Ahmed Nusfaleal: Sanaa through my eyes, for you

Our friend Ahmed Nusfaleal travelled more than 10 hours to reach Sanaa.
One hundred and fifty km, in times of war and road blocks, check-points and madness of these days, meant a detour of additional, tiring hours. With no certainty to reach, safely, the Capital. Literally, a trip into the unknown.

Still, when Ahmed reached Sanaa, he took these pictures to share with the world.
He invites everyone to see Sanaa through his eyes: the people, the Old City, the markets, the sellers, the smiles. The herbs, the flowers, goat milk, As-Saylah (the wadi which – in monsoon season becomes a river), the centuries old architecture, people getting ready to celebrate weddings and that strong, unbeatable will to accept anything which happens and might come with dignity and strength. With a humble acceptance. Yemen is stronger than any war. Yemen will overcome difficult times because, as Ahmed says: ”On the occasion of weddings, we are dancing in the streets. We are the people of happiness. We are the people who dance and overcome anything, the difficulties and the crisis and the war without worry or fear. Twenty four hours after twenty-four hours, we fight back and accept. And carry on.”
He ends with a message of hope: ”It has been raining a lot this season and our land has been blessed with rainbows. Rainbows will bring peace.”

Sooner or later, they will Ahmed.

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Souqh al Mihl, Old City of Sanaa

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Souqh al Mihl, Old City of Sanaa

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Souqh al Mihl, Old City of Sanaa

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Bab Barrum Quarter and Saylah after the rain – Old City of Sanaa
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In front of Al Qasimi quarter, Old City of Sanaa . The area was hit by a Saudi missile in the first hours of June 12 2015. Nothing stands any longer
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Music at Bab el Yemen, Old City of Sanaa
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Music in the Old City of Sanaa
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Souq al Milh, Old City of Sanaa
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Souq al Milh, Old City of Sanaa
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Herbs and flowers sellers, Sanaa
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As-Saylah, just after a night of rain. Old City of Sanaa
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Sanaa, after the rain and Saylah turnt into a river

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Never forget the smiles from Yemen

All pictures: Ahmed Nusfaleal

Happy Birthday Shafilea Ahmed

You are turning thirty tomorrow, Shafilea.
Our common friend Alex Jones , who has been campaigning so actively for you and all the girls trapped, sold, potentially married off, passed on from one family to another, asked me if I wanted to ink down a thought and wish you happy birthday.
Alex said: ‘It´s her birthday’. We never speak about you in the past tense. Especially with Alex, I can say that everything he does is centered on you. You are his determination to fight and help.
We know too well we failed you Shafilea. Not only your family did, we are-on many fronts- partners in crime.
We, who did not read well your poems, who did not pay attention to your cry, your begging for help, your burning throat and your disappearance.
We failed you and all the 5000 girls killed annually in the name of an honour which is not honourable at all. Maybe more than 5000: statistics are always an abstract entity and this is one of those crimes – as it runs in the family circle – extremely under reported.

 We failed you and your family alike. We should have helped your parents, your enlarged family where everyone is an Auntie, Uncle or  cousin and has a say, to know better.
We should have helped everyone around you to understand that the happiness of your own child is the happiness of the universe; there is no shame in rejecting a suitor or marrying later on in life. Simply, to fulfill a dream, a personal vision.
Instead, fear of gossips and shame engulfed everyone.
The people supposed to be protecting you and guiding you to a future, were the ones to  suffocate you and your liberty.
You are not gone, you live with us Shafilea.
Our gift to you – while you are turning thirty in a few hours time – is to continue and advocate, keep our eyes open and never, never stop.
We will continue in your name which, according to the Kabalarian philosophy, implies that ”Your idealistic and sensitive nature gives you a deep appreciation for the finer things of life and a strong desire to be of service to humanity”.
We can only try to serve humanity and appreciate the life you were denied.
We will dream your dream of freedom.
Happy birthday Shafilea. Wherever you are, fly high.


