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Yemenat
12 hours ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
The Triumph of My Conscience
On January 18, 1986, I witnessed detainees being dragged into an interrogation room. At first glance, their accents, dialects, and the expressions on their faces revealed them to be citizens from the Bedouin communities, specifically from the provinces of Abyan and Shabwa. I could hear their screams, ignited with the fire of pain, echoing in every direction. I saw some interrogators wielding thick sticks, mercilessly striking certain detainees with a cruelty that often reached its peak. The door to the room was open, as was the window. It resembled a guard room, where a handful of guards might gather. Inside, there was a table and a few chairs. One of the interrogators seemed to be trying to showcase his brutality and vulgarity, reveling in his actions. I hovered nearby, stealing glances filled with fiery curiosity, living the moment of pain that lashed at the victims like a serpent. My curiosity urged me to understand more about what was unfolding, while the cries of the beaten pierced the walls like cannon fire, resonating deeply in my ears. Their wails and screams transported me back to my childhood, to the tales my mother would tell of the severity of torment and judgment in the grave. I found myself questioning: Are these interrogators human like us? They resemble the stern overseers of heavy judgment in the graves, as described in stories I heard as a child. It cannot be that this is the first time they engage in such acts of beating, humiliation, and degradation of victims in the interrogation room; otherwise, they would show less cruelty and more hesitation in their use of violence and torture. My mind was flooded with questions: What drives an interrogator to abandon the bare minimum of humanity, transforming into a grotesque criminal? Why is such excessive violence employed? Assuming there are guilty parties among them, it is certain that there are also innocents who, by coincidence or ill fate, have fallen into the circle of suspicion; why are they being beaten? Everyone here should only be presumed suspicious, not even accused. Isn't the law supposed to prohibit torture and humiliation, even if they are guilty? Why is all this happening now? The questions continued to flood my mind: Is it failure and helplessness? Is it a pathological inferiority complex that the interrogator seeks to fulfill in order to appear complete? Is it ideology, applying its weight on minds or wreaking havoc in empty heads? And where? And against whom? Is it the disease of 'sadism' that has taken root and become a fixation within the souls of interrogators who seem to have become addicted to it? These are the most pressing and painful questions. The scenes I witnessed were shocking, unexpected, and devastating to my grand dreams. They clashed violently with my ideals and the principles I believed I held dear. They were humiliating to my lofty hopes and some convictions that had previously been ignorant of the horrors occurring in the depths of detention centers, interrogation rooms, and the shadows of politics. Perhaps it was I who had failed to grasp the truth or to seek it out, to discover the tragic realities and suffering that were unfolding. I saw life in its ugliness as better than it truly was. I never imagined I would witness such scenes and events that had never crossed my mind, nor did I think I would confront them in broad daylight. In the best of cases, one might offer the interrogators an unacceptable excuse, such as claiming they were seeking quick confessions that might be necessary at the time. However, the accumulation of what I saw and heard later led me to a certainty that shattered all excuses. The impact of the beatings and violence inflicted by the interrogators upon some detainees brought to mind a documentary I could never forget: 'The Crimes of the American CIA.' I had watched it at the 'Dar Saad' cinema while studying in high school at 'Proletariat School.' It depicted, in vivid sound and image, horrific violations of human rights against activists, politicians, and resistors of dictatorial regimes in Latin America, Central America, and the Maghreb. While watching the film, I felt that death for the tortured detainee had become a distant wish. Now, I was witnessing live torture with my own eyes, even if it was not at the same level. I heard the cries of torture without any intermediary or portrayal, and what was happening today was even worse than hell itself. On that same day—January 18, 1986—one of the interrogators offered me the chance to participate in the investigation after learning I was studying law. I refused his offer and thought to myself: Oh God, is this possible?! I, who dream of justice for all, am to become a great and ruthless criminal. I want to be a judge or a lawyer, and he wants to turn me into an executioner. I must leave this hideous place and never return. My conscience needed to be free from pain and