What I Learned Chewing the Stimulant Khat Across Three Countries

I’M IN SANA’A, YEMEN, and I’m surrounded by a dozen men who are all armed to the teeth. The satisfying metallic clack of steel magazine cartridges popping in and out of automatic rifles echoes off the plaster walls of the mufrage. Everyone in the room seems to be wearing a dagger and nursing a firearm. I have neither, but I’m in no danger. I’m amongst friends who have brought me here to chew khat, or qat.

While I’d read about khat for years, I’d never seen it in person, let alone gotten to chew it. I’m excited, but not without apprehension. As I twirl a waxy green leaf in my finger, the words of Fay Zayed, a community leader in Brooklyn’s vast Yemeni diaspora, ring through my head: “In older times, khat was only chewed by the upper class as a luxury on special occasions. But with the amounts and regularity that people chew these days, there are serious health risks. Addiction evolves out of psychological dependence, similar to when people rely on amphetamines to get through their day. Due to its negative effects, there has been pushback at some large events, such as weddings where it’s often prohibited by the organizers. Certain regions in Yemen also consider it taboo.”

The region I’m in, though — the Old City of Sana’a — is an epicenter of chewing culture. From a distance, the Old City looks like something out of a fairytale. An ancient metropolis of gingerbread skyscrapers, each intricately decorated with swirling patterns of white icing. In reality, these legendary tower-houses (some of which are over 500 years old) are built from rammed earth and sun-dried mud brick, while their ornamentation is made predominantly from white gypsum. The Old City became a world heritage site in 1986, with UNESCO calling it “an extraordinary masterpiece of traditional human settlement.”

The Republic of Yemen is located at the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula, where it shares land borders with Saudi Arabia and Oman. Boasting a rich history that dates back more than 7,000 years, modern Yemen is very much a tribal society that still embraces elements of the ancient world. Unfortunately, though, the country has been in a multilateral civil war since 2014, which has led to over a quarter of a million human casualties, large-scale starvation, and massive destruction to infrastructure. The conflict, however, hasn’t stopped what many consider the country’s national pastime: chomping down on the leaves of the cathia edulis shrub (aka khat).

Khat is chewed by tens of millions of people everyday throughout East Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. Chewers must purchase fresh leaves daily if they hope to experience the amphetamine-like effects of cathinone, the plant’s psychostimulanting monoamine alkaloid. Cathinone breaks down quickly after harvest and will become inactive as an intoxicant after just a few days. For daily chewers in Yemen, it’s estimated that up to a third of the most typical salary ($7,000) goes to purchasing khat. That’s one of the many reasons global aid organizations have identified khat as an obstacle to Yemen’s economic growth, civic well being, and outright survival. A few of the others: The khat shrub requires lots of water and lots of land, and due to its local cash value (roughly $10 per bag), it’s often grown in place of plants that are of nutritional value, even as famine looms.

Although some of the iconic structures in the Old City of Sana’a are now public buildings, such as hotels, shops, and restaurants, the majority of the tower-houses are still privately owned and serve as family homes. This is where I find myself on a warm Thursday afternoon in January. Although I don’t understand the majority of the conversation the men are having in Sanʽani Arabic, I still feel part of the overall jovial mood. After several hours of chewing, I realized that in Yemen, the khat experience is as much about hanging out with your friends as it is about getting high.

My host, Omar is a distant cousin of a Yemeni bodega owner I know in the Bronx. He looks up at me from his H&K MP5 rifle, his left cheek bulging with a baseball-sized quid of leaf and his teeth painted green with speckled bits, and asks, “So you’re going to the Socotra archipelago next? You will see the dragon’s blood trees there for sure.”

The dragon blood tree (Dracaena cinnabari), which looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, is one of the almost 700 species of endemic flora that grow exclusively on Socotra archipelago 240 miles off of Yemen’s southern coast. When the tree is scored, it releases a sticky red resin that’s been used for millennia as medicine, ink, and incense.

Omar lets me know about its profound connection to legend and lore. “The story I heard as a child is that long ago there was a dragon that lived on the big island,” he explains. “It got into a terrible fight with an elephant. The elephant cut off one of the dragon’s wings with its tusk. As the dragon tried to fly away and make its escape, its blood painted the island red. Everywhere the droplets of the dragon’s blood hit the ground, a dragon’s blood tree grew soon after.”

Omar’s cousin Mohammed looks over at him a bit perplexed as he pulls a few leaves from a long sprig of khat. “The story I know is of Darsa and Samha,” he clarifies. “They were the two brothers who fought each other to the death. It was where their blood pooled together on the soil that the first dragon tree grew. That’s why we call it Dam al–Akhawain (the blood of the two brothers).”

Omar starts to laugh. “I know that story as well, but he looks like a person who prefers stories about dragons. Am I correct?”

