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Yemenat
6 hours ago
- General
- Yemenat
Despite the Harshness
My first teacher was the esteemed Ali Ahmed Saad, who disciplined me with a cane until my feet were bruised and sore. One might criticize his educational methods as excessively severe or harsh, yet on the other hand, we can say, 'If it weren't for him, we wouldn't be who we are.' He was strict and resolute, adept at teaching and conveying knowledge. He never compromised on lessons or diminished their importance. He was the teacher who single-handedly taught us all subjects, and more significantly, he began our education before the 'school' itself was established, as its classrooms took shape under his unwavering commitment. The beginnings were arduous, yet through this difficulty, he laid the foundation for an educational edifice that seemed to arise from nothing. He was instrumental in rescuing us from a deep-seated ignorance, from which we would not have emerged without him. This ignorance had long plagued our families and villages. For us, this teacher was a beacon of fortune and good luck, illuminating our path and guiding us to the threshold of knowledge and enlightenment. Ali Ahmed Saad continued to teach us until around 1970, when he left after years of dedicated service to work and reside in the city of Taiz. His departure left a significant void, which was partially filled by some of his bright and outstanding students who took over his teaching role. He planted the seeds, and we reaped the deserving harvest. He left us having established an educational edifice that rescued us from profound and certain ignorance. He created a comprehensive curriculum from the first to the third grade, teaching us the fundamentals of reading, writing, arithmetic, social studies, and science. Many students from nearby villages and even distant areas learned under his guidance. He was like a bird nurturing its young until they grew strong enough to soar high. Interestingly, he also bestowed upon many of us nicknames that overshadowed our actual names for many years. We still remember some of them, and some remain alive to this day, such as: Al-Tunays, Hofer, Al-Mirrad, Al-Kabreet, Al-Bulbul, Al-Qaradi, Al-Mateet, Al-Zanat, Al-Najashi, Al-Maqrour, Al-Malhos, Al-Tubaila, Al-Zaydi, and Malit. We began to forget our names and remember the nicknames instead. We are unsure of the reasons behind these names or the criteria he used to choose them, yet amusingly, some have stayed with us, living on even after our departure, and others have extended to our descendants. Despite the sternness of this esteemed teacher, he is credited with our initial education, delivered in a modern way that relied on notebooks and pens. Reading, dictation, arithmetic, science, and literature came to us at a time when we desperately needed the education that had eluded us. Without him, ignorance might have engulfed us entirely, constraining our lives. Had it not been for him, many of us might never have reached even the simplest public positions, and countless others would still be struggling with the burdens of illiteracy and herding sheep. He departed, leaving us a foundation of knowledge upon which we could build our learning in the years to come. Though he is gone, his teachings and kindness remain. He left us a small library and a blackboard, behind which he sat, embodying the spirit of a dedicated teacher and noble educator. We inherited a few booklets stored in his cabinet. I remember taking one titled *'The Dimensions of the Yemeni Revolution' by Abdulrahman Al-Baydani. I recall memorizing several pages of it by heart despite my young age. When I recited what I had memorized, I caught the attention of one of the older teachers or students, who was astonished by my ability to recite passages from it. This teacher promised me he would bring me a story called 'The Black Panther,' a tale meant for children. I was eager to read it and waited anxiously until he presented it to me on the third day of his promise. Perhaps it was the first gift I ever received in my life. I didn't realize that I was supposed to read it to the end to grasp its narrative fully. I thought I was required to memorize it like I had with some pages of Al-Baydani's booklet, which made it difficult for me to retain certain parts. My excitement turned into frustration, and I felt a bit disheartened. I began to avoid the teacher who had gifted it to me, fearing that I might seem unworthy of his kind gesture, unaware that memorization was not necessary.
