The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: P. Diddy, Traditional Tattoos, and Biking in Yemen

Episode Date: September 6, 2022

In this hour, stories of curiosity and the unfamiliar: sharing food, the art of tattoo, rebellion on wheels, and Puff Daddy. This episode is hosted by Moth Executive Producer, Sarah Austin Jenness. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Sarah Austin Jenness Storytellers: Mercia Tapping experiences a clash between her British upbringing and US food culture. Serious journalist Michael Specter has a wild night in Paris with Puff Daddy. Marjorie Tahbone reconnects to her culture and her ancestors. Bushra Al-Fusail begins a Yemeni revolution on two wheels.

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's theMoth.org forward slash Houston. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Jones.

In this show, stories of curiosity. All the stories in this hour start with a moment or a decision that broke a pattern, a step out of the familiar. Today, we have four stories from Boston, Fairbanks, Yemen, and in a jet with a journalist going to Paris with Sean P. Diddy-Combs. We start with Mercier tapping. Mercier is originally from the UK, but she told this story at an open-mic story slam in Boston, where we partner with Public Radio Station WVR and PRX.

Here's Mercier, live at the mouth. Don't touch my food. When I grew up in England, it was considered to be extremely impolite to touch somebody else's food. In fact, it was considered to be a real no-no and then I moved to the United States but old habits die hard. I nearly didn't survive one of my early dates with my late husband. He took me out to what he promised would be a real Jewish deli and I ordered a Ruben sandwich, and it arrived in its piled high magnificence. And then Herman looked at my sandwich rather longingly and said, can I have a bit? And I said, sure, because I hadn't touched my plate yet, and I expected him just to cut off a neat modest little piece.

But no, what did this man do? Who am I hardly new? Was to take my sandwich, open it up, take half the filling, and then give it back to me. No longer a piled high magnificent sandwich, but a rather flat and ordinary looking one. And I was rather appelled by this. And of course catching my look of astonishment, he's hastened to add,

I'm cutting carbs. And I said to him, I need to tell you about our cultural differences. And then of course, for years afterwards, when we were married and we went out to dinner with friends, he would say to my utter humiliation, of course, you never touch mercy as food. Well, you can train husbands, but occasionally they slip the leash and run a mock. LAUGHTER

We were out for dinner one night by ourselves, and we ordered dinner, and then this nice looking couple sat down at the next door table beside us, and they were studying their menu intently. And then our dinner came, and they looked up as people doing restaurants to see what our food looked like. And then the wife leaned over to Hermann and said, excuse the interruption. But what's the name of the dish that you ordered? It looks rather good.

Lemon chicken here applied and then the food sharing monster reared its ugly head. Would you like some? He said, I've got far too much. And other women said, oh no, no, I just wanted to know the name of the dish. Well, the food monster wasn't to be deterred. With one swift move, he took her side plate, shoveled half of his dinner onto it, and gave it back to her. And by this time, she was resigned to eating his dinner. And I was totally humiliated.

I wanted to go underneath the table. And I said to her, oh, oh, do please excuse us. I said, oh, it didn't mean to intrude. But by that time, her husband flew to my husband's defense and said, oh, no, that's fine, you look like nice people. Let me introduce ourselves. Dr. and Mrs. Cohen, soon both tables were discussing their children, their grandchildren, and we were becoming fast friends. And then Mrs. Cohen's waitress came over and said,

what would you like to order for dinner? So she told the rather astonished waitress that she didn't need any dinner because this nice man on the next door table had shared half of his dinner with her. I just threw up my hands. You know, I just, you know, game over. And as we were leaving the restaurant that evening, Herman turns to me rather mischievously and says, am I too friendly with strangers, honey? And I said, well, yes, you are.

