Taiz official inspects General Secondary School Examinations
Head of the Education Sector and chairman of the Examinations Subcommittee in Taiz province Abduljalil al-Samai, along with committee members, on Wednesday conducted inspections of the General Secondary School Certificate exams at various testing centers across the governorate.
Al-Samai commended the significant efforts made to ensure the successful conduct of this year's exams, despite the ongoing difficulties and exceptional circumstances facing the country.
He praised the dedication of the local authority leadership, educational leaders in the districts, supervisory, security, and health committees, as well as the educational staff involved in administering the exams, which are being taken by 22,365 male and female students throughout the governorate's districts.
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Yemenat
6 days ago
- Yemenat
Learning and Transformation
The structured movement during the first year was intense, demanding significant effort and hardship, especially during the period of renewal. More time was allocated to it in the class schedule than to crucial subjects like tactics or live fire training. Throughout that first year, I found no respite; my spirit was not at ease with it. Moreover, I felt no shared chemistry or harmony with my instructors, 'Al-Baraqani' and 'Al-Maqat,' despite the latter's relative softness and kindness compared to the former. I often stumbled in my performance of the structured movement, making minor mistakes that led to considerable embarrassment in front of my peers. Deep down, I found myself resenting it, belittling its importance, and mocking it, comparing it unfavorably to other endeavors. I would tell myself: 'The study of subjects should focus on shaping us into formidable fighters and exceptional leaders, not turning us into mere showmen of no practical value in the fields of war and combat. I do not appreciate it; in fact, I loathe it and curse it with every ounce of disdain I possess.' This is how I would speak to myself, stoking my animosity towards it. However, nearly a year later, everything changed; it began to stir in me a sense of joy and a nostalgic melody. As soon as I heard the sound of military music, I found myself in tune with it, flowing towards it like water, almost unconsciously. The drumbeats resonated within me, urging my feet to strike the ground powerfully in rhythm with its tempo. * * * In the military college, I learned leadership, where each student was required to lead their squad for 24 hours each time their turn came around within twenty-one days. Initially, this role seemed daunting; however, once I broke through the apprehension, it became a matter of routine. A challenge arose within me, spurring that shy man who was eager for his turn to lead his squad. In those twenty-one days, it was customary for me to have one day assigned to lead the squad to which I belonged—the first infantry squad. My batch consisted of three infantry squads, alongside air defense, artillery, tanks, engineering, political studies, and Russian language. My performance improved, and I overcame my usual shyness. I surpassed the struggles I faced in mastering the structured movement and the dullness of rhythm. My tall frame and long limbs harmonized with the drumbeats of the structured movement, rising in a proud crescendo that culminated in sheer ecstasy. I began to feel as if a giant lay dormant within me. As soon as the music and drumbeats resonated, this giant awakened like a colossus, dancing with the exuberance of a knight and the fervor of a lovesick madman. My feet danced in unison, along with the strings and chords of my heart. Everything that had been dormant sprang to life with the first drumbeat—melody and order, a day renewed, a passion ignited, and a delight that stirred the soul. All of this became part of my essence—a dancing spirit that knew no fatigue. My head was filled with exhilaration, and my feet eagerly surged towards the drum's pulse, intoxicated by its rhythm, each playing what pleased the soul. * * * I had been so shy that I would even shy away from my own voice. However, as time passed in training, my shyness retreated and diminished. My voice grew louder than the drum. I liberated myself from some of my chains, breaking free from the self-imposed restraint. I began to shout at the top of my lungs, my voice booming like thunder, confronting the shyness that had colonized me to the point of enslavement. I freed myself significantly from the weight of shyness that had stifled my voice, transforming it from a whisper to a resounding call. I shouted 'Brother!' like the cannon's roar, a cry that carried within it a rejection of inferiority, elevating my standing to that of a great leader. It was a call different from the subservient 'Present, Sir,' uttered on the other side. We were born free; I despised and recoiled from that phrase. I would not accept humiliation or the loss of self; I refused to become a meaningless being in a herd of enslaved souls. * * * I learned to be more diligent in my studies, to the extent of sharing my body, weighed down by fatigue, for a fleeting moment of rest meant for a body on the verge of losing consciousness. It would rest briefly, regaining its breath before plunging back into the fray. I learned patience and persevered, navigating through two years of a heavy and crowded program, alternating between the