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Qat chewing in
contemporary Yemeni society (Slate)
The role of Qat in
contemporary Yemeni society
dispatches
Dispatches From Yemen
Trying to
do business in Yemen without chewing qat would be
like trying to do business in Washington without
doing lunch, dinner, or drinks.
By Elisabeth Eaves
Posted Monday, May 17, 2004, at 2:56 PM PT
Trying to do business
in Yemen without chewing qat would be like trying to
do business in Washington or London without doing
lunch, dinner, or drinks. This fact sank in around
my fourth day in Sanaa when I was invited to my
fourth qat session. Now, after four weeks here, I
have met, through qat, government officials,
ministers, politicians, business owners,
journalists, poets, aid workers, a Hamas official,
and an actress. Suffice it to say that without qat I
would have neither friends nor sources. One evening,
on a day I had resolved to avoid qat—qat sessions,
like endless rounds of dinner and drinks, can become
exhausting—a man who I had been trying to interview
summoned me to his mafraj, or sitting room,
at 7 in the evening. He was chewing with his son and
a circle of friends; I interviewed him amid piles of
discarded branches.
Qat is a bitter green
leaf. You store it up in one side of your mouth
until it forms a giant wad, distending your cheek
like a golf ball, or if you keep masticating, a
tennis ball. You never swallow the leaf itself, just
the juices. It's a stimulant containing two active
ingredients, cathinone and cathine, but beyond that
there isn't much agreement about its effects: It's
strong, it's weak, it's addictive, it's not, it
makes you introspective or euphoric or chatty. It's
banned in the United States but legal in Great
Britain.
Many Yemenis retire
to chew in a mafraj, which has a very
particular architecture: floor-level seating, with
cushions and arm rests, along three or four sides of
a room. Others, though, simply chew while getting on
with their business day. When I go to my
neighborhood vegetable vendor after lunch, I find
him sitting on the floor of his stall, all but
hidden by the cantaloupes. He has flecks of bright
green on his lips and is cheerfully willing to give
me a deal on tomatoes. Truck and taxi drivers chew
on the road, and soldiers do it on the job, despite
the ban on consuming in uniform. A qat session can
last for four hours or eight, or from after lunch
until after midnight. It's permissible to drop in
and out of a chew. But really, once you're settled
in, why would you want to leave?
Some expats in Yemen
try to resist. "In Sanaa I do all my business before
1 p.m.," said Randy Durst, an American who manages a
travel company here. By 2, offices are shut, and the
teetotaler's business day is shot. Many foreigners,
though, simply go with the flow. Robert Burrowes, a
political science professor from the University of
Washington who resides part-time in Yemen, said that
qat has facilitated much of his work over the years.
"It would be hard to do research here and not chew
qat, because it's during the qat sessions that
people seem most relaxed, and most prepared to talk
about politics. You can often talk in some depth and
detail over a four-hour period." Kyle Foster, the
country director for Mercy Corps, said partaking in
qat is essential to aid work too. "Yemen has a
dysfunctional ministry system in which officials are
at work for maybe two hours a day. But if you can
line up a qat chew with the official you need to
talk to, then you're in." It's also a useful tool
for managing personnel: "You can sit with your staff
for six hours, strategizing and planning," Foster
said. The difference between qat and after-work
drinks in the Western world is that after a few
beers, the worker bee starts to loose his coherence.
Qat, on the other hand, is a sparkly upper,
enhancing lucidity. Some Yemenis call it Vitamin Q.
While the guys at
Hunt Oil, which operates in Yemen, probably resist,
even officers at the U.S. Embassy unofficially
partake. A foreigner in Sanaa who is familiar with
embassy staff said that while Ambassador Edmund Hull
came into his job dead-set against the drug, his
political and economic staff, charged with taking
the country's pulse, have effectively forced him to
concede that they have to do it sometimes.
For Yemenis, of
course, the social and professional pressure is even
more intense. In a story still talked about as a
cautionary tale, the government fired a high-ranking
official in the 1970s, taking him by complete
surprise. Rumors of his termination had been making
the rounds, but his German wife had forbidden him
from chewing, so he was out of the loop. And last
year, in a uniquely Yemeni twist on locker-room
syndrome, Rahma Hujaira formed the Yemeni Female
Journalists Forum after the Association of Yemeni
Journalists excluded its female members from a chew.
"That was an outrageous decision," she told the
Yemen Observer.
Part of the charm of
qat is that no one, at least in Yemen, has ever
tried to distill it or speed up its effects. Qat can
be strong stuff, but it takes a long time to take
effect, and while you are waiting you must sit and
pick at the little stack of shrubbery you have
brought, painstakingly stuffing bad-tasting foliage
into you mouth, and washing it down with water or
soda pop. This will frustrate anyone chasing a quick
high, but it preserves the social ritual, which is a
major part of qat's appeal. If I'm in the right
mood, I love the hours of ebbing and flowing chat
that segue seamlessly from one-on-one confidences to
group discussions to solo speechmaking and back,
about politics and culture and love and war. It
makes me wonder how often, back home, I really took
the time to listen and talk.
The drawbacks are
serious and numerous. To name a few: Qat cultivation
uses up scarce water resources, and consumption uses
up even scanter incomes. Little children run wild in
the streets while their parents indulge—one
afternoon I saw a group of them playing with a
sizable fire they had built in the street.
Fortunately Sanaa is mostly built of stone.
I wonder, though, if
qat doesn't have a positive political impact.
Despite Yemen's reputation in the West as a
terrorist-infested no-man's land, I'm frankly
impressed that it doesn't fly apart at the seams,
considering the circumstances. A country of some 19
million souls, Yemen is impoverished, home to tribal
groups barely under the control of the central
government, and has spawned Islamist groups like the
Aden Abyan Army. Yet the government enjoys more
legitimacy than most Arab regimes, its close
cooperation with the United States has produced no
outpouring of violence, and even the powerful
religious party, Islah, works closely with President
Ali Abdullah Saleh's secular government. Could this
tenuous stability have to do with the fact that for
five or more hours every afternoon, the nation is
seriously chilled out?
A fitful modernizer,
President Saleh announced in 1999 that he was taking
up exercise and giving up qat. Yemenis don't really
buy it, and Saleh is believed to have stuck to his
resolution for only a few months. Still, he sent a
signal that in order to join the modern world, the
country needed to move away from the national
addiction. Saleh's announcement makes me think of
Russian President Vladimir Putin's fondness for
posing in track suits and karate outfits in contrast
to his binge-drinking predecessor Boris Yeltsin; it
also puts me in mind of Mexico, which under Vicente
Fox, its gung-ho ex-CEO of a president, is slowly
abandoning the afternoon siesta.
A Yemeni abandonment
of qat is as inconceivable as a Russian abandonment
of vodka. Sadly, though, there is probably something
fundamentally incompatible between the efficient
modern business world and old ways that involve
boozing, napping, and getting high. To the list of
globalization's impacts, add abstemiousness and an
inability to relax.
Elisabeth Eaves
is the author of
Bare, which will be released in paperback in
September 2004.
Article URL:
http://slate.msn.com/id/2100581/
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