From dust we are made, and to the dust we return. A truism of life no matter where one is, or how removed one is from one’s own culture, mused O’Brien, lost in thought as he trudged on unfamiliar ground. The foundation of life seemed ubiquitous in this country, where it covered the walls, filled the air, was scattered across the weathered stone path, floated between the ornate, Oriental houses of the town he visited, and coated the now dirt-streaked sneakers that O’Brien wore. He forced himself to stop looking at his feet and stooping, instead widening his eyes in an attempt at arousing his senses and taking in his surroundings. He realized it was important, even now, far from his usual enemies, to remember that danger still lurked in this wild frontier, a political entity known as Yemen. Geographically isolated on the southwestern corner of the Arabian Peninsula, it was easily overlooked, easily forgotten by powerful outside influences, for better or for worse.
The country still seemed mired in a medieval past, unready for the new future that dawned elsewhere around the globe. Since arriving he had seen few vehicles, and no computers nor other signs of modern technology. No cellular phones not even a fax machine. When he had arrived in the town by bus the previous day, he had seen few telephone lines or electrical lines leading into the city, and nighttime had proven to him that light was provided chiefly by kerosene lamp in this civilization forsaken place.
His guide, going by the seemingly common Arabic name of Abdul, walked at a leisurely pace in front of him. That morning, Abdul had convincingly and confidently stated to O’Brien that he could bring him to the man he needed. Despite his broken English, which almost prompted O’Brien to try and find someone else for the job, the guide appeared to have been telling the truth. O’Brien could hear the cacophony of negotiating and bartering up ahead, the din of the marketplace. As they neared, he could see that the street in front of him bustled with activity. Still many more actors in this theatre of business stood backstage; the street-side stores, doorways and cafes were filled to overflowing with people, as many traders and businessmen took their mid-afternoon break from work to chew qat.
This aspect of Yemen was the most confusing for O’Brien. Qat was a plant grown in Yemen and also in some other countries on the Horn of Africa. The citizens of countries in which it was produced regularly chewed its leaves, the cigarette for the masses in this corner of the world. Users were given a high in return for their addiction. Thus, Yemeni social life was hooked on this seemingly pointless activity. Even business demanded it, and the best deals are sealed over a pound of choice qat, unlike the typical round of golf in the West.
Yet O’Brien wasn’t here for the qat; it wasn’t his drug of choice. Usually it would have been alcohol, difficult enough to obtain in a fiercely Muslim country, especially one steeped in extremism that linked sobriety with uprightness. On his journey to Yemen, he had passed directly into Turkey, and then traveled incognito and illegally by rail and car through Syria, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia to reach his final destination. He had not had a drop to drink since leaving Ireland, and nothing resembling a bar or a pub seemed to exist in the Middle East. Still, he put desire aside, considering that this was not the objective of his journey. He had not traveled thousands of kilometers to get plastered in foreign land. No, he was here for something else that Yemen was famous for.
Three things became the face of Yemen. Two of them were Islam and qat. The third, the only truly abundant adornment of practically every adult male here, was what O’Brien had in mind, visiting this remote corner of the world. These were the guns.
Guns, whether pistols, rifles, or assault weapons, were endemic amongst the populace, especially in this region of Yemen. It was part of an outgrowth of the tribal connections, relationships, and thus turf wars of the desert. Also, O’Brien recalled, Yemen had only recently undergone reunification between its North and South. Instability had led the people to take matters into their own hands. It was something he definitely could understand from his past – no matter what authorities or higher powers were in command or what they said, eventually it came down to the individual to draw the line, to enforce the law, to right the wrongs around him or her.
O’Brien was an Irishman, the prototypical Catholic, and a recently new addition to the IRA. Troubling circumstances brought together disparate members from across Ireland to the group. Specifically, he was a new convert to the following of the Provisionals. An extremist splinter faction of the IRA, they renounced moves towards peace engineered by Protestant parties and Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland. Instead, they advocated direct, violent confrontation, to solve the Northern Ireland question, and restore the unity and wholeness to the Emerald Island. It was a cause that a desperate and idle, but fanatical man like Patrick, would easily be attracted to and find his place and meaning within.