field, the range, the classroom, and running throughout the day. It began at dawn and ended at ten at night when the lights of our barracks were extinguished. I learned discipline and order, my anxiety bubbling like water in a cauldron. I became as precise as a clock, as steady as a brush in the hands of a skilled painter. I did not allow appointments to lag, nor did I fall prey to negligence. I sought to correct mistakes as much as my means allowed, except for what was destined or fated. Acceptable margins existed, but I guarded my appointments with intense concern. I always prepared for time, and in moments of urgency, I prepared even more, for caution was greater than an appointment. * * * I specialized in infantry because the commander in the field is an infantryman; all leaders are under that banner—tanks, missiles, artillery, and even aviation. In infantry, everyone is led; this is well-known. The infantry is the Minister of Defense, the Chief of Staff. As Lenin said, 'He who does not dream of being a general is a listless soldier.' Commitment and order, generalities and details, ceremonies that exude the grandeur of a general. Cleanliness to the utmost degree—your uniform is ironed and pristine, your boots shine brightly as the sun rises from the horizon. There's a majesty in your presence, like the sun peeking over a mountain, defying a thousand walls. In your quarters, your shoes must align with the edge of your bed on the tile, not even a hair's breadth away. Your helmet peeks from the shelf, positioned precisely like a finger on the sun's hand. Your bedding is clean and level, without bumps or tilts. Your blankets and clothing must be organized numerically from one to six. Your gear is neatly stacked like the sun, and your ceremonial attire is ready and hung in its place, along with your utensils and supplies, all arranged in order—a model everyone adheres to.
Yemenat
09-07-2025
- Yemenat
Numbers
At the end of 1981, I was accepted into the tenth batch of the military academy, receiving the number (573/10). Such a number indicated that a member of the tenth batch belonged to the national liberation movement, while students from Democratic Yemen were assigned military numbers that fell under the structure of the armed forces of Democratic Yemen, distinct from our own, many of which contributed to the total of seventy-one thousand and fractions. The assistant, known as 'Al-Maqat,' amazed us with his ability to memorize the numbers of the students in our batch. He was particularly adept at recalling the numbers of those who misbehaved; if a student committed an infraction or even delayed for a few seconds during formation and incurred a penalty, that number was etched into Al-Maqat's memory. Honestly, I do not know what his name or nickname truly signifies! Yet perhaps he lived up to it in some way. The students in our batch often knew each other by their numbers more than by their names. The difference in numbers did not, in any way, affect rights and duties or introduce any form of discrimination among the students in the academy. I regarded the number (573) as a good omen, especially since it became associated with my graduating at the top of my class. To me, it is unforgettable, despite my poor memory for numbers and my lack of interest in them. I have often forgotten my own birth date, failing to recall it correctly until just a few years ago when I finally documented it properly. This confusion led to my inability to recover numerous accounts on social media, particularly Facebook, which were closed due to false reports from electronic armies affiliated with factions of war and conflict, resulting in the loss of tens of thousands of followers each time. I believed that the number (573) was a symbol of good fortune. I even found myself using it to create my passwords, including for my phone. I also incorporated it into my lucky numbers, hoping that luck would favor me. More than that, I discovered that I had integrated it into my postal savings signature before unification, and even today, it finds its way into a corner of one of my bank signatures regarding deposits and withdrawals. I have engaged with this number as if it were a piece of 'The Da Vinci Code,' as explored by Dan Brown, or a personal lucky number bestowed upon me by fate or destiny from behind the veils. Yet, in reality, I found it offered no financial advantage; instead, I consistently struggled to accumulate wealth, and I became deeply in debt. During the peak popularity of the newspaper 'Al-Mustaqila,' my bank account was active with withdrawals and deposits almost daily, but it never reached a level that could qualify me as a man of finance and business. My balance never swelled even to the minimum required to secure my future against poverty. I coexisted with poverty far more than I did with the acceptable state of a dignified living. Today, for several years, my financial situation has become more challenging and complex, with the oppressive forces of exploitation, steeped in blood, becoming increasingly terrifying and grotesque. In the era of the 'Partnership Government,' where Islah Party held the most influence, rumors and falsehoods about my possessions and bank accounts circulated widely in April 2012. When I was invited to the forum of the late Omar Al-Jawi on April 18 of that year, attended by dozens of intellectuals, journalists, and rights activists, I shocked everyone by revealing my financial