PREFACE

What would you take with you if you were leaving home?

What would you bring if you knew you weren’t returning?

Clothes carry memories, tell stories of who we are or want to be. These tactile residues and symbols of the past help anchor us when we feel lost at sea. Because don’t we all go through life, one journey at a time, discarding some things along the way, keeping others?

The things we carry, what do they say about us?

For those forced by circumstance to leave the familiar behind, otherwise insignificant things often take on portentous meaning. An ordinary pair of sneakers becomes an emblem of a brother far away, a silver necklace connects you to your heritage, a winter coat bought cheap in a high street store has to double up as a duvet when all the beds at the nearest camp are full. Most of us don’t have to think about clothes like that; we focus on what makes us look good, or feel good. What makes us belong, or stand out. But for some, displaced by war or hardship, an everyday T-shirt, a pair of trousers or a scarf, turn into tangible material memories of times past, disappointments endured and victories won.

Reflecting our history, garments are sometimes said to be a second skin. They protect, from harsh weather but also from unforgiving looks. They help us fit in, when fitting in is a survival strategy. In the three stories that follow, how to navigate taste and identity when choice is severely limited, how to negotiate nostalgia for home with the practicalities of a new life and how to hold onto the things most dear to us while being constantly on the move becomes woefully clear.

Because the things we carry give us shape.

MOHAMMAD SAEED, AGE 22

Left Aleppo, Syria in 2013

Arrived in Bamberg, Germany in 2017

I arrived in Bamberg two months ago, and I have asylum for one year. They accepted me very fast. When I first arrived in Germany I stayed with my uncle for twenty days, and I was asking around about where the best place to get asylum in Germany was. My friends told me to go to Bamberg and so I did. I had to show my ID from Syria and they asked me many questions. You know, I spent three years in Turkey and one year and five months in Greece before coming to Germany so I know all the questions that the authorities will want to ask by now.

In Syria I was in IT. I was a manager at a company; I lived in Aleppo. When the war started, things got really bad in Aleppo. My family wanted to leave, but my job was in Aleppo so I told them, ‘If you want to go, go. I want to stay.’ My family were worried about me, but I knew how hard it would be to get a job anywhere else in Syria and I had to earn money for the whole family, so I couldn’t leave. My family went to Idlib, and I stayed alone in Aleppo for six months. It was very difficult. I was hurt in the war in my legs and my body, from bomb shrapnel. I had to stay in the hospital for four months. My family told me that they didn’t want me to stay in Aleppo anymore; it was too dangerous. We talked about it and decided that I would go to Turkey instead, but I was already thinking about eventually going to Europe. In Syria you have to go into the army, it’s very dangerous. They’re killing us you know.

I crossed illegally into Turkey with a friend so I didn’t take my passport, only a small bag of clothes. I had never been to Turkey before, and I didn’t know anyone there. I didn’t know where to find or buy anything and I took only the bare minimum. It was very difficult. Some people had no bag at all. When I packed I decided not to take anything valuable with me, nothing I couldn’t bare to lose. I took two of everything: two pants, two T-shirts, two pairs of shoes… I couldn’t take more. I took sneakers and winter shoes, because I went in winter. It was very cold; I had to be strong.

It took half an hour with a car to get from Aleppo to Kilis on the Turkish border. We hid when we got there and when there was a changing of the guards, we crossed. We had to go fast. We were about thirty people: men, women, old men, old women, children. Everybody. I stayed in Kilis for one year and five months; the company I had worked for in Syria offered me a job in Turkey. I loved my work but I had to leave because the pay was bad. I couldn’t support my family. My friend told me, ‘Come to Istanbul, I have a good job for you.’ So I did. In Istanbul I worked in a restaurant. It was the best restaurant in town and I was a waiter there. I worked twelve hours every day but I really liked Istanbul, it’s very beautiful. I stayed one year and five months there too. But Syrian people are not treated well in Turkey. They pay us very bad, less than Turks. Sometimes they tell us, after three or four months, ‘We have no more money to pay you. If you want to leave, you can leave.’ Turkish people don’t like Arabian people, especially not Syrian people. They say we take their jobs because we work for less. We just want enough to survive and send money home to our families, but Turkish people are not like that: they want more money to buy more things. In Turkey they tell us, ‘Why are you here? Why don’t you go back to Syria?’ But they don’t know – the government is killing us, Isis is killing us. We’re normal people: we don’t want war.

