Three weeks ago, in Yemen, somewhere between Aden and Zabid and near Taiz — it could have been shortly after Lahj —
A small, fly-infested town. We were in a shared taxi driving near the Red Sea coast, and towards (I did not know yet) one of the hottest places in the world, Zabid. Hot and sweaty, just as you’d imagine any place called Tihama to be.
Toilet break. ‘Highway’ stop. Dusty town with no name. No one had ever seen an Oriental person before. Cue running amok and endless staring. It’s okay, I’m used to it.
Used too, I thought, to the things I did not want to see. Begging. Poverty. I see it everywhere; you learn to close your eyes to it, you learn to say no.
But here was a homeless family sitting by the sidewalk of a restaurant. Eating bread people threw out to them. The children were in various states of ill health, and so were the parents. They were all immaculately dressed, though, in that they were homeless and poor but still maintained their pride in the way they were clothed. Everyone wore hand-me-downs. Everyone had mismatched items on themselves. The younger daughter was dressed in a large mismatched frock that made her look vaguely clown-like. They were so happy that someone even looked at them, said hi, and took a picture. I told them their baby was beautiful. I did mean it, though it’s hard to see how. They were so happy. Then someone came to kick them away. They packed up their belongings, and went to sit in a corner. When I was leaving in the car they came ambling out to wave goodbye. I think my heart broke a little.
