A Third Letter… The Rope Will Cut the Stone
Yemeni mp
Ahmd Saif Hashed
In Their era, the face of vitality has darkened with gloom. Our days are twisted by despair and regret. The spirit bleeds, life recedes, and hunger sweeps through our homes. They have severed the means to a dignified existence, and devastation has settled into every household.
Plunder has become rampant, and corruption has reached its peak. An oppressive regime stifles our breath, silencing our voices. They shackle our feet with chains. Our people are afflicted by their endless wars—wars that thrive on our suffering. They unleash terror in the hearts of our children, mothers, and innocents seeking safety, as well as in citizens longing for dignity and a decent livelihood.
Their fortunes flourish at the expense of a dying populace. My voice has faded, and my anguish drips with blood as I ask: From where do you derive this wealth and abundance? Your past was weighed down by the burdens of debt! Your yesterday was empty-handed, devoid of resources! From where do you possess all that blinds our eyes? Our vision is dulled by what we witness, and our hearts bleed and weep each day.
We seek a state for all—a dignified life free from humiliation and degradation; justice and citizenship. In your era, we have found nothing but ruin, corruption, theft, and terrifying discrimination. Our circumstances have worsened, constricting our very bones.
Positions of power are reserved for you; our rights have been stolen, a legacy divided among you. Every right is hijacked; the decisions belong to you, and our people are your spoils.
Until when? The lies have become so extravagant that they can no longer deceive the foolish or indifferent. Everything has become transparent to us. Each individual employs their family—relatives, children, brothers, clans, and loyal followers—at the expense of our rights, the rights of our people.
Our populace suffers under your yoke. A million employees find themselves stranded, witnessing only bitter oppression and humiliation. Why this vengeance and deep-seated hatred?
You desire a people of slaves who respond without objection, without debate or discussion. Their lives are mere obedience, an unending tax, condemned to subservience forever. To question is a crime; our voices become blasphemous, leading to imprisonment or worse.
They have swollen and contorted; our people have become their spoils. The victor tightens its grip, closing its claws of hunger around us. Hunger is our fate, while for them it is a luxury. Our people suffer from their greed—plunder and corruption abound.
Our livelihoods are meager, demanding that we employ countless tricks to attain them. Their scarcity constricts us, and their barrenness deepens. They begrudge us even the smallest fraction of what they possess, their eyes greedy for every morsel. Their avarice is a hell that daily asks: Is there more? They have transformed our resources and rights into iron grips, sheer injustice, dear father, and their stinginess is harsh.
They wish to reduce us to slaves until death, beasts of burden at their whim. This is too much, dear father—beyond the limits of endurance. A teacher toils until death for less than a day’s sustenance. They seek a teacher who does not moan, who has no voice, who dies without food or care.
* * *
One among us lamented: “They have blinded our eyes with daggers and knives. How can we see without sight? The blind man possesses no staff. How can we search for a path in darkness, perilous for its traveler? How can a blind man carry his cane when he has lost both hands? How can love, once vibrant, now languish in despair after the castration of manhood?
How can we traverse a desert that stretches to the horizon beneath a black and sorrowful sky? No stars shine, no moon illuminates, no glimmer of hope exists. ‘No water, no greenery, no beautiful face’—everything has become a void. Everything, dear father, has become heaps of ruin that crowd around us.
After the burning of Rome, a city once stood here. Woe to the civilization ravaged by coarse brutes! Art is despised, and love is deemed a crime. Intoxication is a greater crime than murder. How bold they are in fabricating accusations! How can one who cannot find water to drink discover the blood of Christ to intoxicate themselves with aged wine? A gang of hypocrites cannot be drunk on blood.
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Another among us said: “The night, cloaked in lamentation, has mounted us. The sanctuaries of love lie in ruins beneath heaps of destruction. The platforms overflow with falsehoods and thousands of speeches, while discussions of rights are mere malicious gossip. They hurl accusations of treachery, aggression, and Zionism, ready with a thousand charges. Falsehood has been woven into a fabric of audacity and lies.
We have become the subjects of scoundrels and fools, torn between fangs and claws. Ground down between the stones of war and hunger, we perish in the jaws of death, which continues to thrive within us.
A great corruption has festered in this damned war, evolving into a tyranny that sweeps through fortified strongholds. They have seized the right to life from those who cherish it, extinguishing every right. Our right to life and choice is nonexistent or forcibly taken. They wish to reduce us to slaves or not to exist at all. They aim to strip away what little rights we have left—the right to life and, even before that, the right to existence. How can a group claim to represent the entire people, asserting that their leader is a god?
A third voice chimed in: “We have suffered the misfortune of the foolish, or perhaps we have placed our trust in those who do not deserve it. Perhaps our kindness has blinded us, and our good intentions have betrayed us. Maybe a deception or lie once ensnared us. Perhaps the‘taqiyya’ they concealed from us with a thousand tricks was a trap set for us! Their empowerment has revealed what was hidden within. This empowerment has laid bare all the ugliness.
A wretched fate awaits them, no matter how long it takes. The refuse of history holds the worst outcome for them. If they conspire against us one day, history will be more cunning and treacherous until the end of time.”
* * *
I ask: Where did all this ugliness originate, and where has it been hidden? How has this seismic hatred escaped our notice? This overwhelming tide of deceit and trickery… Tell them, dear father, “Those who deceive us are not our kin.” They are truly not of us, father. This horrific hatred that consumes us daily does not belong to our spirit.
The treacherous bullet approaches from the heart, dear father. It claims to stand on the brink of death, fixated upon us. It is shrouded in lies, infatuated with its own deceptions. The nooses dangle from their gallows, brushing against our throats, asserting that they embody all love.
We are stronger than bullets; counterfeit affection cannot deceive the wise. Our necks stretch higher than the beams of the gallows. Our right to exist is a wound deeper than the guillotine’s blade. Our pride ascends above the peaks of mountains that no gaze can penetrate. Should we be killed, hanged, or perish under mysterious circumstances, the disgrace and shame will belong to them, while we shall attain immortality and glory.
If we die, we will have sown in the soil the seeds of hope—a harvest that flourishes with joy. Our struggle has battled against a thousand oppressors and falsehoods. Our resilience is legendary in the face of adversity and trials. We have lived our lives with courage, nobility, and honor. From beneath the heaps of ash, a thousand phoenixes will undoubtedly rise.
Life may wane, but it shall not die. Our lives, no matter how disheartened, will remain infused with challenge and hope. One day, life must be renewed. Surely, our blood will triumph over a thousand blades and swords, and the heart will prevail over bullets. The spirit of the victim will rise above all.
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