But everybody, including me, loves you for it, because you see I learned from him that when you break down the walls and cross boundaries, some delightful surprises, and new friends can enter your life. And by the way, I'm not so prim and proper anymore. That was Mercy Attapping. Mercy lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts and after a career as a clinical psychologist, she's now a competitive ballroom dancer. She says she's had to loosen up to tell funny stories on stage, and that dancing has revealed a hidden and more mischievous side to her. Sadly, Mercia's husband Herman died a few years

ago, but when she tells funny stories about him, it reminds her of all the good times. And has Mercia ever shared her meal willingly? She confesses the answer is no. To see photos of Mercia spinning on the dance floor and her late husband, herman, go to the Moth produced an annual main stage along with the New Yorker festival, and the storytellers were all New Yorker writers. The shows were beloved, but I imagine it was a hard gig for the storytellers, since David Remnick, their boss,

was most times in the first row. Our next story comes from one of those events, and the teller is New Yorker Staff writer, Michael Specter. Michael specializes in stories about disease, but this story is about his assignment to deviate from his expertise and step out of it. Live from a collaboration between the Moth and the New Yorker Festival in New York City, here's Michael Spector.

Thank you. Good start, yeah. Hi. I came to the New Yorker 13 years ago at the dawning of what is now considered the age of R of Romnic. And I came from the New York Times where I had been the Moscow Bureau Chief and did other jobs like I was a roving senior correspondent in Rome but really ran around Africa writing about diseases and death. That was my thing.

And I was really serious. In fact, super pompously serious. And I liked doing what I was doing. I was in Grozny when they started bombing. I was in Zimbabwe when they ran out of zinc to put in the coffins because so many people were dying of AIDS. Those are the stories that mean a lot to me. And they still do. And when I came to the New Yorker, I expected to continue doing

that, and I did. And it was going pretty well. One day I came back from a trip to India, however, and there was a message on my machine from an editor that I really didn't know that basically said, we want you to go to Malone to write a profile of a fashion designer named Lauren Steele. There were no words in that sentence that I understood.

So I ignored it, because it had to be a mistake. A few hours later, David Rumnick called and it wasn't actually a mistake. He's an extremely persuasive guy and he basically said, listen, it's like a palate cleanser. It's fine. You go to Milan, you say in a nice hotel, you go to good food. No one will probably die. Except me. But I said fine. You want to please your boss.

So you go, and you do it. And the thing is, I kind of liked it. It was fun. He was a really interesting guy. There were some issues I'd never thought about. And I started doing that about once a year. I had this sort of formula, three parts of death, one part ladies clothing. And I was fine with it.

It was working for me until I came home again, and David called and said, we want you to read about Puff Daddy. He's getting into fashion. Like, what the fuck? I said, you know, you're proud of fine. John Galliano, before he was an anti-Semitic, unitit fine. Puff Daddy just got out of, he almost went to jail for a guns possession charge.

This isn't fashion, this is ridiculous. He gave me the look. I said, I'll tell you what, I'll look into it. He said, thank you. So I started calling his people. And to my awesome delight, they never called me back. And I called and I called and they ignored and they ignored. And I had this other story I'll set up about organic farming in Cuba and I'd never been

there and it's kind of cool. And so I skipped on down to David's office and said, oh, due diligence, dude, I tried. He said, yeah, I understand. Let's just do this one sort of Hail Mary thing. Go down and see Anna Winter. She knows him and she likes her magazine. She might be able to understand. Let's just do this one sort of Hail Mary thing. Go down and see Anna Winter. She knows him, and she likes her magazine. She might be able to help. It's fine.

So I go down, I had never met her. And she had this imposing office, and she was herself imposing and fashionable, and I was as you see me. And it was something, and she said, sit down. I told her, began to tell her the situation, and about 21 seconds into it, she went, stop. She got up, picked up herself, walked into a corner,

and dialed, and started talking urgently. I think I heard the words, how can you not do this? She came back, she sat down, and she said, I think I'll call you. So I went back to my office,'d already called or his people had called. And what they had said is, we're going to a fashion week next week, Puffer would like you to come with him on the concord. And you can spend the week.