status, supported by detailed bank statements. Even more boldly, I published my financial disclosures in the print edition of 'Yemenat' a week later, on the front page, with a bold headline challenging the parties and officials to follow my lead. Yet, none dared to act as I had, especially Islah Party, which had propagated those baseless allegations in some of its publications, nor one dubious rights activist who played both sides, later becoming a 'rights minister' in Hadi's government and then an ambassador in a country overlooking the Sea of Darkness, where Yemeni students complained about him and suffered from his actions. During the era of the 'Houthis,' as my family, my colleagues, and I faced hunger and austerity, cursing the occupation, aggression, and war, their intelligence and security agencies secretly sought my accounts and balances in the banks. I felt their malice and pettiness, despite my transparency, honesty, and clean hands. They searched and found only what contradicted their malign suspicions—a great disappointment for them, with only regret to hurl back at their faces. They reaped nothing but a curse that will pursue them until their downfall. Their reputation, once soaring high, has already fallen, and their authority will soon follow, unable to endure beyond the current war, exacerbated by the wretchedness and ugliness of its factions and supporters. When I met Mahdi Al-Mashat after he assumed the presidency of the Political Council, along with Mohammed Ali Al-Houthi, the head of the Revolutionary Committee, I reproached them bitterly for their security apparatus's excessive suspicion. They did not respond, and I was keen to convey that I did not speak lightly or throw accusations at random, but rather addressed an undeniable fact. Despite my past disappointments concerning the number (573) and the way it clung to my identity, particularly in matters of financial accumulation, I take pride in it. For as much as it was a symbol of academic excellence in the academy, it also remains a testament to integrity—a quality I cherish most in the face of the robbers, thieves, and corrupt individuals, both past and present, who have exercised their power with brazen tyranny. I do not believe in horoscopes, yet I find myself following them and observing those who adhere to such beliefs. I take an interest in various predictions and forecasts, whether astrological or otherwise. I track some of their proponents, driven by curiosity, anxiety, a search for wonder, or even a passion for knowledge, as if they might hold remnants of ancient wisdom. Nonetheless, I discern within them both truths and falsehoods, along with pure nonsense. Sometimes I marvel when a prediction strikes at its core or aligns closely with what is said. Many times, however, I remain skeptical, convinced that these insights are merely guesses, wishes, or probabilities—perhaps coincidences that find a fragment of truth in their claims. Some predictions may arise from diligent analysis, while others exist within the realm of possibility. Some are mere interpretations of what has been said, and occasionally I suspect that certain predictions are intelligence leaks serving specific agendas or promotional efforts elevating a cause or discrediting another in exchange for favors or bribes. I do not concern myself with the mysteries of numbers, even if I once believed that the universe had its own messages. I might find in numbers something perplexing and enigmatic, leaving questions lingering in my memory, perhaps without answers—only intertwined mysteries or persistent dilemmas that may remain unresolved for an extended time. I may even have thought at one point that a particular number etched in my memory could evoke optimism and attract luck. * * * In October 2013, I traveled to Morocco to attend a workshop with Naif Hassan, the publisher and editor of 'Al-Sharae' newspaper, invited by Transparency International. The workshop gathered advocates for transparency and integrity, alongside activists fighting corruption from Egypt, Yemen, Palestine, and Morocco. After the workshop, Naif and I wished to visit the cities of Fes and Tangier. We purchased two tickets for a train journey from Rabat to Fes. As we queued to collect the tickets, we reached the counter together. The numbers on our train tickets were 35 and 36. The same situation repeated for our tickets from Fes to Tangier. This repetition caught our attention; perhaps the hypothesis of coincidence lingered, though it did not dispel my sense of mystery and strangeness. As soon as we disembarked from the Fes-Tangier train at the station, I said to Naif, 'Now I will be the one to book the return tickets from Tangier to Rabat. I want to confirm that this is merely a coincidence and nothing more. It's impossible for the scene to repeat for a third time.' He was with me when I purchased the tickets. I obtained the two tickets, and a wave of astonishment struck me like a thunderclap. The numbers 35 and 36 had repeated for the third time, unlike anyone else's, with perhaps an additional number from the left side. I found myself drowning in disbelief, insisting that coincidence could only occur twice, not three times. I could not find a logical explanation for what had transpired. My bewilderment regarding this illogical repetition remains to this day, leaving me to ponder whether there are messages or signs from the universe, if indeed the universe conveys such things.