I had ID papers so I could stay in Turkey. But my papers were only good for staying in Turkey without being sent back to Syria. I couldn’t travel, I couldn’t work. I could only work illegally. But I had money and every week I would buy new clothes. I earned 2200 Turkish Lira every month so I could help my family too. I lived like a normal person in Turkey: I went to discos, I could drink with my friends. I was happy.

I left Turkey because it became very hard for Syrians there. I met many bullies. And also I wanted to study; in Turkey I couldn’t do that. I love studying; I want to go to university. I left Istanbul in March, with my cousin and my friend. I took what I liked the most, the rest I gave away to my friends in Turkey. This time I was ready for the trip: I took two jackets, two pants, two T-shirts, and shoes that were good for the water. It was cold so I also bought things that would keep me warm: a winter hat and boots. I had a proper bag this time. We took the bus to Izmir to cross into Greece. We found someone who could help us: we each paid him $800. It was about one and a half month’s salary, but I had money saved. The smugglers come from Syria, from Algeria, from Turkey, from Morocco, from all over. Some are very bad people; if you need help they won’t give it to you. All they want is money. We crossed the sea at night. It was winter and very cold. We didn’t talk to each other; we were all scared. We were forty people on a small, inflatable boat. It took us four hours to cross to Mytilene. A lot of people have died on those trips.

When we arrived in Greece we were told that the borders in Europe were closed. We had to wait. I learnt English while I waited, it took me three months to learn. I taught myself. I was in a camp for two and a half months; it was like prison. We weren’t allowed to leave, never. They closed the camp and we couldn’t even go one metre outside of it. We all shared a toilet, we slept in tents. If I wanted to wash my clothes, I had to wash them by hand. I wanted to change my clothes so bad. It was very cold and I didn’t have good clothes, but we weren’t getting any new ones. Everyday we said to each other, tomorrow we will be able to leave. Tomorrow we will have better food. Tomorrow will be better.

Finally they told me to go to Athens to be interviewed but I had to buy the ticket with my own money. In the interview I told them about my situation in Syria, about my leg, about everything. At some point they said to me, we will give your files to the EU and any country that wants to take you, we will send you legally. Oh I was so happy! I forgot all my worries. But the time passed and no country accepted me. I had no money. I had no hope. I had nothing. I was still in Athens, but the camps were full and wouldn’t take me. I had to sleep outside. I stayed for months like that. Four months after my interview I was told that my file had been sent to Switzerland but that they hadn’t accepted me. I was told that they wouldn’t be sending my file anywhere else. That was a very hard time. I was so angry, I felt all this time was for nothing. I saw new people arriving in Greece and getting their asylums fast, I don’t know why I had such problems. I was thinking to myself, ‘Oh my god, what do I do?’ I was thinking I need to get a job, but it took me six months to get one. Eventually I got a job as a tailor: I earned €10 a day. Step by step I started to feel better. I never give up you know.

At some point I was told that I could, maybe, get asylum in Greece but after that interview they told me I still had to wait, two months maybe more. I left the interview very angry and very sad. My friend Sara called me from France, and I told her what happened. She said she would help me. She asked me which country I wanted to go to, and I told her ‘England.’ I love this country. It’s very good for studying and for working too, but England doesn’t accept refugees. I did some more research, I asked my friends. For a while I thought about the Netherlands, but my friends told me that it’s good for studying, but not for working. There are no jobs they told me. Instead I heard that Germany was good, both for studying and for work. At first I didn’t want to go to there because everyone I know wants to go to Germany. I wanted to be different. But in the end, Germany was my best option so I told Sara that’s where I wanted to go. She sent me money so I could buy new clothes, a plane ticket and illegal papers. I got an Italian ID and I went to the airport. I have never been so afraid in my life; my heart died. The man who got me the ticket and my papers told me, ‘Maybe you will have to try two times, three times,’ but I said I will try once and it will work. I trust my gut.