And I thought, this is fantastic, because David Remnick is a brilliant curator of our cultural heritage. He also happens to be a pretty zealous guardian of the CondiNAS treasury. And he's not sending me on the concord. I'm out of this. So I go down and I tell him and he blanches a little and we walk into Pamacarthi's office and she's in charge of money and things like that. And he just says, do you think we should do this? And she said, yeah, I think it's worth it. And he said, fine. Just make sure he flies on the cheapest flight home. And he looked at me and he said, you better interview him every fucking minute you're on that planet.

Which by the way I wanted to do because I was doing this grudgingly, it was ridiculous. I wanted to get the interview, get the information, buy some chocolates, go out to dinner, get the hot in there. the information, buy some chocolates, go out to dinner, get the hot in there. So I got to JFK, the corncord, Puff had been at a party in Atlanta the night before. He chartered a G4 in Fluid Teterbro, then he choppered in from Teterbro, made it by about a minute. He was really warm. He hugged me, he greeted me, we sat down, I took out my notebook, he looked at me, and he fell fast asleep,

and he snored for the next three and a half hours. And he only woke up when we landed. So we get off the plane, I turn on my phone and it's ringing, it's David. He said, how was the interview? You couldn't ask for more. So we had a heavy schedule that day, there were fashion events and parties and trions and cocktails. And at three in the morning, two maybe. We end up at a strip club with Beeshu Phillips and Paris Hilton.

Do you want me to repeat that? And I just, you know, I want the damn story. And he's in a playful mood. And he looks at me and says, hey, let's get a lap dance. I could see page six in the background. New Yorkers cried, puffed out, he imbees you, fill ups and lap dance.

I was kind of annoyed. I said, you know what, it's late. I went home, got into bed, went to sleep my phone ring an hour later. It was his assistant, Norris, Norma saying, where are you? I said, I'm in the hotel because it's five in the morning. He said, you can't just leave. Puffy's really upset.

He wants to have champagne at dawn at the Eiffel Tower. You have to be there. I'm like, you know what? I really don't have to be there. I went back to sleep. But I needed the interview. I needed something. They sent me on the damn Concord. So we did it again. I went around with sleep, but I needed the interview. I needed something. They sent me on the damn Concord.

So we did it again. I went around with him that night. I got into a limousine with him at about 10.30. We were going to Carl Lagerfeld's house. Another sentence you would never expect me to say. And the phone rang and it was David. And he said, where are you? I said, I'm in the back of a limousine with puff daddy.

We're on our way to corals. He said bullshit. I said, puffy, here's my phone, it's my boss. He said, he takes the phone, he said, oh boss, I'm so happy that you called because I really got to tell you, no, we don't do this very often. We don't take reporters in, but when we do, we go all the way. And you ought to know something, your man has journalistic ethics. Because last night, I offered him a lap dance, and you refused. I think I heard David in the background saying,

that wasn't me. I'm talking to him. So fine, we continue. I still need to name interview. And yet again, three in the morning, we're in a strip club. But this is like a wild place. It's a sort of walkway, tea walkway, one way thing. We're women are walking up and down in late-tech suits

on spiky heels with strategic parts of their clothing absent. And Puff and I sit at a little ringside table. We both order club sodas and he looks at me and said, let's talk. So I ask him some questions and I said, listen, you make so much money. You must resent this ridiculous amount of taxes you pay. He slams his fist down in the table and says,

I love paying taxes. I'll pay every tax they ever ask. It means I make money. It means I can give something back. I love it. So then Jennifer Lopez had just left him. And I asked him about that and he was silent for me. He started to tear up. And he said, I just can't talk about that. I'm thinking, I'm maybe getting

Stockholm syndrome, but I think he's being real here. So then I said, listen, who's your hero? He said, well, the person I really want to be like is Martha Stewart. Like, come on! You know, and then we talked. The guy went to a Catholic school in Westchester. He had two paper routes. And he was proud of it. I talked to his mom, and I knew it was true. And I just thought, you know, maybe he's not what I thought he was. So we talked some more, and I go on, and I write the story.

