The horrifying scene of Yemen is nothing more than a reflection of your disgusting soul. That is the way that I address my honorable president, Ali Abdullah Saleh. I am saying this from the bottom of my heart. Every part of my soul supports this statement. With every cup of tea I begin my morning with, with every ounce of sunshine shining through my window, with every patriotic song I hear, I say leave. Leave with your hideous face. I am tired of the violent images, of seeing my home destroyed building by building, human being, by human being. I feel the pain in every single word I hear from my father. Countless and fruitless are the moments he tries so desperately to make me feel that the situation is not that bad, and that he and my family are doing great. Sorry to admit this father, but I do not believe you, because the tone in your voice says otherwise. I wish I could go home at this moment and do something that can help remedy the situation, but I quickly realize just how powerless I am. I try to write, but I cannot see the words, because of the tears that fill my eyes and soak the pages.
I continuously recall my childhood, when I would head to school to listen to a patriotic Arabic teacher that I was really inspired by. He used to teach me songs about the beauty and greatness of Yemen. From a very young age, I began questioning the real definition of home. Was it the red, black and white flag that ruffled gracefully from the school courtyard? Was it the national anthem and patriotic songs I learned from my teacher? Was it the books that were read by a young child striving to reach the top of her father’s library, or is it the name of my country that blows me away every time I hear it. I thought about all these definitions, and I realized that home is comprised of all that, if not more. But that was the definition of home in a nave questioning mind. I grew physically, but that child remained, and the definition did not change, but rather became a wider definition, whose meaning has been lost by the sad reality of Yemen’s current situation.
Home is no longer the paintings drawn by small fingers. Home is no longer the songs I learned from my teacher. Home is no longer the majestic flag hanging overhead. Home is no longer the books that I stretched so high to reach in my father’s library. Home is now a new painting, drawn no longer by my small fingers, but rather by my incessant tears. Home is no longer my father’s library with its opaque windows, but rather an entire country with its demolished buildings and terrorized people, which is still beyond my reach. As my little hands could never reach my father’s books, I can no longer reach out to Yemen, to my family, and to its citizens. I am in a different land trying to read a completely different book, a tattered book, with ripped pages. I read the sadness and suffering, I read the hardships and pain, yet I read it with hope, that its ruined pages will become repaired and the future of my country will become brighter. It is this hope that motivates me and encourages me. It is this hope lets me wake up every morning with a smile on my face. It is this hope that pulls us through in hard times, and that is what we truly need. It is hope which the greatness of Yemen, has taught me to believe in.