At the airport I ran into problems. The alarm went off at the security check. I had something in my trouser pocket. The security lady told me to go back and take everything out. I had forgotten my lighter. Oh god. I went through the security check again, and again the alarm went off. The security guard was yelling at me in English, and there were people looking at me. I became shy. But I yelled back at her, ‘Why are you talking to me like that? Can’t you see I’m human too?’ I forgot to speak English, and I was yelling at her in Greek. When the security people heard me speak Greek, they changed. They told me, ‘Don’t worry, it’s ok. Go through.’ I got to Frankfurt the same day, and the first thing I did was to throw my Italian ID in the trash.

I still have all my clothes from Greece: I didn’t buy anything new yet. I have three T-shirts, three pairs of trousers, four boxers, two pairs of shoes, and socks. I brought one jacket too, even though I came in summer. But Germany is cold so the first minute I arrived I put it on. Here in Bamberg I dress like everybody else. I don’t want to look different or to stand out. I like everything simple and in one colour. I want people to look at me and think, ‘Oh Mohammad, he’s very handsome!’ [Laughs] I like jeans, black or blue, but I prefer linen trousers. I don’t like pants with windows, you know – it’s the fashion now. You don’t know what I mean? Windows! Like, openings? Everybody’s got them now. They show their legs. Oh my god. Show me photo.

[Laughs] Ah yes, holes! I really don’t like it! I know it’s the fashion, but – oh my god – I don’t like that. [Laughs] I don’t like T-shirts – I prefer shirts with collars – but I only have T-shirts now. I like the clothes I had to wear when I was at the IT company: I like to look like a manager. You know, I was manager before. I look at clothes a lot because I’m a tailor. For shoes, I like Nike the best, they are very original. I’ve been buying them for a long time, but I can’t always afford them. And for clothes, I like H&M and Zara. I like shopping very much: for clothes and for technology. I’m young you know! [Laughs] When I have money, I buy. If I don’t have money, I look. Sometimes I write down what I like and when I have money I come back to buy.

Clothes are very important because people always look at what you wear. They don’t think about who you are, they only think about what you wear. I don’t like it, but I accept it. When I dress up, to go to a restaurant or to work, people look at me well, but if I’ve just woken up and haven’t made an effort they will judge me. They look at me like I’m bad. I don’t really like my clothes now, but I have to wear what I have because I’m living in a camp. I have nothing left from Syria because I’ve moved so many times. I have clothes in Syria, in Turkey, in Greece, everywhere. The only clothes I miss are the clothes I was wearing when the bomb struck and I was hurt. I asked my mum to save them, and she did. One day I will come back for them.

This piece was created in collaboration with ‘An Unpredictable Expression of Human Potential,’ curated by Hicham Khalidi for Part of Act II, Sharjah Biennial 13, Tamawuj, Beirut, Lebanon 2017.

Anja Aronowsky Cronberg is Vestoj’s editor-in-chief and founder.

Rinko Kawauchi is a Japanese photographer.

PREFACE

What would you take with you if you were leaving home?

What would you bring if you knew you weren’t returning?

Clothes carry memories, tell stories of who we are or want to be. These tactile residues and symbols of the past help anchor us when we feel lost at sea. Because don’t we all go through life, one journey at a time, discarding some things along the way, keeping others?

The things we carry, what do they say about us?