And I publish the story, and I have no idea whether he read it or not. He was very warm. He invited me to things after that. I never went because I was still worried about page 6, but it was kind of him. But I went on with my life and I went back to doing the sort of three parts of death that's actually gotten more parts of death and I was good with it and one day about two years later I was in Uganda. I was going to see an AIDS researcher named Panteano Calibu. He's a brilliant man and he's in Compala now but he used to be way out inano Calibu. He's a brilliant man, and he's in Compala now,

but he used to be way out in the Boondocks. It's a beautiful place, but you don't necessarily want to be on a six-hour ride. And I didn't have email. I didn't know if he was going to see me. I was assured that he'd be there, but I didn't know whether to get the message. And I got there, and he comes bounding out of his hut.

And he looked at me, and he said, Michael Spector of the New Yorker, this is such an honor. I puffed back up. I was excited. He said, I've read all your work. I can't believe you're coming here to look into my work. I'm really excited about that.

And we're going to have a really good time. And I said, well, thank you. And he's a big man and he just took his arm and put it around my shoulder. And he said, I just have one question, though. I said, sure, what? He said, what's Puff Daddy really like? I said, what?

I said, what? What's Puff Daddy really like? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what?

I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what?

I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? I said, what? Michael Specter has been a staff writer at the New Yorker since 1998. He says Puffy still contacts him to hang out sometimes, and who knows, maybe one day he'll take him up on the offer. After our break, a young, inuit woman revives the lost art of traditional tattooing, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. Because I'm iced out, I'm a cool off, who else but me. And if you don't feel me, that means you can't touch me. It's off me, trust me. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX.

This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Geness. In this hour, we're exploring the spirit of inquiry, curiosity, and venturing into the unknown. Marjorie Kuhnyak-Tabong told our next story, live at the Moth in Anchorage, Alaska, where the theme of the night was uncharted territory. She opens with a traditional prayer. Kuyanna Raluhit, King Olivot, Suongalaktaak, Aksharrauttingilu,u na lune jut. When I was a little girl, I asked my mother what that tattoo on her wrist was. She said, it's a tattoo I stitched on myself when I was a teenager.

You're much too young to understand. Ask me when you're older. I'm in Uppell from Noam, Alaska, and my parents raised me to embrace my in-uppell heritage, raised out on the land, learning how to process and cut the animals, pick the greens and the berries, and respect them in such a way that there was just no words to be shared. I knew who I was, but I wanted that spiritual component that linked to our ancestors that I just felt was missing. I found an

old photograph of a relative from the early 1800s. It was of a woman and she had three distinct tattoos running from the bottom of her lip to the bottom of her chin. I had asked my grandmother what those were, what they meant. And she said, a long time ago, every woman got those traditional chin tattoos, but I don't remember what they meant, but I think they were a form of beauty. I had asked several other elders and they all gave me the same reply, but they told me that they were called dovlurun, Chin Tatus, and the practice was called Kukignits, traditional tattoos, and I had soon learned that the practice of Kukignits had been suppressed by the early missionaries in the late 1800s and had slowly faded away with the passing of our elders.

What little knowledge was left were in myth and the occasional journal of early explorers. I was a young woman now and I asked my mother again, what that wrist tattoo had meant. And she shared with me, when I was a teenager, I decided to tattoo myself and she shared with me, when I was a teenager, I decided to tattoo myself because I was so angry that our culture had been uprooted

and our native community was in a crisis of identity. And I wanted to be grounded so badly, and I asked her why that tattoo, why one line across the wrist. And she said, your great-grandmother had three lines going across the wrist. And I wanted to have those three lines. But she was unable to complete them. I thought to myself, I want to have that spiritual connection to our ancestors, just like my mother. I wanted to be bold. I wanted to get my double run. But I knew I needed to get permission from my family, because at that time in the early 2000s, it was extremely rare to see a woman with facial tattoos.

