Author: Alberto Di Gennaro

“Spend in the way of Allah and do not put yourselves into destruction, and do good. Of course, Allah(SAW) loves those who do good.”

Surat Al-Baqarah 2:195 

One day in the morning while leaving my hotel, I saw afar the ancient walls surrounding the ancient city of Old Sanaa. When I reached them, I walked through Bab al-Yaman, one of the four ancient entrance gates into old Sanaa; the main gate.

In the large square, clusters of people, all men and all rigorously with their jambiya, the dagger with a short curved blade, tied to the belt, who argued lively among themselves sipping tea and chewing qat leaves, a drug with effects similar to amphetamine, originally used by workers in the fields to better withstand fatigue. The glance I received once inside the old city was incredible; a real immersion in an ancient past. A sensation that I felt only in the souqs of Damascus and of Omdurman in Sudan. Where it could still happen to see, in the third millennium, a caravanserais, a term deriving from the persian “karvansaray”, palace of the caravan, still efficient? The caravanserais, warehouses in which the caravans of the merchants who once crossed the Arabian peninsula following the path of the Incense Road stopped, the camels recovered their strength by eating and resting; and outside I saw, among infinite sacks of various merchandise, ancient balances to weigh the goods. The large market, with its din and its air saturated by strong smells, the wonderful tower houses, some up to eight floors high, the mud walls that hid flourishing vegetable gardens (from the ancient Sabean term “qshmt”, vegetable garden) luxuriant orchards and gardens, legacy of the times of the pre-Islamic kingdoms, the kingdom of Saba. 

A great surprise, in some ways disconcerting, albeit not unexpected, knowing the great humanity found in the Arab people during my continuous travels in the Middle East, I received it in Sanaa from simple and humble people endowed with a great dignity. 

One day I decided to go to enjoy an hammam; I asked a man to show me one of it. We walked along Taizz Road, along an avenue perpendicular to Bab al-Yeman, marching happily for at least half an hour under a scorching sun, it was around noon. We arrived in front of the door of an ancient building, and, not seeing the characteristic domes indicating the presence of a hammam, I asked him where it was, he urged me with a smile to follow him. We entered a dark door, we started to go down the stairs, one, two, three floors below the street level, all in the most complete darkness and silence, causing a growing uneasiness with every step I went down, but inside me, however, I felt I could trust, a subtle but strong feeling. We reached the amazing entrance of the underground hammam which suddenly appeared from the dark like a ship emerging from the fog. His duty was over and I made the act of giving him a tip, $5, for me a paltry sum, for a Yemeni some meals. He declined it with a smile and to my insistence I saw him utter something in a low voice, louring; the hammam boss told me that for him it was a simple pleasure and a kind act for which Allah would have given him credit. He left me with a smile anyway. I spent three hours of my time indolently wrapped in steam, bathing in the room called “al-bayt al-sajun”, in a small pool of very hot water, square in shape. Suddenly I was called by an orderly who, making himself understood by gestures, since he only spoke Arabic, invited me to follow him. I entered a room adjacent to the entrance, where I saw all the attendants from the hammam sitting on the floor in a circle around a large bowl of rice, eggs and vegetables. They invited me, the only westerner inside the bathroom, to eat with them by offering and sharing their lunch with me. I thanked them and sat down with them on the ground enjoying more than food, but also their company and friendship shown to a foreigner whom they had never seen before and who unfortunately would never see again too soon. 

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