Yemen Chronicle: An Anthropology of War and Mediation - Softcover

Caton, Steven C.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0809098822 ISBN 13: 9780809098828

Publisher: Hill and Wang, 2006

Synopsis

In 1979, Steven C. Caton went to a remote area of Yemen to do fieldwork on the famous oral poetry of its tribes. The recent hostage crisis in Iran made life perilous for a young American in the Middle East; worse, he was soon embroiled in a dangerous local conflict and tribal hostilities simmered for months. Yemen Chronicle is his extraordinary report both on events that ensued and on the many theoretical―let alone practical―difficulties of doing ethnography in such circumstances. Caton also offers a profound meditation on the political, cultural, and sexual components of modern Arab culture.

About this title

About the Author:

Steven C. Caton, a professor of anthropology at Harvard University and director of its Center for Middle Eastern Studies, is the author of Lawrence of Arabia: A Film's Anthropology. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Yemen Chronicle
1SANCTUARYKhawlan al-Tiyal, Yemen Arab Republic. November 25, 1979I had finally arrived at the place where I was to begin my fieldwork, a village whose inhabitants claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad. Called in Yemeni Arabic a hijra, or sanctuary, it was a settlement where the surrounding tribes of this eastern region of Yemen, known as Khawlan al-Tiyal, could pray in the mosque and trade in the souk without fear of being attacked by enemies. As a stranger in this strange land, I needed to live under protection, and if it was not to be that of a powerful sheikh, then I hoped it would be the sanctuary's.Jon Mandaville, Director of the American Institute for Yemeni Studies, had just left in his jeep, and the many cartons that held my belongings, which he had helped me to transport from Sana'a, the capital, lay scattered at my feet. They caught the attention of village youngsters playing outside my door, who later called me "Mr. Karatis," or Mr. Cartons, because of them. This would be the least embarrassing of my nicknames.A tall, very erect gentleman, every inch a stern Old Testament prophet, strode up to the courtyard to see why the children were making such a commotion. After the proper salutations to me, he inquired, "Are you a doctor?" The house into which I was moving had been formerly occupied by a Peace Corps couple, the wife of whom had been anurse. He indicated that her ministrations were sorely missed. No, I reluctantly conceded, I was not a doctor."Ah, of course." He smiled knowingly. "You must be our new English teacher," for an English teacher was what the husband of the Peace Corps nurse had been. "We need an English teacher almost as badly as we do a doctor.""No, neither doctor nor English teacher. I'm an anthropologist.""Fine," he said, either not understanding what I had said or choosing to ignore it. 'We'll take you to the school in the morning to teach the children English. Where did you learn to speak Arabic?""In the United States and in Saudi Arabia.""Oh, you taught English there, too, no doubt.""No, I've never taught English in my life. In Saudi Arabia I worked for the Ministry of Education, in their Department of Antiquities."He looked at me as though I were finally beginning to make sense. "Aha! You've come to dig up our ancient treasures. Khawlan is full of them, you know, going all the way back to the Sabaeans.""Actually, I want to collect your poetry."His expression was blank. The reason for my being in the village was obscure once more. After a pause, he tried another tack. "What's your name?"I had long ago learned to arabize my American name so that it could be pronounced more easily by my Yemeni friends. "I-S-T-I-F-A-N."Silence. The unflappable children were momentarily aghast."What's your name?" the old man inquired incredulously. I repeated it, much to the delight now of the boys and girls. "Change your name!" the old man snapped. The children began to snigger.I'd been in the village less than an hour and already felt like taking flight. But curiosity got the better of embarrassment, and I asked to know why."Believe me, I'm your friend. Just change your name!""Well, what's your name?""Ali.""Well, Sayyid Ali, I'll change my name, but if you're my friend, you must tell me why."Now it was his turn to be flustered. "No, no, I can't," he stammered. "At least not with the children present.""Your discretion is already lost on them." I pointed to their grinning faces. "I'm the only one who's still in the dark.""Well, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you do know what fann means, don't you?""Why, yes, a work of art." By this time, the kids were howling with laughter."You mean you still don't get it?" The old man looked at me as though I were a congenital idiot. "Ist-i fann. My ist is a work of art. Ist-i-fann. My ist is a work of art."I kept repeating the sentence to myself, wondering what its meaning could be. I gave the man a puzzled look."I'll tell you some other time," he said and made ready to beat a hasty retreat."No, no, you must tell me now," I insisted. He bit his lip and tried to point to his backside without the children noticing.I now realized what I'd been saying. The whole year I'd been in Yemen, I'd been introducing myself to people as "Hello, my ass is a work of art."I