Australian boys fundraising for Saleem

Last Saturday Glenn Grandy from Melbourne, Australia emailed me. His son, Jylon, had read about Saleem al-Harazi, the young Yemeni boy blinded by a bullet on March 18, 2011 in Sana’a.

Jylon was so upset by Saleem’s story he wanted to try and do something for him. On Sunday October 28 a 10 year-old boy in Australia, along with his 8 year-old brother Ashton (pictured above), will be walking six kilometres to Doncaster Primary School in Melbourne to raise money for a 12 year-old boy in Yemen.

A child in Australia, inspired by a young boy in Yemen. The two have never met and live thousand of miles apart. As children they and their respective siblings have shown a heart-warming example of humanity.

To support Jylon and Saleem you can donate here. 

No more tears

As journalists we’re not supposed to get too attached to the subjects of our reporting, let alone be emotional about them. That theory is a nice one. But most of us were normal human beings before we were journalists. 

Witnessing 12-year-old Saleem al-Harazi’s story was one of those occasions when remaining detached became completely impossible.

On March 18 last year I looked on as rooftop gunmen began slaughtering tens of unarmed protesters in Change Square, Sana’a. Amongst the chaos and flying bullets I was at one point bundled into a tent. As I rummaged around to pick up the pieces of my mobile phone which had fallen apart as I’d been thrown to the ground, three young boys sat around me.

Apparently unaware of the danger of the situation, shielded from the brutality of what was happening just a few feet from them by a thin white sheet of material, the boys joked and laughed. Two of them wore plastic builders helmets that had been distributed around the protest camp as protection from flying rocks, which had become a common weapon in the street battles of recent days.

I tried in vain, in my non-existent Arabic, to communicate with the three boys who were still trying to work out if I - with my short uncovered hair- was male or female.

After gathering myself and bits of phone it was glaringly obvious that the now partialy collapsed tent was going to offer little protection from the AK-47 bullets flying through the air. Unable to express my concern to the giggling boys I motioned for them to leave the tent, as I was about to. They declined. Instead I left them with a bottle of water.

Almost as soon I scrambled back out onto the street and beyond the protective shadow of the bulidings the bullets  hissed dangerously close around my ears. I made it out with nothing more than a bleeding shoulder after a rock caught me on the back as I fled.

Young Saleem, as I later knew him, was not so fortunate. A bullet fired from the rooftop entered the side of his head, just behind his left eye, passing through the front of his skull before tearing out of the right side of his forehead.

On March 23, four days after doctors removed his eyes, I visited him in hospital. For most of the near two hours I was there Saleem (whose name means peace) slept and murmered during dreams that I could only imagine the horrors of. His mother was inconsolable.

Saleem al-Harazi, blinded by a bullet on March 18 2011, lies in hospital after doctors removed his eyes.

Every time I felt my eyes well up I picked up my camera and started taking pictures. When he finally woke he was disorientated and confused by the sound of strangers. From the vibration in his voice you could tell he was crying, but there were no tears. Never again would Saleem feel drops of salty water flow down his cheeks.

He muttered to his mother, concerned he might be in to trouble for missing school and asked if he’d be able to ride his bicycle when he got home. Saleem still thought that once the stitches were removed from his eye sockets he’d be able to see again.

Last Thursday, nearly 18 months on, I went to visit him at his family home. Since last March Saleem has become something of a celebrity of Yemen’s revolution. I’d watched, with extreme discomfort, as he was paraded on men’s shoulders in the heart of Change Square on numerous occasions since March 18 2011. More recently his family became central characters in Sara Ishaq’s chilling film about that events of that day: Karama Has No Walls.

But two days ago I smiled rather than cried, as we watched in amazement, Saleem set off down the bumpy track outside his home on his bicycle. His younger brother, Saif, stood up behind him guiding him through hands resting on his shoulders. No longer the frail boy I’d visited in hospital, Saleem now studies at al-Noor Institute for the blind and is turning into a bright, confident teenager.

Saleem rides his bike, guided by his younger brother Saif.

As a human being first and journalist second it’s impossible not to feel emotional about Saleem’s story. But as he progresses in life and Yemen’s revolution becomes a distant memory for most, I hope I can continue to witness Saleem’s bravery and his life unfold with no more tears.

One man’s determination represents Yemen in London

Representing Yemen in the London Olympics, Ali Khousrof probably has one of the most remarkable back stories of any athlete competing in this year’s games.

I was there the night Ali was shot on April 27th 2011 outside Sana’a’s sport stadium during one of the many violent episodes of Yemen’s uprising. Ten activists were killed and two later died from their injuries that day.

One of more than a hundred demonstrators injured on Apri 27, 2011.

Earlier this year I watched Ali training in the warehouse next to the tents of Change Square in Sana’a. Today, fifteen months on from when 11 bullet fragments shattered through his abdomen, I shook his hand and wished him luck before he heads for London tonight.

Ali’s determination is a testament to all those who took part and died in Yemen’s revolution and continue to camp out in squares across the country, as well as to the president of Yemen’s judo committee, Noman Shahir, who paid for Ali’s medical care.

So, good luck to Ali and all of Yemen’s Olympic team heading to London.

Joe Sheffer made this video about Ali last month. My small contribution was the mobile phone footage I captured during last year’s protests.

Burnt out

The view of a pitch black Sana’a skyline from my flat in Old Sana’a

From the Frontline Club

Tomorrow marks 250 days since daily protests began in Yemen. I, along with just one other foreign journalist, Jeb Boone, have been here to see every day of them. This weekend, for the first time since January, I’ll be taking a break from Yemen.

The past six months have been astonishing, exhilarating, sometimes terrifying, harrowing but above all exhausting. Indeed nearly everyone in Sana’a today is worn out.

Violence aside, months of shortages, most notably: electricity, fuel and as a consequence, water, have been draining (no pun intended) to live with.

As freelancers living here our lives couldn’t be further removed from our established colleagues of visiting foreign correspondents.

I think I hit the wall in the days after Saleh’s departure on June 5, after trying to keep up with demands of editors and producers in seven different time zones whilst living on 2-3 hours sleep during the Hasaba war. (Note: ringing a journalist continuously at 3am without notice for a phoner will not be well received - as one US producer found out.)

Just as fresh faced visiting journalists started flooding in (a Yemen journalist flood is aprox. six) to stay in their comfy hotels with a constant supply of water and electricity, I was spending my mornings collecting water to take home to wash out of a bucket. (This isn’t meant to be a ‘woe is me’ fish for sympathy. I was far from alone in my daily quest for water and electricity and unlike most Yemenis I only have to look after number one.)

Ironically today’s Friday prayers protest was labelled the “Friday of Patience” – something worth praying for at the moment.

My own patience ran out along with the water having done the night time petrol queues for six hours (they later stretched to more then six days) trying to help out friends. (Women were put in a separate, usually much shorter queue so a female driver could get to the front hours ahead of men). I’d had enough of the endless dark nights, inability to store food or work from home, or even take a shower; not to mention spending endless mornings in a mix of government buildings and hotel foyers meeting ministers and stone-faced officials trying to secure my visa renewal.

Despite my bemoaning the past six months have, without a doubt, been the most memorable of my life. I’ve met many inspiring and brave people. I’ve experienced some wonderful and brutal moments. I feel fortunate to have witnessed all of them. But I will be glad to return to the land of electricity, running water and fuel and rid myself of my wasp-like persona.

This year’s Ramadan is going to be a particularly tough time for Yemenis. I’ll be away for less time than Saleh (ongoing visa issues permitting) and look forward to returning with a spring in my step.