Yemenat
06-07-2025
- Yemenat
From My Diary in America: The Torment of the Grave in America
My friend Al-Harazi, whose name is Abdulwahid Al-Qudaimi from Bani Ismail in Haraz, greets you with a military salute and a face radiant with love. Each time you meet him, you feel a sense of shyness from his warm welcome and heartfelt reception. The features of his face and his cheerful demeanor bring you comfort, tranquility, and peace of mind. He envelops you in familiarity, love, and warmth, seeping into your soul like a stream of fresh water. His conversation captivates you from the first moment, overflowing with humanity. As you engage in small talk, you feel as if you have known him for ages, showered by a rain of affection. He is a rare human being; it's hard to find a man like him in reality. He persistently refused to accept money for the goods I bought from his store. When I began to hesitate in taking what I needed from him, he started accepting a symbolic amount to ease my embarrassment. Yet, I still felt uncomfortable with this arrangement. My shyness weighed heavily on me, and I found it increasingly difficult to face him. I felt compelled to leave my friend and refrain from buying what I needed without severing the bond of affection and peace between us, promising daily that all was well. I began to deal with another shopkeeper to avoid my friend Al-Harazi. However, he continued to call me and offer ready meals he prepared at home, not from his store, insisting with oaths of friendship that I accept them. This man overwhelmed me with his generosity, nobility, chivalry, and the grace of his character. I was confused and often thought about leaving him, departing like a beloved one without a return. But fate had other plans, and I will return to discuss this at another time. * * * I dealt with the other shopkeeper, whom I believed to be American of Indian descent or something similar. I didn't care where he was from as long as he didn't speak Arabic. I tried to communicate with him using the limited English words I knew, but sometimes I struggled; I relied on gestures at times and handing over items at others. It was surprising that some English words I had memorized and tried to use were not understood by the shopkeeper. For instance, the word 'water' in British English is pronounced differently in American English, and I often had to clarify by gesturing or physically showing him what I meant. I thought my Arabic tongue was unaccustomed to English, let alone its pronunciation. The truth is, I have difficulty with the pronunciation of Arabic letters as well. My brother Abdulkarim once accused me of mispronouncing certain letters when I read, even swallowing some of them. If this is my situation with Arabic, how would I fare with English? And if American English itself shortens some words and letters from British English, how would someone who struggles with their own language manage with a foreign one? It was undeniably a difficult and complex situation, or so it seemed to me. * * * One day, overwhelmed and filled with despair, I carried my medical files and other belongings, feeling burdened by a charlatan and a liar, confronted by a boldness of deceit that sought to crush me. My mind was lost in confusion, searching for an escape from the predicament I was in, while malice tightened its grip around me. There was no honor in this conflict, no knightly duel—just deep pain and a good knight being killed by treachery. Upon reaching my residence, I searched for my phone but couldn't find it. I felt as if my memory had become my phone, and I had lost my memory altogether. I asked my roommate if he had my number to call it and check if my phone was in the room. He informed me he didn't have my number, and regrettably, I hadn't memorized it. I suggested he call another colleague living with us. When he did, I discovered I had lost my phone, and no one was answering it. I suspected I might have left it at the building entrance while burdened with my belongings and unlocking the door. I rushed to the entrance but found no trace of it. I hurried to the shop where I had purchased some items, and instead of speaking to the owner in English, I spoke to him in hurried Arabic, feeling panicked and disorganized: 'Did I forget my phone here? Did you find my phone?' He replied in Arabic, 'Where are you from?' I said, 'From Yemen.' He asked, 'Where in Yemen?' I replied, 'From Taiz.' Then I asked him, 'And you, where are you from?' He answered, 'From Rada'a.' He said, 'I thought you were Indian during the time I dealt with you.' I laughed and said, 'I also thought you were Indian.' We both laughed, and he handed me my phone. My spirit lifted, and I felt relieved after a period of tightness and stress. I told myself that a person can turn even their misfortunes into opportunities, as well as into new experiences and acquaintances. I asked him if I could take a picture with him. He surprised me by saying sternly, 'No, photography is forbidden. Clean your phone of pictures, songs, and videos. Photos and songs are a sin. Do you remember the torment of the grave? Have you heard about what happened to that Egyptian artist in the grave? Clean your phone. Don't keep any pictures, songs, or videos. Everyone should prepare themselves for departure; death can come at any moment.' I asked him the name of this Egyptian artist. He replied that he couldn't remember but had heard it on YouTube. I asked him, 'Do you believe this?' He swore an oath, one, two, three times. I asked him how long he had been here. He said, 'I was born here.' I left, astonished and alarmed, and never returned.