It would have been almost like an act of rebellion, rather than a strengthening of my identity. My parents were supportive, but when I went to my grandmother and I asked her if I could get my tabularun, she looked right at me and she said, oh no, not your beautiful face. My grandmother was one of the first generations

to be sent to boarding school as a child and learned to assimilate into the Western society. She was told to just fit in and to do away with the in-upalct traditions that she had learned. I think she feared that I would stick out too much, and maybe wouldn't get a job. I needed to prove to her that I was strong enough to wear the double-o-one.

I needed to earn it. With the little literature that was available, I come to learn that the main technique of giving a tattoo was done by needle and thread. The thread was dipped in ink made of soot from the siloil lamp and skillfully stitched in the top layers of the skin to create intricate designs that told a story. I also learned that it was almost always women getting the tattoos done.

But the coolest thing that I learned was that the tattooist was always a woman. Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! I was empowered.

An opportunity came up where I could compete in a statewide cultural pageant. And the cultural pageant, you know, it's similar to a beauty pageant in the lower 48, except you're not really judged on your evening wear or how good you look in a bathing suit, but instead your scored on your cultural knowledge and your ability to demonstrate it to a wide audience. I asked my grandmother, does our family have any traditional regalia that I could wear to represent our family at this competition, and she continued to pull out the most beautiful, unfinished, ground-scrulled parka. She said, your great grandmother started sewing this parka in the 1960s. My same-grandmother, who had those three lines tattooed on her wrist. The competition was three weeks away,

and we still had to do the bottom half of this parka. And mind you, this parka had intricate, geometric designs that made our family coup-buck, family-crested designs that people knew who you were, and the stitches were so fine, tight, and close. I wondered if my great-grandmother had tattooed herself or tattooed others. It was so unifying, knowing that my great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother and I worked on this family heirloom. And with a finished ground squirrel parka, I went to the competition and shared

the cultural knowledge that I had learned growing up on the land and talked about the importance of reclaiming our agricultural identity and I won. My grandmother was so proud and I asked her again, I said, grandmother, I really want to get these tattoos but I really need your blessing. And she looked at me and she said, reluctantly, okay. Now, I knew I wanted to get it in a respectful way. In some of the research that I did, I found that when a young woman reached a marriageable age and she was able to bear children, she would receive her traditional chin tattoo. I thought, how can I keep that concept the same but adapt it to today's world to make it relevant to me? So I decided that I would get my

traditional d'avlurune when I graduated from college and felt more secure in my identity as a new-bout woman and moved back to my home community and worked for my people. So the day after I graduated college I made that appointment at the only place that was available to me because there were no traditional tattooists at that time at the local tattoo parlor by a non-native man. I had the tattoo done and it was a beautifully transforming time. I had my family support, but it lacked something, that ceremony, that prayer, that connection with the ancestors that I wanted so desperately.

I went back home and I was walking down the street and I remember an elder stop me and he looked at my face and he said, I remember when my grandmother had traditional chin tattoos like that. Another elder stopped me another day and said, I remember seeing women always having traditional tattoos. I'm so glad you're bringing that back. I remember babies would reach out and they would touch my chin almost as if they recognized me. Like the ancestors were acknowledging me and approving of my tattoo because you see in our culture,

the babies are the closest link to our ancestors. Getting my tattoo, open the floodgate of knowledge. People were sharing stories from me from all over Alaska. They wanted to know the ceremony. They wanted to know designs. Everybody wanted to learn more. We needed it. We needed it so desperately because we needed to heal from the historical traumas. And I couldn't control what was done in the past, but I could control my next move forward. And even though I didn't know what was next beyond that step, I decided that I was going to be in a new back tattooist. And so I went and I learned from my traditional Filipino tattooist, the ancient techniques of skin stitching and hand poking.

