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In the restful atmosphere of meeting rooms in private houses, hardworking Yemeni men gather during the afternoon break to chew qat and recount vivid local and family histories.  ral histories are at least as much a matter of presentation as they are recitations of absolute truths. The presenter uses devices to add authenticity to his account, slant the circumstances to deliver a message, or invest events with renewed significance. I knew this intuitively but did not recognize the power of narrative performance until engaged in anthropological field research in 'Amran, Yemen.
Until the early 1970s virtually all houses, government offices, and mosques were inside the medina, the high-walled, gated city. Just outside the walls were a smaller enclosed village and the market. The 1962 revolution and ensuing eight-year civil war that brought an end to North Yemen's theocratic rule ushered in many changes. This was obvious in the brisk pace with which homes, shops, and mosques were being built to accommodate new settlers and those relocating outside the old city. By 1978, when I began a nineteen-month stay there, the town's prerevolution population had doubled to about six thousand. The socioeconomic and political impacts of these changes were the focus of my research project. Traditional agriculture, modern commerce, and expatriate labor in the oil-rich Gulf states were the primary engines of the local economy. The workday was long and hard, but, as throughout the country, the grind of daily life was relieved by an afternoon break during which men gathered to chew qat. When chewed, the fresh, young, tender leaves of the qat shrub stimulate and depress, leaving the user with a sense of euphoria and a tendency toward introspection. Men spend three to four hours sitting, chewing, and chatting. The setting is ideal for recounting tales that contain, as do some styles of Yemeni poetry, commentaries on life. Rooms are often crowded with chewers, so it is easy for someone to take the stage and regale the assembly with messages intended to instruct as well as entertain. It was during these gatherings that I heard and reheard many stories. A distinguished storyteller  he father of my closest friend in 'Amran was a talented storyteller. Hajj Abdallah had a distinguished history. As was common before the revolution, to ensure the loyalty of tribes, Yemen's ruler, the imam, had taken him as a hostage. Hostages were held for years in a distant city, where their treatment depended on their families' support of the imam. For those on favorable terms, the housing was acceptable, and, in contrast to most Yemeni men, they received secular and religious education. After their release, many became agents of the monarch.
As one of the imam's representatives in 'Amran, Hajj Abdallah accumulated large landholdings and was once seen as an important member of his huge, powerful kinship group. But time was not on his side. He was unsuccessful in a bid to head the tribe, and his investments lost value as interest in agriculture waned. When I met him in 1978, he was in his late sixties. He was short and lean with a wizened face but with an impish grin, sparkling eyes, a quick wit, and rapier tongue. Despite his former prominence, he dressed like everyone else, in a white, flowing calf-length shirt, sport coat, head scarf, and dagger. The erect posture evident in old photographs had given way to a slight stoop, but he carried a walking stick as much for show as for support. We would often stroll through 'Amran's market together, he to make purchases and chat with friends, me to use the opportunity to observe and learn from him. On these excursions, he was often irascible, trading accusations and insults with merchants and shoppers
I also chewed qat in the mafraj, or reception room, in Hajj Abdallah's house. The long, rectangular room was on the top floor. Windows on two sides provided a commanding view of his tree-filled garden and the surrounding area and kept the room bright until late afternoon. The prime seats faced the windows, and it was here that Hajj Abdallah and his favored guests sat. I sat with one of his sons facing him, my back to the windows. As guests arrived, they left their shoes at the door. Some would hang their sport coats and daggers from pegs in the wall. Each would choose a place on the thick cushions distributed against the room's long sides. Chewers sat side by side, their left feet curled beneath them, their left arms resting on boxy cushions. In the room's center section would be water pipes and the debris of chewing, mostly sticks, twigs, and undesirable leaves. Tobacco smoke was vented through narrow windows near the high ceiling. But when there was a crowd, the room would soon get stuffy. It was on this stage that Hajj Abdallah demonstrated his ability to make history his personal tool. With a son always available to do his or a guest's bidding, Hajj Abdallah would sit in his corner of the room surrounded by props. On the adjacent windowsill he had a number of volumes, some theological discourses, others histories. Regardless of age or how recently cleaned, they had a patina of dust that when blown or whisked away added authority and solemnity to their words. In cloth bags hanging from overhead pegs were his several pairs of glasses. While his lap held his small bundle of leaves, the crook of an arm or that of his neighbor cradled the hose of the water pipe. These props might be brought into play, depending on the tale being told or the need to add weight to a statement. For example, he would consult his books to make a point or draw on the pipe, giving the audience time to reflect on what he'd said and anticipate what was to come. By far his most compelling features were his age and life experience, which he used to place himself in, or connect himself to, events. Even when he was not much older than some others in the room, he acted as if he had a monopoly on history, a power to which his audience acceded. In this way he could shape accounts into commentaries on life. Here is an example. After about an hour of chewing, when the qat had begun to quiet the crowd, Hajj Abdallah would get everyone's attention, usually by loudly asking a compatriot if he recalled an event or by asking if I'd heard about an incident. Having signaled the audience, he would begin. Himyarite giants  t was in the time of my grandfather. The town leaders climbed down the well next to where the Himyarite castle used to be in the walled city. There were steps along the side of the well made from stone. At the bottom they found two bodies. They were men about ten feet tall. They stretched from here to there," he said, pointing to the door.
