Author’s Note
Historically, we have lived in a world that has inflicted tyranny, oppression, and misery on those who have been deemed weaker. Oppression, once seeded and rooted, will eventually stifle and choke the afflicted, who will either submit to or defy their oppressors. Freedom, a universal right, is denied to so many.
The Middle East has always struggled to find a clear path to freedom, entangled as it is in centuries of history and culture wrapped up in countries with resources so valuable to a Western world willing to sink to profound moral depths for access. The region is populated by cultures so similar in mindset, yet so distinctly opposed to one another—in some cases to the point of hatred. Aden, a small city close to the eastern approach of the Red Sea, has for generations been a magnetic hub, home to a multitude of cultures, a geographical location crucial to the West after the construction of the Suez Canal.
Some could argue that the catastrophic implosion that pulsed through Yemen in the 1960s and early 1970s was an inevitable result of the bubbling oppression that had been fermenting for generations. Yet others may argue that this story could have had a different outcome. I am just the storyteller, so I shall leave any such conclusions to you.
Part One
“There really can be no peace without justice. There can be no justice without truth. And there can be no truth, unless someone rises up to tell you the truth.” —Louis Farrakhan
Chapter 1
“Freedom, an innate right, denied to so many, must be taken— the fight for which can be savage. Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.” —Malcolm X
November 2, 1967
A lot can happen in thirty minutes. If Harry had only known what the next half hour would mean in the grand scheme of things, he might have paid more attention. His mind was preoccupied, so much so that he had let his guard down.
His stride hastened through the sandy shopping streets of Steamer Point in the Yemeni city of Aden, crimson dust clouds trailing his every step along the uneven path. It wasn’t even noon and the heat was relentless. Sweat trickled down his forehead and spine, soaking the white cotton button-down shirt now stuck to his back. The call to prayer began in one corner of the city and within seconds echoed through all the minarets dotted throughout the mountains. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the beads of perspiration from his brow. The taste of salt was heavy in the air, drifting in from the ocean just beyond the small garden he was passing, the lethargic waves barely audible as they climbed the shore. Years of brutal SAS military training had taught him how to manage the extreme weather of the Middle East. Even though his body automatically responded to the high temperatures, his mind wouldn’t succumb, and for this he was grateful. He ignored the sweltering sun and damp heat pushing up against him from every direction, daring him to continue. Instead, his mind was distracted and consumed with disappointment—disappointment with the direction his government was moving in.
The decision had been made. The decision to pull out of Aden sooner than originally planned.A whole year earlier.Harry tried to ignore the pit in his stomach and instead focused his thoughts on the work he had done, all that he had accomplished with the local federation of sultans and the agreements that had been made, many of which Harry had negotiated himself. This wasn’t the way to leave a country that had served them well until recently. Frustrated, he clenched his teeth. He had worked so hard to strengthen the relationships within the federation; his reputation was on the line. The last post of the British Empire and they were going to run with their tails between their legs. His brow furrowed as the pit in his stomach grew. Wasn’t this exactly what his country was trying to avoid? History, he knew all too well, was infinitely wise and tried her best to warn us of the consequences of our actions. Why do we continuously struggle with those lessons? he thought. Why do we always think that it will somehow be different this time around? Why is it that we never learn? He quickened his pace while his eyebrows narrowed even more, creasing his forehead. The conversation replayed over and over again in his mind.
“It’s not working,Harry,”Lord Besick had said nonchalantly. “Tensions have risen. We’re losing men, and it’s clear that the insurgents want us out. It’s hard to justify still being here, quite honestly.”
“Sir, we told the federal rulers and sultans that we would stay, that our military base would remain permanently in the area, that we would help them with the handover. This isn’t that. This is breaking every treaty we’ve signed with them. We’re not keeping our word.”
“Harry, there is no breach here.” Now irritated, Lord Besick spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “The Crown is not responsible for any false hope or promises that Duncan Sandys may have made. That is preposterous.”
“With all due respect, sir, you’re saying that our government has made a unilateral decision that affects the future of Aden without even consulting the federation of sultans. When a British foreign minister, such as Mr. Sandys, makes promises that we then break, we stand to look like idiots. What about all those signed treaties? We did make promises to the sultans— promises to protect them from the nationalists. To maintain peace when we give them back their country and to help them with the transition. We’re opening the door to chaos. They need us to ensure a proper handover. They trust us, sir.”
