Hashem” is a name that weighs heavily upon my shoulders”

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

“Hashem” is a name that weighs heavily upon my shoulders. It is the fourth name in my identity, yet it has become a battleground.

Here, those intolerant of the name “Hashem” clash with those who hold it dear. Those who cannot bear its weight unite with those who seek to monopolize it, striving with all their might to claim it for themselves. Alongside them gather all forms of degradation, and falsehood has besieged us from every direction—those who wish to destroy, consume, or await your fall into the abyss of decay.

There is no right or left for me; I am ensnared by circumstances that decree: you are doomed, without a doubt. I find myself crushed between the millstones, bearing no sin or fault. They accuse me of what I cannot be accused of; they judge me without a trial. Their judgment rushes upon me before I can utter a word in my defense.

They rage and slander before I have a chance to respond. They do not allow me to answer a question, raise an objection, or signal dissent. Their judgments are rash and foolish—an absurd spectacle more bewildering than the trials and tribulations we endure today.

The fervor of extremism has united against my name, condemning me for what I am not. Falsehood, with its rigidity and severity, has allied with the trivial, creating a coalition against a victim they perceive as their common enemy.

This hatred has prevailed as racism has reached its zenith, culminating in absurdity. What kind of folly is it to condemn someone for their name?

Ignorance has cast a noose around my identity, tightening it like a gallows around my neck.

Cursed be the politicians who wallow in the mire of politics, for the most despicable among them find a clear path to power through the ignorant and those who profit from it.

Extremists, steeped in ignorance, rush to the past under the guise of salvation, resurrecting the darkest pages of history along with death and bloodshed.

They perpetuate cycles of violence and hatred, dragging forth their past, unable to exist without it, even craving more.

They revel in returning to a past laden with tragedies, entrenching falsehood until it becomes part of their essence, reproducing injustice with crude audacity.

They summon the wreckage of over 1,400 years, each year burdened with sins too heavy for mountains to bear.
The caliphate and authority conspire against you, with triviality as their third pillar.

They converge upon you with all their faces and armies, feasting on the blood of our people, the taxpayers, and the toil of the oppressed.

* * *

I grew up without ever feeling that my name was a burden.

I had no reservations about my fourth name; it never emerged as a source of contention. Throughout my extended stay in Aden, I never perceived my name as an obstacle to my rights. Life unfolded seamlessly.

In Aden, particularly during the 1970s, the six governorates of the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen were renamed with numbers: Aden became the first governorate, Lahj the second, Abyan the third, Shabwa the fourth, Hadhramout the fifth, and Al-Mahrah the sixth. The practice of linking names to regions or tribes was prohibited—a step in the right direction.

However, the political turmoil of the early 1980s brought a dramatic shift. Regionalism was incited and mobilized with crude fervor, ultimately baptized in blood and tears.

* * *

In this war that has burdened us for seven long years, various authorities have manipulated names as if they were mere political, sectarian, regional, or tribal affiliations, often at great cost to those who bear them.

You may encounter hardships in your life, or your freedom—indeed, your very existence—may come under threat, simply because of a name that invites suspicion.

Some names have become burdens for their owners. While a name might bestow luck or ease in one context, it may signify danger and loss in another.

In this brutal era of war, our names have morphed into weights, potential threats that loom over our lives amid a reality that stalks names, seeking their very essence.

* * *

When I arrived in Sana’a from Aden in 1990, following unification, my name was Ahmed Saif Hashed Hashem. This was the name on my identification and all my documents, unchanged and unaltered.

However, “Hashed” was replaced with “Qaid” in the records of the Ministry of Defense. I endured a painstaking review process lasting months to reclaim my grandfather Hashed’s name in the salary roster.

My cousin, Abdu Farid Hashed, also faced changes in his transactions but managed to restore his grandfather’s name after a lengthy review.

At that time, I harbored no suspicions about these changes. However, during a discussion with a director from Hajjah Governorate, I sensed disdain for my grandfather Hashed’s name, which at that time carried a certain prestige.