Shafilea Ahmed  was just 17 when she was killed by her mother and father, Iftikhar and Farzana Ahmed, for living a Western lifestyle and refusing to marry the man from Pakistan who they tried to force her to wed.
Shafilea’s parents believed she would bring shame on the family. Her father suffocated her in front of her siblings with a plastic bag. Her parents wrapped her in bin bags, and dumped her body in a lake.

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Huffington Post Women: ‘Honour Killing ’ Victim Shafilea Ahmed Remembered In Devastating Picture Reenacting Her Murder –  07/14/2015 03:29 pm 15:29:29 | Updated 14 July 2015 

For more information on the campaigns, activities or if you know of any girl potentially 13516525_1078681928860224_5898854304051567851_nin danger: In Memory of Shafilea Ahmed Facebook page.

’14th July marks Shafilea’s birthday. Her parents tried to extinguish her existence but she is the light that’s broken the darkness and been the inspiration to so many lives around the world.Together, we will build her legacy’

The War Stories Collector

‘I made a website called Uncloak that shares the stories of people living in war zones and the incidents and experiences they had. Until now I’ve published four stories. And I’m looking for more.
Uncloak was made to share the incidents and stories that happened to people in all war zones. Not just Yemen.’
If you grew up in Europe, you had your grandparents and relatives telling you how WWII was. What it felt like to be under bombardments, to be cold, have family members being deported, neighbours killed.
Stories ran in the family, circle of acquaintances.
The oral handing of personal stories was as effective as your history books. As if history made sense because it was hitting home.
It hit home for the war in Lebanon, Sri Lanka, the Viet Nam war, Afghanistan,  Iraq, Chechnya and an endless list which knows no borders.Salah is a young Yemeni, hurt by the war. He agrees – like many Yemenis I talk to these days – that there is no side to take any longer. Just the side of peace.
I tell him I unfortunately have many stories from so many places from Africa to Middle East but have little time to collect them and he replies:
‘If there is any need, I’m willing to help. In any possible way. Also, I still haven’t updated the site to specifically say this due to power outages, but even if these stories happened to people who don’t speak English that won’t be a problem. I’m willing to speak to them to understand their experience to be capable of writing it down and publishing it. Another option would be if they can write their experience in Arabic, I will translate it to English and post it.’

Ali

He has commenced a  sensitive project.
‘I want Uncloak to share the experiences and incidents that happen to normal, ordinary civilians living throughout the world away from the manipulation of media and politics, because if you notice, every group only talks about the hardships and problems of people who are ON their side.. This is a huge problem that creates a big rift between people of the same country or nation. Civilians, no matter what their views on politics/religion are, are the main victims of these war and shouldn’t be prioritised according to their views. I hope this war ends soon. Too many people died for nothing.’

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We must never forget and Salah is willing to collect the survivors’ stories.
I am afraid his will be an endless project. Somewhere, it will always hit home

 