"Their hands were huge but well proportioned. The nose was as long as from your wrist to your fingertip. The head was from your fingertip to your elbow." He used his hands and arms to illustrate the dimensions. "The legs were as long as a donkey's. They were just like us, only bigger. They were our ancestors: the Himyarites." He paused briefly then declared: "See! Our ancestors were really men. Not like we are." After drawing on the water pipe and adding a few qat leaves to those in his cheek, he resumed. "Under these bodies our men found a door to a storeroom. Inside were casks made of animal skins. These were full. When they were opened a red liquid, like blood, spilled out. Everyone was covered with it. Then it drained away. Later we learned it flowed through an
These statements artfully incorporated references significant to his audience. The Himyarites were a political dynasty that ruled Yemen from the second century b.c.e. to the fifth century c.e. Though not actually Muslim, they are still regarded with some awe. They are credited with great technical expertise, including constructing elaborate buried irrigation systems. The imams are known to mix red ocher pigment with water and use it to underline official documents, to represent their supposed connection to these early Yemenis. "See what kind of men our ancestors were!" Hajj Abdallah marveled. "There was never anything like them! "Our men found gold statues of all the animals and of people too. They were just like real animals, only smaller. There were dogs, camels, rabbits, donkeys, giraffes, lions, birds, snakes, and many others. They were exact. "When the imam heard about this discovery, he wanted everything sent to him in Sana'a. This we did except for one statue that Yahya, the butcher, stole, believing the imam would not miss it. When he saw the artifacts, the imam said that the dead men were our ancestors. He also noticed that a statue was missing and started an investigation. Yahya was afraid. He sold the statue to a Jew who melted it and tried to sell the gold in Aden. But the imam's agents caught him, and both men were sent to jail." Hajj Abdallah used his account to make several points. The imam is regarded both as the seat of knowledge and as all-powerful. People sometimes claim that under an imam, a true Islamic leader, crime would be impossible. The Himyarites, though not actually Muslim, are to be regarded as larger than life. This was in keeping with the prevailing view of the superiority of the past, a view reflected in the self-deprecating comment that 'Amranis often expressed: "We were better in the past. Then we were true Muslims. Then we were really men." In a variation on this story, Hajj Abdallah incorporated more recent events. Again there was a theft, but the guilty parties escaped. "The imam kept the statues in his palace in Marib. He had them lining the shelves that circled the room," he said, pointing to the overhead shelves in the room as if the audience could visualize the sculptures. "When I visited Marib on business and stayed with the imam, I saw them. They were of gold and were exactly like real people and animals. The statue of the man had fingernails and," he added with a chuckle, "a little penis. "During the civil war, the Egyptian soldiers sent here went to see the imam and they saw the statues. They stole them, every one of them, and flew away in a helicopter. They took them directly to Cairo to present to Gamal Abdel Nasser. Nasser put them in a museum along with other things they stole from us. "You saw them when you were in Cairo, didn't you, Ali?_ he asked a guest at the conclusion of the story. What a man he was ttoman Turks occupied this part of Yemen for about forty-seven years before their defeat in World War I. 'Amranis recall Ottoman rule as harsh and oppressive. What roles they played in rebelling against, or collaborating with, Turkish policies have been forgotten with the exception of one event. This story is so well known that it is, for 'Amranis, essentially summarized by the declaration, uttered with a mixture of awe and reverence: _Shaykh Hizam_ Oh, what a man he was. There's never been anyone like him._
The object of this devotion was 'Amran's tribal leader, or shaykh, during the last years of the Ottoman occupation. 'Amranis believe the shaykh went to Istanbul seeking redress for the town's oppression. While it is sacrilege to say so, their interpretation of the event is almost certainly a case of making a silk purse from a sow's ear, for the shaykh's actions probably thwarted a successful tribal rebellion. The first time I heard the story was from Hajj Abdallah. His account became my standard version for judging other versions that I would hear. "The Turkish commander of the fort was Yusuf Pasha," Hajj Abdallah began, pointing out the window to the garrison atop the hill, which people say the Turks built with stones taken from the old Himyarite castle. "He was the most cruel of men. He treated us badly. He let the soldiers steal from our crops. He put men in jail. Everything we did got us punished. It was terrible. "Once he killed four men who caught the Turks stealing their grain. He cut off their heads and put them on stakes next to the government offices. He let his soldiers steal our property. He even set fire to our fields when we were about to harvest the grain. Shaykh Hizam went to the imam to stop this. The imam couldn't do anything, so the shaykh went to Istanbul. "He sailed from Hodeida. When he reached Istanbul he said he wanted to see the pasha. At first the Turks refused, but when they learned