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
A Day in Hell
The absence of those few days made me feel estranged from school. That brief interruption left me feeling like an outsider among my peers. Perhaps my situation resembled the first day I attended this school—withdrawn, shy, and feeling the weight of loneliness and isolation. The teacher summoned me to stand before him. Upon my arrival, he rose, alert and poised. He began dramatically, yet I sensed a boiling anger simmering within him. He circled around me, his rattan stick trembling in his hand, eager to strike at the skin that barely covered my weary bones. He was as charged as a police officer who had finally found the suspect he had searched for tirelessly over the years. Driven by a long-held frustration, he sought to avenge the failures that had haunted him. As he brandished the stick before me, it was as if he had captured a long-awaited adversary, ready to unleash his pent-up fury. He wished to confront me with a devastating victory, to inflict upon me a humiliating defeat. I stood there, exhausted, frail, and powerless. I had no strength to face the unknown that awaited me, its magnitude unknown and terrifying. I silently prayed it would be less destructive than I feared, while the teacher loomed over me, visibly seething with rage—a fury consuming him from within. He was intensely agitated, uncertain of where to begin. He paused for a moment, then carefully selected four of his toughest students, commanding them to seize me, throw me to the ground, lift my legs together into the air, and prevent any movement. They uprooted me from the ground like a weary little plant. My head was forced down, while my legs were raised high. I felt the disparity in our sizes shatter any comparison. They were using their strength to an extent I had never imagined—an absurd, overwhelming force. There was no comparison between my slight frame and the four imposing figures before me; I felt myself diminishing among them, almost disappearing under their weight. I was lost in their crowded presence, acting in a state of euphoric obedience, eager to demonstrate their loyalty to the teacher. They immobilized my arms and body with their many hands, their weight pressing heavily on my small, exhausted frame. Some of them pressed their stone-like knees into my empty stomach and my constricted, gasping chest. They nearly suffocated me, and I felt the air I struggled to breathe amidst their throng was scarce and difficult to grasp. How miserly they were, even with the air I needed! It was as if they were usurers, granting me breath in meager, stifled portions—stinginess reached its peak. The stinging blows of the rattan struck hard against the soles of my feet, like lava from hell poured upon my bloodied toes. This was not the usual punishment of the 'flogging'; it was a torment from the depths of hell. Its intensity far surpassed anything endured by even the most neglectful, lazy, or foolish students in the school. In time, I would come to refer to that day as 'A Day in Hell. They finished their feast upon my frail body. My feet swelled; red blotches threatened to burst with blood. White spots formed at their bottoms and sides. My feet, which were supposed to carry me home, had become the burden I bore, as if I were carrying a mountain heavier than Uhud. I walked with faltering steps, sometimes dragging my body like a cripple. I took twenty steps, or even fewer, then rested for a moment before resuming for another twenty. That journey felt like traversing a valley of hell. Each meter gained significance in this arduous trek. Twenty steps multiplied by twenty, until I finally reached home, my spirit barely intact. I thought the punishment had ended there, especially since the teacher had informed my father that I had been punished sufficiently. However, my father, whom I hoped would lighten the burden imposed by the teacher, turned out to be even more severe in his discipline. My condition and plea for mercy from my father felt like a desperate cry for relief from fire to fire. * * * I reached the door of our home, and my father was waiting. He approached me with slow, measured steps. I thought perhaps God had shown me mercy, that a miracle had transformed my father, or that some compassion had surged within him, especially as he saw me, weary and limping, struggling to lift my feet with great difficulty. But he surprised me with an action I had not anticipated. He spread his legs wide and lowered them significantly. His stature bent down to below my height. He placed his right shoulder at the middle of my back and lifted me, finding myself hunched over him like an inverted 'W,' his hands gripping my legs, while my feet flailed like a slaughtered bird in front of him, turned upside down and raised slightly above his stature. My head dangled over his back like a slaughtered sheep. My father's movement was both startling and shocking to me. A wave of panic rushed over me, especially as I had no idea what he intended to do! What had he resolved? The angle of my downward