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.