Latest from Yemenat
Yemenat
a day ago
- Yemenat
Embarrassing Situations
Our dining table at the hotel was spacious enough for us, along with the Russian and Yemeni delegates accompanying us. The table was cluttered with nearly everything imaginable. Its abundance and variety made it seem like a feast sent down from the heavens. The food was diverse, most of which I had never seen before, and I had no idea what the drinks were! I struggled to distinguish between what was meant to be sipped and what was to be savored, between soups and their counterparts, and even between vodka and water—indeed, even between different types of water! Elegant pitchers and glasses conveyed a sense of luxury, and my curiosity pushed me through the veil of embarrassment to try them all, one by one. There were paper napkins, and some made of fabric, which reminded me of their costliness as I wiped my mouth with them. I felt as if I were tampering with the elegance that should be preserved, or singing praises to its beauty. The numerous utensils before me were daunting; I was unfamiliar with most of them and had no idea of the proper order of use, or the appropriate timing for each item. Some I was seeing for the first time, while others I had never encountered before, leaving me completely in the dark about their usage. The rules of etiquette felt entirely foreign to me; for the first time, I found myself in a face-to-face challenge with them. I sensed various obstacles before me, with awkward situations lurking at every corner. I felt as if I were at an examination table rather than a dining table. To make matters worse, I was facing this test without any prior education or lessons. I told myself: 'There's no excellence here, no first place. I am bound to fail. Everything here, or most of it, is new to me, deserving of a patent of innocence. I am encountering countless types for the first time. I have no prior experience; this is my first trip outside Yemen, and also the first time I'm staying in a hotel, let alone one of such grandeur.' Questions crowded my mind as I settled down at the dining table: Where do I begin?! What do I do with all this before me?! What are the boundaries that separate what is meant for me from what is for those around me? A jumble of unfamiliarity surrounded me in a meal whose limits I did not know. How should I engage with what lay on the table?! What am I even going to eat?! Almost everything present was entirely novel to me! In front of me lay a piece of cloth elegantly folded into a pyramid shape; I had no idea of its purpose. Another larger piece was arranged in front of me, and I was uncertain of its necessity. I had to wait and observe how others were using them. When I saw the Russian general place one on his chest and the other on his lower half, I wondered to myself: What on earth is he doing?! I couldn't comprehend what he was doing or why. Yet, I found myself mimicking him like a child imitating his father, feeling as though I was engaging in some timid form of deception that I had never learned in school. I stole glances at his actions, copying him with a clumsy imitation and a shaky performance. I told myself, 'It's fine; I'll consider it a ritual they perform before a meal, and imitation is permissible here.' I tried to stifle a laugh, smiling cautiously as I suppressed the urge to burst into laughter, which was on the verge of erupting like a jingle. I began to eat with my awkward mimicry, only to find the cloth draped over my chest slipping down due to my movements while eating. Meanwhile, the cloth at the bottom had rolled onto the floor without my noticing, and I didn't become aware of it until after finishing my meal, having kicked and trampled it in the process. I grumbled to myself, expressing my disdain: 'What caused it to fall? It got what it deserved!' It was my first time using a knife and fork simultaneously. On the airplane, I had managed without them, eating my meals in my own way, as had my fellow passenger seated beside me. But now, in front of everyone, I found it challenging. As I tried to manage the fork and knife between my hands and fingers, I couldn't replicate the general's ease. I felt the need for a private lesson to learn the technique, but there was no time or space for that here. My attempts to use the knife and fork together were clumsy. I found the task daunting; even if I could use my right hand effectively, my left hand would not achieve the same efficiency. To escape this dilemma, I opted for a method that suited me better and proved more effective, though I often felt I was straying far from the norm, sometimes landing in rather embarrassing situations. I mistook a small fruit for something innocuous, unaware of its true nature. It was black in color. How misguided I was! In truth, I had no idea how to handle it! I placed the knife in its center, pressing down to cut it, while my other hand, grasping the fork, tried to support it from the side to prevent it from slipping. But with its hard pit and thin skin, my strong pressure caused it to shoot across the table like a comet, striking several dishes as if it were a billiard ball. It made a series of loud noises that drew everyone's