetrate everything. War destroys culture, family, art, and, in some people, compassion.

Some who know war firsthand have to close themselves off from the cruelty in order to survive their lives in the camp. They do what they can to make it work day after day. Proud people become beggars. Respected people steal. Compassionate people strangle their hearts. Whatever gets us through the day.

We pulled up to work this morning at the usual time. From the truck I noticed a woman lying on the pavement in front of our office gate, surrounded by three little children, and a teenage girl. The girl was crouched over her, fanning her with a magazine. My coworkers passed her on the way in through the gate. No one stopped.

I got out and looked at her. Her hijab had slipped slightly and revealed her hair. It seemed inappropriate to look longer. I walked through the gate but felt a need to go back.

When I returned the young girl said that the woman had no blood and needed to go to the hospital. I wondered if I heard her correctly; how can someone have no blood? I went inside to find a social worker, someone who supervises the "medical cases" at our agency.

When I found one and told him what was happening, he said, "She's not my case. She's probably Mohammed's case." I found Mohammed, who was searching his briefcase and shuffling papers, and told him about the woman in front and how it was urgent. He said, "In a minute." I yelled and told him the woman is more important than his papers. He ignored me. I pleaded with two other people before anyone responded.

His first question to the woman was, "Which block do you live in?" Responsibility for 'cases' is divided by blocks in Basateen and if a social worker isn't responsible for that block, s/he may refuse to help the refugee and simply tell them to come back later to see the one who is. The woman answered that she doesn't live in Basateen but came here from Kharaz for medical help. Kharaz is the camp in the middle of nowhere, about two hours from Aden. The social worker refused to help her. He stood up and said she'd have to go back to Kharaz or another agency for help. Meanwhile, the woman is lying on the filthy street, her head on a rice bag that contained her family's clothes. The young girl started to cry.

I asked for help to bring the woman inside our compound. The girl helped and we sat the woman on a plastic chair. Almost immediately urine and blood gushed from her. My coworkers still debated about what to do, as the woman's head flopped to her side and her mouth dropped open. I don't think I will forget it. A social worker had his hands crossed on his chest as he watched this woman drift in and out. No one moved but the woman's children, who jumped to avoid the stream coming from her.

I ran inside and told our office director and asked that we get an ambulance. She said the procedure is for us to take her to the clinic in the slum, get a referral, then take her to the hospital. I asked if she would do the same for a gunshot victim. She said I was overreacting.

And that's what they did after a few minutes. They dragged her into the Land Rover to drive her to the clinic to get a referral, then went on with their day.

It overwhelms me.

Sights

Chillin'.
The great leader.
Water in a bag.
Basateen.

World Refugee Day

Hip-Hop Basateen style.

in order that you may attain bliss

The latest fashion update out of Paris is that French president Sarkozy wants to ban the burqa in order to free women from the constrains of being anonymous. Meanwhile, Yemen might be the only country in the world where men's fashion is more diverse and vibrant than women's, mainly because almost all women wear the exact same thing; A long black robe(abaya) a sheer, black cloth, cut like a poncho over their shoulders, and a Zoro like cloth, with a slit for the eyes, over their face( niqab). For visual aid see exhibits B and C above.

Though I don't doubt that there are many, many women who are devout, and would choose to dress this way regardless of the norm, I would venture to guess that just as many would choose to express themselves in a different attire if given the apportunity. For me, at times I wear the abaya(the long black robe). Other times I wear a long loose skirt with a long top and a hijab. Yesterday while standing in front of a small restaurant next to our office waiting for Michael , I got the usual stare down from several women passing by, the owner who was observing this said to me " you should wear an abaya, they are looking at you because you are not." This from a dude wearing a man skirt that was so short it barely grazed his thighs, and a shirt that was open down to his navel. I almost said " why don't you lay off the mini skirt."

What is disturbing about Sarkozy's proposal and the dress code laid out for the women of Yemen, is the assumption that women cannot be trusted with the simple task of choosing how to dress. They need to be liberated one way or another, by forces that know better than they what is good for them. Liberation through oppresion.

Riot in the Backyard

There was a riot under our porch last week. In the morning we saw cops demolish a house with a bulldozer. We got it on video. Things got hectic for a minute but we had to leave for work. The last I saw, riot cops were pushing people away from the rubble.

