The first seasonal rains are a blessing in chronically water shortage plagued Yemen and their sudden appearance on the day of my arrival, in a way, bid a good omen for my stay in the country. Just a week ago, the dark clouds that had been hanging over the country for almost a year, finally lifted, when President Ali Abdulla Saleh decided to finally delegate power and leave the country, so the pouring rain gave people the visible sense of a new beginning. The nature of my job prohibits me to speculate on whether the sudden support of the elements constitutes divine endorsement, but the sense of relief in the streets is palpable and people are back fighting for Ghat, instead of their lives, in markets where tanks would roam less than a week ago.

The way here was a stony one, dotted with doubts and fear, but when I at last stepped out of the airport I knew that it was here, and nowhere else, that I wanted to come. As the sun burnt down on me and I saw the dark rain clouds and sandstorms gathering over the desert while driving through this stunningly beautiful city and seeing people like from a different world, I understood why I had doggedly refused to consider another destination and knew that, despite all the odds, I was going to be safe.

Not that it has been easy coming here. The fact that getting out of the airport proved such a relief was in great parts due to the fact that it had been preceded by gruesome questioning by numerous immigration officials as to my intentions, during which I saw my prospects of seeing the country again slip away farther by the minute (hour). Neither did glancing at Al-Jazzera in Cairo airport before boarding my Sanaa bound plane (22 killed in Yemen fighting) nor the comments of my colleagues (Yemen??? be careful!!) add to my encouragement.

So why do I then, in the light of these odds, feel this sense of optimism? There is a craving for normality here, which one can sense has something to do with how people look at me, and how happy they seem to be finally back in the streets. I was told that the bristling streets used to be deserted just about a week ago, and the many, now empty, checkpoints, testify that the abundance of life in the streets has something to do with the prolonged absence of a street life, until President Saleh decided to leave the country about a week ago.

People are certainly happy, and from what I am hearing, I can only glance at what ordeal must lay behind ordinary families. Schools are said to have been used as firing points by government militias and free space as heave armor parking spot. Kids have thus been out of school for a year, and economic life has come to a standstill. One can only imagine the strength needed of parents, to exude confidence to their terrified children in nights of fighting, when they sense their own powerlessness, and are themselves uncertain about how to feed their families, with the economy in shambles and students and tourists d(r)ying out.

Whether the now prevailing optimism only constitutes a short-lived intermezzo, or a prolonged period of stability, I do not dare to say, though. It seems that while the days are full of life and energy (and fighter planes lifting off from the airport), the nights are less sunny, as remote(?) gunfire echoes over the silent city, fortunately mostly overpowered by the omnipresent humming of generators, and I lay in my bed, wondering when my turn will come.

Fear is an interesting emotion. Incredibly useful, to keep ourselves out of danger, being irrational, it also wants to be controlled. I wonder if my tendency to master my emotions also applies to fear, and ultimately my coming here. Yes, I like the smell of danger, as it tells me something about myself. But I also want to life, and I have recently rediscovered how beautiful letting emotions and control go feels. As I go into my third day, I am divided between daily cheerfulness, and nightly fears.

Comments