Latest from Yemenat
Yemenat
2 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
The Wall of Death
In the paratrooper training course, I remember running in the 'Thunder' field until I almost vomited. Yet, I persevered in a way I never expected. During the obstacle course, we had to climb a wall over twelve meters high, all while carrying our weapons and full military gear. The only assistance for this ascent was a rope securely tied at the top of the wall. I recall one occasion when I nearly fell before reaching the top. My strength waned to the point where it seemed easier to fall than to continue climbing. A heavy fatigue overwhelmed me, and my legs struggled to maintain their grip on the wall. How could I ascend? My energy was depleted, my balance faltering, and climbing seemed impossible unless I could elevate my spirit. My hands trembled, yet they fought against the imminent fall, which felt just an arm's reach away. My palms were drenched in sweat, nearly bursting from the effort as they clung desperately to the thick rope. My silence, filled with stubborn pride, refused to call for help. I felt a shame that would consume me if I dared to seek assistance. I became acutely aware that if I fell, it would be fatal. I understood that if my hands faltered even slightly, I would descend completely, committing the final folly of my life—a fatal folly that could leave me with a permanent disability. This profound realization in such a critical moment, coupled with a fierce instinct to survive, ignited a surge of adrenaline within me against this undeniable threat. I wrestled with the moment and overcame this deadly challenge. I pushed through the climb, surpassing the danger, and reached the top of the wall, feeling as if I had performed a miracle that saved me from certain death or permanent impairment. In that ascent, I faced a genuine challenge, grappling to snatch life from the jaws of a predator. I realized that between life and death lies a moment and a decision. I learned that between victory and defeat is merely a little resilience and patience in a decisive moment. To be triumphant or vanquished requires just a touch of challenge, perseverance, and desperation for life, hope, and survival. I recalled this lesson during the same course when I faced my colleague, Sanad Al-Rahwa, in an arm-wrestling match to see who was stronger, more resilient, and more patient. It was a friendly duel, witnessed by dear colleagues. Between my victory and defeat lay a fleeting moment, a decisive pause I stretched with my last breath, just as my hand was about to fall in an instant. I later told Sand, 'If you had only held on for one more second, you would have defeated me soundly.' Today, I remember reaching the peak of the wall, which I fondly call the 'Wall of Death.' I recall it in every struggle. I think of it as I confront authorities more grotesque than others—various powers that do not compete except in their ugliness towards the citizen. These authorities wield all means of strength, oppression, and subjugation, while I possess nothing but a will that fights desperately for a dignified life or the glory of a noble death if death must have its say.
Yemenat
4 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
From School to Camp
The 'Proletariat' school where I completed my secondary education, located on the Aden-Lahj road where I spent three years, has now become a camp for the Fifth Brigade, a newly established unit. This transformation carries a profound meaning for me. When a school turns into a camp or a prison, it signifies a serious failure in policies and the awareness of those in charge. Here, the camp appears to be more important than the school, a fact evident in the differences in attention, food provisions, maintenance, renovations, and material support. This reflects a clear aspect of the political consciousness regarding the status of the camp in comparison to the school, which also includes a student dormitory. The school we attended was far from ideal; it underwent no repairs or maintenance throughout our three years there. The contrast between the wretched state of the school and the well-equipped camp, which underwent complete renovations, was stark and striking. The camp became a place of pride, with newly established infrastructure that included all necessary means for military training in parachuting and assault, such as engineering obstacles, training grounds, and field training requirements. Competent officers of high ranks, tasked with training, were all affiliated with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. It's worth noting that before this place became a camp, it was a school with several teachers, some of whom were also affiliated with the Popular Front. I remember the philosophy, Arabic, and biology teachers, along with a Lebanese teacher of Palestinian descent who taught various aspects of the Arabic language. The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine was the common thread between the school of the past and the camp where we train today. Their competence, ethics, and professionalism distinguished them all. This training course introduced me to new and significant knowledge that I had long wished for. The instructors were skilled and professional, carrying a unique awareness and maturity that earned our respect and admiration. We put in considerable effort to gain their approval through hard work, learning, and discipline. I grew fond of these trainers, and through them, I developed an affinity for the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and its leader, 'George Habash,' whom they referred to as 'the Wise.' My gratitude towards this front, which was present in our school and equally so in this unprecedented military course, is immense. I cherished the trainer Abu Ali, from whom I learned military knowledge previously unknown to the Yemeni army. His lessons were new, unique, and filled with wonder and astonishment. I found myself asking more questions than I could count, while he provided detailed answers, enriching our military knowledge day by day. He regarded me as his star pupil, or at least that was my impression. I also admired trainer Abu Firas, who conducted intense field training involving combat, running, overcoming fires, and navigating engineering obstacles. Simultaneously, I followed the policies of the Popular Front, growing to appreciate it more than other Palestinian factions, perhaps because it deserved such affection, or because of the people I met through it. However, I always held great admiration and respect for its wise leader, George Habash.