he came from Yemen they quickly gave him an audience. The pasha heard our grievances and said he would take care of everything. Shaykh Hizam stayed as the pasha's guest for a while, and they showed him their museums. When he was about to depart, they asked him if he wanted money or other things. Shaykh Hizam said that thanks to Allah he had money but would take some household furnishings. These he brought back with him. "After the shaykh returned, a letter was sent to the commander in Sana'a and Yusuf Pasha was taken there. The Turks cut off his head. A new commander was sent here." Stopping, Hajj Abdallah stared blankly for a perhaps half a minute, seemingly consumed by inner thoughts on the eminence of this hero. Then he concluded: "Shaykh Hizam_ Oh, what a man he was. There's never been anyone like him_" As if this declaration were a benediction, others in the room immediately responded in agreement with "Shaykh Hizam_" or "La ilah ila Allah [All praise to Allah]." When the Jews left 'Amran  significant group of outsiders who lived in 'Amran were Jews. Yemeni Jews practiced one of the oldest forms of Judaism. Those in 'Amran were thought to have settled there about 350 years ago. They came from nearby villages seeking protection, and the shaykh granted their request. He gave them land upon which to build a village. In 1948 most of Yemen's Jews, including all those in 'Amran, moved to Israel.
Hajj Abdallah was personally involved in the transition. I heard him recount the events many times, and in each he presented himself in neutral but honorable terms. In his best performances, he would first order one of his sons to go to his room and bring some deeds. The son would return with several handfuls of rolled parchments, each tied with a fabric string, and place them in front of his father. With studied deliberation, Hajj Abdallah would then search among his various glasses for the right pair. Invariably the lenses of the chosen set were dirty from the prying hands of his grandchildren. So smudged were the lenses that the fingerprints could be seen across the room. After a cursory cleaning with a bit of cloth, which seemed always to do no more than spread the oils more widely, he would put these on. I would cringe and wonder if he could really see. Then, as he rummaged through the papers, untying them and glancing at the contents, he would launch into his rendition. "When there was talk of the Jews leaving, the imam told them to stay and not to believe the stories of the foreigners who were traveling about visiting them. But when the Jews decided to leave, the imam said they had to sell everything. They couldn't take so much as a cup with them. The imam sent me a message, ordering me to buy the houses and the land. I bought 121 houses and 10,000 libna [100 acres] of land. Then I sold the land and the houses to the Muslims." Even as he was recounting this story, he'd be fiddling with his papers. Selecting one, he'd pause to untie and open a parchment, glance at it, roll it up again and retie it, and then go on. "No one wanted to buy the synagogue. Finally, since everything had to be sold, I said I would buy it. I gave the Jews forty Maria Theresa talers. Now it is a storeroom. What else could we do?" he asked rhetorically. "Everyone wanted to buy the big houses by the gate," he continued. "The imam bought the large one that now belongs to Ali and also the one where Yahya lives. He paid one thousand Maria Theresas for both of them. The big one by the gate was owned by Salim al-Garada, the richest Jew. He had land all over, some nearby but a lot by Kahlan and Jawb. The house where Yahya lives was the best house in the quarter." Stopping again, he continued to rummage through his papers, as if looking for something specific. The room was quiet except for the gurgling of the water pipe and cups of water being filled. Then he resumed his narrative: "Not long after they'd left, the Jews sent me a message over the radio. It came from Aden. "It said, 'Greetings to Hajj Abdallah who bought all our houses and land for nothing.' " He burst out laughing. Even when he was able to go on, he still had a big grin. The smile revealed his qat-covered teeth. "What could I do?" he shrugged in mock protest. "The imam said to buy everything down to the last cup. "About a year later I received a letter from one of the Jews. He was in Israel. He said that he had buried some money in his house. He had been afraid to take the money with him and wanted me to send it to him. I went to the house--that's where Hussayn lives today. We dug in the wall where the letter said, and we found the money. Hussayn wanted to keep it, but I said the imam only ordered us to buy the houses and his instruction didn't include what was in them. So I sent the money to the Jew." His narrative finished, Hajj Abdallah held up a scroll and declared the property to be Muhammad's house. This was merely a piece of dramatic artifice. In the local tenure scheme, the deeds would have been transferred to the new owners. But it is quite possible that these documents were indeed deeds to the several properties Hajj Abdallah had purchased from departing Jews. Guests never questioned this or his other stories, even when I thought they should have. The audience loved to hear these accounts that portrayed their lives. Like all successful tale tellers, Hajj Abdallah captured history, shaping it into what he and his listeners wished it to be. 
Thomas B. Stevenson is associate professor of anthropology at Ohio University in Zanesville. |
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