My Boisterous Reading

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

I used to study my lessons aloud. Silent reading, or even reading softly, never appealed to me; its yield felt scant and fleeting. My boisterous temperament finds no harmony with the quietude of silent reading, which I have neither grown accustomed to nor embraced. In fact, I find that this muted approach burdens my memory, demanding constant nudges that lose their significance after reading a page or two. Soon, boredom and tedium creep in, perhaps even drowsiness, while in other moments, silence scatters my thoughts in every direction. I become like a small child, aimlessly chasing the shadow of a bee flitting among flowers, never catching it, nor lingering long on the bloom.

When I read in silence, I find myself easily distracted, my mind wandering. Sometimes, drowsiness overtakes me after an hour, if the atmosphere allows, while at other times, a stretching boredom pulls at my limbs, and a sense of disorientation sweeps me away to places I do not wish to go. I feel distanced from what I am engaged in, far removed from the very text I intend to read.

I cannot explain how the habit of reading aloud clung to me since my middle school days, only to find myself in high school even more attached to it, unable to find any other method that suits me. In university, and later at the Higher Institute of Judiciary, it became second nature, perhaps even a characteristic trait of my reading style that I cannot abandon, except out of necessity or urgent compulsion.

My comprehension while reading aloud was significantly greater than when I read softly, and my focus while reading aloud was exponentially higher than when I engaged in silent reading. The latter often leads me to squander much time for little benefit, with much of that time lost in chasing the fleeting thoughts that dart in every direction.

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I would step out from the dormitory into the desert, traversing its expanse as I studied my lessons aloud. I gestured with my hands and feet unconsciously, taking a few steps before pausing to repeat phrases until they sank in, attempting to memorize them. Once I finished a lesson, I would write in the sand, “O Lord, increase my knowledge,” sometimes adding, “from the cradle to the grave.” I did this driven by pure whimsy, which too claimed a share of my wasted time. Those who observed me from afar might have thought I was possessed or perhaps truly mad.

I read with my mouth, my hands, my feet—every part of my body engaged, my face flushed by the sun and wind, transforming my reading into a vibrant spectacle, akin to a boisterous performance infused with movements that invigorated my memory.

This was a facet of my diligence, in which I found myself more committed than ever, full of interest, perseverance, and effort. I felt the weight of ambition pressing upon me, embracing my aspirations with a heightened sense of responsibility.

At the “Proletariat School,” I began to appreciate the significance of education, of exploration and knowledge. My self-confidence grew, and the joy of learning deepened with each moment I devoted to my studies, drawing ever more from the well of knowledge.

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