Yemenat
5 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
My Selection for the Paratrooper Course
Yemenat Ahmed Saif Hashed The Ministry of Defense in Aden requested each military brigade to send an officer, while some brigades were asked to send two officers to the Fifth Brigade (Paratroopers) for a four-month 'Paratrooper' course. In the Unity Brigade, my colleague, Sanad Al-Rahwa, and I were chosen. For me, the paratrooper course represented rigorous and demanding training, a chance to acquire new and specialized military knowledge, and I held it in my heart with a sense of grandeur, awe, and high esteem. Both Sand and I were overwhelmed with joy at this selection, carrying a deep appreciation, respect, and noble feelings towards each other. But why exactly were Sand and I chosen? What were the criteria applied, or the basis on which we were selected? Honestly, I didn't know! In fact, such questions didn't even cross my mind back then; I hadn't contemplated them at all! Neither of us harbored any regional suspicion regarding this choice. However, the events of January later revealed the horrifying and grim reality, prompting me to wonder: Did regionalism play a role in this selection? After all, I was from the North, while my colleague Sand was from the South! Had regional division permeated even these minor details? I couldn't say for certain, and perhaps I could attribute what happened to coincidence! But why was the brigade commander from the South while the brigade's staff were from the North? Was this also a coincidence, or was it part of a deeper regional calculus being established from the highest levels downward? Regardless of the circumstances, what I truly want to emphasize is that substituting regional and local criteria for objective standards, or replacing citizenship with them, is a perilous policy that, when accumulated over time, leads not only to the destruction of the present but also threatens the future. This occurs through the fracturing of society, tearing apart its fabric, and destroying its unity. Moreover, if we compare what is happening today with what transpired back then, we can see that the present has become even more bleak, laying the groundwork for a terrifying destruction of the future as well. The inputs and outputs of this wretched war, which we have endured for seven years, and even prior to that, have significantly contributed to the tragedy of this nation, leading us to say: 'There was once Yemen' or 'We had a homeland.' * * * تم نسخ الرابط
Yemenat
5 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
Failure, But Not Forever
I may have appeared to be a failure, and I felt that failure deeply at times, perhaps even for years. But not forever. I failed at writing stories, yet today I revisit them in the details of my life. I failed at poetry, but now I attempt to weave its essence into my different expressions. I failed at love, but not indefinitely. I dreamed of becoming a journalist and faced setbacks, yet I returned to pursue that dream, and now I own a newspaper and a news website. As Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho says, one must never cease to dream; failure is a natural occurrence from time to time, but the one thing we cannot do is forget. Wherever I have failed, the yearning for my aspirations remains intense, and forgetting is impossible. I reclaim my spirit and vitality, striving to endure with patience and resilience. I attempt once more to fulfill my dreams, again and again, until they are realized or I claim a portion of them, even if failure has overshadowed my dreams for many years. I do not forget them until I attain whatever honor I can from them. If my dreams fall asleep from exhaustion, they rest briefly until circumstances change, then awaken to seize the first opportunity. I retry, again and again, until what once seemed arduous or impossible becomes attainable or within reach. I dreamed of being a judge or a lawyer, and indeed I became a judge for over five years, then a defender of human rights and freedoms to this day. I aspired to earn a scholarship in international relations or political science, but the opportunity eluded me. After many years, I finally obtained a diploma in political science from the Faculty of Economics at the University of Sana'a. I yearned to be a voice for the oppressed people, and I became their representative; importantly, I did not trade my ascent for any fall. I entered politics early on, but what matters most, as I claim, is that I practiced it with integrity and fairness. I believe that the failures and setbacks I endured have given success its true worth and meaning. In the words of American novelist Truman Capote, failure is the spice that gives success its distinctive flavor. I seek to realize my legend, regardless of the obstacles and challenges, just like Santiago in Paulo Coelho's 'The Alchemist.' Santiago clings to his dream, overcoming everything that stands in the way of its realization and ultimately reaching it. As for me, even on the premise of not arriving, the honor of trying suffices. Today, my dream and wish is that circumstances permit me, in the remaining days of my life, to continue writing my story for the people, for it is ultimately their story, as I am one of them. * * * In every issue, I eagerly awaited the release of 'Al-Rayah' newspaper, searching its pages with the fervor of one seeking themselves or a lost child. If I found it, joy enveloped me, radiating from my face to the tips of my fingers; if not, overwhelming disappointment washed over me. When I first found my writing published and read it, I relished the moment, perhaps enveloped in a cloud of narcissism. But as I reread