by Peggy Hanson
All right. The rewards, when they came, would not have been so high. But he could have lived in the open, not in perpetual shadow. He could have lived in relative safety.
It was perhaps fortunate that the Queens family had not been excessively moral. Even had they known his goals and purposes, which they assuredly did not, they would not have disowned him.
They might, however, have been fearful on his behalf.
CHAPTER 86
The old city of Sa’dah is a supreme example of mud architecture, almost all of it, including its walls, built in the rammed earth or zabur technique. Walking round the walls or through its cavernous streets overshadowed by tall zabur houses one has the sense of trespassing in a forgotten world.
Sarah Searight, Yemen: Land and People
It seemed much farther than six miles. Yusuf, the driver, was beginning to warm to me, having at first seemed reticent about taking orders from yet another ferengi female. He was obviously used to Becca; her friends were something else.
Selim, the al Shem relative, had reappeared before we left, and sat in front as we bounced along on the al-Talh road, meeting and passing jeeps and trucks and cars of every description. Apparently he was assigned to me as a guide—or guard—by the al Shems.
What he had done with the note?
The souq looked like a huge gypsy camp on the rugged plain. Tents of various types sheltered traders from the piercing sun. Groups of turbaned men sat on their haunches under the tents, laughing and fahdaling, gossiping, in the desert Arab way. Pots of steaming mutton stew were ladled out hospitably into large communal bowls, where people dipped coarse brown bread. Inviting guests to share food is a time-honored Bedouin custom, but in this case, patrons paid.
Some men had finished eating and were already chewing qat, cheeks bulging like those of major league pitchers. There was an overwhelming sense of fun; from a woman’s standpoint, a fascinating glimpse into the male world: uncomfortable, dusty, unrefined, cocky. With my modest headscarf and loose clothes, I didn’t draw a lot of attention.
I was glad that my new pal, Yusuf, offered to walk around with me. His presence lent me the dignity and social protection of a respectable lady, though I felt quite safe as that Yemeni “third sex,” the Western woman. Selim walked behind us—fully-armed, of course.
The Souq al-Talh on the plains of north Yemen makes all other smuggling centers look like Lego constructions. Everything in the little tents was illegal contraband, mostly brought in via non-roads from Saudi Arabia. I saw televisions from Tokyo, watches from Switzerland, even some high-quality plastic containers I could swear were Tupperware. People were paying in Yemeni rials or Saudi rials, or occasionally in the old Austrian Maria Theresa thalers, currency from two and a half centuries back. These were replicas, of course—at least most of them. Known as the “Levant dollar,” the Maria Theresa was once the only trading medium among Ethiopia, Yemen, and other Red Sea countries.
By far the most distinctive feature of al-Talh, though, was its trade in arms. Kalashnikovs, hand grenades, Uzis, you name it. Tents looked like porcupines with their deadly wares poking out in all directions. Men handled the weapons lovingly, occasionally shooting off a sample. I took a couple of photos from under my shawl, since no one seemed to be paying any attention, but I kept my distance, preferring not to become anyone’s playful target.
Yusuf beside me murmured, “Few years back, was more. More open. Now worry police can come.” He grinned. “But not much worry!”
Oh. Good. I guessed so, anyway.
Yusuf gestured unobtrusively toward some trucks piled high, their loads covered in black plastic. Men stood around them in animated discussion.
“Can get missiles, even,” Yusuf said.
“Missiles?” What kind? Best not to ask too many questions. Yusuf steered me away from that particular clump of trucks. Selim was a shadow, not interfering in any way with what we wanted to do. Watchful.
Well. I wasn’t the only ferengi enjoying the al-Talh souq. Over there, near trucks possibly carrying SCUDs and anti-aircraft guns, was the distinguished khaki-clad figure of “agricultural businessman” Richard Queens, looking for all the world like a British colonialist in India. He just didn’t have the hat.