Nodding in agreement, I take a long sip of water, my mouth so parched from hours of chewing hundreds of sharp green leaves that I can barely speak. The starchy taste and waxy mouth sensation make me feel like I’ve just eaten a bunch of under-ripe green bananas. Everyone’s movements around me have the hyperreal choppiness of an action scene that’s been filmed at a fast shutter speed.

“The dragon blood is a good plant, but this one is better,” Mohammed pontificates as he delicately pops a few more khat leaves in his mouth. Omar agrees and follows suit.

After a few minutes of conversation with the other Sanʽani speaking guests, Omar translates their thoughts to me in English: “So this is what we do in the afternoon. The men get together with men and have a chew. The women get together with the women and have their own chew. We tell stories, talk about history, poetry, politics—whatever you like. It is your first time. Everyone here wants to know, how do you like it?”

Taking another sip of water, I find a happy medium of honesty and diplomacy. “The atmosphere of sitting here with you all is lovely. It’s nice to slow down and talk with people in a relaxed setting. I find the taste of the leaves to be clean and refreshing, but I’m not sure that I feel any type of intoxication from them.”

Omar translates my words back to the room. An elder reclining in the corner yells out in Sanʽani and gets a laugh from the group. He throws a small red plastic baggie across the room in my direction. Mohammed grabs the bag and hands it to me. “This is a gift for you,” he tells me. “He says you need to keep chewing!”

Hargeisa, Somaliland

HARGEISA IS THE DUSTY YET CHARMING CAPITAL of the Republic of Somaliland, a self-declared nation in the Horn of Africa that borders Ethiopia, Djibouti, and its namesake Somalia. Since its independence from Somalia in 1991, Somaliland remains the largest de facto controlled land area in the world that isn’t recognized as a country. But with its own army and security forces, this autonomous state is largely considered safe for visitors as it’s managed to successfully distance itself from the civil conflict of Somalia.

It’s 1 p.m., and my local friend Hanad and I are finishing up lunch. I grab a chunk of roasted camel hump from our shared platter. The fat-lined meat is so decadent that I decide to mix it with a few fingers of spaghetti to cut through the oily richness. The whole meal gets washed down with a tall, cool glass of fresh camel’s milk that has a refreshingly grassy aftertaste.

Hanad looks at his watch and lets me know it’s time to shop for khat. We just received an invitation to an afternoon chew, and it would be poor etiquette to show up empty-handed. Driving through town, we’re on the lookout for Ureeto, a strong red-stemmed khat strain known to give chewers a longer/stronger experience. If we cannot find Ureeto, we will have to settle for Jabis or Mac isii, which Hanad claims aren’t as strong but acceptable. If we have to buy the lowest quality strain known as Tajaro, we will have to cancel our plans.

I’m amazed at the hundreds of stands I see as we drive through the city. In Yemen, most of the sales I witnessed took place at large central khat markets where dozens of sellers set up their wares right next to each other, but in Hargeisa, individual khat (or qaad in Somali) shops known as kabar are scattered all down the city’s main thoroughfares just like any other type of shop. Sellers known as Qaadwale grab the attention of passersby by decorating their kabars with a visual delight of hand-painted signs adorned with clever names. There is Dur Dur Kabar meaning “a flowing fountain of water,” which is right down the street from Kahor Baydh Kabar, which roughly translates to “get out of the way.”

In Hargeisa, a single stem of khat is called mijin, while in other regions it’s referred to as far, both words meaning a finger. I’m taught to tap the mijin against a solid surface to symbolically clean it of dust or bad energy. Some connoisseurs will only eat the soft young leaves found closest to the end of the mijin, while others will chew all the leaves. Those who cannot afford to buy their own khat need only to wait for markets and cafes to toss out the discarded stems known as garabo (garbage).

When we arrive at our chew session, we remove our shoes and give our host Ahmed several luscious pounds of long red-stemmed Ureeto (which came to over $75). It feels like I’m presenting him with a dozen bouquets of a dozen roses. While it seems like more khat than any group of people could chew through in a single afternoon, to not bring enough and run out of leaf mid-session would be a social disaster.

As we all find a comfortable place to recline on the floor, Ahmed ceremoniously carries in a traditional Somali incense burner known as a daqaab. Carved from a single piece of sepiolite (a clay mineral), most daqaab make the long journey from the southern Somali town Ceelbuur, which until recently was a stronghold for the terrorist organization Al Shabaab. After filling the daqaab with hot red coals, our host sprinkles in a handful of frankincense resin. As cyan streams of fragrant smoke plume, Ahmed whirls the daqaab in all directions for our olfactorial delight. The smell is warm, citrusty and transporting. He sits down and picks up an 11-string oud (a lute-like instrument) and begins to tune it while talking proudly of his city.