couldn't help laughing. "You're right, Ali. You are my friend. As you say, I must change my name.""Do you like Seif?" he suggested encouragingly. "Seif al-Islam: that was the name of the imam's son, you know, in the olden days of the monarchy."In Arabic, seif also means "sword," and that was certainly more flattering to my masculine ego than "ass." But I wasn't sure I wanted to be identified quite so closely with the ancien régime, so I offered an alternative. "Or Seif bin Dhi Yazan." This Yemeni folk hero, an actual historical personage, was thought to have beaten back invading Ethiopian Christian forces a century before the advent of Islam."Good, good," the old man exclaimed, obviously pleased by this diplomatic solution. "From now on, we'll call you Seif."The children demurred, for they were having far too much fun with Ist-i-fann. For weeks afterward, whenever I would leave my house withthem trailing behind me, I would hear "Whatsyourname? Whatsyourname? Whatsyourname?""Seif.""No-o-o. What's your real name? What's your American name?"And then they would skip away, clucking in tones of mock dismay, "Imagine! For a whole year, he called himself I-S-T-I-F-A-N-N."It was a consolation to learn later on that nearly everyone in the sanctuary, even its most respected members, had a nickname, such as "the poor one" or "the hunchback" or "the blind one" or "the beltmaker" or "the agent" (who looked after my house when the landlord was away). I had not only arrived but been accepted, in an ambivalent sort of way. My American name had become my nickname, as I learned had happened also with the beloved nurse, for I would be slyly asked why she was called Jeannie when everyone knew that jinni means "evil spirit."It was stipulated in the contract I signed with my landlord that I had to "juss" my lodgings, the first floor of a large stone house, at either the beginning or the end of the period of my lease. Juss is a whitewash, a mixture of water and finely ground limestone applied mainly to the inside walls of a house. I thought it would be to my advantage to enjoy the benefits of whitewashed walls sooner rather than later, so I decided to do it right away. It would be a sign of having taken possession, like applying a fresh coat of paint to a newly purchased home.It was a simple job, but transporting the juss from Sana'a was a headache, as I explained in a letter to my mother.January 5, 1980Dear Hanni:... I've hired a man [my upstairs neighbor, Ahmed] to do a job called "jussing" which is whitewashing the inside of my apartment. I carted the plaster back from Sana'a myself. What a trip that was! The road is extremely bumpy, being unpaved and traversing mountainous terrain. That plaster, which comes in a very fine white powder, is packed in burlap sacks which are slightly porous. Naturally, the powder escaped through the small holes in the burlap weave while thecar was careening and bouncing on its way, with the result that we soon found ourselves enveloped in a fine cloud of the stuff. Because it consists of lime, it irritates the skin and eyes, so we were scratching, rubbing, and sneezing, until finally we had to stop the car and figure out a way to transport it without being covered in it. I was all for dumping it and starting all over again, but my friend [Muhammad the Window Maker, Ahmed's older brother] was more patient and prevailed on me to consider less wasteful alternatives. Eventually we went back to Sana'a to get large plastic trash bags in which we dropped the sacks of plaster and then completed the journey.The situation in Sana'a is still very peaceful, and [the sanctuary], of course, is completely safe. I do wish that you and Dad might be able to visit me in Yemen sometime in the spring or fall ...In the courtyard of my house, Muhammad the Window Maker (not the same Muhammad whose grave I visited in 2001) carefully prepared the mixture in wheelbarrows, stirring it until it looked like a vanilla milk shake. He then poured the thick liquid into buckets that Ahmed carried into the house.Ahmed showed me how to apply the whitewash. Dipping strips of white cloth in the mixture, he swatted them against the wall. Smack, smack, smack. You had to squint or look away to avoid getting stung in the eyes by the vile stuff, all the while trying to aim at a bare spot. In the process we both ended up looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost. I questioned the efficiency of this obviously slapdash method of application but was assured by Ahmed that it was preferable over, say, the use of a brush or sponge. Though I had my doubts on that score, even I had to admire the uniformity of the finish when we were done. No streaks, no blotches, only a smooth, slightly crystalline surface that glistened like the icing on a cake.Beans and freshly baked bread had been prepared for lunch by Ahmed's wife, Fatimah. I could not tell what she looked like under her veil, a cloth tie-dyed in red, blue, and black that was pulled far in front of her face, but she had a beautiful voice--clarion and soothingly melodious. The three of us chatted amicably while taking turns cuddlingthe couple's two-year-old son, Ahmed bin Ahmed, or Junior, as I called him. In just a few hou...

About this edition

• Publisher: Hill and Wang
• Publication date: 2006
• ISBN 10: 0809098822
• ISBN 13: 9780809098828
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 352