Hunting the Iqama part II: The American Embassy

The second step toward getting the iqama, or residency visa, was a trip to the U.S. Embassy. The Yemeni government needed a letter from my government permitting me to be here. Citizens of the United States, as stated in the letter I eventually received, do not need permission from their government to study or marry abroad. They are free to do so as they choose. In any case, this is the letter I needed for my visa.

I left work early once again to run an errand for my visa. I hailed a cab and asked for the American Embassy. We drove across town and, sooner than I expected, I was dropped off at a three way intersection on the top of a hill, standing in front of wide cluster of concrete blocks obstructing the driveway to the Embassy. On either side Yemeni military personnel staffed machine guns mounted in army vehicles.

Like everything else, I had no idea as to what to do beforehand. My only instructions were “Go to the Embassy and get your letter.” So I stood facing the driveway, unsure of where to go. Straight ahead as an Emyn Muil of concrete blocks obstructing entrance through the main roadway gate. To the right side was a contingent of Yemeni soldiers. To the left was a guard booth and a few all-business looking embassy officials. No path looked particularly inviting as an “entrance” and I was slightly nervous that if I approached the embassy from the wrong angle I might get shot. I took the path on the left.

I approached the nearest official, holding my passport visible at my side, and told him that I needed to get a letter for my residency visa. After flipping through my passport he let me through. I continued down the road and notice a building on the left with a bronze plaque in front. A semi-circular array of concrete pylons defended the front doors from anyone that managed to get a car through the previous wasteland of concrete blocks. The plaque read Embassy of the United States of America. Someone directed me speak to a lady manning a desk behind a thick glass window, as at a drive-through teller. I told her what I wanted and after reviewing my passport she pressed a button. The heavy metal and glass door beside the window clicked and I pulled it open and entered.

Two steps inside the door and I had to go through airport-type security. I emptied my pockets into the dogfood bow they send through the scanners. “Oh, you have a cell phone?” I checked it with a Yemeni at a counter just past security and received a claim check to pick it up on my way out. Twenty feet across the room was the back door. I was told to continue on to the Embassy and someone would call my name in the waiting room. The door clicked unlocked and I stepped through.

The sidewalk wound down a will. A large construction project was underway in a large pit off to the right. One hundred yards down the hill was the next building. Next to the large main doors was another bronze plaque that read “Consulate of the United States of America.” I was directed to walk in a side entrance. The waiting room was filled entirely with Yemenis. I grabbed an issue of the English-language magazine Yemen Today and sat down, wondering if my name would actually be called since I had not made an appointment and only briefly showed my passport to a handful of people since arriving.

I read an article on the current issues facing motorcycle taxis and overheard a diplomat discussing visa issues with a group of Yemenis in Arabic, his accent deliberate and strongly Texan. “I understand but I am responsible for any problems. Because of non lawful immigrants,” he explained in his Lone Star Arabic dialect. “Yani, exploiting the system,” he added in English. The waiting room was completely sealed from the rest of the Embassy. All conversations with Embassy officials were conducted via microphone, a thick pane of glass separating the participants and a small metal flap allowing the passage of documents.

Finally, my name was called. I stepped to the window for American citizens and explained what I needed to perhaps the first American I had seen thus far inside the Embassy. “You are here as a student?” he asked. I guess I am here as a student, technically. Each day I spend three times as many hours at my job as I do in class, and work is clearly the prime reason I’m here as far as the school president is concerned. Giving me Arabic lessons just means he doesn’t have to pay me real money. For visa purposes, I suppose I am still a student. “Yes” I answered. He disappeared. Two minutes later he returned with a piece of paper. To Whom It May Concern………..The United States government lets its citizens study and marry wherever they choose. They do not need permission from the United States government.

And that was it. I walked back up the will, claimed my cell phone via an outdoor window, and exited back into the main avenue without having to pass back through the interior of the security building. Back in the street, past the concrete blocks, I flagged down a cab and made my way back to work.