Steering around a pile of honey barrels and casting only the most cursory glance at stacks of beautiful woven baskets being sold near some thorny bushes by the only women at the souq, I headed toward Queens.
Yusuf tugged at my sleeve, saying “No this way, madam, no this way,” but I wasn’t listening.
“Hello, Mr. Queens,” I called, brightly. “Over here!”
Several men in the area looked up. The look I received from my quarry could not be called friendly. Queens stopped and waited with ill-hidden impatience for me. “I was not aware that you were coming here,” he said.
“Oh, it was a bit spur of the moment,” I said, a little breathlessly. “I came to Sa’da with a UNESCO friend of mine and her jeep. Isn’t this an interesting place?”
“Just about closing down now, I should think,” came the crisp reply. “But yes, it is interesting.” He hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. He turned from the trucks I’d found so compelling, and started walking back toward the parking lot.
“I hadn’t reached that part yet,” I protested. “What is there?” I gestured toward the trucks.
“I didn’t get much of a chance, either,” came the laconic reply. “Clearly, it is a black market heaven.”
“I need a little more information so I report on it.” I addressed both Richard Queens and Yusuf, who, along with Selim, had come up protectively behind me.
Yusuf’s face was a blank. Queens looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure it is a place for a woman,” he said slowly.
“Really? Just what is the place for a woman?” My voice rose. A few tribal members looked our way.
Queens held up his hand. “I mean, you could be in danger asking too many questions. They may not like a woman so close to the sacred ground of armaments.” He shrugged, as if to indicate that some men had odd ideas about women.
I was not appeased, but it wasn’t a place to have an argument. “If I stay away, will you tell me more later?”
Queens nodded—what else could he do?—and we walked on through the souq. Yusuf and the other man shadowed us.
I found this comforting.
CHAPTER 87
True believers are those whose lives God has bought in exchange for the promise of paradise. They must not flee from battle, even if they are facing certain death. A man who turns his back on the unbelievers and runs, it says in the Kur’an, “has indeed incurred God’s severe punishment, and his final refuge is the Fire; how evil a homecoming and a destination to arrive in.”
Omar Nasiri, Inside the Jihad, My Life with Al Qaeda, A Spy’s Story
The previous night’s activities haunted Ali. He lay in his tent after the noontime prayers, face impassive, eyes closed. He was not reading the Koran.
One of the brothers, Abu Hussein had been suspected of spying on the group. By “spying” they meant he might have changed his mind about Salafism, the justification for any kind of violence as long as it furthered the cause of Sharia law. It was a philosophy started in Egypt, but the religious sheikh of this area had embraced and enlarged the philosophy.
Sharia law in its most fundamental interpretation—women veiled and subservient, harsh punishment for crimes, no secular law to supersede religion—was accepted by the group as gospel.
Osama bin Laden, with ancestral ties to Yemen, had also embraced Salafism and respected the Sa’da sheikh as a guru. Everyone at the camp referred to him as Sheikh Osama. He was the living embodiment of what Salafists meant when they said Muslims must wage jihad against all non-believers in order to retake the holy land of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Sheikh Osama wanted a new caliphate, which would represent the Islamic world.
Ali had not known much about Salafism when he joined. He had seen it as a purer form
of life unbesmirched by political corruption.
This was no longer the case. His view had changed.
The rumor about Abu Hussein had begun, who knew where. He had gone to his village for two days, and when he returned Abu Shihr, the training camp leader, had isolated him. Only the leaders knew what evidence there was against him.
After a brief trial, where Islamic terms were liberally thrown around, Hussein had been declared a traitor and led outside the camp. There, selected recruits were told to shoot him. Ali was among them. It was a test of loyalty.
Ali had not fired when the rest of them did, but he pretended to.
Abu Hussein’s frightened face would stay with Ali for the rest of his life.
Had the execution of Hussein been ordered to provide an example of what disloyalty, even the scent of disloyalty, could mean?
His own situation had never been so tenuous. As his own determination to leave increased, his chances of doing so plummeted.