attention, and some even noticed it darting past them. Some were confused about what had happened and began to ask! Others thought someone had thrown something onto the table! Yet all their faces were marked with expressions of surprise and wonder, while I was engulfed in a daze, my dry smile resembling one stolen from a three-thousand-year-old mummy. I didn't know what to say! My intense embarrassment and acute shyness led them to suspect I was the source of the commotion. Their eyes were fixed on me, while my companion beside me tried to explain that an olive should be placed in the mouth, its skin consumed, with the pit discarded. At that moment, I burst into laughter, joined by everyone else, realizing the foolishness of my actions! They had a type of mineral water that was unlike any I had ever known. I opened the bottle and filled the glass before me. The moment I took a sip, I was shocked; it was nothing like what I expected. Its taste was acidic, almost otherworldly. This could not possibly be water. I said to my companion beside me, 'This isn't water.' He replied, 'It's mineral water.' I countered, 'They can call it anything they like, but they cannot call it water.' He handed me another bottle from the table, and indeed, it was water, but not like our water. Many of the dishes I tasted were unrecognizable! Every item I sampled felt like a gamble; it might be delicious, acceptable, or it could ruin the entire meal. According to etiquette, if you are satisfied with your meal, you should place the spoon and fork on the plate with the face down and the back up. Unaware of this rule, I left my utensils on the table, not realizing it signified that I was still hungry. Consequently, the waiter brought me an extra dish. I was puzzled and wondered, 'Why me and not anyone else?' Leaning over to my companion, I said: 'I didn't order this! I'm full! Why did he bring me an extra dish? And why me specifically? Did he see me eating with gluttony?' My companion replied, 'You should have turned the spoon and fork over to indicate that you were satisfied. Now you must finish it. Leaving food on your plate is quite bothersome to them. You should eat until the last bite.' I asked him to help me with the extra food, but he declined, saying he was full as well. So, I had no choice but to force myself to eat until the very last bite, nearly making me ill from the excess.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
In the Red Square
In the midst of the Red Square, at the heart of Moscow, you find yourself enveloped in a fantastical world, narrating wonders that surpass your modest imagination, despite its authenticity. Your imagination, which could not conceive the scene you now stand upon, witnessing with your own eyes, leaves you hesitant to believe, immersed in astonishment, even though it is real and certain. I appeared to myself as one who had lost their mind under the shock, unable to distinguish between the reality of the moment and the void. I ask myself, gaping in disbelief at what I see: Am I truly here, or not? Is this world before me, surrounding me in every direction, indeed a tangible reality as I perceive it, or merely an unfounded illusion with no basis in truth? It is a scene I had never envisioned before, and I remain reluctant to accept it. This is another world, shockingly different from the one I came from or had grown accustomed to. Imagine suddenly being transported from your remote village, still pleading for rain from the heavens while paying dearly for the precious money you earn through toil, to a civilization that causes rain to fall precisely when and where it desires. It is a vast contradiction between a country whose people pray for rain while, in reality, it imports wheat from lands where its inhabitants do not pray for it. This is the cultural shock, the immense disparity between your village, lost in the forgotten corners of the Earth, and the heart of Moscow, the capital of the mighty Soviet Union. It is a contrast that encompasses all wonder. As I wander through the Red Square, awestruck, my gaze shifting amidst the dazzling sights, I find myself thinking: I can envision Isra and Mi'raj, or a flying carpet, or the tales of One Thousand and One Nights, or the jinn who have transported me from my simple, familiar world to this realm brimming with magic, beauty, and marvel. I can imagine that I rubbed a ring or Aladdin's lamp and summoned that giant, who emerged colossal, adorned with amulets and necklaces upon his powerful neck and muscular arms. I can also picture him bald, save for a thick tuft of hair atop his head, tied and cascading down his broad back. I can envision the giant spreading his vast arms, lowering his head, and saying to me like an obedient servant: 'Your wish is my command… We are at your service… Ask and wish.' So I wish to be taken to this enchanting world where I stand now, gazing wide-eyed. Thus, I began to imagine what transpired and what I have become now. From the overwhelming shock, reality appeared as a dream. Such is how things can sometimes flip when we cannot believe them, overwhelmed by astonishment. Here, the grandeur and magnificence make you feel as though you are