For further information: https://uncloak.github.io/

Addisallem: I know everything now

‘Tomorrow is my birthday’ she says.
‘Look, you were born in July, now it’s only May.’
‘My life has started the day I met you.’
Addisallem, New World, was born in July, 29 years ago.
This is not her real name though it suits her perfectly. Addisallem has lived more than one single life can bear during her skinny three decades. Equally true: she has come to life again.
Her parents were not in love and not married. Her father never wanted any wife and Addisallem simply got in the way, she happened, in their lives.
She grew up in Bahir Dar (Ethiopia) with her mother and an Auntie, a sister of her mother. Her father was living in Addis Ababa, far from any potential wife. But he did have another family; the important was: no wives.
He had no permanent job and, according to the fluctuations of the touristic season, he was a bus driver. Fluctuantly, he was sending money to Addisallem’s mother.
Addisallem claims her life was normal up to when she was 7.
Maybe it’s just that she does not remember much prior to going to school because at 7, she says, she was already working. The days were all consistently the same: wake up early in the morning, no breakfast, the rush to a neighbour´s home to do house chores, the long walk to the well to fetch water, a faster rush back home to prepare coffee for her mother before she would wake up . And the rush to school.
Categorically empty stomach. Empty stomach even when there was no school.IMG_0052
There are no memories of school, just a whispered ‘I was not good at it.’
The afternoons were simply a photocopy of the mornings: the rush home and, before lunch, the cleaning of the kitchen, the usual mess her mother used to make.
Addisallem’s mother was not any mother. She was a heavy drinker: a seller and consumer of Areki, a homemade alcoholic fermented drink. She was even running her own Areki House in town, working at night and consuming large quantities of alcohol.
The Areki came with the joints and the qat – locally called khat – the mildly stimulant leaf chewed in Ethiopia, Somalia and Yemen, mainly.
Addisallem’s memories overlap: her mother never home or home and nervous.
Money was never enough.Until, one day, Mother was gone. That day lasted 5 years. Without a letter, without a word, without a phone call. She had moved South, almost on the border with Kenya.
It is  Auntie to take care of Addisallem until Mother decides to return. She is in a bad shape. Skeletal, nervous, with peaks of cruelty and paranoia.
Addisalam spies on her: she sees her mother injecting something- most likely drugs, but the girl is too young to know – in her arms or sticking cotton up her nostrils after having soaked it in something the girl cannot understand what it is.
It is silence which engulfs Addisallem. The fear the police might eventually abduct her mother, the fear to be left alone after the Auntie decides she cannot handle the situation any longer.
In silence. Because the day she decided to ask her mother why she could not have a new dress considering the father, occasionally, sends some money, the mother finds nothing better to do than grab the kettle boiling on the coal and pour the water on Addisallem’s back.
She still bears the scars.
Or the night they were walking home and two dogs started barking at them. The mother, scared, upset, paranoid, most likely high on Areki and drugs, pushes the daughter in front of her, towards the dogs. Addisallem is bitten on the leg, falls on her head and cracks the skull.
DSCF0443Auntie is gone, Addisallem is sore. She decides her only way out is to go to her grandmother – from her mother´s side –  to Addis Ababa. 600 km is nothing when you are fleeing for you life.
She will return a year after when informed that Mother is bed ridden. It will last only 1 month. Mother dies on an anonymous day weighting 20 kg.
Now Addisallem is totally alone. If she wants to survive, she needs a job. School is for the fortunate. She finds a job cleaning homes.
This is when her Father reappears. He helps her enrolling in an evening school. Hotel Management. At the end, he knows that with its fluctuations, tourism can bring money.

Addisallem earns her diploma and lives on her own. She has always been alone, at the end. ‘Had it been my father instead of my mother to die, I would be dead too. I am happy and strong now. Because, now, I know everything.’

Addisallem is still afraid of dogs. But she knows everything now. She dreams of a family and a son. She knows how a real mother should be.
Yes, she knows everything. A New World awaits her and when she meets a new friend, it’s like a birthday to her. Earned.

with Danilo Vallarino in Bahir Dar
photos: © Danilo Vallarino

The Nile Blues of Danilo Vallarino

 ”I live in Ethiopia in Bahir Dar in the region of Amara. I have been here for 26 months, my first working experience abroad, apart from a summer I spent working in a hotel in France.
Bahir Dar is a tourist destination, ranked among the 10 most beautiful cities of Africa, being near to the waterfalls and the source of the Blue Nile.”

Danilo Vallarino is humble,  timid almost. At times he seems to be carrying an ancient melancholy in him.
He arrived to Africa more than two years ago, following his job call. He is a Chef and when asked how can an Italian cope with the difference of ingredients available on the market, the tastes of the different latitude, – Ethiopia is not Italy, his home country – he makes no fuss: ”Not easy, but I manage. And every chef up to his job simply goes to the market!’.

He tells me this is not the Africa of the safaris, the Africa people generally have in mind.
His is the Africa of the Blue Nile river which, within Ethiopia, runs over 800 km and is the longest river of the continent. But it is in Ethiopia it holds its heart running up to Khartoum to meet the White Nile and give life to the entire Egypt.
The Blue Nile Falls are about an hour by car from Bahar Dar and then there are all the Orthodox monasteries on the Lake Tana, where the Blue Nile originates. In its own way, this is a very special tourist destination.