CHAPTER 88
Even today, society remains organized along tribal lines, with the tribesman, qabili, wearing his janbiyyah dagger jauntily over his navel as he strides over northern town and countryside, regarding himself as bound by a concept of honour that includes the right to bear arms; outside the city, he is likely also to have a gun over his shoulder.
Sarah Searight, Yemen: Land and People
On the way back from the arms trucks, I passed thorny bushes to better look at the display of brightly-colored baskets. They provided a small feminine oasis in the midst of all that maleness.
Queens half-smiled once or twice as I spiritedly bargained with the desert women. We all upheld our dignity by haggling over price, although I felt guilty; the price itself meant much more to the women than to me.
But it is a game that must be played. “Too much!” I would say to one of the grinning sellers.
“No, no, madam jests. This is very cheap price!”
I furtively handed money to the women’s children to make up for the lower prices.
Richard Queens ended up buying two baskets, possibly to get in on the fun. Between us, Yusuf and I were just able to carry the seven I purchased. Tight woven, red with dark blue or green designed, carefully-patterned.
I told Richard he had made a very good deal. He grunted in response—typical male. My evenhanded approach to the sexes was being strained by exposure to so very masculine an experience as the Souq al-Talh. It had been an enormous relief to be with women for a while.
We saw some of the famous Hadhramaut honey for sale, straight from the spice route in the southeast, in the incense-growing area of the Wadi Hadhramaut. With Queens in tow, I bought a few packets, which the seller obligingly dipped out of a barrel and put into a large plastic bag for me. I’d give it to the missionary family.
Queens showed more interest in the honey than he had in the baskets. He studied the barrels, and the seller watched him with guarded eyes.
What on earth was honey’s connection with Agro-Brit, or whatever Queens’ company was called?
For my part, I found it romantic to think of Hadhramaut honey being made by bees who may have alighted on frankincense trees.
Richard Queens seemed nonplussed when I asked him outright whether his company dealt in honey. “A little. Sometimes.”
To my surprise, I found Queens quite a good companion.
“Where are you staying?” I asked when we reached the parking area. Yusuf held open the door for me.
“At the Bilqis Hotel,” he said. “It advertises two sheets, but I have my doubts. It may very well turn out to be a one-sheeter where the laundry is done monthly…” We laughed together.
“Well, my friend and I are staying with Dr. Kamp and his wife, near the silver shop at the Bab al-Najran,” I babbled. “It’s known as the American Clinic.”
“Very good, then,” came the reply. “I’m sure you will be comfortable.” I received a British military nod of dismissal.
CHAPTER 89
“Sa’dah has always been important as the way into the great desert of Arabia, the Rub al-Khali. [Empty Quarter] It was a suitable staging post for the caravans along the frankincense route from the Indian Ocean to the countries of the Mediterranean. The town must have developed before the coming of Islam…”
Insight Guide to Yemen
Back at the clinic in time for tea, I traded stories with Becca. She’d spoken with the newly-appointed government overseer for cultural preservation, and felt that Sa’da had a fighting chance of holding its own in the face of future development—assuming intertribal tensions cooled enough to allow development.
“Aren’t these buildings just fantastic, Elizabeth? Come on, admit it. We’ll take a walk around the ramparts later, and you’ll see why it’s important to save the city. But, hey, I didn’t know you’d pick up a boyfriend as soon as I let you out of my sight.”
I dismissed Becca’s gentle teasing as a thirty-something jump to conclusions. “Richard Queens is not, as you so inelegantly surmise, my boyfriend,” I answered. “He’s a rather grumpy British businessman who happens to show up in some of the places I go. I hardly know the man.” I felt very experienced compared to Becca and her idealism.
Jan and Susan Kamp joined us as we were finishing our tea. The tall, rosy-cheeked, round-faced doctor was as pleasant as his wife, although both looked tired from their day’s labors.
“We get a lot of gunshot wounds around here,” remarked Jan.