view felt like a cosmic inversion of everything around me. I began to see things from my upside-down position, in a way that contradicted what people were used to seeing! I sensed that a new, more brutal punishment awaited me, yet I could not fathom what it would be! I screamed in a devastating, continuous panic, while my father carried me toward a sidr tree near our home, where a rope was already prepared to hang me. He tied my feet with the rope and lifted me to a branch, my head dangling downward. My appearance was that of a slaughtered sheep, hung up for skinning or butchering. I cried out in desperation, my screams piercing the heavens, hoping that some passerby would rush to my father's aid and rescue me from my plight. Yet, there was no rescuer, no one to rush in. The adults watched from the rooftops of their homes, their doors closed like tombs, and some peered cautiously from windows and gaps, while my father surprised me with more. He struck me violently with a stick across my back, belly, and legs, with no one coming to my rescue. My mother was on the mountain, my cries tearing through the sky, while the stings of the stick gnawed at my body like a hungry hyena feasting on its prey. My screams seemed like an open invitation, a free announcement calling children and women to witness a spectacle they had never seen before, not even in their first or second or third year of life. They had never encountered anything like it. It was a bizarre scene that demanded attention, urging onlookers to remain vigilant and not let their eyes wander for even a moment. It was a sight our village had never witnessed, no matter how rebellious, disobedient, or even insane the child might be. Some children rushed over to get a closer look at this strange spectacle they were witnessing for the first time. They watched as if attending a cinema, captivated by a film they had never seen before, presented to them for free. As for me, the memory of that moment remains etched in my mind to this day. Yet, despite it all, I hold nothing but deep love and forgiveness for my father. After my father had vented his anger, I remained hanging from the tree until my mother hurried down from the mountain to rescue me, freeing me from my bonds after what felt like an eternity. * * * The harshness of yesterday, at its core, stemmed from a desire for discipline, no matter how misguided the actions were. In good intentions, there lies a form of mercy. However, the cruelty of today is driven by excessive selfishness. We are now besieged by unprecedented corruption and plunder, and a level of injustice and brutality that seems beyond imagination, fueled by nations driven by insatiable greed and self-serving interests, alongside their reckless and terrifying sadism. Everyone has taken from us and from our homeland more than ever before, as the world's evildoers have conspired against us, while others merely stand by and watch. We have no mother rushing from a valley or mountain to halt this fierce war, this deadly siege, the immense looting and corruption, and this prolonged bleeding. * * * And speaking of which, after I published this story, another tale unfolded—one filled with both humor and disappointment. The Minister of Finance, Sharaf Al-Kahlani, displayed much humility and graciousness. However, in my dealings with him, I often ended up with nothing. At times, he would offer insights that initially seemed extraordinary, and I could see the astonishment etched on the faces of those he addressed. One person even told me it was an unprecedented gesture from the minister. Yet, as I continued to follow up, I would discover that it was merely a mirage, or perhaps an illusion wrapped in sweetness. I accompanied the esteemed minister from the House of Representatives in his luxurious car, heading towards his ministry. I was taken aback when he inquired about the well-being of 'the comrade.' I suspected he had used the term out of courtesy or perhaps as a token of goodwill. He informed me that he followed what I published about the details of my life, specifically recalling the story of my childhood habit of eating dirt. When we reached the elevator door, each of us insisted that the other enter first, out of respect and appreciation, until his humility overwhelmed me. As soon as we reached his office, he issued me a directive that seemed extraordinary, a departure from his usual caution. I approached the relevant authorities as if I were a knight mounted on a steed. I appeared confident, believing that I would reclaim some of what was taken from me. After much back and forth and exhausting follow-ups, the result tasted like dirt—not the delightful flavor of my childhood but the bitter taste of compounded disappointment. I met the minister a second and perhaps a third time, greeted by his warmth and cordiality, yet each encounter ended in disillusionment that I could not understand. Some claimed there was a green light for those in power or favor with him, while a red light awaited those without the support or approval of authority—this