living a legendary life filled with wonder. Everything here captivates your eyes, snatches your memory, then returns it to you, now holding all your observations and amazement, what you have seen that you do not know, and will not forget, remaining in your memory until you perish. The colorful domes, the architecture, the towering and imposing walls, the towers in all their forms, the church with its nine domes, the Kremlin, Lenin's mausoleum, the tomb of the unknown soldier, the eternal flame, the main store of the city, the cobblestone streets, the ancient fortresses, the royal palaces, the state museum, and everything that whispers: 'History passed through here.' The Red Square, the pulsating heart of the capital, the most famous gathering of cultures from around the world, filled with carnivals, parades, love, weddings, and special festive atmospheres. Pilgrims come to Lenin's mausoleum from every nation and corner of the globe. Here lies the Kremlin, the official seat of the Soviet government. Here is the capital of a superpower that holds the world's fate in its hands, sharing its influence with several great nations, possessing the means to destroy the world ten times over. Here, one can understand what the Sudanese student who jumped from the tenth floor in Moscow said before his suicide, inscribing on the famous vodka bottle: 'Clear as tears… Strong as Soviet power.' The only thing that diminished the strength and majesty of that power was the black market and the ailing economy, as revealed by the fluctuation of the dollar. Where the dollar is priced at 75 kopecks at the state bank, we exchanged it on the black market, through a friend, for three rubles, if my memory serves me right. That day, I felt that this power was not as strong as it seemed, that its economy was suffering greatly, and its health was far from well. * * * We arrived at the Red Square in our ceremonial green military uniforms, adorned with bright stars on our shoulders, attracting attention. Many gazes from passersby and those standing in the square were directed at us. At first, we thought our magnificent attire was the reason for their stares, believing its distinctiveness caught their attention. We noticed some looking at us, whispering to each other, leaving us uncertain about what they were saying! Yet their smiles suggested that something about us sparked amusement, perhaps even laughter at times! Confusion draped over us as curiosity was piqued. We took our position in the long queue leading to Lenin's mausoleum. A number of girls nearby were whispering and glancing at us, then giggling, while we were absorbed in our bewilderment. One of them asked us, a smile gracing her lips: 'Which country are you from?' We replied, 'From Yemen.' Another said, 'You are quite young, yet you hold high ranks.' We were even more surprised and explained, 'This star on our uniforms signifies the rank of second lieutenant, awarded upon graduation from the military academy.' Before our translator could relay our answer, a third girl, her curiosity evident, inquired: 'Are you the sons of princes?' Our bewilderment deepened, astonished by the question! While they all laughed, the translator clarified, revealing the reason. The star we wore, equivalent to theirs, indicated a major rank in their army. Their laughter faded, while our laughter erupted upon understanding the reason, dispelling the confusion that had nearly suffocated us. Now, as I write this, our laughter feels like tears. We mocked the reality that prevailed, even nicknamed Yemen 'the land of a million colonels,' deriding the rampant distribution of ranks as gifts, rewards, and bribes, outside the law and regulation. Today, military ranks are handed out like fruit. All the powers of the de facto authorities in Yemen compete to bestow these ranks upon their followers and supporters. You can find numerous individuals who have not completed middle or high school holding the rank of colonel or brigadier. You could also find an equal number of underage children bearing the rank of major or lieutenant colonel. 'Oh, what a mess!' And it is even worse to find some promoted within days, weeks, or months. In this age of chaos, dominated by warlords and de facto authorities, where what remains of our state is disintegrating, the world has every right to laugh at us for a thousand years, witnessing ignorance in Yemen wearing significant military ranks, observing our naïve children being granted heavy military titles and herded like cattle into the furnace of war. We stood by the eternal flame and the tomb of the unknown soldier, witnessing the meticulous changes in the guards occurring every hour. We concluded that everything here is executed with utmost precision. It is a symbolic representation reflecting the state, with its disciplined and highly accurate protocols. You see the soldier standing steadfast, as if made of wax, not even blinking or moving a muscle during his duty. Your curiosity urges you to touch him to verify whether he is a real soldier or crafted from another material, but your mind and surroundings hold you back from doing so. We visited the museum and saw various statues and figures, including a small bust of Lenin that his wife, Krupskaya, claimed in her lifetime was the most accurate depiction of him, as if he were truly there. Lenin, a man I admired, albeit with some reservations—there is no sanctity for anyone. We waited in a long line until we finally glimpsed Lenin lying in a glass coffin, dressed in his elegant clothes. As you pass by him, just a few meters away, you try to scrutinize his details, finding nothing amiss in his form or appearance.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
