Learning and Transformation

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

The structured movement during the first year was intense, demanding significant effort and hardship, especially during the period of renewal. More time was allocated to it in the class schedule than to crucial subjects like tactics or live fire training.

Throughout that first year, I found no respite; my spirit was not at ease with it. Moreover, I felt no shared chemistry or harmony with my instructors, “Al-Baraqani” and “Al-Maqat,” despite the latter’s relative softness and kindness compared to the former.

I often stumbled in my performance of the structured movement, making minor mistakes that led to considerable embarrassment in front of my peers. Deep down, I found myself resenting it, belittling its importance, and mocking it, comparing it unfavorably to other endeavors. I would tell myself:

“The study of subjects should focus on shaping us into formidable fighters and exceptional leaders, not turning us into mere showmen of no practical value in the fields of war and combat. I do not appreciate it; in fact, I loathe it and curse it with every ounce of disdain I possess.”

This is how I would speak to myself, stoking my animosity towards it. However, nearly a year later, everything changed; it began to stir in me a sense of joy and a nostalgic melody. As soon as I heard the sound of military music, I found myself in tune with it, flowing towards it like water, almost unconsciously. The drumbeats resonated within me, urging my feet to strike the ground powerfully in rhythm with its tempo.

* * *

In the military college, I learned leadership, where each student was required to lead their squad for 24 hours each time their turn came around within twenty-one days. Initially, this role seemed daunting; however, once I broke through the apprehension, it became a matter of routine. A challenge arose within me, spurring that shy man who was eager for his turn to lead his squad.

In those twenty-one days, it was customary for me to have one day assigned to lead the squad to which I belonged—the first infantry squad. My batch consisted of three infantry squads, alongside air defense, artillery, tanks, engineering, political studies, and Russian language.

My performance improved, and I overcame my usual shyness. I surpassed the struggles I faced in mastering the structured movement and the dullness of rhythm. My tall frame and long limbs harmonized with the drumbeats of the structured movement, rising in a proud crescendo that culminated in sheer ecstasy.

I began to feel as if a giant lay dormant within me. As soon as the music and drumbeats resonated, this giant awakened like a colossus, dancing with the exuberance of a knight and the fervor of a lovesick madman. My feet danced in unison, along with the strings and chords of my heart. Everything that had been dormant sprang to life with the first drumbeat—melody and order, a day renewed, a passion ignited, and a delight that stirred the soul. All of this became part of my essence—a dancing spirit that knew no fatigue. My head was filled with exhilaration, and my feet eagerly surged towards the drum’s pulse, intoxicated by its rhythm, each playing what pleased the soul.

* * *

I had been so shy that I would even shy away from my own voice. However, as time passed in training, my shyness retreated and diminished. My voice grew louder than the drum. I liberated myself from some of my chains, breaking free from the self-imposed restraint. I began to shout at the top of my lungs, my voice booming like thunder, confronting the shyness that had colonized me to the point of enslavement. I freed myself significantly from the weight of shyness that had stifled my voice, transforming it from a whisper to a resounding call.

I shouted “Brother!” like the cannon’s roar, a cry that carried within it a rejection of inferiority, elevating my standing to that of a great leader. It was a call different from the subservient “Present, Sir,” uttered on the other side. We were born free; I despised and recoiled from that phrase. I would not accept humiliation or the loss of self; I refused to become a meaningless being in a herd of enslaved souls.

* * *

I learned to be more diligent in my studies, to the extent of sharing my body, weighed down by fatigue, for a fleeting moment of rest meant for a body on the verge of losing consciousness. It would rest briefly, regaining its breath before plunging back into the fray. I learned patience and persevered, navigating through two years of a heavy and crowded program, alternating between the field, the range, the classroom, and running throughout the day. It began at dawn and ended at ten at night when the lights of our barracks were extinguished.

I learned discipline and order, my anxiety bubbling like water in a cauldron. I became as precise as a clock, as steady as a brush in the hands of a skilled painter. I did not allow appointments to lag, nor did I fall prey to negligence. I sought to correct mistakes as much as my means allowed, except for what was destined or fated. Acceptable margins existed, but I guarded my appointments with intense concern. I always prepared for time, and in moments of urgency, I prepared even more, for caution was greater than an appointment.

* * *

I specialized in infantry because the commander in the field is an infantryman; all leaders are under that banner—tanks, missiles, artillery, and even aviation. In infantry, everyone is led; this is well-known. The infantry is the Minister of Defense, the Chief of Staff. As Lenin said, “He who does not dream of being a general is a listless soldier.”

Commitment and order, generalities and details, ceremonies that exude the grandeur of a general. Cleanliness to the utmost degree—your uniform is ironed and pristine, your boots shine brightly as the sun rises from the horizon. There’s a majesty in your presence, like the sun peeking over a mountain, defying a thousand walls.

In your quarters, your shoes must align with the edge of your bed on the tile, not even a hair’s breadth away. Your helmet peeks from the shelf, positioned precisely like a finger on the sun’s hand. Your bedding is clean and level, without bumps or tilts. Your blankets and clothing must be organized numerically from one to six. Your gear is neatly stacked like the sun, and your ceremonial attire is ready and hung in its place, along with your utensils and supplies, all arranged in order—a model everyone adheres to.

The placement of your bed should conform to the room’s tile measurements. Daily cleaning is mandatory—the room, the bathroom, the corridor, and the surrounding area. Arrive within seconds to the formation at the sound of the whistle. You rush quickly; your speed surpasses that of a whirlwind.

* * *