And along that journey, I learned even more about our tattoos. I learned there were far more than just for beauty. I learned that they were to honor the animals. They were to acknowledge the spiritual realm, they were also to recognize accomplishments of family. It was like our own form of literature. It was so beautiful and it was ours, ours to reclaim. One of the first tattoos I did, my mom said, could you finish the tattoos on my wrist

that I started when I was a teenager? I was so honored. And I remember us sitting at fish camp and me steadily stitching those last two lines to finish those tattoos that were grounding. Not just her, but me. And soon after, my grandmother's younger sister, in the same generation that went to boarding school

and was told to assimilate, called me on the phone, and in her most grandmother tone said, you will do my chin tattoo. And I said, okay, Graham. And I remember going to her house and I was so nervous. I was putting down the stencil on her chin and I remember saying the ancestors are here. They're going to help guide me. And I put the stencil on and it looked perfect.

And we tattooed it in this beautiful ceremony that was just healing for both of us. And as it was done, we both looked into the mirror and we knew that it was meant to be there. And she looked at me in my eyes through the mirror and she said, thank you. I was also able to get my traditional thigh tattoos done because I had also discovered that we didn't have tattoos just for this generation or for the past generation. We had tattoos for the future generation. You see, we believe that when a baby exits a womb, the first thing we want them to see is beauty

and know that they're coming into a world full of love. And I wanted to make sure I had them. And I was preparing to be a mother. Now, there are several in-eat tattooists. Dozens of women have facial tattoos. Hundreds have traditional tattoos somewhere on their body, but the greatest thing is eight months ago I birthed my daughter into a world where she's seen beauty and full of love and she will grow up in a world where our traditional tattooing is a thriving part of being in BELP, Kuyanna.

That was Marjorie Kuneak-Taboo. Marjorie was raised at her family's fish camp just outside of Nome, Alaska. She is Inupiaque and Kiowa. She's an entrepreneur, artist, hide-tanner, tattooist, subsistence gatherer, and mother. To see photos of Marjorie, her tattoos, and her beautiful daughter, and to hear an interview with Marjorie, go to themoth.org. After the break, a young woman inspires girls to come out and ride bicycles in the midst of war when the moth radio hour continues. The Maw 3D Ouer is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented

by PRX. You're listening to the Moth radio hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Geness. Bushra Alfusail tells our final story in this hour all about venturing out. The story takes place in Sanaa Yemen during a three-day ceasefire with Saudi rebels. But that doesn't mean that the city is safe. In fact, her choices in this story garnered a lot of outside attention and put her at risk. I called Bushra to have her set the stage for us. So was this the first war you had lived through? Unfortunately not. Through the history of Yemen, we all

always had civil war, but this was the first time we had air strikes. How dangerous was it? With air strikes, we just didn't know how to deal with it because there's a bomb coming from the sky, so we don't know which areas are safe and which well is not. So we were dealing with a new situation. Everybody was locking theirself inside the houses, so the streets were empty. What kind of a kid were you? Well, I was quiet, but also I was a rebel.

I remember when I was five years old. My mom started to teach me Arabic stories, and the boys would always go with their fathers and the girls would always go to the kitchen and cook. I always ask my mom why the hell the girls are not going with their fathers. So that was my start. For context, this story takes place in 2015

when Bushra was 27 years old. Live from the Moth Main Stage in Los Angeles, in collaboration with Public Radio Station KCRW. Here's Bushra Alpha Sale. One of the nights in 2015 in Sanahaya Yemen, I used to live at my parents' house. And it was around 12 a.m. and it woke up and I felt my bed was shaking.

I get out of my beds and I heard a huge explosion. And I saw my dad standing on my bedroom's door, screaming, telling me to go to the basement. I ran to the basement and I saw my mom and my two siblings. There was no electricity and there was no internet. An hour later the internet was back so I went to my Facebook and I see Saudi collusion started to bomb piano. My parents were really scared because we never been bombed in Yemen. We always had a civil war, but we never been bombed.