remorse. It was a bitter struggle with my conscience, and now it was time for it to rest. I went to meet with the leadership, aided by my friend Hakim. The leadership was based in the post office building. One of them was a young man from Yafea, working as the director of an economic institution, while the other was a military leader. I requested permission to leave, wanting to surrender my weapon. My friend awaited approval to take my weapon and ammunition, which indeed happened, and I returned home without arms or ammunition. No one had done this before, and I had never heard of anyone victorious surrendering their weapon and returning home. Yes, on that day, January 18, 1986, while opportunists and exploiters were aligning themselves with the winning team, I was surrendering my weapon and ammunition and leaving the battlefield for home. I had to begin another cycle of suffering and societal tragedies, but with a victorious conscience. I will outline some of these below. Today, the de facto authorities, across various orientations, factions, and areas of control, continue to engage in all forms of torture, pushing it to its extremes—torture that reaches the level of murder without restraint or deterrent. There is a blatant restriction of freedoms, with no one to stop it. Brutal men of power and warlords do as they please, and we have not heard, after seven years of war, that any de facto authority has referred anyone to trial, nor has justice been served as punishment. Instead, there is humiliation and degradation of dignity, with broad violations of rights, all without a single eyelash fluttering in response. It is unjust to confine our criticism to the past and those who have departed, without acknowledging the present, which is far more horrific. Between yesterday and today, conditions have turned completely upside down. What has transpired was beyond imagination: the torturer has become a victim, while the victim has transformed into a torturer even worse than their predecessors. Today, the ease with which torture, detention, restriction of freedom, and violations of rights and laws occur is unprecedented. Today, torture is practiced with a fervor we have witnessed after a dismantling of norms. The ugliness has spread, and rights have been trampled upon extensively, to the point where Yemen can no longer contain it, leaving no room for justice. Victims have multiplied, and the extent of torture and extrajudicial killings has escalated to the point of absurdity. The authorities that claim to uphold and protect the law have become complicit in these violations, either by covering them up or defending the criminals, as if they have secured immunity from the wrath of history, believing that days no longer turn, and that this is the end of history and the conclusion of time.
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
Discovering Some Truth
On January 18, 1986, I was informed and transferred to the square located between the Aden Post Office by the sea and the gate that became part of the offices of the Governor of Aden. This day was different for me, as I claim I discovered some truth within it. The victors were arresting the defeated and those suspected of belonging to them. I heard muffled voices pleading for water, as if they were rising from the depths of a well that had dried up long ago, its surface buried with wood and stones, covered in earth. I did not know that there were prisoners crammed behind the thick walls before me. I was unaware that behind the heavy door were people threatened by death from thirst and suffocation. When the jailer opened the door, I was taken aback by the unimaginable overcrowding. It was a suffocating congestion, cutting off breath. If someone stood, they could hardly sit down again without great difficulty, due to the extreme crowding. It was a crush that I believed, if it lasted any longer, would be lethal. Dozens of people, perhaps more than thirty or forty, were crammed into a space that could barely accommodate fifteen. When this prison door opened, it felt as if I were witnessing the unboxing of minced meat. Oh my God, what is this?! Something unbelievable—something too great to comprehend. Lord, what is this that I see?! Am I dreaming, or is this reality resembling hell? Our appearance to them seemed like a glimpse of relief sent by fate to allow them to catch their breath after despair and grimness. It was as if we brought them a lifeline from certain death. They looked at us as if the heavens had opened their gates. Some cried out for water, while others' pleas had become mere gasps, their owners no longer able to articulate anything but gestures. Voices intertwined, and the words mingled in a way that we could no longer discern their beginnings from their ends. There was no light, no air—only a little air and drops of water became their last shred of hope in a life burdened by thirst, torment, and suffocation. Anyone who sees this throng, this overcrowding, with death evident on their faces, and does not stir a finger has committed