Suicide Attempt

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

I attempted to defy my father and go against his wishes to attend “Al-Khader’s festival,” but he restrained me, tying me to a wooden post in the back of his shop.

He struck me harshly, and in that moment, I felt all compassion and mercy had been stripped from him. I remained bound to the wooden post until evening came, missing the chance to attend the festival and losing another year of my life burdened by anticipation.

I was anxious for my punishment to end, hoping it wouldn’t last long; perhaps I could grasp a glimmer of hope and join the festival for at least an hour before it was over.

However, my father sensed my thoughts and intentions, deliberately prolonging my heavy punishment until I was left in utter despair, knowing I would miss the remnants of that festival, which wouldn’t return for another long year.

My resolve shattered, my hope faded, and all that I had endured dissolved into hopelessness. There was no escape, no chance to attend, and no point in any effort to change my situation. Customers of various ages came to buy their needs from my father’s shop, looking at me with pity and sympathy. Some tried to plead with my father, but they were powerless to rescue me.

Here, “the son belongs to his father,” like a slave owned by his master. After the time for the festival had passed and hope of attending faded, my father left me tied up and went to “Ras Sharar” to harvest crops. My mother, after waiting in anguish with tears flowing like a river, rushed to me, untied me, and embraced me as if I were a lost son returning after a long absence.

She enveloped me in her compassion and comforted me with words of pain and resilience. She showered me with sorrowful glances, feeling helpless against my father, and then left, after showing me kindness, to fetch water from the well.

Meanwhile, I struggled to contain a surge of anger and a desire for revenge against my father, even if it meant resorting to suicide. I wanted him to feel a deep sense of regret for what he had done to me.

* * *

Once everyone left the house, I locked the door from the inside, climbed to my father’s room on the upper floor, and found his weapon within reach. I imagined the moment the bullet would strike my head beneath my chin, hearing its sound echoing in my mind like a siren. I felt as if I could truly hear it, loud and piercing. Then I envisioned my body, slumped lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around me, my head pierced by the bullet, seeking vengeance for my father’s resistance and cruelty.

I did not know that pieces of my head would scatter on the ground and walls, nor did I realize that I wouldn’t hear the bullet I would fire at myself. I didn’t know that the bullet that would kill me would be silent. I was unaware that the speed of the bullet was faster than the speed of sound, and I would die before hearing it.

I knew that a single bullet to the head would surely be enough to kill me, even capable of killing me twice if one were to live life twice. I imagined that my departure from life would occur just after pulling the trigger, but not before hearing its sound. I tried to live the moment as it had formed in my mind and childhood imagination.

I took his rifle, loaded it, lay down, and placed the muzzle between my neck and head. I put my finger on the trigger and began to count to three to pull the trigger… One… two… and just before I could pull the trigger at three, I heard the lowing of my mother’s cow, as if it were the universe’s message urging me to reconsider! I felt that our cow wanted me to give her one last farewell glance, a moment I needed as well. Perhaps she wanted me to stop and abandon my intentions, or maybe the instinct for survival was stronger than my despair, seeking an excuse to justify my feelings.

I went to see her and give her a final farewell glance. As soon as I saw her, I felt she was pleading with me not to act! That thought crossed my mind, filled with anxiety. I sensed she was connected to me, not wanting me to experience separation or eternal parting. I kissed her forehead, stroked her back, and my hands caressed her neck until I embraced it warmly. My actions with her might have resembled the reverence some show toward sacred animals.

No revelation descended, no angel intervened, and no miracle arose to say, “Do not harm yourself.” I felt I desperately needed a miracle to tell me what I dared not voice, commanding me to stop considering taking my own life.Only our cow leaned toward me, and I felt her overwhelming love, which I reciprocated with deep affection. I sensed she was sharing a warmth with me that I had never felt before.

I fought back my tears, but they flowed hotly. I saw her sniffing me eagerly, as if she wanted to keep a memory of me in case she couldn’t convince me to change my mind about the decision I had made regarding my life. I felt she was holding back her own tears, our cow safeguarded by a charm hanging around her neck to ward off the evil eye. And I, too, was protected by a charm against jinn and devils, but who would protect me from my father’s cruelty?

In that moment, I decided to steal some flour for her, mix it with water, and offer it to her as a final farewell soup. I showered her with kisses, which felt like last farewells. As I turned to leave her, I saw her staring intently at me. I felt she was pleading and begging me not to go and not to abandon the life I should live.

I understood the intimacy between us through that moment, feeling it dense and rain-soaked, resonating with overwhelming emotions and sensations. It was a deep inner dialogue, overflowing with feelings that felt genuine—without illusion or mirage.

* * *

I gazed toward the mountains, trees, and stones, bidding farewell to all. An eternal goodbye is unlike any other.

Such a farewell makes you notice countless details before departing—details you might overlook in the ordinary flow of life. I found myself saying goodbye to everything, even to the minutiae that never crossed my mind, as I faced my appointment with death and the end of my days. I scrutinized everything my eyes fell upon as if seeing it for the first time: the walls, the wood, the utensils, and my mother’s and sisters’ clothes.

I remembered my mother and her love—the mother who sacrificed so much for me. She endured countless hardships, patiently bearing burdens that would crush mountains for the sake of me and my siblings. My mother lived a struggle that neither the earth nor the sky could bear. I felt the sky weeping for every misfortune that befell her.

In that moment, I could not imagine anything that would deter me from suicide—not even our gentle cow.
Yet perhaps my instinct for survival overcame me, or perhaps my love for my mother proved stronger, for no one loved me more than she did. I recalled her often saying to me, “If anything happens to you, I will die of grief and despair.”
I cannot envision my mother witnessing my suicide, my blood staining the ground. I imagined that such a scene would be shocking and devastating for someone who cared for me; a tragedy I could not bear to inflict upon her, who had endured so much for my sake. No one could comprehend the weight of such a tragedy like my mother, who would likely be crushed by the event, if it didn’t kill her instantly.

In contrast, I remembered a poignant depiction I read nearly fifty years later in the last post by Dr. Abdulrahman Jamel Farea, as he lay on his deathbed: “For the loved ones, I sanctify life and cling to it, O God.” Yes, it is the “loved ones” that held a presence, a reason that prevented me from withdrawing my decision to end my life, steering me toward another choice.

Because of my mother and her love, and for my little sisters, I refrained from that folly, allowing life to triumph over death. I decided to express my grievances in a way that was less damaging and costly, and that is what I will do now to provoke my father instead of resorting to suicide. Thus, these thoughts swirled within my burning spirit, and shifting my decision felt like the lesser harm, a more manageable gamble.

* * *