We made up during the war when you returnt to Sanaa because you were injured. Silly things, futilities had divided us but I was so proud of you: going to the front, too young, just for your country.
Finding each other, again, has been one of the few sensible things I have ever done in my life.
I told you I loved you and still cared for you the same way. And you taught me to open my mouth during airstrikes and that no, fear was not admitted. Fear for what?
You are in ICU now, injured again. They brought you back from the front last night.
There are so many things I would like to tell you because you are too young to succumb to this war.
Just know I love you and miss you, always.
Keep fighting, if you can hear me, keep fighting. For yourself now.
My Little Brother, Hamoudi.
(I remember these words of Leo Buscaglia now:
‘There was a girl who gave me a poem, and she gave me permission to share it with you, and I want to do that because it explains about putting off and putting off and putting off – especially putting off caring about people we really love. She wants to remain anonymous, but she calls the poem
“THINGS YOU DIDN’T DO” and she says this”:
Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and I dented it?
I thought you’d kill me, but you didn’t.
And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did?
I thought you’d say, “I told you so.” But you didn’t.
Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were?
I thought you’d leave me, but you didn’t.
Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug?
I thought you’d hit me, but you didn’t.
And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans?
I thought you’d drop me, but you didn’t.
Yes, there were lots of things you didn’t do,
But you put up with me, and you loved me, and you protected me.
There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Vietnam.
But you didn’t.”
School becomes a privilege during a war.
In the meantime, you help your family making ends meet selling sesame sweets in the streets. You happen to pass by a school and your soul crushes. It’s the big divide: the world of others and yours. The lucky ones and you. Those whose parents can afford a private school and your parents who rely on you to bring food home.
War hurts on so many levels.
The above picture has gone viral on social media: it was taken in Sanaa a couple of days.
Presumably we all felt guilty, powerless, useless in front of a child whose childhood has been stolen. It’s not only a matter of poverty: we are dealing with a war which is always bigger than the will of an entire nation.
There are no children left in war: they become grownups overnight, with the first bomb dropped.
I woke up this morning receiving a message from Acram Mothana Haider, a Yemeni friend who is nothing short of a living poem. He also had seen the picture and decided to cope with the emotions in his usual way: with words. He attached the picture of the first flow of words and within an hour, he made a public post.
‘The poem I have written is dedicated to you my readers, I hope to enjoy it.
قصيدة أهديها لكم أيها الأحبة عنوانها (لم أنا أيها )العالم!’
worst and weird,
At nest of minds
Have its rest
And there imbibed
Queues of boys
To whom the phrases
Are uttered out,
Immovable and shy,
Peeping and meditating
“O’ my God!
Blocking me some coins
To be involved
I wish I could join.
How sweet the words are!
While uttering out of their mouths
What kind of books
Their bags contain?
How fair their pens are!
Even I have not seen
Are they red or yellow or brown?
How those boys look like?
When they laugh
How sweet their faces seem!
When they repeat anthem’s sounds.
Now, sesame got blushed
Breaking into pieces
And politely said
“May I come back to
The oven, I have been first made”.
Acram Mothana Haider
Thursday, 2/3/2017 – 11.54 A.m
As of today, roughly 2 million children continue to be out of school in Yemen and schools are repeatedly airstrike targets: Why World.