For those forced by circumstance to leave the familiar behind, otherwise insignificant things often take on portentous meaning. An ordinary pair of sneakers becomes an emblem of a brother far away, a silver necklace connects you to your heritage, a winter coat bought cheap in a high street store has to double up as a duvet when all the beds at the nearest camp are full. Most of us don’t have to think about clothes like that; we focus on what makes us look good, or feel good. What makes us belong, or stand out. But for some, displaced by war or hardship, an everyday T-shirt, a pair of trousers or a scarf, turn into tangible material memories of times past, disappointments endured and victories won.

Reflecting our history, garments are sometimes said to be a second skin. They protect, from harsh weather but also from unforgiving looks. They help us fit in, when fitting in is a survival strategy. In the three stories that follow, how to navigate taste and identity when choice is severely limited, how to negotiate nostalgia for home with the practicalities of a new life and how to hold onto the things most dear to us while being constantly on the move becomes woefully clear.

Because the things we carry give us shape.

ABDUL-WAHED DAABOUL, AGE 21

Left Latakia, Syria in 2015

Arrived in Calw, Germany in 2015

I left Syria when I was nineteen. I was studying English at university in my hometown Latakia; I was in my second semester. In Syria you have to go to the army when you’re eighteen. You can delay it while you study, but when you finish you have to go. I was thinking to myself, ‘What do I do?’ I didn’t want to kill anybody. I decided on August 2nd that I would leave the country, and on August 20th I did.

I left with another boy from Syria, he was a friend from university. We went from Latakia to Lebanon with a bus, then to Turkey with a big ship. We arrived in Mersin, in south Turkey, and then continued to Izmir. That was a sixteen-hour bus journey. In Izmir we met a man who took people to Greece. We went to Mytilene with a boat, and the first thing I did when I arrived was to call my family. They didn’t know where I was; I didn’t want to worry them.

I had to get to a refugee camp in Athens and the buses only took families with children so I ended up walking twenty kilometres. I joined a group of others who were walking too. We ended up being five refugees from Syria and two from Iraq, six adults and one child. On the way we met a Greek man who took us the last bit in his car; it’s easier to get help when you’re travelling with a child. We took the boat to Athens, but I had to wait ten days to get my papers from the police. I slept in the street because I was illegal; I couldn’t stay in a hotel without papers and the camps were very bad. I didn’t want to stay there.

I travelled from Greece to Macedonia and then to Serbia with a bus, it took six hours. Then I took the train to Hungary – that took twenty hours. It was so bad; we must have been a thousand persons. All refugees, from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Syria… It was very bad. I had to be very careful travelling through Europe, especially in Hungary. The border had barbed wire; we had to cut it with a knife to get through. We got caught and were all taken to the police station; they wanted to fingerprint us. But I had heard that if I got fingerprinted, I couldn’t carry on to Germany, which was where I was headed. The police was… was… was… not so good. They wanted to fingerprint us all to get money from the European Union. In Hungary I walked for nine hours. I was scared. The police were very bad with the people. I got to the border with Austria, and then I took a train for two days to Passau in Germany. From Passau I went to Munich, then to Nuremberg, then to Ellwangen and finally to Calw. I arrived on September 11; the whole trip took me twenty-one days. I had to wait a lot on my journey but I was never bored. I met so many people from different countries and cultures. I learnt a lot.

Before I left, I gave something of mine to each one of my closest friends: I gave my favourite bracelet to one; he’s in Belgium now. I gave one of my scarves away to another friend. I gave a cigarette to another: I wrote ‘August 20, 2015’ on it and our names, and we smoked it together. It was the last thing we did and we both relaxed; it was really special. It was cool. All I brought with me from home were the clothes I could fit in my backpack and my smart phone. I brought one jacket, one pair of jeans and two pairs of shorts, two polo shirts and two normal T-shirts, but only one pair of shoes because the bag was small. I brought antibiotics and paracetamol in case I got sick. I had a friend who travelled to Germany before me; he gave me advice about what to bring and how to deal with the people. He told me to have a small bag on my person always, where I keep all my valuables. In it I kept my money, passport, smart phone and charger and a watch that my father gave me. When I slept I kept it under my T-shirt, which was lucky because my backpack was stolen in the German camp. All my clothes were taken: my jacket, a T-shirt that my best friend gave me before I left Syria with ‘Lamborghini’ written on it. They were my favourite clothes. When my backpack was stolen I had to buy everything new: I bought a jacket and a pair of jeans for €50. In the camps they gave clothes away for free but I couldn’t take them. I don’t know why. Maybe because I had some money, and I felt I should buy my own clothes. There were so many others without money; they should get their clothes for free, not me.

