My Mother, My Father, and My Existence

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

My Mother’s Marriage

Before my hypothetical existence, my mother was married twice before she met my father.

During that time, I envision myself in a state akin to “nothingness.

” This “nothingness” feels entirely empty compared to my later existence; it is a realm devoid of all things—without place or time, a vacuum unfilled and without boundaries.

In this state, there is no concern or suffering, no trace of sensation or the “being” we recognize. It is a condition that can only be conceived as “nothingness” or something resembling it.

To comprehend your own nothingness, you must loosen the reins of your imagination and envision this void.

Imagine what your absence would be like if you immersed yourself in deep thought and contemplation.

Pose questions that explore the vastness of existence and non-existence. Reflect within your consciousness—if you are aware—or within your imagination: What were you a thousand years ago? What did this universe signify to you a million years in the past? What importance did you hold for this world before such a time? Even “zero,” if compared to you in that moment, would be less than nothing if nothing can truly be measured.

After your death, you may not signify anything within existence, even if a trace of your sins endures or if your mark whispers that you once traversed this path. Only your fleeting passage through life will remain, a journey that seems to have unfolded at the speed of light, alongside what you were within it.

Your life, short and akin to a fleeting glance, may even be swifter by a thousand or a million measures in the timeless continuum of eternity.

Here, it is permissible to unleash your imagination without fear of reproach. In your journey, you may enrich humanity with acts of goodness and kindness, or you may commit atrocities and transgressions that linger in existence long after your departure, leaving you unaware of their ultimate consequences.

Perhaps both you and I—though not with certainty—are products of this reality, each carrying within our existence a measure of good and evil that may fluctuate without discernible cause.

My Mother’s First Husband

My mother’s first husband was a relative. She was only twelve years old when they married, while he was several years her senior.

Their marriage lasted approximately four years, yet they did not have any children, possibly because it occurred long before her first menstruation.

Despite this, I have never heard her speak ill of this union—perhaps out of ignorance, acceptance, or a lingering fondness for the beautiful memories it once held.

He wanted to take her to Aden, where he worked and lived. However, his father wielded ultimate authority over such decisions, and his ruling was firm and unequivocal.

He imposed his will upon the couple, leaving no room for negotiation. His paternal authority extended to the minutiae of their lives; he could even intervene and object to the gifts his son sent from Aden to his wife in the village, which indeed happened, leading to conflicts.

Despite her tender age, my mother was expected to devote herself entirely to serving her father-in-law’s family.

The son, in turn, was to be submissive and obedient, never questioning his father’s wishes, even if it meant sacrificing his happiness or love for his wife.

It was deemed disgraceful, even sinful, for a son to challenge his father’s desires and authority, regardless of the cost to his own contentment.

Conversely, the authority of the wife’s family also intervened, claiming to protect their daughter from the tyranny of her husband’s household. This interference frequently jeopardized the marriage, often resulting in divorce and separation.

The decisive intervention of my maternal grandmother, a strong-willed and influential figure, played a pivotal role.

She took her daughter into her own home as the couple wept, unwilling to face divorce or separation.

The bitterness of their plight was exacerbated by their powerlessness to determine the fate of their love and marriage.

They found themselves ensnared in a struggle between the husband’s father and the wife’s mother, unable to halt the impending disaster.

With little regard for preserving what remained, love ultimately succumbed to the weight of obedience and familial machinations, leading to a permanent separation.

My Mother’s Second Husband

My mother remarried for the second time to a man from a relatively distant region, someone entirely unrelated to her.

However, this marriage was short-lived; she spent only a few weeks with this kind and generous husband, yet love was conspicuously absent, perhaps one-sided. His generosity and kindness could not fill the void left by the absence of love.

My mother entered into this second marriage without any prior acquaintance with her intended husband; she had not even seen him or been consulted about the decision.

She had no voice in accepting or rejecting the union and only laid eyes on him on their wedding night. To her, and perhaps to him as well, marriage resembled a game of chance, a roll of the dice, akin to a lottery.

It appears that my mother’s heart was not drawn to the man chosen for her by her family. Perhaps her luck had failed her, or her heart was disheartened, clinging desperately to a fading hope. There may still have been remnants of an old love, pulsating in secrecy and silence.

