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Zamir Shatz
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A multidisciplinary artist working in painting and video
In Kenya, after a grueling trek in the desert, we saw gerenuks in the distance, and it was a sign that we had reached Marsabit County
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In Kenya, we stopped to eat by a river. Baraka and Amani washed and scrubbed me with biodegradable soap sheets (which we didn’t have in Yemen); it was a new and refreshing experience. Afterward, we sat down to eat the wild boar. Kenyans and Yemenis don’t eat pork, but when there is nothing else, it is permitted
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In Kenya, we crossed dry riverbeds where blood once flowed, and deserts that were once savannas teeming with life. The boy, Baraka (blessing), walked out front and insisted on carrying my bag. The adults, Amani (peace) and Jabari (brave), who hunted a wild boar along the way with a skill that seemed to me like a miracle, treated Baraka with respect and let him lead without a word. When I grew tired, the woman, Amani (peace), held my hand
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In Kenya, after a long walk, I met three incredibly tall adults and a 10-year-old boy who was already my height. The boy handed me a bottle of water and, in flawless English with a British accent, invited me to join them.Besides, the further I went on my journey through Africa, the more of a pale redhead I became. You knew I had to do something about it
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In Kenya, as the light came up, a young giraffe stood before me and looked at me. I was incredibly moved, and tears came to my eyes
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In Somalia, I walked a hundred meters and reached a border post. To my surprise, it said ‘Kenya’. I instantly thought of magnificent predators, Olympic runners, and safari tourists, but all around me was a desolate desert
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In Somalia, after days of hiding and nights of driving, we stopped for a rest, and my hosts explained to me in broken English that we had reached the border and from here I would continue on alone
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In Somalia at night, at the peak of despair and thirst, a white Toyota picked me up
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In Somalia, I encountered a lion. Luckily for me, he had already eaten two refugees and was full
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In Somalia at night, I saw an armed Mista’arev with an Israeli weapon leading refugees south toward Ethiopia, and I realized I was in Somaliland
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In Somalia, when night fell, I realized it was too dangerous for me to stay, and I began to flee north, back to Yemen
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In Somalia, I went to see a village that had turned into a heap of stones, surrounded by a forest that had turned into a desert; the trees were turned into charcoal and sold for pennies to the Arabian Peninsula
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In Somalia, we stopped to distribute medical supplies, and I went to see an abandoned village after a civil war
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In the Indian Ocean off the coast of Somalia, I was pulled from the water onto a Red Cross ship, and I felt like I had been given a chance to give back of myself, for a change
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In Socotra, I hitched a ride on a passing yacht on its way to South Africa
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In Socotra, there were no wars, no armed militias, and certainly no shooting seven-month-old babies in the head
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In Socotra, I didn’t miss Yemen, but I did miss my dog Billy
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In Socotra, I lay on a lounge chair, and a waiter earning a dollar a day served me a glass of a rare animal’s blood on ice
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In Socotra, underneath an endemic bottle tree, we saw a giant tortoise that knew how to whistle
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In Socotra, every morning under the Dragon’s Blood Tree, Bella did push-ups
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