When we were driving back from Basateen around 4:30 in the afternoon, we turned onto our street and saw men rolling tires set on fire out into the middle of the road. We quickly backed up and went around another way. The black, acrid smoke from the tires looked like it might be engulfing our apartment building but I wanted to get home. The alternative was to wait things out at our supervisor's apartment. We would've had to sit in our sweaty clothes and make conversation. Walking through a riot to get home seemed like the better option. It was a little uncomfortable walking past a bunch of Yemeni police with AKs, tires burning, rocks flying, but we got home alright.

We made these videos from our back porch. The first is the morning house demolition: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4O6opms5OdM .
The second is the afternoon clash:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XOD_T8yPIY

- Michael

Roughie & Toughie

One night coming back from dinner we ran into a group of men standing around a van inspecting the residents beneath it. It turned out to be these two little kittens. They looked like they were about three weeks old. We commented on the lack of parental supervision, and someone said "their mother went to Sheik Othman" a neighborhood that is about a 15 minute drive. So we took them home.

Last week there were five children abandoned at the agency we work for. The mothers simply brought them to the waiting area and left. One was caught by our guards on her way out. She said she has no money to feed her children and thought the agency would be better able to take care of them. She was arrested and put in jail.

The agency has to find foster families as there are no orphanages. It cannot offer cash assistance to the families who accept these children. Needless to say, very few people are willing to take on extra kids when they can barely feed their own.

Me and Hanna

We're on a road to nowhere

This is on the road to Kharaz refugee camp. Driving from Aden to the camp you'll see a few people on the side of the road every 30 minutes or so, walking, hitch-hiking, riding camels. You'll also see people - usually children - running towards the road with empty bottles pleading for water. Drivers on the road are their only source of it. There is no camera lens wide enough to capture the emptiness of this area. No one I've asked can figure out why (and how) Yemenis live in this area. We hear "middle of nowhere" used so often but it's fitting for this area.

RICS

As you all can testify to I am always late with everything, and I might be a wee bit late with this thank you, but my gratitude is profound.

To everyone at Refugees and Immigrant Community Services,there are no words to describe the enormity of the work you do everyday. I am so humbled by your dedication and compassion, your drive to contribute to the betterment of society and the world. It is admirable, it is awe inspiring, it is praise worthy.

Thank you for being great co-workers and great friends. For putting up with my glaring shiny red shoes, my lame jokes, and mildly disturbing personality.

To the families I had the honor of working with, thank you for accepting me, and welcoming me into your lives. Each and every one of you has enriched my life more than you can ever imagine. I will forever be grateful.

Under the fierce Yemeni sun, I raise my glass of syrupy sweet tea to you all! Thank you!

Good Things

This week has been difficult. I'm trying to concentrate on good things. These are some things I really enjoy about being here so far.

Saltah: the national dish of Yemen, usually eaten in the north for lunch but there are a couple spots nearby that make it and it is good. You can see in the picture above the heavy dish with saltah in it. The dish is heated empty then in goes a cracked egg, rice, beef or lamb with sauce/juice, and then at the very end a frothy cup of fenugreek. It comes to your table bubbling hot and it takes a lot of patience to let it cool down enough to eat - because it's good! The bread in the picture next to it is the everyday bread you get at restaurants here. The food in Yemen is some of the best I have ever had.

This picture is of Elephant Bay beach. This is where I go swimming every weekend. I swim past the rocks and can see fish of all colors and sizes, beautiful coral, sea cucumbers, and sea urchins. Last week I even saw a morey eel. The best is swimming with a huge school of tiny silver fish.

Other things here that I enjoy are going to the Seera fish market, choosing a fish just caught, then going to the restaurant to have them cook it; tea with everything; seeing Somali children everywhere; buses driving with their side doors wide open; being able to buy good incense and oud in almost every outdoor market; every outdoor market; fresh lime juice; how people greet each other with salaams; how things get relatively quiet on Friday mornings; the boats; seeing people fishing; the mountains that surround Aden; the way most Yemenis treat beggers with respect; the goats; the music.

Wedding Party

Thursday night is wedding time. I happened to catch these guys after walking home from a restaurant. The music was strong. It sounded like some African stuff I've heard because of the time signatures, the conversation between the different tones of the drums, and the call-and-response style of singing. It was nothing like any other Arab music I've ever heard. It shows how closely Africa and the Arabian Peninsula are connected. But the drums they're playing are Indian style. The area where this picture was taken was developed by British colonialists to house their Indian servants. Apparently it wasn't only bread, sweets, and curry the Indians left behind.