We never experienced an air strike. So me and my parents decided to stay at home and try to keep safe. But two weeks later, I started to get depressed and I wanted to go back to work. At that time, I used to work at a UN agency and I was a freelance photographer. So, I had a fight with my mom that I want to go back to work and they were just telling me it's crazy, it's so dangerous. But at that time, Sunaha was controlled by Yemeni rebels and it was under a siege as well. So we didn't have any fuel in the country

and it wasn't the first time that we had a fuel crisis. So a new from where to get fuel from the black market, a new to which point and which street they're just standing with gallons of petrol. So I decided to go to the black market and to buy a gallon, which cost me that day from 80 to 100 used to cost $ to 5 dollars. So so happy I got the fuel and I took my car the next morning and I decided to go to the office. I started

to drive and I look up and I started to see men are biking. And I was like, okay, I felt happy because people are trying to find alternative ways. And it's not very familiar that bikes in Yemen, to be honest. And it reminds me as well about my childhood, where me and my older sister Sarah, we used to bike in the old city of Sanah, which used to be safe, and people were open-minded. And while I was driving, I looked at the other side,

I started to see women are waiting for public transportation, fully covered from head to toe, holding a very heavy grocery plastic bag on their heads, under a very strong sun. And it reminded me about why I can't bike anymore. So Yemen is one of the most patriarchal country in the Middle East. And it's not forbidden that women could, couldn't bike. It's not against the law and it's not forbidden that woman could

could in bike, it's not against the law and it's not against the religion. But it's against the society and against the traditions in Yemen. And as much as I asked myself, I said to get more angry or why I couldn't continue to bike. So I started to talk with my friends, what about we start to bike? And then I decided just to create a Facebook page called Yemeni Woman Bike, just to see what people are going to react about it, and to create a platform that I could just suggest about woman biking in these

crisis. So people started to like that page, and I was happy that people started to talk about what a woman could bike in Yemen. And at that time, the Yemeni rebels were having a negotiation with the Saudi coalition for having a ceasefire for three days. And I was like, OK, if I'm gonna bike,

I'm gonna bike in these three days. So I did a Facebook invitation, inviting Yemeni woman, come and join me for a ride bike. But then the problem is, again, Yemen is not Amsterdam. We don't have bikes. I can't just, you know, I can't just go to the street and rent a bike. So, I was like, okay, around 100 girls, they signed up

that the Guinness Tenths campaign. So, I decided to call friends and family and everybody, neighbors, who's going gonna let me their bikes. So me and my friends, we gathered around five bikes, which is amazing. So I remember that night's also nervous, because I didn't know what to expect, it's so dangerous. Anybody could shoot us. There's no government is present at that time.

And to be honest, even if the government was there, they would never protect women. So, but I was like, I have to do it. So that morning came at 6 a.m. I woke up, I wrote on my Facebook, it's a very promotional day. And I hid at the back here because I didn't tell my parents. I was always the golden sheep in my family. So I just hid them, and I took my car, my dad's for a car, and I just shoved them inside, and I just went. And then I chose this huge highway in Yemen. And I knew it was dangerous,

but I wanted us to be very visible for everybody. And I just want everybody just to see us. But that street was destroyed because there was before they bumped that street. So there is rock there and there. And there was a checkpoint, but I ignored all these facts and I just put the five bikes next to me. And I was just waiting, holding my camera.

And I thought that, okay, I'm crazy. Maybe nobody's gonna show up. It's just gonna be me. But I look up, I saw my friend, and I was like, that's great. Two of us is amazing. And then I look up, the other friend came, I was like, I can't ask for more than that. Three of us is amazing. And then I see two ladies are walking from the checkpoint toward us, and she came and introduced herself. She's like, hi, this is me and my daughter.

We came to support the campaign, but we don't know how to bike. That was the cutest thing I ever signed, yeah, meant to be honest. So I was so happy, and around five minutes, we gathered 11 girls, and everybody just started to take the bike and take the turns. And everybody was so happy.