an unforgivable crime—an immense burden, an act of great wrongdoing. Anger mingled with my humanity, leading me to disbelief and rebellion. This scene was shocking and unprecedented for me, something I never thought I would witness. I rushed to bring them water, nearly clashing with one of the guards who tried to prevent me from giving them a jug of water. He insisted on stopping me forcefully, saying, 'These people forced our comrades to drink from the sewers.' I was ready to do anything insane to help these prisoners with water, prepared to commit any act that might awaken the conscience of those still alive. I was mentally prepared to face any possibility if I were forcibly prevented from handing the water to them. Yes, I was psychologically ready to do anything! Even those who opposed giving water to the detainees recognized my agitation, which was close to frenzy. My nerves were about to snap! Every muscle in my body, especially in my face, trembled. My skin felt like a thin crust of earth, agitated beneath a violent volcano. Perhaps that's why I managed to get the water to them. Yes, I succeeded in delivering water to those who cried out for it. I felt I had achieved a mission akin to that of a prophet who aided a people without killing or wasting a single soul. I succeeded in helping a group crammed into a space no larger than seven by seven meters. 'Crater' became one instead of two, but with a deep and wide wound—a wound greater than the entirety of the city. 'Crater' became a scene of victors, while the defeated were being sought out for arrest. Everything in Aden and beyond lay shattered and torn, starting with the souls. The wounds were deep, and deeper still was the suffering and the unknown that awaited. I was not driven by emotion, but by the sight of dignity being trampled and lives being devalued. I saw new detainees being brought into an interrogation room nearby. I heard heartbreaking accounts of how arrests were made by those who carried them out. They boasted of their actions as I was torn apart by pain. The raids and searches of homes were at their peak. Sadness erupted within me like a flood as I listened to the stories. One person had their home raided, dragged from their hiding place inside the wardrobe in the bedroom, while another was pulled from under the bed. Some were taken from beneath the stairs, from the bathroom, or from neglected corners of the house or rooftops—all amidst the anguish of families and the screams of children and women. And more atrocities were committed after the arrests. As they bragged about searching homes, I remembered the search that took place at our house in the village after my brother was killed. My younger brothers had been forced to retreat to the cow and donkey shed. But once the search of the house was completed, they turned toward my younger brothers in the shed for another search, separate from the house. They screamed in terror and despair, their cries causing the officials to hesitate and ultimately refrain from searching it, content with searching my father's house and that of my slain brother. On January 18, 1986, one team began to emerge victorious while the other lost the battle. The victors referred to the defeated as 'a gang,' while the defeated called the victors a 'clique.' This is how comrades identified each other, amidst overwhelming enthusiasm and severe exclusion. The mobilization was perilous and fraught with tragedy, and what was worse was that both sides exhibited a complete absence of accountability. January 18, 1986 marked a turning point with clear indicators of victors and vanquished. Those who joined the winning side after this date were perceived merely as opportunists, contributing nothing to the victorious roster. They were seen as those who rode the wave of triumph for self-interest, with no role in what they termed the resolution of the battle. This is how I heard the victors boast and speak in the square to which I was transferred. It is true that one side committed a grave sin against the nation when it chose treachery and arms, but both parties were complicit in horrific killings outside the law, deepening societal divisions, and fostering regional and sectarian mobilization, inciting and fueling loathsome hatred. The result was the defeat of our country in the south in 1986. These transgressions recurred, leading to Yemen's defeat in the 1994 war, and in 2015, what remained of Yemen—its nation, state, and future—was destroyed. We continue to live through defeats, participating in the erosion and loss of Yemen. Yet, the worst of all is to label these national defeats as great victories or significant gains. As for the torture and my reflections on certain tragedies, I will dedicate a space to my observations, which represent a part of the truth I learned that day and the days that followed. This does not absolve us from addressing the ongoing war, the tragedies, death, tyranny, hunger, and the unknown—issues that are a thousand times greater than what we witnessed in the events of January 1986.
