This Summer I travelled to Egypt, Cairo to support my extended family from Yemen after they made a life-changing decision to migrant. Yemen’s ambassador, Muhammad Marem states there are around one million to two million, including 3,7000 war-wounded receiving treatment in Egypt.  My travel was unexpected and with a pandemic still alive; I found myself stuck at a red-list country, not knowing when I will be returning.  One thing the pandemic has blessed us with the opportunity to work remotely and connect with family more than ever.  My prolonged stay in Egypt, took me on a journey of find my long-lost Yemeni creatives.  They found me and we found each-other. We were searching for the Third House. Over weeks of planning and communicating with Dada staff over emails and zoom meetings. I curated a Yemeni-artist exchange day at the Saba Cultural Centre, managed and owned by Mohammed Saba. Seven artists, of mixed art forms included painters, actors, writers, musicians gathered to discuss the theme ‘Diaspora’. The first half of the day was spent dismantling the notion of immigration and movement. The second half of the day inspired by drawing out conversations, we spilt into two groups and collaborated our art practices to create scratch performances. This was captured by filmmaker and photographer Tana Ali and edited by McYamany.

For many of the artists, this is was the first time they had gathered together to discuss a theme that holds immense war-trauma. Something I can never imagine to understand though we share the house of Yemen. It was a great reminder that I had to hold this creative space for the rest of the group without taking up space that is far from my own experiences. I am an immigrant but I did not move from Yemen to the UK to find sanctuary. Immigration takes form in many different stories and it is a reminder they are different. Many of the Yemeni artists I had the honour to meet are keeping their own creative practices alive and most of the time involuntary or extremely low paid roles. This forces them to look for work elsewhere, resulting in working several jobs to support their families.  I am now back in the UK and I am taking a great amount of time to be reflective and find ways to include the different perspectives of Yemeni voices in my future work. This collection of work is inspired by them, the credit is given to them all for allowing me to be a part of their world.  I am forever grateful and I hope I have done this justice to shed the light on the magic that happened in Cairo but most importantly share the reality that my own privileges have been blind to. 

The Third House Artists

What is Next?

Every year, our summer holidays took us to Yemen

we gave up the rest of the world to see her

the stained glass Qamaria’s

sweet-cherry coffee beans, shaking

my tea cup for more. I want to dip my fingertips

in red henna like my mother’s hands

a past I am searching for.  I want this summer, forever

 

Summer of 2014, is a heartbreak her war broke

diaspora journeys back to our first house after fifteen years of overpacking, unwrapped presents for the village neighbours, direct flights to Sana Airport, without checkpoints, stickmen in uniform and Ak47s

English newsreader told me home

is a strange place for a quiet life

ragged unshaved angry men

and the pitiful look in their eyes-

 

it was a Thursday afternoon; I had taken the day off university, studying poetics and practice. I was sat with gran-ma Hayla waiting for the news to break. The Saudi-led intervention launched air strikes into Yemen after president Abdrabbuh Mansur Hadi called for support after he was ousted by the Houthi movement.  It was a boiling point for Yemen of sixty years international meddling, governmental corruption and relying heavy on neighbouring aid and assistance. It was not long ago the British Empire had left Yemen-

 

Goodbyes passed the Northern valleys

greeted the Southern blue waters unlocking

the fishermen’s Red Sea- colony crown reeked of death
buried in my foreign blood martyrs will meet life

justice will dance on the heads of snakes

it turned cold quickly, over the Mediterranean.

We were not ready to face the consequences of another occupation. The Yemeni people are still healing from the past. I choked up, I was denial to believe it.  The Arab Spring had lived through my TV screen, biased news and google searches. My teenage years and late nights were spent falling in love with an Arab revolutionist. But this time it is different.  I didn’t pick up my pen for months. The world watched Yemen revive in destruction but for many, it was the first time they had known her existence.

For me, she is the birth of my childhood

my mother sculptures her Yemen between her eyes

I need to find a way back here, but my L8 streets die with me.

She is my everything but how one love a house they no longer live in?

 

I felt seen

 

I couldn’t put my pen down for months.  My first poem, ‘What do I know of Yemen?’. I come to a tragic realisation that I know little, so little of fragments of past memories I latched on for years.  Most of my life in a small city of Liverpool, that stole my heart, broke me and made me. I was revisiting the same memories over again because I had nothing else, so I exaggerated my friendship.

 

It was a shipwreck

My first love-story but it didn’t exist in its perfect form. It was finding a place elsewhere when others reject you or remind you don’t come from here. All along I was searching for this Third House of a third culture. I am not the only one, we are everywhere. This house is without war, fear and terrorism because it takes brick and mortar to build four walls but we will rebuild the next future of houses.

 

 

 

When I first arrived to Egypt, I was searching for new reads and sources of inspiration for my upcoming creative work. I was recommended the Saba Cultural Centre & Bookstore. I was caught with a surprise, a magical one. There was a whole store floor of Yemeni dresses, head beads and face coverings. I had travelled back in time.  I roamed the shop floor trying on a head bead with a heart full of excitement. My friend, looked me and laughed, ‘You a child again who yearns for her Yemen’.  For a moment, he was right. 

I went home that evening, called my mother on video call. I could not hold my excitement but tell her how beautiful dressed in my home. I felt inspired, revived, connected to my lost home. I cannot express fully how long I have searching to feel loved. This is the Third House. The love and hope we are looking for our beloved country. DaDa’s support I had purchased several clothing attires, head beads and belts. These photographs were an experience to find the Yemeni child in me, again. I have been here before.

Filmed at Toxteth TV and photographed by Galmgigpics.

This is Reviving:

The Mountains: Al-Nabī Shuʿayb

Bedouins: Sa’ra Tribe

Coastal: Arabian Sea

 

To my First House, miles away. I am still missing you even if I am dressed like you. I am clothed in you to remind me, you are here with me, I am here with you.

To my Second House, this is to fill in the emptiness when identity has two faces, moves its mouth in its dual mother languages, a persona roaming a world that has not fully accepted your full form of magical brokenness.

To my Third House, you are full of hope for the future of the Yemeni children, who will one-day ask to see you. You will stand here, bold and recovered.