And I was trying to take photos with my phone and my camera. And the girls told me, please don't show our faces. And I respected that. So I was like taking photos, but not showing the faces. And it came my turn. And as I said, we were like a longer biya. So I pulled out my biya and got on the bike. And as soon as I started to bike, I started to feel the breeze into my scarf and to my buy-and I went back. I felt like, let's turn on my derb just biking. And I was so happy. I completely forgot that we were under a siege

or controlled by Yemeni rebels or being bumped with a Saudi collation. And as well, there was like men were driving through with their cars and screaming. They were crazy or go back to your home and all these nasty words, but I completely blacked them out because I was so happy. And I just felt the moment of freedom at that moment while I was biking. So for two hours we biked, everybody left, everybody was happy, and I was so excited that I shared some pictures to my friends.

I was like, what do you think? And I returned the bikes, I went back home. And as soon as I stepped in, my parents were standing there, telling me, bush-dough, what did you do today? Did you bike? I was like, no, I didn't bike. I just photographed. I lied. Like people are knocking in the door, and people are calling us. They were so mad.

But I just left to my room. I was like, I just photographed that set. So I went in, and I checked checked my Facebook and I started to receive all these phone calls and messages what have I done? Where is my dad? Why is they're not controlling me? People are starting to knock the door asking about my dad what have I done? Was I creating a war in a war time and a bad influencer for the Yemeni girls. And all these messages that they said that,

if they ever saw me biking, they're gonna just beat me up. So it was very intense, I just closed the phone, and my dad ignored his phone calls too, and he didn't open the door for anybody. Next morning, my mom decided to take us to my older sister's house because it was so intense. And we went there. I had a nap at that afternoon.

And I woke up and I was listening. I heard that my mom she was laughing. So I went down. And I went to the backyard. And I saw my mom is trying to get on the bike, trying to balance. And our backyard, like nobody could see us, is fully covered. And there was like a silent solidarity from my mother without no words, which was very, was very, very cute.

And then my sister came and she was telling me, look at her Facebook, I started to look to the photo and then there's this Yemeni girl who posted a picture while biking in Yemen underneath it, saying in solidarity with Yemeni women bike. And then while scrolling more down, I started to see Yemeni women in Canada doing a campaign in solidarity with Yemeni women bike. And then I scroll down from Canada, from Egypt, from New York, from DC, from London, from

all over the world, that hundreds and hundreds picture that have been posted, posting in Facebook and hashtagging in solidarity with Yemeni woman bike. I was extremely, extremely happy. And I felt like, I'm not that crazy girl. And I showed my parents like, see, your daughter is not crazy. We have the right to bike. And it's true that this happened since five years and unfortunately the war is still going on and the

Yemeni rebels are stronger and there's no rights for women in Yemen. And it's true that we were just 11 girls, including myself, we were biking, but it felt a moment of freedom. And thank you. Woo! Applause That was Bushra Al Fussan.

Bushra lives in New York now. She does organizing in the Yemeni American community. She also works in property management and she's still taking photographs. Do you think women are still biking? No, unfortunately not. As I said, they're controlling more of the city, controlling more of the country, and women are being more scared. So do you think that the bike riding was worth it? Yes, definitely yes, because the amount of the Yemeni woman that I get support after the campaign and that they know this is possible. Can you describe some of the beautiful photographs that the photographs related to this historic event?

Well, my favorite photo is the one that comes with the background of the mosque, but I love taking pictures while the girls were getting on the bike and just riding the bike and you know seeing their hibis are just flying at the back of their bike so I never imagined that I would see that at all so seeing that it felt like I was in a dream. Bushra Alpha Sale. You can see Bush's photographs from this historic day at themoth.org. And that's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. Thank you for taking the time to listen and we hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns, and Sarah Austin Genes, who also hosted and directed the stories in the hour.

Co-producer Vicki Merrick, Associate Producer, Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth Leadership Team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Teller's Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. The Maltz would like to thank the New Yorker Festival for their collaboration. Maltz stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the story tellers. Our theme music, is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Sean P. Diddy Combs, and Alcera and the New Batones. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX for more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story, and

everything else, go to our website, TheMoth.org.