“Treaties were not signed.” Lord Besick raised his voice. “Might I remind you that the majority of your federal rulers are illiterate thugs. A thumbprint is hardly a binding agreement.” He snorted in disgust. “Orders are orders. I’m not looking for a conversation here, nor, quite frankly, your opinion. Are we clear?”
“But, sir—”
“Are we clear?!”
Silence slowly stretched and dragged itself between them as
Harry painfully brought himself to respond. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, that’s more like it. Let’s talk tomorrow, shall we? We’ll need to discuss the logistics in detail. I want our troops
and civilians out as soon as possible.”
Back on the sweltering streets of Aden, Harry’s jaw began
to ache. He paused in front of a toy shop to massage away the tension and let his thoughts flow. The dusty street housed a strip of buildings with several shopfronts: Bhicajee Cowasjee, Star Pharmacy, the Marina Hotel, and the boarded-up Universal Bazaar, which had been owned and operated by a young Jewish Yemeni, Benjamen Yahuda, until his departure in 1950. Harry had not known him, but Yahuda’s standing as a businessman was legendary in Aden, his home until 1947 when the United Nations passed a resolution that called for the partition of Palestine into Arab and Jewish states. As news of the resolution spread, Arabs across the Mid-East rioted, attacking and killing Jews for their perceived role in the displacement of their Arab brothers. In 1950, Israeli Prime Minister Ben Gurion announced the Law of Return, which granted any Jew the right to return to Israel.
Yahuda was one of fifty thousand Yemenite Jews evacuated in Operation Magic Carpet, one of the most complex immigration operations the state had ever known. Israeli, British, and American transport planes secretly flew them to their newly established home of Israel. Yemenite Jews made their way to Aden by foot from all corners of the country, desperate to avoid attacks from Arabs and arrive to safety. Harry remembered when Operation Magic Carpet was in every newspaper in London. He had been just a teenager then but followed every detail of the story, and ultimately it had inspired him to work for the British government—he was determined to be a part of something big and make a difference.
This ever-evolving country continued to awe Harry.To think that there had been fifty thousand Yemenite Jews here to begin with flabbergasted him. Yemen was so rich in culture, so steeped in history.These people had waited patiently to take their country back after more than a century of occupation. He felt for them.
His long legs scaled the large steps up to the veranda of Bhicajee Cowasjee, where he stopped for a moment at the tall stone pillars that guarded the shop. Placing his hand on one of the thick white columns, he expected it to be cool to the touch. But even this stoic sentry had succumbed to the sun’s domination, and it felt warm and clammy, much to Harry’s disappointment. Looking away, and feeling even more defeated, he was caught by a strange sense that someone was following him. Turning back to glance over his shoulder, he quickly scanned the street, but nothing struck him as out of the ordinary.
Inside the shop, the steady breeze from the overhead fans brought instant relief as he made his way toward the soda machine. Harry pulled out a drink from the icebox and lingered for a moment, reveling in the cooling air before using the attached opener to remove the jagged metal cap. Eagerly, he drew the bottle to his mouth. The sensation of the cold glass on his lips was heavenly. After gulping down the sweet, icy cola, he pressed the bottle up against his flushed and chiseled cheeks, taking sanctuary in the small pleasure.
Dara, the young Parsi man who owned the business along with his family, emerged from the back of the store and immediately began to shower his customer in a warm welcome. Harry had lived in Southern Arabia for close to fifteen years and was well versed in the many cultures that made Aden the haven that it was. He and his wife, Jane, were regulars at the shop, and they were also part of the larger social scene that Dara and his wife, Silloo, ran in. The warm weather and miles of beaches and mountain ranges meant an active life for most people who lived in Aden. Beach clubs, boating, water-skiing, dancing, and camp-outs along the shoreline were all a part of the everyday routine; through these activities, the small city fostered many friendships across its diverse communities.
“Harry, my friend, so nice to see you. How are you?”
“Ah, Dara, hello there. Forgive me for just helping myself,” he said, holding up the empty Coke bottle and smiling sheepishly. “It’s a hot one today, wouldn’t you say?”
“Please, please, you are always welcome to help yourself. No need to apologize. Anything I can assist you with?”