The Revolution That Consumed Its Children
More than a decade after the February 2011 revolution in Yemen and the ensuing complexities, Yemeni writer and researcher Jazem Saif presents a sociological approach in his book 'The Modern State and the Peaceful Revolution in Yemen.' This work sheds light on the events of the Change Square in Sana'a. Comprising 194 pages and published by Mawaeed Publishing for Studies, Translation, and Publication in Sana'a, Yemen, in 2024, the book addresses a critical phase in Yemen's history, allowing for a deeper understanding of these events beyond the noise and emotions. In his introduction, Ahmed Al-Salami notes that the passage of time now permits a calm reflection. He believes the book transcends the minutiae of events to capture the diversity of discourses in the square and how Yemenis envisioned the modern state they had long dreamed of. The book presents a clear paradox: despite the deep desire for change, society lacked a clear vision for a viable alternative. This absence of a coherent vision led to a mere replacement of individuals without achieving any real transformation in the system, contributing to the country's slide into chaos and ongoing divisions. Saif emphasizes profound issues that hindered the revolution's success, such as the confusion between regime and state. The fall of the president did not necessarily imply the construction of a new state; rather, it resulted in the collapse of state institutions. The book also discusses the lack of a clear alternative, where emotional discourses overshadowed practical solutions, alongside the failure of political parties to propose a modern alternative representing the energy of the revolutionary youth. The notion of the modern state is a central concern for thinkers in the Arab world, especially in light of the changes witnessed during the Arab Spring. The book aims to explore this complex concept, tracing its roots in Western political thought and analyzing the challenges of its realization in Arab and Islamic contexts. It also addresses the intellectual debates that emerged around the concept of the public sphere as a space for rational dialogue about the state and politics, a concept that has become an urgent necessity in societies. The book reviews historical experiences that attempted to shape a model of the state, such as the Ottoman Empire and the reforms of Muhammad Ali, highlighting the structural obstacles they faced. With the outbreak of the Arab Spring events, the question of the modern state has resurfaced, prompting the book to raise fundamental inquiries about the characteristics of a state that aligns with the aspirations of Arab peoples, emphasizing the importance of in-depth research studies to understand and analyze these experiences. The Modern State and the Public Sphere in Jazem Saif's Analysis The book devotes a significant section to discussing the public sphere as a fundamental element in building the modern state. It draws on definitions that clarify this sphere as an open arena for participation and dialogue concerning state-related ideas. Saif illustrates that the model of the modern state associated with Western modernity struggles to take root in the Arab environment, not due to differing core values, but because of the absence or weakness of this vital public sphere. He argues that shaping this sphere is the essential gateway to building consensus around the meaning of the state and its mechanisms. This work serves as an important reference, linking theoretical ideas, historical experiences, and current challenges. It asserts that the path to constructing a genuine modern state passes through reviving the public sphere as a space for dialogue and consensus on values and institutions. Saif emphasizes the importance of research and diligence, acknowledging the difficulty of the task but insisting on its necessity to achieve the desired social, economic, and cultural transformations. On another note, the book clearly addresses the concept of the modern state, highlighting that the state is not merely a government but an institution aimed at protecting individual rights and ensuring security. This requires a social contract and a constitution that guarantees free elections and the separation of powers, which contribute to transforming individuals from subjects into citizens with rights and a voice. Discourses of the Sit-In Square The book also provides an analysis of the discourses within the sit-in square in Sana'a, noting that it served as an open space for discussion on vital issues. However, it reveals how parties exploited this space by forming fictitious revolutionary groups, leading to the fragmentation