I am finding out many of my neighbours have become ‘martyrs’.
All the young ones. The happy ones. The ones who wanted to travel, get engaged.
The ones working in the family corner shop, the taxi drivers, the students, the ones who helped me when I had the accident and maybe the ones involved in it; the ones who had no plans at all but did make a choice to go and fight. ‘It’s our duty’ they always tell me while I feel my duty is to protect them. At the end, we gave them this world, the fertile ground of wars included.
They started leaving on small buses in April 2015 (the war started on March 26 of the same year) from the Old City of Sanaá full of hopes. With a Kalashnikov and a small copy of the Holy Quran in hand.
They are heading north, They are going South my neighbours would tell me.
Don’t worry, Dear, Allah is with them.
They died in Mareb, Bab el Mandab, at the border, in places you have rarely heard of
The flowers are all gone.
They continue dying.
I hate social media. I hate WhatsApp messages in the middle of the night.
I could say it politely ‘Down with wars’. I won’t. FUCK WARS