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.