of the square into closed factions. Saif addresses the issue of creating false heroes, where certain forces conferred titles like 'hero' to exploit the enthusiasm of youth, thereby fostering illusions of leadership. He also observes practices that contradict the slogan of a peaceful revolution, resulting in a retreat from civil discourse to a language of force. He points to the duplicity in funding discourse, where secret donations reveal disparities in resource distribution, highlighting the injustice in accessing support. Competing Discourses of Doubt and Tactics in the Yemeni Revolution In the context of the Yemeni revolution, two competing discourses emerged, leaving a profound impact on its trajectory. The first is the discourse of doubt, characterized by the dissemination of ready-made accusations and preconceived judgments aimed at tarnishing the image of individuals or political groups. This discourse relied on hostile descriptions that demonized 'the other,' undermining the foundations of coexistence and hindering any constructive dialogue, while fueling conflicting binaries such as 'the pure revolutionary' versus 'the traitorous revolutionary.' Conversely, the tactics discourse emerged as a reaction from within the revolutionary forces themselves, where individuals and activists publicly attacked their leaders, advocating for escalation as the sole path to victory. While it temporarily succeeded in presenting an image of cohesion, this discourse produced serious negative consequences, such as the usurpation of titles and responsibilities, deepening internal conflict. Competing Discourses of Doubt and Tactics: Intersecting Paths in the Yemeni Revolution Both discourses, that of doubt and that of tactics, represent two sides of the same coin. The former fueled internal fragmentation, while the latter sought to contain it. Yet, both contributed to complicating the Yemeni landscape and distancing it from its original revolutionary goals. The Digital Space and Political Settlement: A Failure to Achieve the Dream Facebook transformed from merely a social media platform into a vast arena for dialogue, where Yemenis engaged in discussions reflecting the 'logic of the moment.' However, these conversations revealed deep distortions in understanding the modern state. Conflicting perceptions emerged concerning the concept of the state: some reduced it to a parliamentary system, others viewed it as an alternative to tribal customs, while others confined it to a federal model or an ideal Islamic governance. Some participants even linked the state to secularism and sexual freedom, reflecting a profound ignorance of the nature of a modern state. The complexities deepened due to the nature of virtual communication. The absence of vocal tone and body language led to misunderstandings and unintended disputes. Real-world conflicts migrated to the digital realm, where a culture of exclusion and mutual accusations replicated, overshadowing any trace of constructive dialogue. On the other hand, the discourse of political settlement presented itself as a solution to rescue Yemen from a 'state of lawlessness.' Yet, this discourse co-opted the spirit of the revolution and transformed it into narrow political bargaining, granting immunity to the forces of the former regime while freezing essential demands for change. The fragility of this path soon became evident. The revolutionary forces that had united against tyranny fragmented, and a culture of exclusion and distrust emerged between the youth and party leaders. Divisions deepened around the concept of the state, with some viewing Yemen as 'stateless' and in need of reconstruction, while others considered it a 'robbed state' needing reform. In conclusion, the book highlights the importance of rethinking the concepts of state and public sphere, calling for a clear vision that transcends current divisions. Genuine revolution requires a shared vision and collective will to transform dreams into reality, necessitating ongoing efforts to understand and overcome past mistakes. The peaceful popular youth revolution in Yemen reflects a genuine desire for change, stemming from the suffering of the people under the weight of corruption and tyranny. This revolution has sparked a political movement that mirrors an urgent need to dismantle the regime and implement radical changes in governance. However, amidst this revolutionary momentum, political forces faced significant challenges, characterized by a lack of consensus and a clear vision. It was essential to build a genuine public sphere that allows for dialogue and democracy, but what transpired was a scattering of efforts and varying positions. The squares demonstrated that revolutionary mistakes, such as tendencies toward monopolization and authoritarianism, continue to obstruct pathways to radical change, necessitating the revival of intellectual discussions surrounding the concept of the modern state and its necessity. The future requires a discourse that transcends divisions, promoting enlightenment and cooperation among all parties. We must strive to build political institutions capable of fulfilling the aspirations of the people, founded on values of trust and dialogue. Revolution is not merely about slogans; it is a process that demands deep thinking and a shared vision, paving the way for the construction of a modern state that meets the community's needs and achieves justice and freedom for all.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
