A Deep Throb of Existential Regret

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

After a war that has dragged on interminably, leaving catastrophic consequences in its wake, I am overwhelmed by a profound sense of regret.

Had I known we would arrive at this abysmal state of existence, I would never have brought sons and daughters into this world.

I was blissfully unaware that the future would be laden with a heavy burden of ruin and destruction, shrouded in dense darkness and plagued by the brutality that consumes us daily.

The dreadful condition we find ourselves in, along with our people, reflects a comprehensive cultural regression more harrowing than hell itself.

I grapple with this regret every day. A life I once imagined to be vibrant has turned desolate, arid, and harsh, with hopes that have faded like a mirage after a futile pursuit filled with remorse.

I lament the burden I have placed on my seven children, condemning them to a life heavy with pain and misery, fraught with endless troubles.

We are weighed down by a bleak and miserable reality, facing a future that is either nonexistent or, at best, teetering on the brink of annihilation.

This regret lingers and intensifies, accompanied by the unsettling realization that I have committed a monumental folly—an enduring sin.

The tragedy of existence is one I have inadvertently wrought in a reality I could never have imagined.

I did not foresee that the future I once dreamed of and longed for would be laden with an overwhelming array of wars, tragedies, calamities, and devastating endings.

I feel a piercing pang of regret as I confront the state of affairs that exists before me today—one that never entered my mind or imagination.

It is a heavy and enduring sorrow that I bear each day, accompanied by an unrelenting sense of guilt over a situation from which escape seems impossible.

My heart aches with pain and remorse whenever I hear one of my daughters, supported by some of her sisters, bitterly reproach me for being the cause of their existence and for the tragic circumstances that weigh heavily upon them.

This bitter reproach arises repeatedly in various contexts, expressed in words such as:

“This is your responsibility. Why did you bring us into this world? Why did you create us?”

In response, I can offer only weak, hollow arguments devoid of any persuasive foundation.

Their mother stands by them, and I find nothing in my replies but feebleness, failure, and emptiness—nothing that rises to the level of logic or even provides a justification worthy of the situation.

The conversation devolves into a back-and-forth exchange of blame with their mother, leaving the harsh reality even more bitter.

I then observe my two children, both over thirty, struggling without marriage or employment, unable to secure even the bare minimum for a dignified life.

Their prospects for marriage remain shrouded in uncertainty, weighed down by despair against a backdrop still stained with blood and clouded by fears of a darker future.

I can only advise against marriage unless it is without the intention of having children; bringing new life into this world should only be considered if a better future can be assured—one that still feels distant or increasingly unattainable.

The only counsel I have left to offer is the little wisdom I possess, which I hope will prevent further regret and feelings of guilt.

I express this out of a desire to spare them from repeating the tragedy I have wrought, all the while haunted by the sense that I have committed a sin destined to propagate until the Day of Judgment.

With each passing day, I find myself enveloped in this regret, recalling the words of Emil Cioran: “Those children I did not wish to bring into this world, I wish they could understand the happiness they owe me.”