A Second Letter to My Father

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

The noose has tightened around us, and its grip is suffocating. Our sky is choked with oppression and despair. A profound sorrow envelops our lives as we witness our hopes wither into disappointment. Each day, our dreams are extinguished, and our aspirations perish, buried beneath heavy burdens of misery, hunger, illness, and death. Our consciousness is besieged by countless afflictions, a slow poison coursing through our grieving bodies.

Time passes, dear Father, as we struggle against formidable adversities. After a long period of quietude, decades have slipped away. Souls that once found solace have emerged anew from the rubble—like shadows from a forgotten nightmare. They return, bearing their weight and influence, their priesthood armed with superstition and insatiable hunger, waging wars that know neither rest nor sleep.

These relentless campaigns of subjugation thrive only through suffering—a cycle from which there is no escape. We are burdened by loads heavier than the mightiest mountains. The forces that return are laden with a history of tragedies, ignorance, and hunger, accompanied by a terrifying past that knows no shame.

They violate our consciousness through intimidation, allure, and authority, moving forward with impunity. For every priesthood has its end, and the truth will ultimately prevail. Every oppressor meets their demise, and every authority reaps what it sows.

Night has returned, dear Father, shrouded in darkness and engulfing us in terror. It descends upon us like fate—bringing pain, coercion, and murder. Starving, feral hyenas tear at the bellies of the hungry, trampling upon our rights, drowning in savagery and barbarism. They have spilled our blood alongside the pure love we once cherished.

We find ourselves in an era of excessive backwardness and dullness, alien to the age—crying out with vulgarity, its face disfigured, its fingers withered, and its limbs frail, afflicted by disease. It is filled with wars and atrocities, a cycle of repeated injustices, swollen with rampant corruption and assured oppression. Such an era may weigh heavily upon us, but it will not endure.

They mock the era of our glorious revolution. Tell them, dear Father, that the transient does not last. Superstition will never become truth. The history of our revolution is magnificent, crowned with a sun that will not set. In our hearts lies a glorious revolution, forever residing within our people. We are grateful to the pioneers, the noble leaders of our cause.

As for their era, even if it persists, it is destined to fade. The despair that has buried our hopes and dreams will surely dissipate. We will cast aside this despondency, no matter how long it lingers across the horizon. The layers of sorrow that have accumulated in our sky will inevitably be lifted.

With determination that can bend steel, we shall move forward. We will reach for our aspirations, galloping forward like wild horses challenging distant horizons. Fueled by a will that nourishes resolve, we will attain our desires, as long as we continue to seek a promising future. It will come, or we will seize it one day, without a doubt.