Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [112]
In February, the air already feels stifling, and my clothing is quickly drenched in sweat. By summer, the heat grows deadly, and many refugees fall ill, says Dr. Fawzia Abdul Naji, the gynecologist/obstetrician in residence at the camp. She is one of three doctors working full-time at Kharaz.
We visit refugees in the cinder-block homes and the cluster of tents. In one of the homemade tents lives Khadija Mohammed Farah, who shares three tiny rooms with six people. Inside, the air reeks of excrement, and flies coat every surface. A woman lies motionless on a thin mattress. “She is very ill,” says Khadija. In another room is a rudimentary kitchen with a camp stove and kerosene lamp. Khadija has been at the camp for two years and is still awaiting a more permanent shelter. Her four children cling to her while she complains about the conditions. Twenty-five or so Somalis crowd around us to add their own laments.
“Many journalists come here, and nothing ever changes,” cries one.
Khadija says that she wants to return to Somalia, when it is safe. But until then, she feels trapped.
“Look,” she says, pulling down the front of her colorful dress. “I was burned horribly.”
Her entire chest is a mass of scar tissue, caused when a lamp accidentally ignited a fire in the camp.
A man pushes to the front of a crowd. “Won’t you help me!” he cries, pulling down the front of his own shirt to reveal a crater-shaped scar. “Help me, I am all alone with four kids.”
The psychological scars many bear from witnessing unthinkable brutality are even worse. Issa Sultan, fifty, originally of Mogadishu, tells me he was forced to flee to Yemen with his wife and three children in 1995 because of the terror of the wars between Somali clans.
I interview scores of Somalis, scribbling furiously in my notebook. Working keeps me from becoming overwhelmed by the sheer misery of the place. I cannot get my mind around desolation on such a mass scale. I will never complain about my life again.
By the end of the day we are exhausted, overheated, emotionally drained. Yet we are lucky. We have the luxury of climbing back into our refrigerated Land Cruiser and driving away. So much of what I see in Yemen is a constant reminder of my good fortune. Every day I witness scenes of poverty and deprivation, yet my American passport allows me to walk away at any time. After living here, I can never again take any of my privileges for granted.
I AM WORKING on the Somali story at my desk in Sana’a the next day when I get a phone call from customs.
“You have a package,” the man says.
“Great.” I am expecting a box with a replacement battery for my computer, a power cord, chewing gum, and medicine from a friend in New York. It’s been taking ages to arrive. But I can’t imagine why this man is calling me; usually packages are delivered without preamble. “Well, bring it on over then.”
There is a silence on the line. Then, “Ah … Well, you see, there’s a problem. It contains something offensive to the Muslim faith.”
“What?” I stop looking at my computer screen and turn my attention to the call. “What is it?”
“Ah …” The man clears his throat. “It’s … It’s some sort of …” The customs officer stumbles over his words. “It’s—an artificial man!”
Suddenly I know what it is. A friend in Manhattan has joked about sending me a vibrator to keep me company in this lonely place. Oh dear.
“I’m not sure I know what you are talking about,” I say carefully. “Could you describe it to me?”
“It’s—!” The man is deeply uncomfortable. “It’s—! It’s purple!”
I suppress a wave of hysterical laughter. “I see.” I twist the phone cord around my finger and wonder how much trouble I am in. “A purple artificial man.”
“Yes!”
I don’t know what I am supposed to say. “Well, I don’t think I know what you are talking about,” I tell him. “But if it’s offensive to you, why don’t you just