red light perhaps exceeding even the minister's own powers. Overwhelmed by frustration from all sides, I said to the minister, 'They say you are the most dishonest minister, but I never believed it.' He asked for a copy of a memo I had, writing simply 'Mohammed Amer' on it, and promised to follow up after previous assurances that had led nowhere. I was informed that the processing was stalled with the minister's deputy, Mohammed Amer, who was said to be an expert in ministry affairs, the one who held all the power, leaving the ministers powerless in his shadow. I rushed to him, anger surging within me, while he greeted my fury with warmth and open arms. I met his welcome with my anger, saying, 'Now I know my adversary in the Ministry of Finance is you. I've long searched for the one hindering my dealings, and today I've discovered it is you.' I could not contain my rage, which felt like it was about to explode. I insisted that I was right and sought to disprove him and his assurances. He laughed, took the minister's direction, and began working on my case personally, assuring me he would supervise its progress. As I turned to leave his office with the assigned employee, he surprised me by calling my name from his chair. I paused and looked back to hear him say: 'Judge Ahmed, I read your story about the time your father hung you from the tree.' Laughter erupted from everyone in his office, and I continued on my way, chuckling along with them. I asked my companion, Nabil Al-Husam, what he meant by that. He replied sarcastically: 'Don't you get it? He means if your father couldn't manage you and hung you from a tree, how can he understand you? He implies you are a disobedient child, and bent out of shape. We burst into laughter, praising his wit and his gentle way of responding—and of punishing as well. Despite all this, I achieved nothing for two long years of relentless follow-ups without results, and this success came during the term of the minister who succeeded him. The most pressing question remained:
Yemenat
a day ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
When the poet transforms into language, and language into an imagined universe in 'The Albums of Adam II' by Alwan Al-Jilani
The collection 'The Albums of Adam II' by the Yemeni poet and writer Alwan Mahdi Al-Jilani begins with a title that carries profound implications. The name 'Adam' symbolizes beginnings, while 'the Second' signifies the regeneration of humanity through the ages. Here, Al-Jilani offers not only poetic texts but delves into the layers of existence to explore the role of poetry in shaping identity, investigating language as a bridge connecting the past and the future. This collection represents the twenty-eighth book in Al-Jilani's literary journey, consisting of 104 pages divided into three sections: Poets, Poetry, and Texts. It was published by the General Cultural Affairs House under the Iraqi Ministry of Culture, Tourism, and Antiquities in April of this year, 2025. Section One: Poets… Guardians of Language and Makers of Meaning Al-Jilani embarks on his journey in the 'Poets' section, presenting a fundamental question: Do poets create language, or does language create them? Through a philosophical poetic vision, he asserts that poetry is not merely embellished words; it is 'the twin of human existence.' Since the dawn of history, poetry has accompanied humanity, expressing its wonder and embodying its feelings. Here, poets are not just conveyors of words; they are 'language itself,' infusing dull words with life and transforming them into enchanting melodies. Poets Do Not Seek Language They are language itself. They are the ones who make the moonlight linger through the night, and who shatter it like glass. They crafted from it a tiny boat, allowing its silver to dance with their delicious dreams. Poets… They are the first to sketch the contours of wonder in words, the first to breathe life into letters. They infused fragrance into the rose and invented the word 'love.' Without poets, the languages of the world would revolve in concentric orbits, forever unconnected. Al-Jilani borrows a cosmic image to express his idea: 'Poets observe the stars, but they are not preoccupied with the calendar; rather, they focus on the beauty that lies beyond it.' The poet does not merely describe the world; he creates an alternate realm where words transform into luminous planets, and the poem becomes a space for contemplation and the search for lost meaning. In this way, Al-Jilani reshapes the concept of poets as guardians of language and creators of meaning, revealing that their role transcends traditional boundaries and reflects the depth of human experience. Section Two: Poetry… Between Metaphysics and the Age of Artificial Intelligence In the 'Poetry' section, Al-Jilani begins with the notion of 'metapoetry' (poetry that writes about poetry), sketching a new relationship between humanity and language in the age of technology. He poses a troubling question: Can poetry remain alive in a time dominated by machines? He answers through