One afternoon, my father handed me the fare for a minibus and sent me to a tailoring workshop on Al-Adl Street in Sana’a to pick up some goods for him. I kept the money to buy myself a treat and chose to walk instead, skirting the ancient wall of Old Sana’a toward the entrance of Al-Adl Street on Al-Qiyada Road. I wandered past signs and shopboards—some glowing with neon, others handwritten on wooden planks—reading name after name.
I was in middle school at the time, in the mid-1990s.
A grocery store here, a furniture shop there, then a great school, followed by a grand courthouse. And just before reaching my destination after that long walk, I saw a narrow blue sign pointing down a side street. It read: “French Cultural Center”, with a small red arrow beneath it.
I hesitated, torn between curiosity and duty—should I follow the sign or go straight back as my father expected?
What could a “cultural center” mean to a child like me? Did it mean “France”? Did it mean another kind of school, like Khaled Ibn Al-Walid School or the National Institute of Administrative Sciences?
I held back my curiosity; my father’s errand was only a few steps away.
On my way back, I glanced again at the sign, but turned my back to it and continued home as dusk settled and the streetlights flickered to life. I wondered: What is culture? What is a center? And what does France even mean to a Yemeni boy who only speaks Arabic and basic English?
All I knew of France was the Eiffel Tower, perfume brands, and Paris—the city of literature, beauty and lights. My limited reading offered no answers.
I promised myself I would find a good excuse to return one day and discover what this French Cultural Center was.
Years passed. Excuses came and went, but I never managed to follow that red arrow.
Life moved on. Class after class until I finished high school. When it came time to choose a university major, I somehow found myself enrolling in the French Department—a story too long to tell here.
Two weeks into the semester, I walked into class late. For the first time, I heard our teacher speaking a language I could barely believe existed. My classmates followed her effortlessly, flipping pages and answering questions.
When I asked how they understood her, they said: “We took many courses at the French Cultural Center. If you want to learn quickly, you should go too.”
But how could I? I didn’t even know where it was anymore.
I was involved with the student association in the French Department at the College of Arts. They organized extracurricular activities: bazaars, meetings with French tourists, charity exhibitions, and group trips. I longed to join everything, but time was never on my side.
A few months into the academic year, Anwar Al-Asbahi—may he rest in peace—burst into the room shouting: “Guys! The bus is leaving, the band is ready, and we have nothing prepared yet!”
We rushed to catch the bus heading to Al-Zurafi Club in the heart of Sana’a. Our task was to prepare a stage in the middle of the field where a French musical ensemble would perform at an event organized by the French Cultural Center.
We arrived and began greeting the band members, trying awkwardly to speak with the handful of French words we had learned in our first two months at university. They were warm and cheerful, making language feel secondary to connection.
One musician stood out. A lively young man with soft, curly hair framing his neck and unmistakably Asian features. I helped arrange his elaborate percussion setup, a cluster of nearly ten instruments. Out of curiosity, I picked up a mallet and tapped twice, completely off rhythm. He burst into laughter and said something I couldn’t understand—he spoke too fast for my beginner’s French.
Then, with quick gestures, he showed me how to strike four or five instruments in harmonious sequence.
The center’s director arrived, along with his team. Suddenly, the French Cultural Center was no longer a mysterious sign on a lonely street—it became faces, voices and real people.
As sunset approached, the concert reached its peak. The stands were full, the crowd cheered and laughed, and the atmosphere pulsed with energy. It was the first time I ever stepped into Al-Zurafi Club, and the first time I attended a musical performance of any kind.
I returned to my studies renewed and driven. In the textbook from which I was learning the basics of French, Le Nouveau Sans Frontières, a white dove streaked gracefully across the cover. Inside, the dialogues felt artificial and the characters repetitive: Nicolas, Sylvie, Valérie, Monsieur Dupont…
The next week, I visited the French Cultural Center myself—this time the one located off Al-Daeri road, a short walk from the Kentucky Roundabout at the intersection with Al-Zubairi Street. I hadn’t known that stepping inside would give me a second address in Sana’a—one as stable as my home, but infinitely more inspiring.
During that first week, I went with classmates to explore the center. It was more than a language institute; it operated under the French Embassy as a cultural and educational bridge between France and Yemen.
The names in our textbooks—once fictional to us—became almost like celebrities. One day, we sat around a young French volunteer who didn’t speak Arabic. We longed to practice our French, though our vocabulary was meager. One student bravely asked him: “Do you know Nicolas?”
The look on his face—bewilderment mixed with raised eyebrows—made us all burst into laughter.