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For the past 15 years, Danilo has a companion. Better, two: an Olympus and a Nikon. He always carries them along. Even when he goes out just for two hours.

Sometimes, even when he is cooking. He does not photograph food – there is plenty of that in the net – he takes shots of people working with him. The smiles at the end of a difficult evening, the vapours and the aprons. Sometimes a hug, when a dish has come out particularly well.
From the kitchen of the hotel where he works, he looks outside. Ethiopia is there.
The Blue Nile chanting its blues. It´s a call he answers once a week, on his day off.

 

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”I always carry the camera with me, even when I go out for just two hours. Even before Ethiopia, when I was in Italy. The nature, nature itself, in its most savage – or natural – form, or people, daily life, the ordinary, are mind blowing to me. The lights at the end of the day when all these people have is a piece of bread, to share. The markets where people sell anything and fix anything. The workers, the basket weavers, the farmers.. virtually anything  which is natural.” 

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Do you manage to talk to people? To discover their stories?
”It is not easy to photograph them. At times people do not like it; at times someone asks for money. But I do not buy a photo. It would not be natural. So I have some patterns I follow  tricks – that help me.” 

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”A real Chef goes to the market” Danilo believes. It it also a way for him to know people and be close to them

 

He adds that a picture is obviously not merely a picture: there is always a story behind it.
”Sometimes I venture out alone and find myself in a crowd, surrounded by so many people. Each one of the men, women I meet bears on the face, hands and feet a databank of endless information. It is up to us to decode it, read it.”
”The women at the market, for instance, always remind me of delicate ceramic creations. They face the scorching sun all day long, selling little to earn even less. These women are a delicate equilibrium of its own kind. I always fear they might break. Yet, they are so strong.”

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 I happened to read a couple of poems of Danilo. Delicate, angry, sometimes sharp.
When I try to tell him, he distances himself from the concept of being a poet of any kind.
”I do not consider myself good at writing, but thank you anyway. I use angry words, true. Because anger is a part of me. I am often pissed. But it is a form of struggle I engage in, always, in order to never accept anything which is being served in front of me. But it is from that very same anger inside me that love grows. If only I could rely on more inner peace, then I think I would be a better person. Especially for those around me. Human relations are all we have. They should always come first.”

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Ethiopia is already a part of him. Ethiopia has changed him. He is one of the few people I  met who does not use the experience abroad as a platform to move on in life.
” I see the gap now. It happens when I return to Italy. I may be talking to my family, or anyone, and people pay attention to what you have to say for no longer than 5 minutes. I realise at a certain moment no one is listening. Someone interrupts me just to mention the Champions League.. just while I was trying say Hey, I was telling you about the women who every single day walk for hours carrying 15 litres of water on their head, bare feet. They look like mules…”
”I really do not know if people are not interested or prefer to ignore there is another reality, uncomfortable one. Maybe it’s a way to keep the conscience at bay.”

His conscience is not at bay.
”I do have a project, you know? It´s a big word, can I say it? It´s PEACE, in its broadest sense. Starting from inner peace. But relating to Ethiopia, I would like, one day, to publish a photographic book and try to help a small community. With no institutional help, no association involved. I think the biggest danger we run in places like this is darkness when it comes to historical memory. I will try to explain it: here, as in many other countries, there has never been an ‘age of the camera film roll‘. Nowadays people take pictures with their smartphones. Selfies and alike. Horrible. They think they are giving a sense of modernity and progress. But if you do not print, you are most likely going to lose everything. Pages of history and memory. What we received, as a society, has always been transmitted to us by stone, wood and paper. We need to print. A digital file is nothing. This is what I am planning to do: preserve for the future. Transmit. I do this also for my children who represent my bridge to the future. They might understand who their father was.”
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Danilo, most likely, will leave Ethiopia at the end of the year. His children await him.
”I love this people. There are times I get so angry when we work together but there is a fundamental attraction, a sense of belonging. Otherwise I would not have stayed. Fact is my children need me.”