Beauty and Wonder
The Aeroflot plane took off, carrying us from Cairo Airport to Moscow. My first astonishment on board was the beautiful flight attendants—their tall figures, captivating whiteness, and the grace that ensnares your wandering imagination. Their eyes, crystalline with hues of the sky or the deep blue sea, possess a magic that overwhelms you. The sparkle in their eyes beckons, stealing your heart and tempting your modesty, along with all the piety and sanctity that reside within you. They are pearls that capture your gaze, surrounded by the whiteness of clouds and the enchantments of the heavens that obliterate your denials and defeat your defenses. Their eyelids seem to promise salvation, with brows that embrace treasures and regal noses that accept nothing but challenge and confrontation, while you stand powerless, your virtue vulnerable against such overwhelming beauty that borders on folly and madness. Everything snatches your heart from your ribs, pulling you as if by fate. No matter how confident you are in your virtue, its strength falters at the first glance, surrendering all your armies, collapsing your towers and castles, and raising your white flags before this destiny that possesses you. An enchanting beauty captivates your attention and curiosity, seizing you from your A to your Z, prompting you to shift your gaze from the glass of the window and the wonders beyond it to eyes sparkling with joy, marvel upon marvel, as miracles unfold while you ponder the exquisite creation of the Creator. * * * 'We passed through the skies of Turkey, the homeland of the great rebel Nadhim Hikmat, the playwright, novelist, and poet who was imprisoned for nearly 17 years and exiled from his country until his death due to his struggle and his beautiful humanitarian poetry, siding with the poor and oppressed of his people. The poet whose jailers died, while his verses, poems, and anthems lived on. Nadhim Hikmat, who died yet did not lose hope, famously said: 'The most beautiful days are those we have not yet lived… The most beautiful children are those yet to be born… The most beautiful poems are those I have not yet written.' He rebelled against the misery of his exile, just as he revolted against the injustice and suffering in his homeland. Those days that have not yet arrived, or that Nadhim may not have experienced, perhaps not many others either, we await them for long, as they remain distant from us, or we hasten their delayed coming, fearing the aging of our hearts. This sentiment is beautifully captured by Nizar Qabbani when he said: 'O happy moments yet to come, could you take a shortcut before our hearts grow old?'' In our journey, Turkey appeared from the sky like a bride just emerging from a bath. It was a sight of clarity intertwined with shadows, clouds and rain, diversity and detail, a beauty that invites you to linger in it both winter and summer. For the first time, I beheld a land like this, as if it were a piece of paradise. Turkey captivated me from the air—what a wondrous land! Such lush greenery spreading across vast expanses. A breathtaking nature, flawless in its beauty, leaving no room for flaws or deceit. Throughout our flight above its skies, we relished the view until the sunset, believing it to be the entirety of the horizon. * * * Night fell as we crossed into the borders of the Soviet Union—an entity once formidable and grand. We traversed the skies over the Black Sea, enveloped in darkness. From a distance, we glimpsed the lights of the city of Odessa in Ukraine, located on the Black Sea coast, separated from Kyiv, the capital, by over 400 kilometers. We arrived at Kyiv, the capital of Soviet Ukraine. As I stepped out of the plane, I felt as if I were entering a freezer. The temperature was around 7 degrees Celsius, a chill I had never before experienced. I thought to myself, 'This is not an airport; it is a cosmic freezer.' The weather in Ukraine was uniformly cold, or similar to that, marking my first experience on land with such low temperatures. After about an hour, we resumed our journey towards Moscow, the capital of the Soviet Union. Upon arriving at its airport, we were greeted by several high-ranking officers led by a general assigned to welcome us and accompany us during our visit, along with a translator of utmost nobility, courtesy, and refinement. They surprised us with a reception filled with warmth, care, and respect. We were welcomed with a fleet of luxurious vehicles designated for delegations, waiting for us. Each pair of us was assigned a car. Even the red traffic lights were disregarded, despite the strict enforcement of laws and traffic rules there-perhaps because it was late at night. What a celebration, such a warm welcome and immense appreciation! It was something we had never experienced in our homeland, something we could hardly have imagined, even in our dreams.
