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.”
We have a broken camera, a jumpy internet, little electricity but we search, we rush.
We have chosen to do what we do to honour the martyrs of Yemen and injustices alike.
You always leave a door open to news about Palestine and tell me: When war is over, we will take care of our Brothers there.
Battles never end, with you.
We mourn different friends in Syria, where you studied until the war in 2011 brought you back to two revolutions, a coup d´etat and war on our country.
Wars never end, these days.
At times you tell me of your brothers killed in action and it is you to console me when I barely know what to say: ´We are honoured to have martyrs, my Dear´. And you move on to the next news. Because we need to honour the martyrs with new work. We never take a day off.
When I tell you to take cover during airstrikes you reply: ´You must be joking´ and laugh. You know how to make me worry. That is: even more, as I have this tendency to worry always, anytime, any place, especially about you.
Like all Yemenis, yours is the heartbreaking habit of apologising I was caught in the war.
I stopped replying to you.
Yesterday was your birthday and at the end of the month you will graduate. I will save all your pictures of the party as it´s the first time I have a Brother in life. l feel I can go crazy out of happiness and pride.
You say I am your best-favorite Sister.
When I asked you: ´How many do you have?´, again, you gave me a very Yemeni reply: ´Eight!´
We made a promise, tonight, to work even harder for our common dream.
Happy Birthday Brother. We will pass through this war.