I recall that at the beginning of my membership in Parliament, the Speaker of the Council, Sheikh Abdullah bin Hussein al-Ahmar—chief of the Hashed tribe—read my name, paused at “Hashed,” and then moved on to “Hashem,” rendering it “Ahmed Saif Hashem.” Today, under the authority of the status quo in Sana’a, my grandfather’s name “Hashem” has been seized.

* * *

When Facebook emerged, I was initially unskilled in its use. Accounts were created in our names without consent, and some individuals impersonated us.

I asked my friend and assistant, Sadiq Ghanem, to open a Facebook account in my name. He established an account under Ahmed Hashed Hashem, as Facebook rejected “Saif” due to existing accounts.

The name Hashem is my paternal grandfather’s name; it is authentic, not an adopted addition.

I engaged with “Ahmed Hashed Hashem” on social media without political implications. I was unaware that Hashem, part of my identity, would later be used to disparage me, and that I would be accused of wielding the name for opportunistic purposes.

* * *

Activists from the Yemeni Congregation for Reform took advantage of the name Hashem to launch a campaign against me following the “Yemen: Where To?” conference in Beirut in 2012.

Despite my clarifications published in the “Al-Mustaqillah” newspaper, the overwhelming tide of misinformation overshadowed the truth. I found myself deeply engaged in clarification, akin to plowing the sea.

* * *

Today, amid this ongoing war, I continue to pay the price for a name I did not choose. Our ancestors had no inkling that a backward era would arise, demanding we bear the burdens of names chosen by our forefathers.

They could not have imagined that names like Hashed and Hashem would become liabilities or sins for their descendants.
Oblivious to the future, they could not know we would replay a 1,400-year-old conflict, reviving it with fervor and vengeance.

* * *

In December 2016, I embarked on a journey with colleagues from the General Amnesty Committee.

Our destination was the “City of Saleh Prison” in Taiz, marking my first visit since the war began. Curiously, the authorities in Sana’a altered the name of the “Saleh Mosque” to the “People’s Mosque,” yet the city retained its original name, augmented only by “Prison.”

During this journey, I encountered numerous military checkpoints. At one, I spotted a solitary flag of the republic—a tattered relic reflecting our reality. In contrast, the flag of the opposing group boldly proclaimed its sovereignty.

When asked for my identity, I presented my parliamentary membership card, which identified me as “Ahmed Saif Hashed Hashem.”

Confusion often followed, with remarks like, “How can you have both Hashed and Hashem?” Despite my documents accurately reflecting my full name, my passport had been altered to replace “Hashem” with a regional designation against my will.

* * *

In this war, I was also issued an ID card that changed “Hashem” to reflect my region, contrary to my true name.

As the years passed, I pursued the correction of my name until despair took hold. I could not reclaim my full name; they had stripped away a part of it, overflowing with pride and tribalism.

How many years would I need to prove my name to the authorities? What fault do I bear for having “Hashed” associated with “Hashem”? Why diminish the name “Hashem,” which I regard simply as part of my identity?
This name is integral to my identity and cannot be excluded or altered. I do not claim it as a privilege; I have consistently championed equality, citizenship, and justice. I merely seek to affirm the reality of my name, which they wish to usurp due to entrenched biases.

I desire an ID that confirms my identity, reflecting the truth above all.

I do not advocate for any form of tribalism. I am a human being who has never renounced my humanity; my guiding principle is that humanity comes first.

It is tragic that we pay a price for matters we never anticipated. Today, we inhabit an era rife with mediocrity and misery, where names inflict suffering upon their bearers, jeopardizing futures and even lives.
My name is subjected to scrutiny and withheld from me by the intelligence services.

What absurdity is this? How can I possibly provide them with another name? 

* * *

I am Ahmed Saif Hashed Hashem. I harbor no grievances concerning names; this has been my true name since the day I was born, and it will remain so even after my departure from this world.

They persist in exhausting the remnants of my life in their relentless pursuit to reclaim my full name.

Perhaps they wish to seize it while I am still alive and even after my death. In my anguish, I once proclaimed, “I demand the restitution of my right to my name!” Do they intend to exact vengeance upon our children regarding their rights after we are gone?

The tragedy of our names lingers, echoing the words of the Syrian satirist Mohammad al-Maghout: “I will have a child and name him Adam, for names in our time are a crime.”

* * *