what had been published multiple times, that cloud dissipated. With each reading, I discovered its flaws and mistakes, which seemed to multiply: a gap here that should have been filled, an addition there that was necessary, a sentence that should have been postponed, another that needed to be prioritized, and phrases that could have been improved. I often felt that had this repeated reading occurred before publication, my writing would have been more beautiful and robust, if not less flawed. This realization suggested that I could have enriched my work—not to make it more substantial, but to make it less erroneous. When my work was published, I would buy several copies for archiving and preservation. In the region of Al-Wahda, I would purchase newspapers, follow the news, and dream of working in journalism. My desire to enter this field was fervent, yet my academic background was unrelated to media; rather, it was connected to military tactics, fire training, and military sciences in general, far removed from journalism and media studies. I aligned my aspirations with the notion of transitioning from one field to another, convincing myself: 'Ahmed Baha'a Al-Deen graduated from law school, yet became one of the most prominent Egyptian journalists, editing many newspapers and magazines such as 'Sabah Al-Khayr,' 'Al-Ahram,' 'Al-Arabi,' 'Akhir Sa'ah,' and 'Dar Al-Hilal.'' Many have excelled and thrived in journalism after leaving their studied disciplines, each becoming a renowned star, their names blazing like fire. Conversely, there are media graduates who abandoned their specialized fields and became stars in entirely different arenas, while others accomplished remarkable feats in areas unrelated to their studies, reaching the heights of innovation. This applies as well to many famous stars and actors; for example, Ahmed Mazhar was originally a graduate of the Military Academy, Salah Thulfikar graduated from the Police Academy, and the satirical journalist Galal Amer graduated from the Military Academy, then pursued law and philosophy in the Faculty of Arts, not from the Faculty of Media. Fouad Al-Mohandes and Mahmoud Yassin graduated from law school, Yehia Al-Fakharany from medical school, and Adel Imam, Samir Ghanem, and Salah Al-Saadani from the Faculty of Agriculture, while Dureid Lahham graduated from the Faculty of Science, majoring in chemistry. Many who failed or left their specializations gained fame and success in entirely different fields. * * * My quest for self-discovery intertwined with my interests in storytelling, poetry, and political writing. I would send my writings to Al-Rayah newspaper through Lieutenant Ahmed Mas'ad Al-Qardaei, the paper's correspondent in the region. This colleague was among the active and daring elements, filled with remarkable ambition. After a long absence, during which I thought he had succumbed to fate, I published a photo of him a year ago, inquiring about his well-being. To my surprise, I found he was still alive, though struggling without support in the moral guidance department in Sana'a. I sent various writings, contributions, and topics on international politics to Al-Rayah, a publication affiliated with the Ministry of Defense in Aden. Those few political pieces were published in their entirety, without omission or alteration. I still retain some of them today, 36 years after their publication. I followed world news from the farthest East to the farthest West, covering everything from major issues to the smallest details. I wrote about American military interventions, both large and small, in the affairs of nations and peoples, imposing their guardianship and dominance following these interventions. I recall writing even about the American occupation of Grenada, which I followed intensely, as if it were my birthplace. My political writings were often featured on the main page dedicated to international affairs. I vividly remember two articles that were published: one titled 'On the Margins of American Interventions,' and the other, almost in the same vein, titled 'The Worst of Calamities is What Makes You Laugh.' In the latter, I analyzed the flimsy justifications for American and British interventions worldwide, through which they impose their will and guardianship on nations under the pretense of these rationales, aptly summed up by the saying, 'an excuse worse than the sin.' This interest perhaps positioned political science and international relations among the options I contemplated, ultimately leading me to pursue a degree in political science and obtain a diploma in international politics after university, while simultaneously studying in my first or second year at the Higher Judicial Institute in Sana'a. As for my desire for journalism, it remained a dream that wrestled with my life's trajectory. I remember the first book I read on journalism: 'Introduction to Journalism,' in the early 1980s. After 2000, I began to engage with it as a reality, starting with editing 'Al-Qabaita' newsletter, which some referred to as the 'Newspaper of the Mad,' until I became the owner of a private newspaper, 'Al-Mustaqilah' and the news website 'Yemenat.' I contributed to editing some of its content, including interviews, surveys, snapshots, news, and the editing of various pages. Despite the harsh circumstances and realities that conspired against me during this war, attempting to obliterate what I had achieved of dreams and aspirations, I continue to resist. I refuse to succumb to despair and loss, even as what unfolds has become universal and larger than ourselves. My stances on the parties involved in the war and conflict in Yemen have had their costs, which I still bear to this day.