Yemenat
4 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
The First Time I Boarded an Airplane
It was the first time I saw an airplane up close, boarding it via a ladder I wasn't sure was independent or part of the aircraft itself. I settled into my designated seat, and by good fortune, it was next to the window. The plane moved slowly across the airport tarmac, and the instructions to fasten our seatbelts were issued. The flight attendant passed by to ensure that the passengers adhered to these instructions, while I had already managed to overcome my clumsiness in fastening the belt. The plane began to accelerate on the ground, gaining speed more and more, as I, like a child, watched the details of my surroundings through the window. Then, the aircraft took off from Aden International Airport. As the plane ascended, I felt a surge of anxiety. A vast void seemed to fill my chest, larger than my own body, as expansive as the sky the plane was piercing through in its ascent. My heart felt as if it might leap from its place, engulfed by a profound tension. Nothing holds you now as you ascend into the heavens in an airplane. You feel as though your spirit is grasped solely by fate. The fate of the seventy diplomats and crew members who perished in a plane crash in the early seventies in Aden crossed my mind, or perhaps the one that was blown up by a malicious hand… a heinous crime by any measure. I imagined their terrifying end, scattering through the air like shrapnel from a bomb. What dreadful and horrifying luck. Despite the fear that coursed through my veins and seized my being, I tried to muster my courage, while my curiosity proved stronger than both my anxiety and fear. I began to talk to myself: I must suppress my fears. I must overcome my anxiety. Today, I have become an officer; how can I encourage my future soldiers to be brave and valiant? How can I call upon them to be fearless while I am gripped by such terror? Isn't it Che Guevara, the figure I admired, who said that a revolutionary or leader is 'the last to sleep and the first to wake, the last to eat and the first to die'? A leader should not fear death, let alone be paralyzed by anxiety. I sought to bolster my resolve and strengthen my will against the phobia that toyed within me, conversing with myself: 'My brother Ali Saif Hashed was a parachutist who jumped from planes; how can I be less than him? I want to be as brave as he was…' I then recalled a story he once shared about a man who refused to jump from the plane until he received a strong kick from the foot of an Egyptian officer. I continued to speak with myself: 'I don't want to be a coward, nor do I need a kick to learn courage. A coward is more shameful than one who is kicked by every foot. I must be brave enough to overcome this complex. I need to crush this fear that grips me. I must unleash my curiosity that challenges and deserves admiration. I should savor, as much as I can, the view of this fantastical world from this great height…' * * * I pressed my cheek and side of my face against the glass of the window beside me and told myself: I must see the world below from this lofty altitude. I want to know how the earth appears to the eye from the sky! I must know how Aden looks from this height! It's my first time seeing the city of Aden from such an elevation—the streets, buildings, ships, sea, beaches, and its overall geography. Then Aden shrank and faded behind us as the plane devoured the distances, while I barely felt the speed of the aircraft, except gradually, as I noticed what was ahead fading behind us. For the first time, I found myself above the clouds. To be higher than the clouds, or to see them beneath you from above, fills you with wonder and awe. It captivates your attention with what you have never known or seen before. What magic it is to see the clouds below you, spread like cotton scattered in thick layers across vast, fantastical expanses. Viewing the clouds from above is different from seeing them from below; it feels as if you are discovering your world for the first time or anew. I am now discovering the difference. I drift into imagination and wishful thinking, often surpassing the bounds of reason. I wished that the clouds were indeed made of cotton, to cushion us if the plane were to fall for any reason. Their appearance was tempting and alluring, but I quickly reminded myself: 'What a deceptive sight…' The clouds look like layers of soft cotton, but the reality is striking. It reflects the behavior of many politicians who deceive their people with grand promises, ascending to high ranks from which they govern those below, only for the people to discover their