The U.S. Embassy in Yemen was only a stone’s throw from my snug, little brick house. Next door, in a smaller home made of mud, lived my landlady Saida, her four young children, and her mostly absentee husband. I was a twenty-four-year-old aid worker, eager to help in any way I could.
Saida’s kids were sweet-faced ragamuffins, fascinated by my red hair and delighted when I sat alongside them on my doorstep, laughing and practicing Arabic. They didn’t have many diversions; their only “playground” was a dusty field in front of our houses that was strewn with rusty cans and rotting food and frequented by scavenging dogs.
Saida’s two older kids attended school, but four-year-old Maisa and five-year-old Abdul did not. Day after day, I watched them play in the dirty lot while, on the other side of the embassy wall, there lay immaculate lawns and an unused swing set. The kids’ friendship meant a great deal to me, and I daydreamed about all the things I would like to give them.
One afternoon, only a few months into my stay, I decided to bring Maisa and Abdul inside the embassy grounds to play. I knew this probably wasn’t OK, but nobody had told me I couldn’t. I wanted very much to offer something special to my little friends, something that American kids took for granted.
Holding onto the children’s grimy hands, I rapped on the embassy gate and then caught myself when I heard a repetitive sound. I always seemed to interrupt the guard during his afternoon prayers. “Allahu Akbaaaar,” God is great, he chanted, and we waited quietly. After a few moments, he opened the gate, prayer rug in hand, and gave me a surprised, slightly disapproving look as I sailed past him with Maisa and Abdul.
The kids didn’t seem to notice the lush grass under their feet, but stood at my side, staring at the swing set. They appeared to have no idea what it was. I walked them over to it and Abdul put his foot on the slide’s ladder. “Yalla,” I encouraged him, go on. After much coaxing he climbed the ladder, and then suddenly curled himself into a ball and went hurtling to the bottom, landing with a thud and a scream. My pride turned into a kind of sheepish alarm as I picked him up and he sobbed in my arms.
I took Maisa’s hand and led her to the swings. Her body trembled as I lifted her up onto the wooden seat, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chain handles. I tried to reassure her, but my gentle pushes only seemed to heighten her fear, and after only a few moments, I lifted her off.
The kids had clearly had enough. They both seemed relieved when we walked past the silent guard, out the embassy gate, and onto the familiar packed-mud lane. Maisa stayed beside me, but Abdul quickly let go of my hand and went running, straight through the garbage field and back toward his house.
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