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
!Cookies and Shells
Night descends… the streets are empty and desolate… only shadows move cautiously, whispering a secret code. Intermittent gunfire echoes in the distance… the thud of an artillery shell explodes far from our position, and I wonder what the toll of that blast was in lives and injuries! After half an hour, we were stunned by the violent explosion, believing it to be in the very building we were in. Just seconds later, the sharp scent of gunpowder filled our nostrils. We leaned out of the window facing the main street and saw thick smoke rising from the site of the artillery shell that had struck the lower part of the Yemen Bank building, barely fifty meters away from our entrance, and about two hundred meters from the military museum. I asked myself: what madness is this?! The homes of citizens are separated from the explosion site by mere tens of meters… homes filled with children, women, and the elderly—innocent civilians who cannot leave or escape, finding themselves trapped in a senseless war that they have no part in! How can humans unleash heavy artillery shells in the depths of night, fired from distant locations, onto a city crowded with its inhabitants?!! If those homes trembled from the force of the blast, how terrifying must the sound have been for the children and women? How could their hearts withstand such overwhelming fear, descending upon them like a thunderbolt? I heard cries of panic and the screams of children and women whose hearts were seized by the thunderous explosion so close that it terrified us adults as well. Thank fate for their safety, but the level of terror in their souls likely exceeds comprehension. And if fate has written survival for these, what of the others in the cities and neighborhoods of Tawahi, Khormaksar, and Al-Mualla, among others that have become stages for the chaos of bombardment and bouts of madness? I recalled that child, around ten years old, as I passed through an alley on the third day of the war. He peeked out from the window of an old, dilapidated house, its walls patched with cement, reminiscent of the drawings that Naji Al-Ali used to sketch on the clothing of the beleaguered Palestinian and Arab citizens. The house's windows were fitted with thin wooden slats arranged in a way that allowed someone inside to see out without being seen. The open window had its white curtain drawn aside on both sides, and there appeared the radiant face of the boy. It was evident from the general condition of the house that its occupants were a poor family, yet they surprised me with their kindness and generosity in the direst moments of hardship. The boy called out to me: 'Hey, man… hey, man…' I looked at him, his face bright and an innocent smile gracing his lips. I sensed a woman hiding behind him, whispering near his ear. He pulled out a plastic bag containing something and tossed it to me. At first, I hesitated, but when I saw it held three packets of 'Abu Walad' cookies, I stepped closer and took it in my hands, the boy's head still hanging out of the window, his joyous smile unwavering. I asked, 'Is this for me?!' He nodded affirmatively, his beautiful smile growing even brighter. A child's joy, much like his, spread across my face. I thanked him from the depths of my heart. I repeated the word 'thank you' three or four times, feeling that this was the greatest gift in a time of war—something to stave off hunger while my strength faded. How wonderful are the poor when they try to help you, and how content their souls remain despite the war surrounding them, burdening their lives and magnifying their needs in such circumstances. As I left, I glanced back occasionally, waving goodbye to the boy with a gesture of warmth and farewell. Before I disappeared around the corner, I saw him wave back, sending a wave of joy through me and a feeling of profound happiness radiating from him. I found myself saying: Oh God, how can they dare to do such a thing?! How can they unleash madness like this?! How can they shell neighborhoods and homes crowded with people? Shells that threaten the heads of children and their mothers, scattering their bodies, collapsing the roofs and walls that provide shelter from an unknown or potential terror, crashing down upon their weary heads and bodies. These people offer us cookies in the midst of war, cherishing what they hold dear, while we bring them terror, panic, and death, raining fire and hell upon them. Oh, wretched cruelty, have mercy on us… the conscience cannot bear such wanton brutality. I felt that the shell that fell near us was intended to correct the coordinates of the previous shell. I don't know where the first shell landed or what its toll was! All I know is that we are in a city crowded with its inhabitants. The second shell landed just fifty meters away, and I feared the third would surely land on us. Yet, fate showed us mercy that night, as there were no further bombardments after that terrifying shell. During the events of January 1986, I was careful to use my weapon only in self-defense. I did not engage in any armed conflict or skirmish; not a single bullet was fired from my rifle, except for that one time when it was said that our building was being infiltrated, and we had to defend ourselves from a potential attack. Today, as I write this, some may be angered by my reflections on the present and future of Yemen, for I recount my story and delve