his text that poetry is a 'living being,' breathing with each era, renewing itself like 'Adam II,' reborn in every age. Just as poetry once served as the language of myth and prophecy, it now converses with artificial intelligence, remaining 'the flame that lights the darkness of meaninglessness.' Al-Jilani explores the relationship between humanity and existence, discussing simple transformations that acquire profound significance. He clearly uses language as a tool to imbue everything with meaning, highlighting how words can reshape reality. Here, it seems that existence itself intertwines with poetry, making every simple event laden with existential meanings that transcend the surface. The poet's sensitivity to existence and human experience is also highlighted. It shows that decay is not merely an idea but a feeling accompanying every moment of life. The poetic imagery acts as a veil surrounding profound meanings, expressing the tension between elegance and absurdity, between fragility and strength. This contrast stimulates the reader to reflect on the nature of their existence and the contradictions it encompasses. He believes that poetry is 'not a luxury, but an existential necessity.' In a world where transformations accelerate, the poem remains 'a space for resistance'—resisting forgetfulness, resisting objectification, and resisting the disconnection of humanity from its essence. Section Three: 'Texts' of Interwoven Human Experiences In the third section, deep emotions unfold, expressing interwoven human experiences. The first text begins like a long corridor covered in pollen dust, evoking the scent of 'marjoram,' where words ignite tenderly like a candle, revealing memories that refuse to be forgotten. In the second text, anxious thoughts clash as if they were bats in the imagination, reflecting feelings of isolation and disarray. Different lives intertwine in the third text, where chaos and order highlight the fragility of moments. In the fourth text, the crisis of nervous explosions reflects the experience of tension and emptiness, while the fifth text radiates warmth and charm. Yet, beneath this warmth lies a thick skin of secrets, revealing complex internal struggles. These texts accumulate to form a rich human experience, brimming with contradictory emotions, where each word reflects a struggle between pain and hope. From this diverse richness, we conclude that Al-Jilani does not merely depict existence; he seeks to understand its complexities, making every text a testament to profound human experience. Language and Style in Al-Jilani's Poetry Al-Jilani presents poetry 'charged with displacements,' rejecting the conventional and striving to create a parallel poetic world. It is a language that 'evokes absence and embodies the obscure,' where ancient vocabulary intertwines with modern terms, as if time wrestles with the weapon of words. In his texts, we find expressions such as: Languages are barren, faded planets; we fill them with blood. Here, language transcends its communicative function, becoming an act of new creation, as if the poet reshapes the universe through vocabulary. His style blends philosophical abstraction with vivid imagery, creating a textual fabric rich with connotations. He does not write a traditional poem; rather, he writes reflections distributed as words, where each line transforms into an expandable idea. He employs paradox as a fundamental tool, merging contradictions: the old and the new, 'Adam and artificial intelligence'; the material and the metaphysical, 'planets and the unknown language'; the real and the mythical, 'poets and prophets.' He highlights what is known as metapoetry—'poetry that writes about poetry'—where Al-Jilani discusses the very process of poetic creation. He does not present a poem about love or nature; instead, he offers a poem about how a poem is born, as he states: 'We do not seek language; we are the language seeking itself.' This style places the reader before a double mirror, looking at the text while simultaneously reflecting on how it is shaped. Al-Jilani does not merely engage in linguistic displacements; he creates existential displacements, posing questions such as: What if poets are the ones who create meaning rather than merely convey it? What if words are older than humanity itself? Here, the style is dense with rhetorical inquiries, inviting the reader to participate in the creation of meaning rather than just consume it. He delves into the depths of existence with a language of light and shadow. Alwan Mahdi Al-Jilani is a poet unlike any other, carrying a torch of questions that touch the depths of the soul. He dives into the corridors of language as a miner delves for gems within the earth. He is 'an encyclopedia walking on two feet,' writing not to please anyone. His words spring from genuine pain, real joy, and endless human confusion. In his collection 'The Albums of Adam II,' he does not speak of poetry; he 'breathes poetry,' as if he writes with the blood of the heart rather than ink from a pen. Al-Jilani sits on a 'chair between the ages,' his feet planted in the soil of the past, his eyes gazing into the clouds of the future. He is a son of Yemen's rich heritage, contributing with his poetry to the formation of human identity, affirming that poetry always remains a means of expressing hope and renewal.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
