A Failure in Writing Stories

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

I always felt that the military wire was not the shore I was searching for, nor my resting place for the rest of my life. It would never be my final station. I often sensed a void seeking to be filled, or perhaps I was the one searching for it. I sought my own identity, exploring within for my next destination. I constantly tried to rediscover myself, and when I couldn’t find it, I ventured toward new paths in hopes of uncovering it.

I attempted to write a short story thirty-six years ago, but I failed, and I stopped writing altogether. Today, I return to pen my story. Perhaps it is the failure that Henry Ford spoke of, granting you a new opportunity to start again, but this time with greater wisdom. It is a return after decades of longing. More importantly, this is not just my story; it is also the tale of those whose stories I failed to write—those I strive to represent and to whom I belong.

Today, I summon their stories within the breaths of my own, inspired by the pulse of my loyal pen. I aim to employ a technique that may defy conventional standards and rules, but most importantly, I seek to touch the heart, provoke awareness, and create a lasting impact in memory.

I will write about myself, about the impoverished, the weary, and the honorable fighters in my homeland. I will recount their endless suffering, the minds ensnared by “opium,” the thick darkness that burdens consciousness, ignorance, and the forces that undermine the future. I will write about their usurped homeland, their slaughtered unity, their betrayed revolution, their dreams that were stolen, and their lost future. I will write all this without losing hope in reclaiming what has