into a past that I am proud to have emerged from, navigating its sharp turns without having killed a dog or a cat. I even regretted once having killed a mouse, especially when I saw its little one wandering nearby in sorrow, oblivious to its surroundings. I felt grief and remorse, and I wrote about it, protesting against this unjust life and its unfair laws. Between that war and today, there have been many conflicts. Yet, the war we live in today has dragged on for its seventh consecutive year, and we struggle to describe it. The least we can say is that it is more mad and blind… more horrifying than can be measured or compared. Wars are bold in committing atrocities… there are no ethics, no values, no rules of engagement. Everything in this war we are experiencing today is permissible and squandered. Oil money pours its evils and hell upon our children, women, and men in markets, schools, homes, funeral gatherings, weddings, and population centers. Everything here has become permissible, devoid of caution or distinction… no reason, no conscience, no dissenters. Everything has been squandered and violated in the inferno of war.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
?Am I a Wrongdoer
I leaned out from the apartment window and beheld children carrying containers filled with water, heavier than their own bodies. Their forms were frail and weary, as if they were grappling with fates that offer no mercy or compassion to a child. I witnessed a little girl burdened with something twice her weight—a bucket of water she could scarcely balance on her head. She could only manage to carry it for about ten steps, as though she were dragging along the weight of her lamented life. She paused briefly to catch her breath, nearly lost, then resumed her arduous journey home, water in tow, a hundred stages and a thousand steps to conquer death. Here, every step embodies the essence of a life striving to live with dignity. The return with water might save a family from the clutches of thirst. She pressed on, exerting herself with each step, stumbling and slowing down at every turn. Her return home with water was nothing short of a miracle! I found myself pondering: When will she arrive home? Will she truly make it? And then the question emerged before me: Are we the wrongdoers? I leaned out of the apartment window and beheld children carrying containers filled with water, heavier than their own bodies. Their forms were frail and weary, as if they were grappling with fates that offer no mercy or compassion to a child. I watched a little girl burdened with something twice her weight—a bucket of water she could scarcely balance on her head. She could only manage to carry it for about ten steps, as though she were dragging along the weight of her lamented life. She paused briefly to catch her breath, nearly lost, then resumed her arduous journey home, water in tow, traversing a hundred stages and a thousand steps to conquer death. Here, every step embodies the essence of a life striving to live with dignity. The return with water might save a family from the clutches of thirst. She persevered, exerting herself with each step, stumbling and slowing down at every turn. Her return home with water was nothing short of a miracle! I found myself pondering: When will she arrive home? Will she truly make it? And then the question emerged before me: Are we the wrongdoers? I watched women as they brought water, jostling for a source in the area opposite. I witnessed the suffering of a war that cares little for the calamities it inflicts upon innocent and kind-hearted people. Women, children, and the elderly risk their lives to confront the thirst that has intensified after days of water shortages. They wage their battle so that death does not consume them in their homes, surrendering to despair. I saw good, unarmed citizens struggling to carve out a path for survival amidst the chaos of war. A question overwhelmed me: How can conscience absolve itself of responsibility in such circumstances? I found myself defending my actions as if I were the accused: I did not create this painful reality! What can I do to change the situation or tilt the balance in favor of these good people? The reality now imposes its conditions on everyone, and I am living in my own hell as well. My life hangs by a thread; the future is uncertain, perhaps dependent on who emerges victorious. This reality has become far greater than I can comprehend—beyond comparison or measurement. What can I do? And will my actions change anything? Despite my defense, the ache of my conscience remains, refusing to leave or relent. The pain intensifies, stinging me like the whip of a tormentor. The question persists: Am I a wrongdoer? This question echoes in my ears, lodged in my mind, overwhelmed by what I see and hear, and my weary awareness of everything happening around me. Communications are cut off, water remains unavailable, and there is no hope for its return. The unknown lurks in every street and corner. But what fault do the innocent citizens bear—those with no connection to the war, neither near nor far? They are, in fact, victims in this situation, fighting their fundamental battle for survival. They bravely confront death and numerous fears. How just and humane their struggle is, oh life! Their challenge to death was evident as they waded into the absurd war between the two factions, each striving for victory and triumph. The unarmed citizens are the