I wear the same clothes now as I did back home: T-shirts, jeans, sneakers. In Syria I got my clothes from H&M, Nike, Adidas. I really like Nike AirMax and the new Adidas shoe too but they’re too expensive for me; €200 for a pair of sneakers! My body type is different to Europeans though. I’m fat. I have broad shoulders. I’m 1.87 metres tall so it’s difficult for me to find clothes that fit. I like normal jeans, without lots of details on them. Simple jeans. I don’t like tight jeans, because I’m fat. I like polo T-shirts from Ralph Lauren, Lacoste, Tommy. In Germany I have them in red, white, black, blue. In Syria I have yellow and grey too. I love T-shirts with sentences on them; I have one from Nike that says, ‘Kiss My Airs.’ And another my friend in America gave me, it says ‘Surprise Motherfucker!’ and another that says ‘Nobody’s perfect. My name is Nobody.’ [Laughs] I really like T-shirts with Disney figures, but I haven’t found any of those in Germany. My favourite clothes now are my AirMax that my brother sent me from Turkey. And a red Nike polo shirt from my friend in Switzerland. And a traditional Palestinian shawl from my mother – she sent it to me through a friend from Syria who lives in Germany now but I don’t want to use it. I want to keep it perfect.

This piece was created in collaboration with ‘An Unpredictable Expression of Human Potential,’ curated by Hicham Khalidi for Part of Act II, Sharjah Biennial 13, Tamawuj, Beirut, Lebanon 2017.

Anja Aronowsky Cronberg is Vestoj’s editor-in-chief and founder.

Rinko Kawauchi is a Japanese photographer.

PREFACE

What would you take with you if you were leaving home?

What would you bring if you knew you weren’t returning?

Clothes carry memories, tell stories of who we are or want to be. These tactile residues and symbols of the past help anchor us when we feel lost at sea. Because don’t we all go through life, one journey at a time, discarding some things along the way, keeping others?

The things we carry, what do they say about us?

For those forced by circumstance to leave the familiar behind, otherwise insignificant things often take on portentous meaning. An ordinary pair of sneakers becomes an emblem of a brother far away, a silver necklace connects you to your heritage, a winter coat bought cheap in a high street store has to double up as a duvet when all the beds at the nearest camp are full. Most of us don’t have to think about clothes like that; we focus on what makes us look good, or feel good. What makes us belong, or stand out. But for some, displaced by war or hardship, an everyday T-shirt, a pair of trousers or a scarf, turn into tangible material memories of times past, disappointments endured and victories won.

Reflecting our history, garments are sometimes said to be a second skin. They protect, from harsh weather but also from unforgiving looks. They help us fit in, when fitting in is a survival strategy. In the three stories that follow, how to navigate taste and identity when choice is severely limited, how to negotiate nostalgia for home with the practicalities of a new life and how to hold onto the things most dear to us while being constantly on the move becomes woefully clear.

Because the things we carry give us shape.

BUSHRA AL–FUSAIL, AGE 30

Left Sana’a, Yemen in 2015

Arrived in New York City, USA in 2016

I was living in a bubble in Yemen. I was educated, but I didn’t really know what was happening in my own country. I was working for IOM, the International Organization for Migration, in Sana’a, and they took a group of us to Jordan after the war had broken out. I went with my mum and two younger sisters; I thought we’d just be staying for a couple of months. I ended up staying almost a year in Amman. Then I was invited to do a workshop in New York and while I was here, the government in Jordan took steps to prevent Yemenis from returning or even entering the country. The war had shut down the airport in Yemen so I couldn’t go back home either. I was stuck.

