The Panther

Buck switched to the subject of clothing. “Ninety percent of the population wears traditional Arab dress that probably hasn’t changed much since biblical times.” He advised us, “Buy a set of traditional clothing for yourselves.”

“Why?” I asked.

He replied, “Just for fun. Or you might wear it when wandering around the streets and souks.” Buck confessed, “I often dressed as a native when I left the embassy.”

I inquired, “Do you have a picture you can show us?”

He smiled, then described to us the native Yemeni attire. The men wore headgear called a thob or shiwal, usually white, and in the north they dressed in a white fouteh, a robe, and in the south the men wore a white sarong. Underwear optional.

Sometimes, I recalled, they also wore a ratty Western-style sports jacket over their robe, the pockets stuffed with khat and magazines of the metal variety. They all wore sandals, and the whole country needed a pedicure.

Two things a man never left home without were his dagger and his rifle. The right to bear arms in Yemen seemed to be an obligation, and ninety percent of the males over the age of about fourteen toted an assault rifle, usually an AK-47, capable of taking out all his friends and neighbors in a few seconds of automatic fire. Oddly, though, there was little random gun violence or crime. I mean, everyone was packing, so you thought twice before you walked into a store and said, “This is a stickup.” Everyone in the place would blow you away. Right?

Non-random gunplay was another matter. Most people who got whacked got whacked for a reason. Usually something to do with politics, or honor, or a business dispute that couldn’t be settled over a khat chew. Also, Westerners were rarely robbed at gunpoint. If you got a gun stuck in your back, you were not likely to hear, “Your money or your life.” Instead, you’d hear, “Come with me.” The purpose of kidnapping Westerners was not only money, but also a way for the Bedouin tribes to embarrass the central government and/or extort favors or services from them, which was a common pastime of the tribes. These abductions were called “guest kidnappings,” and kidnap victims often reported that nothing was taken from them, except maybe an admired watch or piece of jewelry that should be offered as a gift while you were waiting for the ransom money to arrive. Your food and upkeep isn’t free, you know. And you were getting an authentic experience.

When I first got to Yemen, I was, I admit, a little taken aback by the sight of almost every male carrying an assault rifle. But after about a week I didn’t even notice it-in fact, what caught my attention were men without rifles. Who were these wimps?

Anyway, Buck was done with menswear and we moved on to ladies’ wear. Almost all the women wore the balto, like a burqua, an all-encompassing cloak that, like the first Model T Ford, came in any color you wanted as long as you wanted black.

Buck then moved on to the subject of veils. He said, “Very few women show their faces in public, and those who do are often harassed by fundamentalists.”

“Because they’re ugly?”

“No, Mr. Corey, because it’s immodest.”

“Right.” I wondered if I was going to get a cultural awareness certificate in my personnel file.

He continued, “As for Western women”-he looked at Kate, who is from Minnesota-“you are not required to wear a veil, but you may feel more comfortable on the street if you cover your face with a hijab, a head scarf that can also be wrapped around your face.”

Kate stated, “I have no intention of covering my face.”

Buck nodded in solidarity with his compatriot, but advised her, “It’s best to wear a pantsuit with long sleeves, but it has to be loose-fitting.” He informed us, “There have been reports of Western women traveling in the rural villages who have been jeered at and even had stones thrown at them for their seemingly immodest attire.”

I mean, what do you say about that? Nothing.

Buck looked at his watch and said, “Fifteen-minute break.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Out in the hallway, Kate said to me, “I am very impressed with your probing questions and your astute observations. I can tell, too, that Mr. Harris is in awe of your insights and your instinctive grasp of the material.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you do me a favor when we go back in there and shut the fuck up?”

“I’m trying to make it fun.”

“This is serious. Pay attention.”

“I divorce thee.”

“Speak to my lawyer.” She looked at her watch and said, “I need to freshen up.” She turned and headed toward the ladies’ room.

I think Kate was annoyed with me. I mean, I’m not good in classroom situations, but I usually listen. Maybe it was the subject-Yemen, Islam, and cultural awareness, which meant cultural sensitivity. How many people from the Mideast take a cultural sensitivity class before they come to America? Why is it always us who have to be sensitive to other cultures? Works both ways. But maybe I could learn something useful. Like where to pull a guy’s shiwal to spin him around like a top.

I went back into the classroom where Buck was sitting, looking over some notes. I said to him, “Sorry if I was a little… inattentive.”

He looked up, smiled politely, and said, “I’m enjoying your participation.”

See? He didn’t think I was annoying. I was brightening his morning.

Kate returned and sat, and Buck picked up where he left off and said, “The only absolute requirement of dress in Yemen is modesty. For men, therefore, shorts and short-sleeved shirts are not acceptable. For women, all that may show is their eyes, their hands, and their feet. The rest,” said Buck with a smile, “is left to the imagination.” He glanced at me as though expecting a good joke, but I just gave him a studious nod.

Buck had some good news about bare skin and said, “As Mr. Corey will remember, there are a few resort hotels around Aden where parts of the beach are set aside for Westerners to wear modest bathing attire.” And bad news. “But these beaches are sometimes visited by fundamentalists who cause a scene.”

Right. I recalled playing volleyball with the Marines on the beach behind the Sheraton in Aden where we were quartered, and we wore shorts and T-shirts, but there were no women on the beach except a few female FBI colleagues who wore similar outfits. This didn’t seem to be a problem, but that’s because we also had a few fully clothed and armed Marines at both ends of the beach. I recalled, too, that I felt naked and exposed without my gun on my hip, though our weapons were always nearby. Also, we weren’t supposed to swim, because that would make us sitting ducks. I mean, between the terrorists and the fundamentalists, I wasn’t having much fun at the beach.

Buck moved on from bare skin to balls. He said, “As a warrior people, Yemenis hold courage in the highest esteem-higher than other virtues such as hospitality or honesty.”

In fact, in my experience there, honesty was very low on the list of virtues, and lying was elevated to an art, if not a virtue. The Yemenis were, however, brave, and I could relate to that and respect it. In fact, this was something to keep in mind when I met The Panther.

Buck continued, “Conversely, cowardice is viewed with extreme contempt. If, for instance, the sight of armed strangers on a street corner makes you uncomfortable, you cannot show fear. If you appear fearful, then this invites an aggressive reaction from the men.”

“In other words,” I said, “they don’t like pussies.”

“Correct. Look a man in the eye and say, ‘As-salaam alaikum!’ Peace be upon you. He will reply, ‘Wa alaikum as-salaam’-and upon you be peace.”

“Okay. How do you say, ‘Make my day, punk’?”

Buck continued, “Women may appear fearful without inviting contempt. Also, women should never look a man in the eye and say anything. Women lower their heads and pass by a man quickly.”