“Welcome to my home in this land of Hargeisa,” he explains. “There are many stories of how this city was given its name. Some say Hargeisa is a nickname that means Little Harar. Harar is a very old city across the border in Ethiopia that has always been an important city for Islam. It’s also where they say khat was first chewed. While we chew this Ureeto, I will play for that old land of Harar.”

Harar, Ethiopia

ALL OF MY LIFE I HAD WANTED TO VISIT HARAR JUGOL, the old walled city of Harar. In addition to being an ancient center of East Ethiopian wisdom, Harar is also an amazing place to enjoy freshly roasted coffee with a dash of salt, eat spicy raw camel meat, and when night falls, feed resident hyenas by hand. The entire city is surrounded by over two miles of 13-feet high stone walls. Within this area, there are only six gates to get in and out, each of which has an iconic name and a rich history.

I entered the city for the first time through the Eras Gate. This point-of-entry is also known as the Richard Francis Burton Gate, as it’s where the British Explorer, disguised as an Arab merchant, became the first Westerner to enter the closed-off city in 1854. Among his writings on the city he states, “The ancient metropolis of a once mighty race, the only permanent settlement in Eastern Africa … the emporium of the coffee trade, the head-quarters of slavery, the birth-place of the Chat plant.”

With these words fresh in my head, I’m amused to see that the largest khat market in the city is located right outside of the Burton Gate. My host here is Abid, a local expert and guide. He ushers me through the chaotic market of predominantly female khat sellers. The bushels upon bushels of khat are driven in daily from nearby villages such as Aweday. “If you want to chew, we will buy at my friend’s stall. It’s close to your hotel,” Abid tells me.

Khat is considered by some users to be a focus-enhancing drug, who use it to stay alert during lengthy monotonous tasks such as driving long distances or writing a term paper. The side effects, however, include anxiety, aggression, insomnia, and paranoia. While exploring the city with Abid, I soon see the dark side of long-term khat use that my Yemeni friend Fay Zayed hinted at in New York City. Along Harar’s main streets, elderly men sit on the sidewalk in small groups, begging for money or scraps of khat. Each of them has a wooden mortar and pestle filled with green leaf crumbs. They reach out to me as I pass and offer a wanting toothless smile.

“I don’t chew,” Abid tells me. “I’ve seen too many lives destroyed. Here in Harar, most people mix khat with sugar to give it a sweet, soft taste. Everyday people are chewing khat and sugar. These men you see here now on the ground, chewed until their teeth fell out. These men chewed until they got diabetes and had their feet cut off. Now, everyday they beg for scraps. They still want more. When they get enough scraps of khat, they mash up the leaves in that wooden cup and mix that green paste with water. They have to drink their salad, as they no longer have the teeth to chew it.”

A research study conducted by Zerihum Girma Gudata published in 2020 concluded that Harari families with one or more members who chew regularly are much less likely to own a home, have proper health care, or have money for an emergency than non-chewing families.

“Khat is also a vasoconstrictor that tampers with the blood flow in your body,” Abid explains. “If you chew too much, you won’t be able to perform in bed. Some of the men who chew will have some strong alcohol before going to visit their wife or girlfriend to stop these effects. So now you’re using one poison to cure another. The people who chew every day get a feeling in the early afternoon we call haraara, it’s a restlessness, an agitation, it’s the body telling you it’s time to chew. If Ethiopia exported all of our khat and didn’t chew any for ourselves, we’d be the richest country in Africa.”

Abid and I continue through the old city’s labyrinth-like network of alleyways and silent cobblestone side streets before emerging into a sun-blistered plateau of bustling market stalls. “Okay, here we are,” Abid says. “My friend on the corner has the strongest khat in the city. I think you will enjoy it.”

I let out a laughing sigh and put my hand on Abid’s shoulder. “I won’t be chewing today either,” I inform him.

In Sana’a and Hargeisa, the greatest benefit of chewing had been getting to sit with new friends and listening to their stories about the places that had long transfixed me. Khat without that kind of community—especially after witnessing what it had wrought on Harar—wasn’t worth the chew for me.

And so, Abid and I head out for a good cup of Ethiopian coffee instead.

Justin Fornal

Justin Fornal is an explorer, writer, and marathon swimmer. He is the founder of the History, Arts, & Science Action Network (HASAN) 501(c)3, an organization that focuses on the preservation of vanishing cultural traditions in crisis zones around the world. Justin has led research expeditions in Iraq, Somaliland, Ethiopia, Yemen, Haiti, Guyana, Uganda, Greenland, Liberia, and a large host of other countries. His field research focuses largely on rituals, indigenous textiles, and traditional foodways. Justin’s written work has been published by National Geographic, Explorers Journal, Atlas Obscura, VICE, Adventure Journal and Parts Unknown. He currently serves as explorer-in-residence and director of international content for Energea.