Escaping Forward
On one of the early days of my schooling, I found myself late for the morning assembly. Fearing the punishment that the schoolmaster would impose on me, I decided against going to school and instead sought refuge in a small room above our neighbor's cow shed, belonging to the farmer, Mani Saeed. This room served as a lodging for wandering merchants, who would spend a day or two if their stay was prolonged. Most of the time, it remained empty for weeks, awaiting guests. I fled the punishment for my tardiness at the assembly, only to plunge into a greater dilemma: missing an entire day of school. Thus, I found myself deepening my predicament, moving from one trouble to an even larger one. The following day, I returned to the same room, and the scene repeated itself on the third and fourth days. Each day, I found myself entangled in a greater and more severe dilemma than the one before. With every passing day, my troubles seemed to grow, and my anticipation of punishment intensified alongside my ongoing absence from school. The longer I stayed away, the more fear and dread consumed me, until by the fourth day, the prospect of punishment loomed large and ominous in my mind. From the very first day, I lacked the courage to bear the responsibility and consequences of my initial mistake. This error continued to grow and expand, and with it, the postponed punishment loomed larger, parallel to my wrongdoing. I spent six hours a day in that dreary room. The atmosphere was oppressive, and the hours felt unbearably heavy, crushing me beneath their weight as if a train were rolling over my weary body. Yet, courage eluded me when it came to admitting my fault and preparing to accept responsibility. The hours dragged by at a tortoise's pace in an unforgiving land. They were dull and monotonous, and I had never anticipated that time would unfold in such a manner, with such slowness and sameness. Even though I recognized that this experience was less burdensome than the punishment awaiting me—a punishment that grew more daunting with each passing day, perhaps even beyond my endurance—it was a flight forward, from one calamity to an even greater one. I tried to alleviate the monotony of those hours by gazing out into the limited space framed by the small window, peering cautiously and timidly. Each day spent in that room, which I had chosen as an elective prison, was a struggle, leaving me exhausted after six hours of waiting and a slow bleed of my spirit. I gaze at a small part of the valley visible from that window, watching the comings and goings of people below. Whenever I hear a sound nearby, I flinch with suspicion, peering through the cracks of the door to see what is happening outside, consumed by anxiety over the potential revelation of my situation and my hiding place. At times, driven by curiosity and a desire to see the world beyond the door made of wooden planks and tin, I find my eyes cautiously searching through the gaps. Occasionally, seeking a momentary escape from my confinement, I allow my gaze to wander, but as time drags on, my imprisonment feels increasingly suffocating. The minutes crawl by, stretching the wait into an agonizing eternity. On the fifth day, my secret was exposed when I overheard the teacher questioning my father about my frequent absences. My father, taken aback and shocked, replied that I went to school every day. The moment this reached my ears, I rushed to school in a panic, realizing that the axe had fallen upon me, that my situation had unraveled, and I must prepare to pay a steep price of pain all at once—a price whose magnitude I could not fathom, nor could I gauge my capacity to endure it. * * * Perhaps I was excused that day, for I was still a child, unformed and untrained, navigating a harsh environment devoid of even the most basic cultural and educational resources. The few available means were often distorted, dry, or entirely absent. Today, those who flee forward have become individuals, ranks, and entire groups. The situation has transformed dramatically; the act of escaping forward has become familiar and commonplace. This flight from one dilemma to a greater one is no longer limited to a child like me; it extends to political parties, movements, and even entire nations. This is not solely my story; it is the story of Yemen as a whole, encompassing its people. It narrates the saga of factions, elites, and parties that have fled forward from bad to worse, from worse to catastrophe, and from catastrophe to something even more disastrous. It has escalated from internal strife to regional conflict, and now to a complex international crisis. What transpired was a tragic regression from the dream of a state to a state of