read his lead first, and it was perfect . “Thabbit al-Saadyi, 94, killed Qasim al-Washari, 49, with an AK-47 at a casino Saturday at 3 A.M.” He included the who, what, where, when, and how. He included a subject, verb, and object. And he used the correct style for the ages of the men! It may sound ridiculous, but I was so moved that my skin tingled and tears came to my eyes.
“That is so perfect,” I told Farouq. “That is just what I’ve been looking for.”
THERE WAS ALSO so much of Yemen I had left to see. On Fridays, my days off, I immersed myself in Yemeni life—in what my life might be like if I lived there. Yemenis are quick with hospitable invitations, and a thin, professorial man I met one night at the National Museum, Dr. Mohammed Saleh al-Haj, immediately invited me to lunch with his family. This is how Yemenis are—they will invite you home to lunch five minutes after meeting you. And after you have gone once, they will then want you to have lunch with them every Friday.
We met in the morning and took a taxi together to the fish market to pick out lunch. A little nervous to be heading home with a complete stranger, but curious to get a glimpse of Yemeni home life, I wandered around taking photographs of children. I was fascinated by the little girls, the dirty little street princesses, their bright taffeta dresses streaked with grime.
Dr. al-Haj’s brother-in-law Khaled, sister Leila, and niece Chulud fetched us from the market in their car, and we drove to Dr. al-Haj’s home, a two-room apartment up a flight of stairs and across a rooftop. After we removed our shoes and stepped inside, Leila and Chulud immediately stripped off their abayas , emerging looking like two Western women. Chulud wore skintight blue jeans and a loose short-sleeved shirt over a black bra, like any American fifteen-year-old, while Leila wore a checked shirt over loose plaid pants. They took over the kitchen, while Dr. al-Haj settled me in the living room/dining area. The room was carpeted with oriental rugs and lined with sitting cushions. A TV hulked in the corner, blaring a Friday sermon. Khaled came in wearing his long white robe and switched the television to an American channel showing a swimsuit fashion show. “Amreekee!” he told me, smiling. I ought to have been grateful for some American television, so I smiled, though the reverse was true. I have never owned a television, I have no interest in fashion, and it made me uneasy to watch women in bathing suits in the company of Yemeni men. In fact, I’d become rather taken with this whole modesty thing. Why should I let a man who is not my lover see any part of me? I was getting used to hiding.
Dr. al-Haj disappeared for a moment and returned with a gift for me: a lovely woven bag stuffed with something soft. I opened it to find a long, silky abaya and matching scarf, with glittery flowers along the edges. I was overwhelmed by his generosity.
“So you will be safer,” he said, though I was already covered from tip to toe in loose black, so much so that when Dr. al-Haj saw me that morning, he had said, “Ah, so you are Yemeni now!”
“If you don’t like it you can throw it away,” he said. “And if it’s the wrong size I will buy you a new one.”
“I would never throw it away! I love it. Thank you. Shukrahn.”
The neighbors heard that I was visiting and came by to take a look at me. First came a little girl, dressed up like royalty in a frothy green dress. She was shy at first, and then impish, stealing someone’s cell phone and playing with it. Then three boys came in. Each one solemnly took my hand and greeted me, and then the third boy kissed me on each cheek and then once on the top of my head. If I lived here for a year, would I ever cease to be a curiosity? Or would I simply adjust to being an object of study?
When lunch was ready, Chulud carried each of the dishes into the room. “This is salatah,” she said. “This is roz . This is
“That is so perfect,” I told Farouq. “That is just what I’ve been looking for.”
THERE WAS ALSO so much of Yemen I had left to see. On Fridays, my days off, I immersed myself in Yemeni life—in what my life might be like if I lived there. Yemenis are quick with hospitable invitations, and a thin, professorial man I met one night at the National Museum, Dr. Mohammed Saleh al-Haj, immediately invited me to lunch with his family. This is how Yemenis are—they will invite you home to lunch five minutes after meeting you. And after you have gone once, they will then want you to have lunch with them every Friday.
We met in the morning and took a taxi together to the fish market to pick out lunch. A little nervous to be heading home with a complete stranger, but curious to get a glimpse of Yemeni home life, I wandered around taking photographs of children. I was fascinated by the little girls, the dirty little street princesses, their bright taffeta dresses streaked with grime.
Dr. al-Haj’s brother-in-law Khaled, sister Leila, and niece Chulud fetched us from the market in their car, and we drove to Dr. al-Haj’s home, a two-room apartment up a flight of stairs and across a rooftop. After we removed our shoes and stepped inside, Leila and Chulud immediately stripped off their abayas , emerging looking like two Western women. Chulud wore skintight blue jeans and a loose short-sleeved shirt over a black bra, like any American fifteen-year-old, while Leila wore a checked shirt over loose plaid pants. They took over the kitchen, while Dr. al-Haj settled me in the living room/dining area. The room was carpeted with oriental rugs and lined with sitting cushions. A TV hulked in the corner, blaring a Friday sermon. Khaled came in wearing his long white robe and switched the television to an American channel showing a swimsuit fashion show. “Amreekee!” he told me, smiling. I ought to have been grateful for some American television, so I smiled, though the reverse was true. I have never owned a television, I have no interest in fashion, and it made me uneasy to watch women in bathing suits in the company of Yemeni men. In fact, I’d become rather taken with this whole modesty thing. Why should I let a man who is not my lover see any part of me? I was getting used to hiding.
Dr. al-Haj disappeared for a moment and returned with a gift for me: a lovely woven bag stuffed with something soft. I opened it to find a long, silky abaya and matching scarf, with glittery flowers along the edges. I was overwhelmed by his generosity.
“So you will be safer,” he said, though I was already covered from tip to toe in loose black, so much so that when Dr. al-Haj saw me that morning, he had said, “Ah, so you are Yemeni now!”
“If you don’t like it you can throw it away,” he said. “And if it’s the wrong size I will buy you a new one.”
“I would never throw it away! I love it. Thank you. Shukrahn.”
The neighbors heard that I was visiting and came by to take a look at me. First came a little girl, dressed up like royalty in a frothy green dress. She was shy at first, and then impish, stealing someone’s cell phone and playing with it. Then three boys came in. Each one solemnly took my hand and greeted me, and then the third boy kissed me on each cheek and then once on the top of my head. If I lived here for a year, would I ever cease to be a curiosity? Or would I simply adjust to being an object of study?
When lunch was ready, Chulud carried each of the dishes into the room. “This is salatah,” she said. “This is roz . This is
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