“I have a list somewhere,” Harry replied, digging through his pockets for the folded piece of paper. “Jane asked for a few things. We are heading to a party tomorrow night in Ma’alla. A handful of officers and their wives, some of the secretaries. Apparently, there will be quite a spread. Jane wants to bring Yorkshire pudding... So, ah, here it is. Flour, eggs, milk, and vegetable oil.”
“Jane was just here for flour last week. She must be baking up a storm!”
“Actually, she opened it up and there were a lot of little ants or something in the jar. That’s why she wanted some more.”
“Harry, that is just a little extra protein in this part of the world! Nothing to fret about.” Dara chuckled, waving it off.
“Ha, that’s true.” Harry smiled knowingly at the shop owner. “But Jane was worried that the other guests might not be so understanding.”
They both laughed while Dara leaned in. “Let me have someone pull your items for you. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”
“You are a good man, Dara. No, thank you. The drink was all I needed.”
Dara rang up Harry’s shopping list while they talked about their boats and wanting to get out for a good sail over the weekend. He then carried the bag of groceries and followed Harry out of the store, still chatting about the weather and the unusual increase in sharks of late. There was a definite need for more shark nets and better patrolling of the waters. Harry took the bag and then walked down the stairs, leaving Dara up by the pillars, still talking, both men equally engrossed in the topic. Harry’s shoulders started to loosen; he was, at last, beginning to relax after his monumental day, no longer feeling quite so defeated.
A white 1958 Chevy pulled into a parking spot in front of Harry. He moved out of the way to give the driver some more space but remained preoccupied with his and Dara’s conversation.
“Let’s plan an evening at Shalimar with the missus,” Harry suggested. “It’s been a while since we had a night out. Maybe Pierre and Valerie can join us too.”
“That’s a great idea. You let me know when, and I’ll make sure we have the best table!” said Dara.
A young Yemeni man emerged from behind the car in a scuffed-up blue collared shirt and beige cotton pants, his head wrapped in a checkered white-and-black scarf. He was chewing khat, his shoulders tense and his hands hanging oddly by his sides as he walked toward Harry, who was back to talking about sharks.
The man walked right up to Harry, his hands steady, his gaze penetrating as he looked him straight in the eyes, then lifted a P-64 pistol from his waistline and aimed it at Harry’s forehead.
Stumbling backwards, Harry dropped his bag and put his hands up.
“Shabab, Akhi, brother. What are you doing? Let’s talk,” Harry pleaded.
“Skut, kalb Inglise. Shut up, you British dog.”
“Please... let’s talk. I want to help you. I’m on your side.” The young man looked rabid, his eyes somewhere else—
glassy, angry, hateful. He sucked in mucus from his nose and spat a ball of phlegm at Harry’s feet.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through Harry’s skin and muscle before it exploded into his cranial bones and prefrontal cortex. A cloud of gun smoke and the stench of burning flesh permeated the air. Dara watched in shock and horror as his friend crumpled to the ground like a bloody rag doll—Harry’s face instantly gone.
The shooter tossed a piece of paper onto Harry’s blood- splattered chest, his body splayed out. Without hesitation—his hand perfectly steady, his eyes cold and empty—the young man pointed the gun at Dara. Gesturing to his mouth with his free hand, he used the gun to mimic slitting his throat. His message was clear: keep your mouth shut or you’re next. And then, as swiftly as he had emerged, he was gone.
Dara flew down the steps toward Harry, yelling hysterically for help, for the police, ambulance, anyone. He ripped off his shirt, revealing his crisp white sudreh, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but there was no place to start. Harry’s face was unrecognizable. Blood was everywhere.
As Dara continued screaming, a crowd started to form and people began running and calling for help. Then sirens. He could barely hear them over the dull ringing in his ears, startled by the muffled sound and vibration of his own yelling.
He watched as the ambulance finally arrived and the paramedics poured out, moving quickly, ready to take action as though there was something they could do, but there was no hope. Harry had died the instant that bullet made contact.
Dara sat in the growing pool of blood as it mixed with dirt and sand. The medics covered Harry’s body with a sheet and carried his friend away. Only the blood remained, inching its way out, away from him, tainting the ground forever. What was happening? He wiped the sweat from his brow, realizing that he too was drenched in blood, dust, and tears. He picked himself up, blinded and choked by the piercing sunlight and insidious heat. He dragged himself home.