lawlessness. It was a frantic escape from the aspirations of a modern civil state and democracy into a war that refuses to lay down its burdens. We have endured seven years of chaos and bleeding, with nothing worse than the ensuing poverty, oppression, and the entrenchment of the war's devastating consequences. The regression continued from a quasi-state to a failed state, then to the remnants of a state, culminating in a state of lawlessness. Our dreams shrank and faded into realms that no one could have imagined. We moved from disagreement to conflict, from conflict to ongoing cycles of violence, and ultimately to a fierce war intertwined with horrific internal and external struggles. We transitioned from peaceful protests to various battles, then to a prolonged war, or from a lack of war to fierce combat, and finally to multiple wars that leave nothing intact. What has happened and continues to happen reminds me of a quintessential Yemeni joke that encapsulates our plight: 'Leave the goat and tie up Jumaa.' The joke goes: A goat wandered into a room where a father was having dinner with his children. The father said to his eldest son, 'Get up, Jumaa, and tie the goat quickly before it scatters us.' In his haste, Jumaa bumped his head against the hanging lamp, shattering it and plunging the house into darkness. Suddenly, he could see nothing. One of his feet landed in the food dish, flipping it over and scattering its contents across the floor. Startled, Jumaa jumped, and his left foot landed in his father's stomach while his right foot struck his father's forehead! The father yelled at his children, 'Kids, leave the goat and tie up Jumaa!' How plentiful our gatherings have become! Once, despite their flaws, they were better than what we experience now. They were infused with kindness, warmth, and forgiveness, but today they have transformed into scenes of bullets, death, gunpowder, and loss. Our gatherings have multiplied, resembling the jokes that evoke sharp sarcasm, bitter despair, and profound pain.
Yemenat
4 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
Prank and Punishment
I have always felt a profound anxiety and terror about punishment. Fear consumed me; the authority of fear left its mark on my soul. There was no room to cultivate the convictions formed by awareness, neither at home nor in school. The 'School of Punishment' ruled over us, holding the ultimate authority. It was, or nearly was, a 'school' endowed with a punitive power that parents and teachers presented as absolute. A father could never plead with a teacher to be lenient with his son during punishment. Instead, the father would encourage and urge the teacher to discipline his child, even going so far as to empower him with greater severity. The father felt relieved and grateful to the teacher if he inflicted any punishment on his son, no matter how harsh or painful. This situation might make you feel as if a sadistic desire from both sides converged upon you. You find yourself cornered between them in a narrow space, with no escape in front of you and no way out behind you. We were governed by the authority of fear from the father at home and the teacher at school. A deep feeling lingered within me that the punishments from both the teacher and the father were harsh, repulsive, inhumane, and painful to both body and spirit. I was thin and weary, my face pale and sallow. I still remember certain features that invaded my face in early childhood, which were supposed to appear much later in life. The vertical lines I observed between my eyes, devouring my youthful visage, remain etched in my memory like an indelible tattoo. * * * I tried to feign illness to avoid going to school. Not attending school meant an immense burden lifted from my shoulders. A day off for any reason brought me joy, even if I were genuinely ill; I might even wish for my sickness to extend for as long as possible. I felt an unparalleled relief despite the weight of illness. For one or two days, I could escape the worries of school—the only respite I could manage. Any absence, for any reason, represented a reprieve from my fears, allowing me to evade the teacher, the school, and the punishment. One day, with childlike innocence, I told my older brother Ali, whom I adored: 'I will share a secret with you, but you mustn't tell anyone.' He agreed, offering me reassurance and trust. I confided that I would pretend to be sick the next day to avoid school. He supported my plan and added a piece of advice: to cut an onion and place it under my armpits before sleeping, so I would appear feverish in the morning. He said they used to do this when they wanted to feign illness in military training. I followed my brother's wisdom, hardly sleeping that night, careful to keep the onion slices tucked under my arms so they wouldn't slip or fall during the night. The pungent, unpleasant smell of the onions bothered me greatly, yet it was, in any case, a lesser evil than school. My brother, who was supposed to keep his promise and guard my secret, especially from our father, instead