“Go back home? But I just arrived!”
The man, in his brown and green uniform, twigs stuck to his helmet, showed no interest in hearing my pleas. He cut off my claims with monosyllables, unmoved.
I saw other foreign travelers in the same situation: They’d just arrived and couldn’t enter. I tried to call my travel agency by cell phone, to let them know, but of course I had no signal. What kind of mess had I gotten myself into, in this chaotic terrain where I didn’t know a soul and had nobody to turn to? Months before, I’d emailed my only contact in Yemen, a physician with Doctors Without Borders whom I only knew of by referral, whose name was... What was it again? I couldn’t remember. For god’s sake! Something like Fatima, or Amira, or Zahra. Zahra Bayda! That was it, Zahra Bayda. I’d written to this doctor called Zahra Bayda to let her know I was coming, and to explain my project. Now, in the middle of this limbo, it occurred to me that perhaps she could help me; I supposed her organization should have some sort of diplomatic status... but what was the point, when I hadn’t written down her last name or phone number, and without an internet connection I had no way of telling her I was here and in this predicament? That’s what churned through my mind, more stranded than a beached mermaid and stupidly disconnected. If I could at least find a way to call the Sanaa headquarters of Doctors Without Borders to ask for her, or for anyone, to send an SOS...
There was a pay phone nearby, but of course I had no Yemeni coins. At an exchange kiosk, I traded euros for rials in bills, and, in English, I managed to explain to the man who worked there that I needed coins.
“I don’t have any of the unified ones left,” he said.
“I’ll take whatever you have.”
“Northern or southern, your choice. They were made differently when the nation was divided.”
“Give me the ones that work in the pay phone.”
“None work. Or, better said, what doesn’t work is the pay phone. Look for someone who can rent out minutes on their cell.”
Cell phones were everywhere in that place, even children had them. But who would want to lend me theirs? I saw a man on a stool with a little sign that read, in English,CELL PHONE FOR RENT, 2 EUROS PER MINUTE. The man told me his name was Laith, which means “Powerful Lion.” I explained my situation as best I could; he dialed for me and passed me the cell phone, which, in its worn purple case, held the sticky warmth of many hands.
“Hello? Doctors Without Borders?”
“This is Information.”
“Oh, okay. Could you please give me the number for Doctors Without Borders?”
“What?”
“Doctors Without Borders, Médecins Sans Frontières, MSF . . .”
“Médecins? Just a moment.”
I asked Powerful Lion for help, he listened to the number they dictated, dialed it, and passed the purple phone to me again.
“I’d like to speak to Zahra Bayda,” I said.
“Which Zahra Bayda?”
“Zahra Bayda, of Doctors Without Borders.”
“This isn’t Doctors Without Borders, this is the emergency room at Sanaa Al Thawra Hospital.”
The guy over at Information had heard me sayMédecinsand hadreferred me to a hospital; he’d done what had been asked of him, I couldn’t blame him, but, of course, things weren’t going well.
“In that case, could you please give me the phone number for MSF?”
“I don’t have it,” said the hospital voice, and the line went dead.
Outside, the explosions continued, but already diffuse and far away, as if they were fireworks in a nearby town. Inside, families were still waiting, praying they’d be let onto a plane to somewhere, any plane, to any somewhere. The last foreigners had been evacuated on aircrafts specially chartered for them. The military only let through those few chosen ones who’d be saved by some Noah’s ark. And, incidentally, I’d learned that here, in Yemen, the petrified remains of Noah’s ark, the original one, slept the sleep of centuries, as did the ruins of the altar where Cain killed Abel. Apparently, the Bible was alive here, starting with the Apocalypse.
This is war, gentlemen, I thought, I’m out of here. He’d been right, that officer who’d said to me, Go home.
Yes, sir, I’m going home right now.
I ran off to look for a return flight. I’d leave just as I’d arrived, without ever crossing the threshold of the airport doors. What a disaster. To go just as I came, how ridiculous. Goodbye, research. So be it, Queen of Sheba, hide if you want, robe yourself in mystery, don’t count on me anymore, find some other fan, I’m out.
People thronged in front of the airline counters, demanding attention. Foreigners were heading out to the runways, and here I was still stuck. I tried to push through the jostling crowd.
Whatever happens, stay calm, I told myself. I’d get out of here too, even though it would be a fiasco to leave without having fully arrived. This was a passing drama, soon I’d get it all sorted out, if not today then tomorrow, I’d just hold my ground and demand what was mine, there had to be a plane that could take off with me inside it, seat belt securely fastened so nobody could steal my spot.
