That may come as a surprise since whenever the country makes headlines β as it has over the past few weeks β the overwhelming themes are war, violent radicalism, the impending doom of failed statehood and whatever other ominous sounding crisis water shortages, national drug addiction can be thrown into the mix.
I find that most Americans assume that the country is seething with anti-American sentiment. Yet, that is far from the truth, and I miss Yemen, my home from to early Most foreigners who have been fortunate enough to experience the warmth, humor and kindness of Yemeni people miss it too. I would slowly make my way across uneven stone floors that cooled the soles of my feet and into my mafraj, a square room with blue-patterned low cushions lining its perimeter. I would take a moment to stare out into the narrow alleyway below through a green, blue, and red stained glass window, the kind that decorate nearly every building in Sanaa.
I lived on the top floor of a skinny, four-story, brown brick abode with white gypsum outlining its edges. Many have likened these structures in the old city to gingerbread houses. Out the window, I saw men walking to work, elbows linked, donned in long white robes that hung to their ankles, suit jackets, and a curved dagger secured right at their waistline. There were also the elderly women draped in red and blue intricately patterned blankets overtop their black abayas and carrying puffy loaves of bread in clear plastic bags.
My ears would then catch the sound of the gas merchant who strolled the neighborhood banging with a wrench on a large cooking gas canister. The sun would be strong and the air bone dry at 7, feet. I would walk the 10 steps or so to a hole-in-the-wall canteen, a Yemeni bodega, known here as a bagala, and buy a tub of plain yogurt for about 50 American cents that I would mix with Yemeni honey some of the best in the world! This was in lieu of the typical Yemeni breakfast of lamb kabob sandwiches or stewed fava beans.
The two young guys at the bagala would light up upon our daily meetings. Then another friend whose face I recognized from the neighborhood would rush up, give me a nod, and shove approximately 10 cents at Mohamed so he could bring back piles of pita bread for his family. You give Yemenis a smile, and they give you so much more in return, always bending over backwards for guests of their country. It was an unfair transaction that benefited me most of all. I miss walking through the narrow cobblestone streets of the old city and seeing faces I recognized.