great delusion, having fallen from a great height and crashing into a hard reality, resulting in catastrophic consequences. I also recalled a tale I heard in my childhood about a fool who wanted to ride a mule and fell from a height, getting stuck in 'Al-Areeb' tree, summarizing his plight and experience with the words: 'If it weren't for Al-Areeb tree… my Lord would have been merciful.' My curiosity refused to sleep or rest; it felt neither fatigue nor boredom, instead growing more passionate and inquisitive. I gazed from the airplane window at mountains, valleys, the sea, and everything the plane passed over. My love for exploration and knowledge fueled my curiosity, and many questions arose in my eager mind. It was disappointing not to find anyone to answer them, with no guide at hand to respond now. Yet, there is solace in knowing that these questions remain alive, refusing to die. They continuously knock on the doors of my mind and awareness, always seeking an answer, and nothing quenches their burning desire but the rain of knowledge. * * * The plane brought us to the skies of Cairo. Seeing Cairo from the air grants you profound knowledge and longing. You wish to land there, to tread upon its ground step by step. I spoke to myself as I soared above it: Here are the pyramids and all the towering, magnificent buildings. Here was Pharaoh and a civilization. Proud Egypt, the mother of the world, where the people say 'except Egypt.' Where is Port Said, about which I read of the heroism of its sons when I was in the third or fourth grade? Here is Egypt, which defeated the tripartite aggression in 1956, nationalized the Suez Canal, and triumphed in the October War of 1973. Here was a leader of Arab nationalism, Gamal Abdulnasser, and there were betrayals and treachery by small, vile men. My thoughts surged from grand concepts to the smallest details as I conversed with myself: Here are all the great figures, alive and dead. Here was the exiled nationalist Saad Zaghloul, and the enduring hope Mustafa Kamel, who taught us that 'there is no despair with life.' Here stands the dean of Arabic literature, the towering figure Taha Hussein, the exceptional novelist Nageeb Mahfoudh, the prince of poets Ahmed Shawqi, and the legal scholar Sennari. Here is the star of the East, Umm Kulthum. Here lies culture, civilization, and giants of every kind. Here is the Egyptian left in all its diversity and luminaries—poets, writers, journalists, philosophers, and artists. Poets like Amal Dunqul, Ahmed Fouad Negm, and Al-Abnoudi; the people's artist SheikhE mam; the fierce advocate against racial discrimination towards women, Dr. Nawal El Saadawi; the philosopher and scholar Mahmoud Amin El-Alam; and the writer and critic Farida El-Nakash. Here too are the leftist politicians Khaled Mohy El-Din, Rifaat El-Said, Ibrahim Eissa, and Samir Amin. Here stands the great journalist, researcher, and writer Mohamed Hassanein Heikal. Here is the lightheartedness and beautiful Egyptian spirit—the School of Troublemakers and its grand heroes, a play that never tires to be watched for the thousandth time. Here is the beloved nightingale Abdelhalim Hafez, and artists like Farid Al-Atrash and Mohamed Abdelwahab, as well as Shadia, Farid Shawqi, Ismail Yassin, Madbouli, El-Meligy, Fouad El-Mohandes, Ahmed Zaki, and Nour El-Sherif. My brother lived here for about six months, studying in the Signal Corps after graduating from the Military Academy in Sana'a in the 1960s, when Egypt supported the republican regime in Yemen. Egypt, the heart of Arabism, led by a leader who sought to unite our scattered fragments and restore our shattered dreams; yet he was betrayed by the vile, surrounded by traitors to the homeland, historical rotters, and indebted politicians. Here resided the Algerian singer Warda, alongside actresses like Yousra, Shams El-Baroudi, Faten Hamama, Souad Hosny, Najlaa Fathi, and Laila Taher, whose enchanting beauty captivated us, allowing our wandering imaginations to soar during our times of deprivation in the throes of youth and the years of repression that followed. Now, the plane descends, carrying us onward. The plane lands at Cairo International Airport. We remained for about an hour waiting inside, as we were not allowed to exit to the airport lounge or even to transit due to the severed relations with the Egyptian regime by the countries of the steadfast front, including Democratic Yemen, from which we had come, following President Anwar Sadat's signing of the Camp David Accords. After an hour of waiting inside the aircraft, the next plane arrived to take us to Kyiv in Ukraine, and then on to Moscow. We prepared to transfer to it.