majority who did not participate in the creation of this war, yet they are the first to bear its burdens, catastrophic consequences, and enduring tragedies. They deserve life more than anyone else. If you do not confront death and step out to face it, it will come to smother your breath, leaving you to die in the burrow you have not left. In circumstances like these, if you do not emerge to grapple with death and claim your share of life, you will die of thirst, hunger, and despair. Death will inevitably come to you while you cower, humiliated and trembling. That day, I was exhausted, having not slept the previous night or during that day. I placed my hand on my head and felt strands of hair falling away easily, as if they were not part of me. I tried to check, only to find them shedding with the slightest touch, without my realizing they were rooted in my scalp. I decided to leave it be, fearing I might suddenly find myself without hair, perhaps even without a scalp. I thought a sickness had claimed me, damaging my scalp! I asked the soldier accompanying me if he was suffering as I was, and he revealed that he had experienced this condition before I did. I remained locked in a battle of endurance against the war, while my struggle with my conscience raged fiercely. I found myself facing two fronts, and the battle with my conscience was the most intense—my conscience that refused to sleep.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
Ah, my children
Crater was among the least tumultuous areas during the events of January 1986 compared to others, as it witnessed only limited and intermittent clashes. Our initial positioning was near the postal protection unit and its vicinity. The post office building seemed to transform into a command center from which operations in 'Crater' were directed by the team loyal to Antar and Fattah. I do not know, or perhaps I no longer remember, where my colleague Yahya Al-Shaabi disappeared to; I was unaware of his destination. It is likely he managed to return to his home in 'Al-Qaloua.' I believe he suggested such an idea to me, but fear of encountering obstacles on the way home held me back, so I chose to stay. Also, in my heart was a girl I had admired for months, living close to the post office, behind the comrades' compound where I initially sought refuge. I kept my feelings hidden from them and often avoided drawing their attention to such matters. I remembered that novel I had read during one of my high school vacations—'Khan al-Khalili' by Najeeb Mahfoudh. It features a touch of love amid war, and I have a reflection regarding the girl I admired, which I may touch upon later. A soldier from Radfan, who was with us and dressed in military uniform, was assigned the task of climbing to the top of the Aden lighthouse as a lookout, with a warning to be cautious of snipers from the opposing side. Meanwhile, my cousin and I were stationed in a building overlooking the post office, the Aden lighthouse, and part of the wall of 'Al-Habishi' square. It was a building on the main street that separated us from the post office. We climbed to the rooftops and remained there, taking turns to guard the entrance on the street. On the night of the third day of the events, while I was guarding the building's gate, my cousin shouted from the roof, informing me of an attempted infiltration from the back. At that moment, I was at the entrance, and I quickly moved to the alley leading to Al 'Jalla' opening behind the building. I began firing bursts of gunfire, suspecting an infiltration or raid, while my cousin and others on the roof were shooting down over the wall at the back of the building. By morning, we found no trace of anyone, leading us to believe it was merely an attempt at infiltration or reconnaissance, perhaps just a test of the waters. After that, I was instructed to head to a forward position along the front line, specifically to the apartment of 'Salem Ma'roof,' which is near the Yemeni bank in the heart of 'Crater,' following the sniper attack on one of our team members, a man from the Al-Jalilah area in Al-Dhala. We were tasked with transporting his body to the vehicle prepared for that purpose, and then to remain at the apartment we moved to. I felt the weight of the risk involved in this mission, especially from snipers on the other side or even from those stationed in their positions. Yet, there was no room for hesitation or shirking such a duty. We found the deceased lying down, partially bent at the entrance of the building where 'Salem Ma'roof's' apartment was located. Nearby was that brave 'Radfani' soldier who had previously occupied the top of the lighthouse; it seemed he had been assigned to move to that building. Al 'Radfani' soldier told us that he had been next to the man at the moment he was shot by the other team. He recounted hearing his fallen comrade groan before he passed away, saying, 'Ah, my children.' 'Ah, my children'—this small phrase felt like a sniper's bullet striking deep within me. I felt as if an axe had split my head in two. It was as though a concrete pillar had crushed my back. My tears rebelled and flowed against my will. It is the right of tears to revolt when we seek to suppress them in the presence of such a tragic scene. In that moment, I felt the horror and brutality of war. We carried the victim to the vehicle, which sped away, and we returned to the apartment of 'Salem Ma'roof,' which his family had abandoned earlier.