The things we are compelled to leave behind often linger in our hearts, and we resist parting from them, holding them in our memories for the entirety of our lives. The nostalgia for the past refuses to fade or die.

Not long after their marriage, the bond unraveled, and they parted ways prematurely. Despite its brevity, my mother became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. In our patriarchal society, the birth of a girl incurs a heavy price—a burden that lasts from birth until the end of life.

This harsh reality compels her to pay the price of her existence with pain and subjugation, enduring a lifelong diminishment that follows her from birth into her old age.

Discrimination against females pursues them to the grave and beyond, into the very soil that covers them. Why must one bear the consequences of others’ mistakes, enduring such a heavy cost that persists until the final moments of life, extending even beneath the earth? Why do humans continue to endure the repercussions of sins and errors that were not their own?

Why do children and grandchildren shoulder the mistakes and sins of distant ancestors? Why must all of humanity bear the “sin” of our mother Eve and our father Adam until the end of time, if time has an end? This sister of mine embodies purity and the simplicity of kind-hearted people.

She submits to fate with the patience of one who possesses no strength or power. To this day, she continues to pay the price for the mistakes of others, resigned to fates she did not create nor participate in, remaining a constant victim.

She lived a wretched childhood and was married as a child to a man nearly thirty years her senior.

This sister of mine continues to be tossed about by unfortunate circumstances beyond her control. The latest tragedy to befall her was the loss of her sick daughter, preceded by the immense grief of losing her son in this cruel war.

She has even been deprived of his monthly salary, seized by warlords, corrupt leaders, and merchants of war and homeland. Even her name seems a deceptive fate. Her name does not reflect her reality, and she has found no joy in her existence or remnants of happiness.

Even our beautiful names, many of which were chosen for us, have turned out to be illusions upon illusions, mirages layered upon mirages.

My Mother’s Marriage to My Father

My mother did not wish to marry for the third time; she intended to devote herself to raising her daughter from her second marriage.

However, her brothers persuaded her to consider marriage again, enticing her with descriptions of my father—whom she did not know—as noble, honorable, and chivalrous.

They encouraged her to marry him in hopes of having a son. They argued, “A daughter won’t provide support in life.

She will grow up, marry, and you’ll be left to grieve together. A son, however, will be your steadfast support and a guarantee for your future against the uncertainties that lie ahead.”

Each had their own reasoning in a world fraught with danger for women, where men wielded deep-rooted authority.

Ultimately, the man’s word was final, leaving no room for dissent. My mother had no voice, and the opinions of others held little significance.

My father first saw my mother on the street and resolved to marry her. He had previously wed four women, divorcing all but one—the mother of my brother Ali, the only son who survived.

Ali’s mother remained married to my father until her death, leaving my mother with seven surviving daughters and sons, marking the culmination of his marriages.

When my mother married my father, a woman known as “Al-Baqta” commented on the union, saying, “A snake with a snake,” as if to suggest that their misfortunes were destined to align. “The jinn married the jinn,” she remarked, reflecting on my father’s multiple marriages and my mother’s previous two.

To some, their union might have appeared as a series of failures on both sides, perhaps suggesting they had both become experts in the art of disappointment.

Yet, despite this perception, their marriage endured until the end of their lives, defying monumental challenges and events. Their bond lasted a long time, characterized by legendary resilience—a rarity in its endurance. It resembled the marriage of the sea and the mountain, an eternal struggle of ebb and flow.

There was a constant noise, a relentless commotion that refused to quiet or cease, yet neither turned their back on the other in lasting estrangement.

The greatness of their marriage lay in its extraordinary endurance, resisting all factors that could lead to separation and refusing to succumb to any conflict or turmoil, no matter how catastrophic. It remained steadfast until death brought it to a close.

As for me, I was the bond that united them, the element that fostered patience and persistence. I was the absent child who arrived after a long wait, the one my uncles spoke of even before my mother’s marriage to my father. I was meant to be her assurance for the future against whatever tribulations and uncertainties lay ahead. In her eyes, I represented not just security but perhaps her entire existence.