LITMIR.BIZ

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      By tradition, when a Yemeni man takes out his jambiya, he must use it—one of those macho principles, unfathomable to women—of the tribal warrior society. Of course, since everybody now carried an AK-47 from the age of twelve, the jambiya was more for show than business. Or so I assumed.

      CHAPTER 12

      “The high cliffs called and every notable in Yemen answered;

      We’ll never go republican, not if we are wiped off the earth,

      Not if yesterday returns today and the sun rises in Aden,

      Not if the earth catches fire and the sky rains lead.”

      Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

      Ali al Shem, now known as Abu Salif, grimaced as the SUV bounced over the rocks. He and everyone in the vehicle had their jambiyas at their waists and guns over their shoulders—mostly AK-47s—so jostling was uncomfortable. At the moment, no one was talking. Everyone was missing qat, a natural part of every day at home. A mark of their devotion to the goal was that none of them chewed qat or smoked cigarettes. They must keep their bodies holy, untarnished. Soon, they were told, they would be tested.

      They clutched their precious worn copies of the Koran to their bodies.

      They had traded ordinary life for jihad. It was now their life.

      Like the others, Ali dressed in the qabili or tribesman fashion: sarong-like futha, black and white checked kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, Western-style jacket pulled over a white shirt. His more rural companions had been dismissive of him at first but now treated him like a peer. His tribal ties, although distant, made him a brother. And they were all brothers in Islam.

      The leaders, who went by their “war names,” Abu Shihr and Abu Jowf, were neither rural nor unsophisticated. Ali—or Abu Salif as he must remember he was—knew they watched him closely. Brother he might be; surely they doubted his true commitment.

      Surely they did. He doubted it himself.

      Abu Shihr had called him aside yesterday to confide that he might be called on soon for an important task. He was on probation. He had one chance to be trusted in this group.

      The men around him were tough. Ali liked that. Admired it. He wasn’t yet sure of their purpose, but they were dedicated to it. There could be no question they were religious. Prayers, ritual washing with a few drops of precious water or even small desert rocks, and occasional demands that he, Ali, read from the Koran were part of everyday life. Most of the men couldn’t read.

      In the meantime, they studied guns and explosives and strengthened their bodies.

      Ali tried not to think of Sana’a and home. Halima, his dear sister. Zuheyla, his love. And his father, Sheikh Abdullah.

      From time to time, Ali thought with renewed appreciation of the women who had taken care of him all his life. He had had no idea how they protected him, made his life easier.

      No. Thinking of home could lead to weakness. He shook his head, tasted dust from the road, and closed his eyes.

      CHAPTER 13

      The five reasons for travel [given to Freya Stark] by Sayid Abdulla, the watchmaker: “to leave one’s troubles behind one; to earn a living; to acquire learning; to practice good manners; and to meet honorable men.”

      Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

      I’d been taking pictures for my article, asking with gestures if it was all right, when a man definitely not a metalworker appeared in the street. He could have beamed in from another century: Brooks Brothers suit, understated tie, shoes with an Italian look that must have cost $400.

      He was indubitably Yemeni. Aquiline features, dark hair and black eyes, recognized and respected by all the craftsmen in the street.

      Yemeni, yes. And super-sophisticated. No one tends to look at a woman taking pictures—unless you’re too obvious about aiming at women. This impressive guy might be different, though. I shot one quick picture of a futha-garbed coppersmith pounding away in the foreground while his modern countryman stopped behind to speak with him. Then I stopped snapping and met the dark eyes of the stranger.

      That was unusual, since I never meet men’s eyes in the Middle East. It gives the wrong message and can lead to undesirable consequences. These eyes were steady, a bit distracted, but not unfriendly.

      “Hello,” said the man, in a good American accent. Did that quizzical quirk of an eyebrow imply criticism of my taking pictures in this remote land?

      My cheeks grew warm.

      Where do we draw the line between reasonable news pictures and invasion of another culture’s privacy? I answered with a cool “Hello,” and kept walking.

      The man passed me and climbed into a black BMW as understated as his tie.

      There’s a good person to interview. I wonder what he does.

      Then I remembered his ambiguous eyes and was glad I hadn’t committed myself.

      * * * *

      My feet led me deeper into the shady residential canyons of the Old City. From a window of one of the houses, a woman’s face peered out. It was framed by a hand-wrought latticed window standing partly open, and inside that by a light-colored embroidered scarf pulled across her face. Deep, dark, liquid pools of eyes; a hint of black hair peeking from under the scarf. Delicate south Arabian features. Young, maybe sixteen. A worried look instead of the woman-to-woman smile I usually found here in Yemen.

      Though I didn’t recognize the girl, I waved. The mystery woman returned the gesture, rather secretively. Then she turned her head toward the inner rooms of the house and disappeared.

      CHAPTER 14

      O messenger, saddle yourself a horse,

      Bridle it and put on fine spurs.

      Fleet as the wind in some plains,

      He is not bothered by distance or desert.

      Traditional Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

      Ahmad Kutup sat in his family’s main mufraj, smoking a cigarette and drinking strong sweet chai from a glass. He’d made his obligatory foray into the souq, to establish in the neighborhood that he was back as well as to look around.

      In many ways it was good to return to Sana’a. He’d grown up here on and off when his father wasn’t posted somewhere for the Foreign Service. He had fond memories of playing in these alleyways as a child—as safe as playing in a yard, except for motorcycles. All the kids were watched by all the mothers and grandmothers, peeking out from their latticed windows or venturing forth in the burqa. When they got too loud, the shopkeepers, who also knew them, would tell them to pipe down.

      It was an uncomplicated life.

      Now was different. The game he played each time he returned was incrementally more dangerous. Sure, he received all the respect in the world from those in the Old City. His family was distinguished. He had made good as a lawyer in Kuwait. But there was much about Ahmad and his life that no one in Sana’a knew.

      Was it worth it?

      The woman in the souq taking pictures hadn’t quite looked like a tourist. A journalist, he’d guess. Did she have permission from the authorities?

      He glanced at the invitation he’d received from Tom Reilly. The party was two days hence. He was used to being the “token Yemeni” at expatriate parties when he was in town. It was work, in a way; he would keep his eyes and ears open. But Ahmad also liked to mix with foreigners, as he was wont to do in Kuwait. And it wouldn’t be bad to have a little alcohol, too. Just a taste.

      CHAPTER 15

      The men in the front seat began to ask me questions… How long had I [been here]? What was I doing here? How much money did I have in the bank? Did I

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