My city.

A short story about a short journey.

Walking through the narrow streets of Old Sana'a, like a small pea being forcefully sucked through a straw, I then finally popped out of those soul-draining streets into the wide -or what seemed to be wide after spending some time in the narrowness- shops. After taking a deep breath and appreciating some personal space, I took a walk, gazing at the shops that stood around me. You could see the greed and selfishness imprisoned inside the pale bodies of the shop owners by how dirty the rivalry between them was. If, lets say, a blacksmith opened a shop and has good business five more will open right next to him in a chance of taking his business away. As if they were a bad case of acne spreading uncontrollably through the face of a teenager. As I walk further more, avoiding green splatters of chewed up leaves while I'm chewing it myself, I spot the merchandise that is offered. You could smell the absence of quality of the Chinese-made product if you take a strong whiff. See in Arabic Sana'a is a derivative of the Arabic word for craftsmanship, which is what this place lacks. Even the name of the place shows contradiction.