On the highway from Khormaksar to Sheikh Othman. Check out the seal decorations on the lightposts.

Work Has Been Interesting

The other day an Oromo refugee man upset over the fact that we wouldn’t help him pay for his medication pulled out a knife and threatened to stab a coworker of mine. Our security guard had been chatting with his friends and didn’t notice what was happening, so staff had to handle it.

Nearly every day a Somali woman named Ayesha comes to the office to demand cash or material assistance. She sometimes uses her crutches as weapons when she gets angry. She also screams very loudly but last week I saw her in a relatively quiet mood. She was sitting in the waiting area, quietly criticizing everyone who passed. As an American coworker walked past her Ayesha said, “And that one is from Britain but she can’t even speak English.” She chose to harass me next, scolding me for having a Somali wife but not being able to speak Somali.

The agency I work for is responsible for most social programs in Basateen. That means, more than anything really, that there are many refugees who come to the office to ask for material assistance. To most refugees I’m sure that more cash, food, medicine, clothing, etc. will make life better. The situation in Basateen is absolutely dire but there are those suffering from trauma that tend to focus on material as the solution to everything painful. When we do give them what they say they need they’re often back in the office the next day to demand something else.

There are a few women we serve who are like this but there is one who's very extreme. Last week she came to the office to ask for help to get back to Somalia. She said she’s had enough of Yemen. This was after she had received cash, food, and mattresses – all of which she requested. She thought the material would ease her suffering. When it didn’t she blamed her pain on being in Yemen. She said she wanted to leave her children here and return to Somalia. She became so distressed and desperate for attention that she tried to undress in front of our staff in the office. She was screaming wildly as she tore off her clothes.

As if all this wasn’t enough, the office itself has been hard to bear. The electricity has been off for over three weeks now, which means that we cannot even run fans. If it’s 95 degrees outside, it’s easily 100 inside the office. The supervisor tells everyone at the morning meetings that the electricity will soon be back on. She implores everyone to be steadfast then leaves for her air-conditioned office in another area of Aden, far from Basateen.

There have also been stretches where the office is without any water. It’s hard to describe the feeling of using a “bathroom” that's easily over 100 degrees, whose walls are covered with all sorts of bugs, and doesn’t have any water. Luckily the malaria medication I'm taking has plugged me up.

The apartment the agency set me up in has cockroaches and rats. Worse, there’s a mosque directly across the street whose loudspeakers are level with my bedroom window. Around 4:30 every morning I wake up when they turn the speakers on. I can hear the click and then the static. Then we have to listen to some poor, tone deaf elderly man do his best adhan. The mosque also broadcasts every prayer, every khutba (sermon), and every Qu’ran class during the week. I stopped going to the mosque in Chicago because I felt like I was constantly being yelled at. This seems to be my punishment.

Death in Life

I walked through blocks 1, 2, and 3 today in Basateen. It's an area on the south-eastern edge of the slum. People refer to it as Kismayo because of the fact that most residents are originally from that city in southern Somalia. It's next to the paved road, close to the dump, main well, and big primary school.

A coworker told me it's where the "real refugees" live. By that I think he meant the people who are suffering the most. I'm not sure if there's an accurate way to judge that but after a few hours walking around I could see what he meant.

At one point I felt overwhelmed by the filth and heat. The shacks seemed to close in on each other. My eyes stayed fixed on the ground as we walked through tight alleys. I tried to avoid the feces and burning garbage. I wondered how deep people have to reach to find the strength to bear that existance day after day.

We walked up to a school where we could hear kids reciting. As we approached the building to look inside, a small boy ran in front of us to look first. On the back of his shirt was written "Death in Life."

Just one of those things.


- Michael

The Gardens

Basateen used to be mostly fruit farms before refugees started to settle there. The name means "gardens" in Arabic. This is what it looks like on the edge of Basateen, next to the primary school.

Kharaz New Arrival Area

This is the area in Kharaz refugee camp in Yemen where the newest arrivals stay for a short time. The day I took this picture there were about 90 new arrivals - in one day. These all are people who've paid smugglers to bring them across the sea from Somalia. Many boats capsize, as did one that same day we found out later. About 40 people drowned. This happens every week. 

