About Me

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Troy Nahumko is an award-winning author based in Caceres, Spain. His recent work focuses on travels around the Mediterranean, from Tangier to Istanbul. As a writer and photographer he has contributed to newspapers and media such as Lonely Planet, The Globe and Mail, The Sydney Morning Herald, The Toronto Star, Counterpunch,The Irish World, The Straits Times, The Calgary Herald, Khaleej Times, DW-World, Rabble and El Pais. He also writes a bi-weekly op-ed column 'Camino a Ítaca' for the Spanish newspaper HOY. His book, Stories Left in Stone, Trails and Traces in Cáceres, Spain is published by the University of Alberta Press. As an ESL materials writer he has worked with publishers such as Macmillan and CUP.

Sunday, June 6, 2021

Are We There Yet?


In this week's Camino a Ítaca I'm reminded of the perseverance of some of my brave, female students in Yemen. If they could, I can. Click over to read the original in Spanish or the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo). 

Standing in front of a new class is always somewhat nerve-wracking, especially if it’s in a new country. Looking out over a class and seeing fifty percent of your students with curved daggers tucked in their belts and Kalashnikovs carelessly slung on their shoulders like handbags, while the other half are swathed head to toe in black with their faces completely covered, with only their kohl-outlined eyes to latch on to, means taking this disquiet to an entirely new level. This was my day-to-day experience while teaching English in the only coed school in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a.

The sight was also an explicit metaphor. Even if many of the machine guns were held together with duct tape, the message they conveyed was clear. Power dictates who wears the mask and who doesn’t. There was no explicit law stating that women had to cover their faces in public and, unlike in neighboring Saudi Arabia, there wasn’t a law mandating that women had to cover their hair in public. Yet the majority still do. This message of subjugation was more a cultural phenomenon than political or even religious, even if exegetical attempts are made to justify it using the latter.

My challenge as a teacher was to recognize and differentiate between my masked students. The dehumanizing mask and veil is meant to render women invisible, but even under these difficult circumstances, they were able to pronounce their individuality, albeit subtly. These courageous women saw this rare crack in the stratified social conventions of the region as a possible outlet towards a better future and if it meant covering up to appease social conventions, then so be it.

At first it was near impossible to tell them apart but after time I began to notice the smallest of signs beyond the outline of the kohl around their eyes. Subtle, yet powerful statements that silently cried out, ‘this is me.’ It might have been an inconspicuous arabesque on the hem of their abaya or an almost imperceptible design on the edge of their niqab, but it was just enough to distinguish themselves amongst the rest. The mask may have covered them from view but it couldn’t erase who they were.

I had often thought of these women over the years. I will always remember their determination to learn and their certainty that learning was the key to their future. They have also come to mind whenever attempts around Europe arise to ban burkas in the public sphere. It’s only recently though that I have thought about them almost every day.

I think of them as I pant my way up hills, gasping for air as I near the top. I’m reminded of them as I pass by people that I know in the street without recognizing them and saying hello. Each time my glasses fog up and I have to stop to clean them before looking out at a class where everyone is now wearing a mask, they come to mind.

I relive their determination and their resoluteness, no matter the obstacles in front of them. And then I put my mask back on, keep climbing the hill and think, just a little while longer now.


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