Deprivation and Hardship

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

Regret coiled around me like a serpent constricting its prey. Denial bared its fangs and claws in the face of my weary childhood. Reality frowned upon my small world, which had rights to play, frolic, and rejoice just like any other child.

Regret consumes my existence every time I feel that life still has joys to offer or when it tells us that it is worth living. I am surrounded by much sadness and weighed down by considerable pain.

I would see my peers playing and enjoying a normal life that I had longed for, while I was forbidden from any play or amusement except in limited measures, confined by restrictions, during times that darkened my spirit. I was oppressed by commands and a power that resembled an inescapable fate.

Whenever God blessed our village with rain, and the walls flowed with water, my peers from my village and from “Al-Muraybah,” “Al-Qari’ah,” and “Al-Faqrah” would go swimming in what is called “Al-Qilt” in “Meynat Sharar,” while I was strictly forbidden to go there by an argument that left no room for discussion. I managed to visit it twice, almost miraculously, but since I hadn’t learned to swim, I nearly drowned, swallowing both water and algae in the process.

I was often punished for failing to pray, yet I was never taught to swim—a paradox I experienced in a childhood steeped in denial and deprivation.

My peers would attend weddings, near and far, dancing to drums, songs, and sweet melodies. The children would rejoice and enjoy themselves, while I, filled with regret, would hear the distant sound of drums and the singing of the performers, wishing fervently to be present. I wished even more to be an artist, a dancer, or a flute player.

My longing to