The United States conducted airstrikes throughout Yemen during the first week of April. Just a few blocks from my family’s home in a quiet Hodeidah port city neighborhood, one strike struck. Everything happened quickly, including the explosion, the house shaking, the children screaming, and the struggle to comprehend what was happening, as is always the case with sudden attacks.
Since the Yemeni war began ten years ago. Israeli and American bombing has taken over the coalition’s airstrikes, but they have stopped. It now seems like we are playing a video game and have just advanced to a new level in a fight with a monster that is much more vicious than the first one.
I believed that surviving numerous attacks would have helped us overcome our fear. But I miscalculated. My son, Tamim, ran into my arms as a result of the blast that occurred this month. Although my little boy had no fear in his eyes, I could see it was pure rage. He doesn’t recall the entire conflict. Although he is only six years old, he is still discovering the world, which had a nasty face on him that day, in early April.
His little fingers trembled as he put his hands on my face’s sides. Then he muttered, “Is this an earthquake?”
I was looking for a solution to my child’s question while everyone at home was trying to figure out where the bomb had fallen.
He was still in the process of asking for an answer, so I grinned in an effort to calm him down. Should I tell him the truth instead of yes? Or should I describe the fighter jet, missile, and reality of war? Should I tell him that the world has abandoned us in a vicious bombardment?
I explained to him that the earthquake wasn’t caused by an airplane that had passed by and launched a missile. I made the terrible details of what a missile does when it land in a residential neighborhood with him. For him, I didn’t want to distort his love of airplanes. Tamim’s dream is to fly above the clouds, and he has already saved up the money he has saved for a future use.
He was frightened and began to consider his flying machines after hearing about the airplane. I’m really worried that my son will eventually realize what a plane’s sound actually means in Yemen.
We were soon able to identify the air strike’s target, a building that stood directly opposite a previous home. The sister of a close friend of mine lived there. I decided to call my friend who was residing in a different city after being overcome by an anxious premonition.
At the start of our conversation, I was unable to tell her what had transpired. On the phone, she sounded so happy. But she recognized that something was amiss in my shaky voice. Unfortunately, I had to carry the gruesome news.
Later, we learned that the explosion had killed her nephew, a 18-year-old named Mohamed. His greatest wish was to receive financial aid to pursue his studies. After taking classes at an English language institute, he had just returned home an hour before the attack.
Mohamed may not have known that the scholarship he would receive would be for a different world and that it would not require any other qualifications besides being Yemeni.
Before being forgotten, he started receiving news headlines a few times.
As I began to write these words, funerals were held for 80 victims of the Ras Isa port bombing two weeks later. The United States recognized that the port was a part of the group’s fuel supply chain, but it made a decision to ignore the work of the port’s civilian employees.
Most of them left as burned bodies and went home. Some, like Abdel Fattah, 26, did not even return. His body was not accessible. His survivors’ survivors claimed that he was standing near the site where a missile descended. There was no trace of him when they searched for him: nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Pulverized was Abdel Fattah.
A family’s worst nightmare is missing a loved one’s body to embrace and mourn.
There were more days. Hodeidah was hit by more airstrikes. How heartbreaking the moments are following an explosion are. Who will suffer as the result? Death lurks where? Calling loved ones is a frenzy in people. A family can become alarmed if they make the simple choice to turn their phone off.
Yemenis still find a way to show kindness and resilience in the midst of all the suffering and destruction. People frequently claim that Gaza’s suffering cannot compare to what is happening. My fellow Yemenis view suffering as a form of comparison rather than justice, as if it had to compete with another to be recognized.
Do we have collective depression, I frequently ask myself. Or do we possess a supernatural ability that allows us to accept this repulsive resignation?
Nothing can bring us to restrain our hearts, regardless of whether the air strikes increase or decrease. Our bodies are filled with grief, which makes us anxious about the future.
Yemenis no longer pay attention to the rest of the world, which has made us irrelevant in news reports and news broadcasts from other countries.
Nothing else is beyond writing, for us. Perhaps writing will help to sustain Mohamed, Abdel Fattah, and other Yemenis’ memories. Our writing might one day aid in the missile defense.