My brother lives in Chicago, he’s an American citizen, and he suggested I stay in the States. I didn’t know what else to do. My visa was about to expire and I didn’t want to stay illegally so I started applying for jobs and even considered doing a masters degree, just so I could get a student visa. But it didn’t go anywhere so I ended up applying for asylum. It was my last option.

My first thought was to get my mum here too. Since my brother is a US citizen, he has the right to apply to get his mum into the country. I thought my mum and dad would be able to come, and then later my sisters so in time we would all be together again in the US. But then Trump won the election and everything changed.

After I left for the States my mum and sisters stayed in Jordan for a few more months, but since my dad was still in Sana’a my mum wanted to go back to be with him. My dad was so stubborn; he didn’t want to leave his house or his land. But the problem now is that there is no embassy in Yemen and no countries that accept Yemenis without a visa. So I’ve left my mum and my siblings behind, and when my dad passed away last year I couldn’t even go home for the funeral.

I don’t have a single American friend. I thought I knew American culture, but it turns out all I knew was Hollywood. [Laughs] Americans are selfish – this culture is all about putting yourself first. Where I come from, you always talk about ‘we’ – I feel embarrassed to say ‘I.’ But here in America, even among other activists, the individual is always bigger than the cause in the end. They want fame. I’ve been to talks about Yemen where there’s not a single Yemeni speaker. It makes me so mad! Who gave you the right to talk about my country? Especially when there are so many immigrants who know the situation firsthand. Americans always think they’re better somehow.

I was a photographer in Yemen, an activist and a feminist. When Saudi Arabia imposed fuel sanctions, I decided to do something. The streets were completely empty and I was getting increasingly frustrated. I wanted to go to work! I decided to use a bike and to encourage other women to use bicycles too. We campaigned and took to the streets, and it upset a lot of people to see women on bikes. After that campaign things got really bad for me – it was one of the reasons I left. My first year in New York was really hard though. I was always on Facebook checking up on what was happening back home. They had air strikes all the time, and I worried for my friends and family. Losing home means you’re broken. There are so many things I miss. I miss my favourite shirt. I miss my pillow – I’ve had it for ten years. I miss certain spices. When we left for Jordan, my mum took this big bag of Yemeni spices with her; I thought she was crazy. And now I wish I had that bag so bad. I miss the smell of home.

When I came to New York it was winter. I thought I was only coming for a short trip, so I left most of my clothes and things in Jordan. I only had what I could fit into one suitcase. In Yemen there is no winter so I didn’t own a lot of winter clothes in the first place – only a few things I’d bought in Jordan. Everything I brought with me to New York was new. The first thing I bought when I got here was winter boots from Clarks. I miss the Middle Eastern colours. In Yemen we love colour: here everything is so plain. My sister laughs when I ask her to send me clothes, she’s like, ‘Can’t you find that in New York? Don’t they have everything?’ But they don’t have what I want. Even underwear – my favourite brand for bras for example is La Senza but they don’t have it here. I think the garment I miss the most though is my navy shirt. It’s from H&M. It’s short-sleeved and V-necked, and I used to wear it under my abaya and it would always make me feel beautiful. It’s something about the cut I think. My younger sister has it now, she sent me pictures of her wearing it the other day. Oh I missed home when I saw those pictures!

I only have a few things from home now. One is a cotton scarf, it’s black with a red stripe. In Yemen I would have worn it to cover my hair, but here I wear it around my neck. I have a silver necklace too, with a dark red stone. I wear that a lot, though I often take it off when I work with the Yemeni community here in New York. They are often simple people, and they’re not used to seeing a Yemeni woman without an abaya or a hijab. Many Yemenis don’t want to change, even when they’ve left Yemen. The Yemeni community in New York is very strict, so I don’t want them to identify me as Yemeni necessarily. It’s funny: I’m so attached to Yemenis on the one hand, but I also want my space. I’m different to a lot of Yemenis here. Most immigrants came from small villages or from the countryside. They don’t have much education. Here in New York they often run delis but they don’t really mix with other cultures. They don’t know how life in Sana’a has changed, especially for women. They think Yemen is still like it was when they left in the Sixties and Seventies. When they see me they get confused and they ask, ‘Is your mum American?’ I have nothing in common with them, even though we speak the same language and eat the same food. I’m a foreigner to them.