The Blue Nile is chanting and returning to Italy will not stop it.11755909_507054052781119_1058695893138987668_n
Danilo will never, really, leave Ethiopia. He will come back, not only for the book.

 

all photographs: © Danilo Vallarino

 

George Harrison´s original lyrics of ‘Here comes the Sun’.

I travelled to India, first time in my life, in October 1995 with a friend and few other strangers to witness the total solar eclipse.
First time in India, first solar eclipse.
There were many firsts during that trip: the Taj Mahal at sunset with people writing poetry on the marble, praying and crying. All for love.
Witnessing an Italian elderly writer falling in love with the handwriting of a message someone passed him under his room door somewhere in Rajastan, without ever meeting the person. He had fallen in love with the calligraphy .
There was the first time I spent a night matching the colours of bangles with a seller in Khajurao, the first time I witnessed a teacher travelling from village to village to teach children who looked like toddlers to me in the living room of someone´s home.
The first time of a rickshaw and an elephant ride (which I now terribly regret), the first real fear of catching malaria and a building paranoia of monkeys.
The first time I saw what abandoned children – toddlers, again – looked like, how they moved, lived.
The first time of X-ray hung on laundry line in an afternoon transformed into a little, temporary, tragedy.
There were the first encounters with sadhus, India’s wandering holy men. Everywhere. In railway stations, market places, in the middle of nowhere. Some gazes are still with me. First and everlasting.
There were all those temples and mosques to write about and photograph because the trip was the first time of abundance at eyesight. Along with the Namaste: I honour the soul I recognise in You. 

Truth is I did not want to be part of that trip. It was the first time I was not ready to pack and go.  ”I am not ready for India” I used to tell myself and others.
The total solar eclipse was worth all the firsts of the world, even if the eclipse, itself, lasted only 40 seconds at the end of which the team of National Geographic documenting next to me  blasted one, just one, song: Here Comes the Sun.
It was 1995. Many trips followed, friends changed. The Italian journalist passed away and other co-travellers remained strangers.
I changed jobs, many countries of residence and returnt to India other times. I would always return to India.
That day in October 1995, while we had all just honoured the sun being covered by the moon, George Harrison was telling me ‘Little Darling, it´s alright’.
Today, seeing the original lyrics, I say the same, It´s Alright.
 

A Love in the Middle East

No one would dream of living where they live.
Unless forced to.
His country
is a bulletin of war
coming from the borders,
originating within.
Hers,
a divided land,
stitched together by wars and treaties.
Proud countries.
Untamed.
Hysterically feared by the world.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

They have their own way of coping with reality,
of preserving their love.
They pass by the respective daily checkpoints
each one knowing
that today one could be fake,
controlled by the wrong faction,
unfriendly with friendly fire.
Perhaps their last checkpoint.
They both refuse
political or religious discussions.
They dream big and endlessly.
So often together.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

They talk about their jobs,
the daily insignificances.
It paints normality
where nothing is normal.
They dream big and endlessly.
So often together.

She knows
he is not safe.
He fears
she is nothing more than a target
to reach the headline news.

Extensively,
they both refuse
to follow the news.
He knows where she is at 11 am
She knew he was sleeping this morning.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

He called her.
He went to the Capital this morning.
And no, he kept it to himself.
The checkpoints
the bombs
the demonstrations
He spared her all these thoughts
“I did not tell you, my love”, he says.
She knows the reasons why

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She just did.

Picture: artwork of Laila Shawa

Looking for Hibah Ahmed from Aleppo

‘I was in a relationship with a girl from Aleppo University, where I was studying. But after the crisis started, I don’t know where she has gone.’
(You call it ´crisis´).

Do you still have contacts with someone in Aleppo?
‘Wallah (I swear): No. No one.’

University people, someone.. Relatives, friends.  Think..
‘I wish I had. But no one.’

