!Cookies and Shells
Yemeni mp
Ahmed Saif Hashed
Night descends… the streets are empty and desolate… only shadows move cautiously, whispering a secret code. Intermittent gunfire echoes in the distance… the thud of an artillery shell explodes far from our position, and I wonder what the toll of that blast was in lives and injuries!
After half an hour, we were stunned by the violent explosion, believing it to be in the very building we were in. Just seconds later, the sharp scent of gunpowder filled our nostrils. We leaned out of the window facing the main street and saw thick smoke rising from the site of the artillery shell that had struck the lower part of the Yemen Bank building, barely fifty meters away from our entrance, and about two hundred meters from the military museum.
I asked myself: what madness is this?! The homes of citizens are separated from the explosion site by mere tens of meters… homes filled with children, women, and the elderly—innocent civilians who cannot leave or escape, finding themselves trapped in a senseless war that they have no part in! How can humans unleash heavy artillery shells in the depths of night, fired from distant locations, onto a city crowded with its inhabitants?!!
If those homes trembled from the force of the blast, how terrifying must the sound have been for the children and women? How could their hearts withstand such overwhelming fear, descending upon them like a thunderbolt?
I heard cries of panic and the screams of children and women whose hearts were seized by the thunderous explosion so close that it terrified us adults as well. Thank fate for their safety, but the level of terror in their souls likely exceeds comprehension. And if fate has written survival for these, what of the others in the cities and neighborhoods of Tawahi, Khormaksar, and Al-Mualla, among others that have become stages for the chaos of bombardment and bouts of madness?
I recalled that child, around ten years old, as I passed through an alley on the third day of the war. He peeked out from the window of an old, dilapidated house, its walls patched with cement, reminiscent of the drawings that Naji Al-Ali used to sketch on the clothing of the beleaguered Palestinian and Arab citizens.
The house’s windows were fitted with thin wooden slats arranged in a way that allowed someone inside to see out without being seen. The open window had its white curtain drawn aside on both sides, and there appeared the radiant face of the boy. It was evident from the general condition of the house that its occupants were a poor family, yet they surprised me with their kindness and generosity in the direst moments of hardship.
The boy called out to me: “Hey, man… hey, man…” I looked at him, his face bright and an innocent smile gracing his lips. I sensed a woman hiding behind him, whispering near his ear. He pulled out a plastic bag containing something and tossed it to me. At first, I hesitated, but when I saw it held three packets of “Abu Walad” cookies, I stepped closer and took it in my hands, the boy’s head still hanging out of the window, his joyous smile unwavering. I asked, “Is this for me?!” He nodded affirmatively, his beautiful smile growing even brighter.
A child’s joy, much like his, spread across my face. I thanked him from the depths of my heart. I repeated the word “thank you” three or four times, feeling that this was the greatest gift in a time of war—something to stave off hunger while my strength faded. How wonderful are the poor when they try to help you, and how content their souls remain despite the war surrounding them, burdening their lives and magnifying their needs in such circumstances.
As I left, I glanced back occasionally, waving goodbye to the boy with a gesture of warmth and farewell. Before I disappeared around the corner, I saw him wave back, sending a wave of joy through me and a feeling of profound happiness radiating from him.
I found myself saying: Oh God, how can they dare to do such a thing?! How can they unleash madness like this?! How can they shell neighborhoods and homes crowded with people? Shells that threaten the heads of children and their mothers, scattering their bodies, collapsing the roofs and walls that provide shelter from an unknown or potential terror, crashing down upon their weary heads and bodies. These people offer us cookies in the midst of war, cherishing what they hold dear, while we bring them terror, panic, and death, raining fire and hell upon them. Oh, wretched cruelty, have mercy on us… the conscience cannot bear such wanton brutality.
I felt that the shell that fell near us was intended to correct the coordinates of the previous shell. I don’t know where the first shell landed or what its toll was! All I know is that we are in a city crowded with its inhabitants. The second shell landed just fifty meters away, and I feared the third would surely land on us. Yet, fate showed us mercy that night, as there were no further bombardments after that terrifying shell.
During the events of January 1986, I was careful to use my weapon only in self-defense. I did not engage in any armed conflict or skirmish; not a single bullet was fired from my rifle, except for that one time when it was said that our building was being infiltrated, and we had to defend ourselves from a potential attack.
Today, as I write this, some may be angered by my reflections on the present and future of Yemen, for I recount my story and delve into a past that I am proud to have emerged from, navigating its sharp turns without having killed a dog or a cat. I even regretted once having killed a mouse, especially when I saw its little one wandering nearby in sorrow, oblivious to its surroundings. I felt grief and remorse, and I wrote about it, protesting against this unjust life and its unfair laws.
Between that war and today, there have been many conflicts. Yet, the war we live in today has dragged on for its seventh consecutive year, and we struggle to describe it. The least we can say is that it is more mad and blind… more horrifying than can be measured or compared.
Wars are bold in committing atrocities… there are no ethics, no values, no rules of engagement. Everything in this war we are experiencing today is permissible and squandered. Oil money pours its evils and hell upon our children, women, and men in markets, schools, homes, funeral gatherings, weddings, and population centers. Everything here has become permissible, devoid of caution or distinction… no reason, no conscience, no dissenters. Everything has been squandered and violated in the inferno of war.
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