A Man Kissing His Beloved

Yemeni mp

Ahmed Saif Hashed

As the luxurious black car sped through the wide streets toward the circus in Moscow, I caught sight of a man and his beloved, intoxicated by deep love. He kissed her lips like a seasoned lover and then leaned into her neck with longing. Those kisses reminded me of what I once read about Rasputin, how he would envelop her in his arms and meld their lips together.

In that fleeting moment, I stole a glance at a scene of intoxicating love that settled deep in my memory, refusing to fade with the passage of time. Under a lush tree, beneath a sky that blessed this explosive moment of trembling passion, life surged with delightful existence. Souls were unified and intensified like a rain cloud, filled with the sweetness of longing that enveloped both spirit and body. Their intimate connection was adorned with the ecstasy of affection blessed by the heavens, destined since time immemorial.

We passed the scene, the car turning its back on the lovers, while my eyes remained glued to the horizon where that place faded into the distance. The speeding wheels crushed the space I longed to linger in, dissipating my hope and leaving me in the car, carrying the weight of deprivation and deep sorrow.

In the depths of my being, I stifled my anger at the driver, who did not grant me a moment to linger on a sight I had never witnessed before—one that had always been stifled by shame and marred by embarrassment. I had been consumed by the painful fire of love, shackled by the chains of a society deeply rooted in a shameful past. My life, whose first dream was a connection with the one I love, or a meeting with a beloved, felt more distant than ever.

I, who come from the pits of disgrace, oh Moscow, come from lands that see love as their greatest enemy, imposing strict judgments and announcing them from minarets and city gates. A love criminalized by the nation, pursued with the fervor of high honor, while true honor remains an illusion, trampled daily before eyes, newspapers, and news broadcasts.

Honor is violated from the farthest Gulf to the ocean, in lands that suppress love with the harshness of infanticide and the rooted zeal of a coarse, barren consciousness. Our eyes, clouded by the decay of tribes and traditions, are deprived of water and air. Our vision is burdened by the fanaticism of pride that strangles love wherever it finds it, condemning lovers with a thousand accusations.

As I departed from that scene of love, I felt like a wilting sunflower in the harshness of sunset, my neck burdened by the weight of centuries steeped in a distant past—an era of infanticide, shame, and slavery. My memory, which allowed me to leave, remained alive in that same place, while I returned to my homeland, still governed by Sheikhs of fatwas, tribal leaders, tyrants of oppression, and the thick darkness of ignorance.

I felt life slipping away like the wind, rushing toward oblivion and loss. Time passed faster than the car I once rode, and now, as we enter the third millennium, I did not expect it to move contrary to the dreams I cherished. Fate brought me something other than what I desired, leaving me like an old horse, no longer capable of dragging my disappointment.

I now reflect on my wasted years and the days that have passed, which have become empty like nothingness, weighed down by profound regret. My eyes, fixed on my time-weathered face, feel like they are hung by a noose of sorrow, as grief envelops me from head to toe like paper worn by time. I curse the driver, bound by a seatbelt, who neither slows down nor looks back.

This is but a fragment of my story, a scene I witnessed for the first time in my tormented life—a man kissing his beloved without the intrusion of authority, eyes, or curiosity, except for me, emerging from the depths of hell, burdened by the weight of the deepest deprivation. In an era still steeped in dust, we continue to labor under heavy burdens, the weight of unyielding mountains.

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