When was the last time you heard from her?
‘After the events started in Aleppo.’
(the ‘events’ you say)

2012?
‘Must have been around middle of that year. Maybe.’

Did the two of you have any friend in common? Someone you can look up?
‘In Syria you mean? No, no one.’

Love stories cannot end this way
‘I know. But with war, everything is possible.. I was studying with her, in the same department’

But how could it be that you lost contact immediately? Did you look up for her in Facebook, Twitter? Do you have a picture of her? You can look at Google Images and see if you find her
‘Nothing of this. She hadn’t a Facebook account, I lost my phone with her photos.’

I want to help you. How can I?
‘Hahaha. I forgot her. Maybe she is dead. She was such a beautiful girl. Smart. She loved me so much. She was such a giving person. She was even lending me her car. She used to invite me to her home to have food. With her parents. She was everything to them. She was their only child.’

Do you remember the father’s name, his job?
‘I think it was Ahmed. But I never asked her the last name of her family.’

Will you make me a promise?
‘Promise.’

Will you look for her?
‘I am always looking for her. But I have found nothing. She is also the one who lost contact with me. I think she is dead now.’

Do not say it…Do you think so?
‘After all that has happened, no one will remain alive.’

Maybe she left Aleppo long time ago
‘Maybe.’

(After a silence of 20 minutes. Long, heavy minutes)

‘Do you believe I will find her?’
Never give up hope, I believe
‘It’s impossible.’

Do you feel she is dead?
‘Yes. If she is still alive, she would be looking for me too. Because she loved me so much.’

Maybe she is looking for you
‘She knew everything about me, after I arrived to Yemen. I gave her my Facebook account, gmail, my phone number. And I have never changed it.
She promised me she would open a Facebook account, but nothing.
Do you know what? I stopped so many efforts to get married. Because of her. My parents wonder why I am not married yet. I told them I am waiting for someone. But till when?’

Till when you are ready to move on. This is why you have to find her. If not her, her fate.
Is the university closed?
‘In Aleppo, yes.  The life has been closed, not only the university. I really feel so sad because I have mentioned this story. I know I made you sad with this. Sorry dear.
Her name is Hibah Ahmed, of the University of Aleppo – Faculty of Science, Biology Department.’

(you did not say Her name was)


The Broken Loves of War.
Love stories cannot end this way with wars getting in between.

I feel immensely naive, but I ask: Does anyone know of a beautiful girl named Hibah Ahmed who used to study at the University, in Aleppo, Faculty of Science, Biology Department, year 2011-2012?
If so, please tell her nothing has changed. She is still loved, more than ever and someone is waiting for her.

Yemen: this is why the War Hurts

Any war hurts.
Any conflict is a war on humanity and on the most vulnerable: children first. The poor. The sick, the elderly, the defenseless. Those who are silenced because their voice will never be reported. The animals. The illiterate. Those who live on less than 2 dollars per day. Or even 5. Those who have no documents, lest a passport.
Those who have nothing to sell and can rely only on their legs to run away. Those who cannot escape because there is nowhere to go.

Showing a picture of a blown up body in Europe will be received with a Rest in Peace. But it’s not here, it’s not here with me, close to me, contingent. It does not affect me.
There is a distance. It’s enough to move on.
Any war is not specific, contigent. Until the first bomb drops on your city, your neighbourhood, your house.

Why the war on Yemen hurts.
This war which is not here, close to us, has not made hundreds of thousands of victims (not yet, that is), is taking place in a country which for decades has received so much negative publicity we wonder if there is an equivalent on earth (maybe Afghanistan).
A war which has produced 2.5 million internally displaced who can only move from one village to the next one, to a school turnt into a refugee building in the Capital Sanaá but cannot cross borders.
The war is there, in Yemen. Not close to us. No refugees to kick out of our sacred European territory, our precious soil.
This war which has seen a country waking up one night under the sound of bombs falling from the sky.
Nine-to-One: this is the ratio. Nine countries united against one, the poorest country of the Middle East.
We remember seeing pictures of Ramallah, before the war on Yemen, and say: They seem better off than us.
A country which has always fought hard to reach the end of the day with enough food for the family, the water to find, the disease, the lack of electricity, unemployment, corruption.