“Yes, I can well believe that. I was at the Souq al-Talh today. There’s not exactly a shortage of guns in the area, is there?”
“No.” The doctor’s answer was short and to the point. “And more coming in all the time. Arms and other things.”
“What other things? And how much of this stuff is smuggled?”
“C-4 explosives, among other things. And as to how much is smuggled? Probably ninety percent of what you saw today. And there’s no shortage of buyers—especially recently.”
“How do you mean, recently?” I suddenly remembered Mac Snyder’s casual terrorism remark. And Jason Roberts’ warning about Sa’da.
Dr. Kamp hesitated, but finally continued. “There’s been a lot of activity. Trucks moving at night. Trucks are even coming across the desert from the Hadhramaut oases, which used to be off-limits when there were two Yemens and the South was communist. More people are getting shot. Something is going on.”
“Such as?” I asked.
He laughed, ruefully. “There is always something going on in Yemen. Now, sorry, but I have to go check on some of the patients. See you all at dinner? I’m desperately in need of some good gossip!”
The big man with his child-like, kind eyes stood, pulling on a white coat as he left.
Susan followed him, after she had given some instructions in the kitchen. Becca and I headed out for the late afternoon walk we had promised ourselves.
Worry clouded my thoughts. How to find Ali? Where had the letters gone that I’d handed to Selim? He had held himself so aloof in the Souq al-Talh I had not dared broach the subject. Couldn’t have, anyway, with Yusuf there.
Surely Halima’s Sa’da relatives would find a way to contact me. Selim had disappeared as we arrived back in Sa’da. I felt completely helpless.
CHAPTER 90
There was no occasion to press the matter further. The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it.
Jane Austen, Emma
Strolling along the rampart at the top of the Sa’da walls at sunset turned out to be among life’s great experiences. A few city families enjoyed the view, too. I enjoyed the amused glint from under veils as women exercised one of their few privileges: giving a foreign woman the once-over. I did not, of course, meet the eye of any man.
The gently-tapered, stark, clean lines of mud towers were emphasized in the evening shadows: pink or gold on one side, deep mauve on the other. The air was crisp and invigorating, tinged ever so slightly with the scent of human and animal detritus. Dust from the day had p
artially settled, leaving a romantic haze over the city. I jotted down a few impressions, the odd description would spice up my next report. Becca wielded her camera non-stop, except when any woman was around.
As dusk fell, the plaintive call to prayer emanated from the white-domed mosques, and we were suddenly the only ones left on the ramparts. An unexpected moment of reverence. In the midst of the surreal scene, I could practically see prayers rising from the homes, like smoke from baking bread over open fires.
“Good evening.” The cultured voice broke my reverie in a way the loquacious Becca had not. Richard Queens stood there, apparently having been following us around the walls.
“Oh, hello,” I said, coming to full consciousness. “Rebecca Ross, meet Richard Queens.” And then, gesturing around, “Isn’t this lovely?”
“It is, yes.” As always, a man of few words.
Becca had by now snapped her last picture, and was giving Queens her attention. “So, I hear you bought some baskets! I like Elizabeth’s a lot.”
“Your friend is indeed a fine bargainer,” said Queens, with a tactfully-admiring tone. I almost liked the man.
“How’s your hotel?” I asked. “Bilqis, I think you said?”
“Ummh. It does have the two sheets,” came the answer. “One could wish they had been washed in recent memory…” We all laughed.
Becca seemed struck by compassion. “Say, why don’t you join us for dinner at the clinic?” she asked. “I’m sure the Kamps wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’m providing quite a bit of the food from what we had in the jeep.”
Queens looked closer to vulnerable than I had ever seen him. “Well. That would be very pleasant. But are you certain your friends will not mind?”
“The Kamps would be glad to have you,” assured Becca. “They said dinner is at seven. Do you know where the American Clinic is?”
“It’s near the gate where my hotel is,” said Queens. “I’ll find it.” He sketched an automatic hat-removing line in the air, then walked briskly back the way we had come.