In Yemen we wear the black abaya; we cover our hair. Some women cover their faces too, but I always hated the fact that I had to cover up. I did it because I had to, but also out of respect. As a photographer I never wanted to draw attention to myself. I need to show my subjects that we have something in common, that they can trust me. I photographed very simple people and I wanted them to feel safe with me. In Yemen I felt secure, I had a place in society but I adapted to it also.

In Yemen I always lived with my parents. I had a comfortable life, in retrospect I think I was a little spoiled. I never paid rent or bills or even bought groceries. Never. Here in New York I’m in survival mode. I’ve moved six times since I got here. I’ve had to learn how to budget. I’m always thinking about what I’m going to do next. But one of the great things about being here is that I can wear what I want. Saying that, I know that when I go back home, I’m going to adapt to the culture again.

In Yemen I used to dress differently. Since we always wear the abaya, what I would wear underneath was always comfortable. I didn’t care so much about what I looked like. All my life I’ve worn an abaya and a hijab. I used to wear all sorts of colourful hijabs. When I came here, I found that my clothes just weren’t right. For example, in New York you wear different clothes for different seasons – I never had to worry about that. We only have one season in Yemen. I only owned sandals; I never had heavy boots or thick socks. I always used to wear high heels because I would drive everywhere. I never had to think about buying an umbrella. In New York I need comfortable shoes, and clothes that fit every season. I get depressed here sometimes and then I don’t even care about how I look. Those are the days I wish I could just put on the hijab, and let my hair be a mess. I still have some lipstick from Yemen, and I wear it sometimes to make myself feel better. And putting on the perfume I used to wear at home, Chanel Chance, helps too. And I get my mum to send me incense from home.

When I first came to New York I was shocked to see so many women showing off their bodies, it seemed to me they were just doing it to get attention from men. It was a judgment on my part, I know, and now I don’t think about it really. As long as she’s happy, she should wear whatever she wants. But in America, they still think they’re number one for women’s rights; it makes me mad. Here, when they see a Middle Eastern woman wearing an abaya their first thought is, ‘Oh my god, she must be oppressed by her dad or beaten by her brothers!’ No. For me it was never like that. I wore the abaya like a uniform; it made me feel comfortable among my people. One day we’re going to change what women wear in public, but it’s not the right fight for now. I fought for women’s education and health when I was still living in Yemen. We have different concerns to women in the West; I wish people could understand that. I’ve even had arguments with feminists here about it; ‘Why would you tell me what to wear in my country? Can’t you see that that’s not what we want to focus on now?’ It’s true that Yemen is a very patriarchal society, but I believe that you pick your battles, and that one battle follows the other. I couldn’t fight about the abaya while there are women dying due to a lack of health care. But we’re not like in Saudi Arabia where women are forced to cover their faces by the government. I drive, I go to school and I travel without permission from a man. We’re bordering with what’s surely the worst country in the world when it comes to women’s rights and still women in Yemen stepped up and went to the revolution in 2012. Things are changing all the time. Three or four years ago you wouldn’t find women wearing colourful scarves, and now the coffee shops are full of them. That’s a huge thing.

This piece was created in collaboration with ‘An Unpredictable Expression of Human Potential,’ curated by Hicham Khalidi for Part of Act II, Sharjah Biennial 13, Tamawuj, Beirut, Lebanon 2017.

Anja Aronowsky Cronberg is Vestoj’s editor-in-chief and founder.

Rinko Kawauchi is a Japanese photographer.