Most of the Somali new arrivals - who are prima facie refugees and given automatic refugee status by the Yemeni gvt - head south to the city of Aden or north to Saudi Arabia to look for work. Very few decide to stay in Kharaz because of the isolation, lack of opportunities, and the fact that the camp is overcrowded. 

View From The Office

This is the main street in Basateen, the urban area where about 18,000 Somali and Oromo refugees live in the city of Aden. The goat's about ten feet from the front gate of the main office I work out of there. Goats - and packs of wild dogs - are all over, especially on the edges of the area where people dump their garbage.

Test of Strength

It's good to walk as slowly as possible in Aden, otherwise so many magical things will slip by you. I sat at a busy corner in the Crater neighborhood one afternoon, nursing a fresh mango juice, and happened to catch this guy amongst the madness. He built this machine that tests your grip strength. It was a bargain at 20 rials - about ten cents.

Yemen Is A Doughnut

Yemen is a huge, fried doughnut, straight from the pan and covered in sugar. I will eat every last bite; cavities, calories, and sticky fingers, be damned.

When I got off the plane at Aden airport at 5am, the heat and humidity slammed me. The sun hadn't risen yet but beads of sweat started to trickle down my neck as I walked from the tarmac to the "terminal". Inside there was that inescapable smell of third world mold. I was off the plane less than 20 minutes when I started to question why I had come. That was four days ago. In the past three days I have fallen in love with Aden.

Lust plays a big part in falling in love. Staying in love is different, of course, but falling in love is like wanting to eat someone or something whole. Huge, fried, hot, cloyingly sweet - who cares?! I want it. And give me tea with milk on the side, in a sticky cup. No place to wash my hands after? No worries. I want seconds.

After resolving a few issues at the airport (forgot to get a visa, couldn't find my bags because they had been thrown off the conveyor, couldn't find my contact person), I was off in a dusty pick-up with the Operations Manager at the refugee agency I'll be working for. He offered to drive me to the hotel where I'd stay until my apartment was cleaned but I was too wired from the excitement and lack of sleep of the past few days, so I asked to start work that morning. He laughed and said that he wouldn't allow it and instead drove me around Aden twice to see the sites.

The first thing that struck was the people sleeping out on the streets. Some literally sleep on the street. The boundary between street and sidewalk in Aden is thin, despite the curbs being two feet high or more. Medians are meeting and sleeping places, and any side lane is good for a number of things, from chewing qat to taking a nap. Anyway, I was surprised by the sheer number of people who seem homeless, the majority of whom are Somali refugees. There's no accurate way to explain their situation. If you've ever been to Skid Row in L.A. you might have an idea but spread that throughout an entire city that it is hot, humid, and dusty as hell.

At night, when the temperature drops to around bearable, Aden becomes much more enjoyable. Everyone is out on the streets - chewing qat and talking, chewing qat and playing soccer, chewing qat and shopping. The city breathes through the heat and dust and I can feel it. It's a feeling that makes me take my hands out of my pockets and swing my arms when I walk, slow down and look people in the eye, greet strangers, eat whatever looks good. So much looks good. Aden at night is beautiful.

To Everyone at Interfaith

Before writing about Yemen, there's a need to express my thanks and love to a few people I wasn't able to see before I left Chicago and a few people who I didn't thank enough.

First, the deepest respect goes to all the generous and loving people I had the pleasure of working with at Interfaith Refugee and Immigration Ministries in Chicago. Many of you are nothing less than an inspiration to the refugees you serve and to me. May the Almighty bless every one of you who struggles in earnest day after day to ease the burdens of resettled refugees in Chicago.

Second, to all of the mothers and fathers I've been lucky enough to meet and who have accepted me as a friend, I thank you for trusting me to be a mentor and teacher to your children. I understand and fully appreciate the profundity of your faith in me. I am eternally grateful and honored. It is my hope that I was able to help your children find their balance in a new place and culture.

Last, and most important, thanks to the kids who have been my students, friends, and inspiration for the past six years. Words simply cannot express the depth of my respect and care for you. Many of you have seen horrors that most people could never imagine, yet you're hopeful and hungry for life. My heart is filled with memories and my mouth is filled with stories of our time together. Your futures are filled with possibility. It's true when people tell you that you can be whatever you want to be. Believe in yourselves! When each one of you enters university when you are older, I want you to email me and tell me about it. I will keep this email address: michaelwolven@gmail.com . God bless you all!

Hadgu, Amy, Sarah - THANK YOU!


- Michael