This picture was taken in 2006, nine years before the war, in the Capital Sanaá.

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Enough to look at the pink dress of the girl on the left to understand and to know this was, at some stage, an Eid dress.
Eid al Fitr and Eid al Adha being the only two occasions when most of the children receive their new wardrobe for the year. Do not think big: a pair of shoes, a dress and few other things. Chocolates. Pocket money from relatives and for one year they long for the next Eid. In the meantime, the pink dress fades in colour and texture.
Children of Yemen. This is why this war hurts.
 

 

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© Mohamed al-Sayaghi

To and from the well. And back.
To and from the mosque. And back again.
To and from the charity tank set up and filled by an anonymous benefactor and back again. Till the tank is dry.
To and from the mosque, and back. To and from the well and back.
All under a scorching sun. Every day. So many times a day your legs become your clock: it is always time to move and fetch water.
Sisters of Yemen know no stroll. They work hard. Keep the family running fetching water which is undrinkable, uncookable. Still, keeps the family going.
This is why this war hurts. There has never been enough water to do anything.
Blessed are the monsoons: you can collect water.

With the siege imposed on the country, no gasoline is allowed to enter. No gas can be delivered to cities and villages alike. There has been no electricity since April 2015.
Many have found themselves selling the jewellery of the women in the family to buy a solar panel. Though it does not serve the purpose of cooking.Wood will do the job, if you are lucky to live in the countryside.
To and from the wood, and back.
This is why this war hurts.

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Author Unknown

 

I took a taxi, in Sanaá, once. It was Ramadan. I hadn´t had food that day and the driver was surprised I was fasting.  It was by chance. I was not lying but he made of a single day of fasting a full month of observance.
When I reached the office, he refused the money and gave me a small copy of the Holy Quran.
‘Take this, please, Sister. And one day, when you return to Europe, tell them we are not all terrorists.’
This is why the war, this war, hurts.


 

 

She called Wars ‘Chaos of the World’

Simply, she said: ‘The more we react to these wars, the more the devils love it. For they feed on that negative energies. Very tricky. I am always searching on how to be at peace with all these psyche damaging events.’

I somehow managed to reply: ‘Yes, I know what you mean. But you cannot understand fully, I am afraid. Not because you lack compassion, but because you have not experienced it.’

– ‘I do understand. You are still in trauma. Seek help for healing.’
– ‘I do not have a doctor here. War does not go away with medical help.’
– ‘Lots of helpful tools in the net. I am beginning to understand now that we can do our part in helping the chaos in this world by raising our own vibrational frequencies. That is what we need to work on. Our reactions are amplifying the negative energies.’

Wars are psyche negative energies, part of the chaos of world which you can raise your vibrational energies against. And the net offers so much help in case your psyche has traces of PTSD.
To the people in detention camps in Eidomeni, the pregnant woman shot dead (shot 15 times ) along with her brother by Israeli forces at a checkpoint yesterday, the children killed at MSF hospital in already bleeding Aleppo (and remaining-still alive-mourning families) today, to those stuck in Yarmouk camp in Syria, to the 400.000 victims of the Syrian war, to the 60 million refugees worldwide fleeing wars-famine-terrorists-insane laws, to those trucidated by Boko Haram,  to the Yaziri women raped-enslaved-dehumanised, to those 500 drowned in a ghost boat in the Mediterranean sea last week with almost no media coverage, to the 350.000 Yemeni children dying of starvation or about to do so because of food insecurity (again, because of the war), to the orphans of war, the child soldiers of the Democratic Republic of Congo, the eternal campers of Darfur, to the mothers of Fallujah who are raising children made entirely of birth defects with virtually not a healthy bit in their body, to those under barrel bombs in this very moment : ‘You are doing it all wrong. Do not react. You have to raise you own vibrational frequencies before your reactions amplify the negative energies.’
And the net is abundant in tools of great help. So she said.

photo: AFP