Yemenat
30-07-2025
- General
- Yemenat
Failure in Poetry
My failure in writing short stories meant that I couldn't remain stagnant; I had to leave that place, change my path, or seek another harbor more suitable for me. The English proverb states, 'You cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.' I must change my direction, for failure, as the self-development speaker Zig Ziglar says, 'is a forced redirection, not a dead-end.' Or in the words of Saudi writer and media figure Ahmed Mazen Al-Shuqairi: 'It doesn't mean you are a failure; it means you haven't succeeded yet.' Perhaps they are all right in their insights. I tried to knock on the door of poetry, hoping to find it open and welcoming. Yet, the intricacies of meter are difficult and exhausting. This was revealed to me during my high school experience. Between me and poetry lie sixteen seas, without a single raft to navigate them! Why are they called seas, when they also bear names like the long and extended? In truth, they are constraints and limitations that constrict me, and I feel suffocated by them, struggling to breathe. How can I navigate them without a boat or oars? How can I begin my journey with poetry that enchants me, that I enjoy listening to, yet struggle to create or write? How can my journey in poetry proceed when I have no provisions, no water, and no mount? I studied meter in high school and found it daunting, and I do not believe a day will come when it will become easier for me. From where could it soften? I doubt it will, especially as I sense an expansive barrenness in my memory. Traditional, metered poetry, with its many artistic constraints, requires a strong reservoir and a wealth of language, neither of which I possess. Moreover, I long for vast spaces of freedom, while the numerous rules and standards drive me to madness. Yet, there exists free verse, liberated from the many constraints imposed by traditional poetry. Nevertheless, I do not savor this form; I do not appreciate it, nor do I lean toward it. So I spoke to myself, convincing it to attempt to evoke musical rhythm while bypassing rhyme without triviality or excess. A try would not hurt. I embarked on my intention, and my first attempt, relatively long, was titled 'Bilqis,' referring to Yemen. I sent it to the 14 October newspaper, which published an excerpt on 24/5/1985, beginning with: Bilqis, a face divided by the trenches of borders, and furrowed by stumbles and journeys, and the invader feasted on its bounty, plates and sipped from its freshness, goblets and destinies. *** We are pained by our love for her, and love is a hell. Let our hearts be a home for hell. I wrote another poetic attempt dedicated to the 12th World Youth Festival held in Moscow, published in full by 14 October on 26/7/1985, titled 'To the Youth.' Previously, it had been published by Al-Rayah newspaper on 9/6/1985 under the title 'The Promises of Our Green Dreams.' It began with: Hurrah, your festival! A celebration that crowns suns in the sky of tomorrow, rising and smiling, youth from all around the earth, united in their streams for horizons that nations aspire to. Youth, with determination, their arms are woven, and in the bastions of knowledge, they are safeguarded and fortified. On July 2, 1985, I wrote a poem for Randa, whom I had loved for many years, though she did not love me back simply because she was unaware of my feelings. I began my attempt with these lines: You have ignited, O Randa, my life in the depths of your eyes, and I roamed the horizons, yearning for the future. I sent it to both the 14 October newspaper and Al-Rayah for publication, but neither printed it. To console myself, I envisioned the death of 'Randa' I loved and penned a vertical poetic attempt on April 30, 1985, which began: In your love, I spent my life in loyalty, so how can hope be severed today? For patience has not become bliss, nor has separation turned into reunion. Indeed, patience has become a hell, and separation has turned into misery. This poem, too, found no avenue for publication. I wrote another piece titled 'Sana'a, My Bereaved Mother,' starting with these lines: Sana'a suffers and endures the triad of the dark tunnel, feeding on the lashes of the whip and swallowing cups of bitterness. This poem also failed to find its way to print. Many poetic attempts were made, most of which went unpublished. The few that did make it to print were relegated to the readers' page, with some only seeing small excerpts published. Much of the waiting for publication felt like a futile endeavor, a mere mirage. I sensed that poetry was more elusive for me than my attempts at writing stories. I recognized that I was not gifted in it nor deserving of the title, lacking even the barest hint of talent. I accepted that I could never be a poet, despite my aspirations. Yet, as the saying goes, 'Not everything one desires is attainable,' and so I ceased my attempts. Although I recited some of those poems on various occasions and felt they were somewhat well-received by listeners, I was aware that these efforts were outputs of hard work, not the fruits of talent. Despair overtook me, and I felt a profound disappointment in my poetic endeavors, yet it was the bitter truth: I was not talented and would never be. Poetry, above all else, requires talent, which I lacked and would continue to lack. I became increasingly convinced that I had no steed or field in the realm of poetry.