Soon, visiting the center became part of my daily routine. That is where I watched my first film on a real cinema screen—the center held weekly French film screenings upstairs. And that is where I entered my first well-organized, brightly lit library, one that didn’t smell of dust. It was managed by Mohammed Abu Sha’ar (may God ease his burdens), Moeen Shaif, Fatoum, and others. In that space, I formed some of the dearest friendships of my life.
There was also a small, elegant café run by Muharram Murshid—a blend between a cafeteria and a Parisian corner café. He served hot drinks in white ceramic cups, the aroma of rich coffee filling the room. Glass cups hung delicately above the counter. The tables were round; the chairs were woven and slender—so different from the heavy iron furniture I knew from Yemeni cafés.
The center was more than a building or a language institute; it was a space of freedom, bounded only by the strictness of its guard, Radwan, whom we playfully teased by telling him he was better suited to guarding fire itself.
During my first year at university, Titanic swept through Yemen like a cultural storm. Everyone talked about it. But I lived in a home without a television, let alone access to films. I listened, envious, as others recounted scenes and quoted lines.
One day, I noticed a poster at the French Cultural Center announcing a screening of Titanic in collaboration with the Egyptian Cultural Center.
I hurried to tell my cousin and friend, Adnan, a commerce student. Together we crafted elaborate excuses so we could slip out unnoticed and attend the screening. But the venue was packed. The only seats available were next to an irritable French woman named Marie, well into her eighties, who insisted everyone call her “Mademoiselle.” She snapped at anyone who whispered or laughed. We sat frozen beside her, terrified.
At the center, I watched Madame Bovary long before I ever read the novel. I saw France through many documentaries—lush fields, clear skies, vibrant colors. The center also introduced me to Yemen’s finest musicians: Karama Mursel, Abdulbasit Abssi, Jaber Ali Ahmed, Abdulbasit Al-Qaidi, Abdullatif Ya’qoob, and many more.
I attended cultural evenings and art exhibition openings bursting with beauty and creativity. The center had an elegant piano, and for the first time in my life, I touched its keys—hesitant, awed by the resonance filling the upstairs hall.
My academic life was split evenly between the French Department at the College of Arts and the French Cultural Center. The center was our life—the space where we breathed hope, ambitions, and freedom. There, we learned what was possible, what diversity meant, and how to cross mental borders.
By the end of the academic year, I became one of the top students. The French Cultural Attaché offered me a scholarship to study at the center.
I studied under renowned teachers: Alain Réginald and his wife Michèle, Ludovic Ballestra, Jassas Anam, Mohammed Al-Maqtari, Albert Mohammed, Abdulghani Al-Hajbi, Ahmed Al-Asbahi, and others—each a model of French linguistic mastery.
Studying French meant you were aiming for graduate studies in France, a university teaching career, or becoming an instructor at the center itself. Students like Gamal Jubran, Jamal Al-Shaibani, and Shehab Al-Samman traveled daily from Dhamar after their classes. Their discipline amazed us—we often wondered how they organized their time with such commitment.
The French Cultural Center was a beacon of cultural, intellectual, literary, and artistic exchange between Yemen and France. It hosted French plays, facilitated meetings between French and Yemeni poets, sent Yemeni writers to France, and brought major artistic troupes like “Désir Noir” to Yemen. Through the center, I met prominent French thinkers and writers, including Ahmed Abud-Dahman and the philosopher Malek Chebel.
Each session of the program enrolled around 400 students who received high-quality instruction from skilled teachers. The center celebrated the French National Day, Music Day, and Francophonie Day with vibrant events.
It was also the place where I learned, explored, dreamed, and traveled the world without ever leaving Sana’a. The center even changed the trajectory of my personal life—there, I met the woman who would later become my wife and the mother of my children.
The center eventually moved to its final location, behind the former General Investment Authority building, across from the Saudi Embassy in Al-Safia. Years passed—my studies advanced, my travels expanded. I eventually reached France, where I studied and taught.
In exile, I draw on memories to survive difficult times, and my memories of the French Cultural Center are among the richest sources of comfort I have.
The center was later renamed Henri de Monfreid Institute, but its activities remained vibrant. Directors came and went, yet the center continued to shine with education and art—until the flames of war engulfed Yemen and extinguished that precious light.
At a time when Yemen and Yemenis desperately need even a sliver of hope, cultural centers disappeared—and the French Cultural Center vanished with them.
Today, I can say that through that center, I came to know France.
Yet I still find myself asking: What is culture?
And I am saddened that the center shut its doors and that French-language teachers were unable to establish new institutes elsewhere in Yemen.
In these dark times—when hope is scarce—Yemeni youth have lost a gateway to beauty, knowledge, and possibility… a gateway the center once embodied.
So I ask:
When will the sign return?
When will the arrow reappear?