went to him and revealed my intentions. The prank was set, and I fell into his trap like a wild rabbit caught in a hunter's snare—a trick I never anticipated. When my father called me in the morning to go to school, I feigned illness, insisting that I was very sick. I tried to convince him that I couldn't rise from bed due to the severity of my condition. I struggled and stumbled as I attempted to get up, weighed down by the illness I was pretending to embody. I assumed my father would be concerned as soon as he saw me unwell, unable to lift myself. I expected him to place his palm on my forehead to check if I was hot and feverish, or perhaps to simply let me be, allowing me to 'recover' for a day or two—time I could secretly steal from my school days, given my supposed ailment. I thought he might scold me for needing to go to school but would refrain from forcing me, especially seeing me so weak and unable to rise. I anticipated he would excuse me for that day due to my illness, but what actually happened was shocking and completely outside my expectations! Instead of expressing concern for my plight or allowing me to wallow in my feigned illness, I found my father, with surprising agility, reaching for one of his shoes. He struck me across the face and head with a force that left me startled and screaming at the top of my lungs, running like a thief pursued by a battalion intent on capturing him. From the very first slap, I realized I had become a victim of 'betrayal,' intended as a lesson, or perhaps I had fallen into the trap of a false pretense. * * * This incident may have become a complex in my life, particularly fueling the doubt and suspicion I often feel towards others. It might also explain why I repeatedly fail in any role I attempt to play, even under the pressing weight of necessity. My attempts to embody any character other than my own genuine self, with its glaring traits, often end in failure. Even lying feels like an insurmountable challenge for me. Perhaps those in the field, such as psychologists, would offer a different perspective on this. I remembered this story while listening to the audiobook 'The Preachers of the Sultans' by the Iraqi sociologist Dr. Ali Al-Wardi. He spoke of the cunning dichotomy between what we declare to the public and what we conceal in our hearts. The preachers of the sultans, their collusion with tyrants, the psychological crisis of the preacher who urges people to abandon the world and its temptations while simultaneously indulging in its pleasures. This idealistic preaching is employed in a stark ideological, political, and extremist rhetoric. Such insidious thinking thrives in the shadows of tyrants, nourished by the scraps from their tables. We see applause for the oppressor and disdain for the oppressed, a correlation between the intensification of social injustice and the proliferation of preaching. I recalled my story as I witnessed those who condemn the atrocities occurring in Palestine—atrocities that are undoubtedly reprehensible—while ignoring the even more horrifying crimes committed by our rulers against their own people. They exploit external events to legitimize their rule and reinforce their tyranny, compensating for their economic and social failures and their repeated shortcomings regarding the needs of their own nations. They evade accountability by diverting attention to Israel, America, and other external issues, using global political events to serve their oppressive regimes. I felt we needed a thousand shoes and a million slaps to rectify our situation. I recalled my story as I observed the stark contradictions we live today between what is said and what is done. The paradox between truth and the claims made, between reality and illusion, is evident in the intertwining of politics with religion, or the use of religion to serve political agendas and the interests of states. As it is often said, 'Whenever politics enters something, it corrupts it.' I thought of my own experience as I witnessed charlatans claiming piety, righteousness, and virtue, urging people towards justice and equity, while vehemently rejecting oppression—yet only as long as this resistance remains distant from the very people they govern. Meanwhile, these authorities perpetrate every form of horror and tyranny against us and our nations. They condemn the fanaticism of others while they themselves indulge in all manner of toxic biases, having absorbed them since childhood. They drown in their mire, sinking to its depths, or plummeting into the abyss of hell. They advocate for knowledge and deep thinking, yet in reality, they saturate our educational curricula with repugnant fanaticism and heavy ignorance. They work to entrench this in educational institutions—from kindergarten to school, and then to university. Indeed, they have succeeded in transforming these supposed centers of learning into arenas of indoctrination and dullness, extinguishing the flames of reason, stifling free thought, and shackling scientific inquiry with countless constraints and limitations.
