A Birth Overflowing with Disappointment

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

On a cold winter afternoon, I came into existence, marked by the misfortunes of my fate. My birthplace was a cramped, dimly lit house, one side leaning into shadows.

In that room, light struggled to penetrate narrow, suffocating windows, allowing only faint glimmers to enter.

The pale, fractured light crawled weakly across the floor, battling the encroaching darkness. This meager illumination was insufficient to reveal what I sought; I had to strain my eyes to discern my surroundings.

When the door creaked open, even the slightest ray of light barely made its way inside. It trickled down from the upper floor, fracturing as it descended the staircase, moving like an aged man, weary and unable to walk, laboriously making its way into the room.

At the base of the room stood a vessel filled with water and various items, while a brazier in one corner exhaled fragrance and mystery.

It absorbed some of the waning light and exhaled clouds of mist that obscured my vision. On the windowsill lay myrrh, gum Arabic, soot, and a lamp, its flickering flame struggling to cast a trembling light between the ceiling and the walls.

The ceiling, made of branches from the acacia tree and cedar wood, sagged under the weight of mud. When rain poured onto the roof, the floor became a collection of vessels gathering its drops.

My mother writhed in pain, crying out in anguish during her labor. A rope tied to a beam in the ceiling anchored her as her hands gripped the knots tightly, hoping to cross a wall of pain that clashed within her—a relentless agony. Anxiety gripped her heart, fearing for her life during childbirth.

I emerged from my mother’s womb into the world, crying out in protest against the unknown into which I had been thrust without my consent.

I was born an unfortunate child in a harsh, remote countryside, weary from the outset. My face was etched with sorrow, and my eyes were swollen from the weight of alienation. Alienation questioned me: “Who are you? Where did you come from?” I could only reply, “I do not know… from the unknown to the unknown… a victim of circumstances, bound by them.”

I had no power or choice in this path I had not chosen. Fate imposed upon me what I could not refuse. The room received my unwelcome presence with its dim light, as if my cries threatened to tear it apart.

If I had a choice before my existence, I would not have chosen to be born into a life filled with pervasive misery—a life overflowing with oppressive injustice. Truth was silenced. Love was forbidden. Passion was punished with death.

I sought the date of my birth: February 16, 1962, corresponding to the 12th of Ramadan, in a lunar year whose numbers had escaped me. They claimed my sign was Pisces, with Aquarius as my astrological house.

According to the calculation of letters, my mother’s name bore the sign of Leo, while Capricorn—“a glaring presence”—represented my mother’s ancestry and ancient lineage, alongside the Chinese year of the Tiger.

My aunt Sunbula, my uncle’s wife, welcomed my weary body from the very first moment, naked with a shorn head. In our villages, it is said that a newborn inherits certain traits and qualities from the person who delivers them—a tale steeped in the wisdom of grandmothers.

The announcement of my unfortunate existence brought joy to my family. Happiness radiated from my father’s face, while my uncles’ expressions pulsed with delight. My mother was enveloped in joy, for the newcomer was a boy, not a girl—a boy for whom a stronghold would be built.

In a world still bound by ancient customs, male offspring were celebrated, while the birth of a girl often cast a shadow over the occasion.

The reality of having a daughter was reluctantly accepted. Initial discomfort gave way to a grudging familiarity. My mother, however, showered me with abundant love, providing for my every need, wishing for me to grow swiftly like a tempest, ready to face the world with strength.

My uncle Saleh had a talent for astrology and practiced the art of divination through sand reading. He gazed into our destinies and horoscopes and named me Ahmed, proclaiming my birth to be fortunate.

Yet, the reality had the final word: I was marked by misfortune, misery, and countless troubles. My share of happiness was scant, and despair accompanied me for six long decades, becoming intertwined with my very essence. Fate resisted me, sometimes deceiving me; my life was marked by suffering and hardship. My luck was scattered like chaff in the wind as I fought against a relentless sword of adversity.

Misfortune followed me relentlessly; any joy I experienced came at a great cost. I labored and persevered, yet the fruits of my toil never satisfied my hunger. My efforts were exhausting, and my condition continued to deteriorate. The little success I found was overshadowed by the weight of hardship, claimed by the sword of dominance.

As I approached my sixth decade, my situation grew increasingly wretched, marked by toil and fatigue, living a life of obscurity and constraint.

I exist without my consent; I was brought into this world destined to die—a wisdom I fail to grasp. I live and die in the belly of the serpent. The serpent breathes poison, and that poison is fatal. I find myself ensnared within its depths. It twists me, threatening to crush me against a dry tree trunk as hard as flint. It crushes my skull and bones, squeezing me with fiery acid that burns my hopes. The reality I face is oppressive and burdensome.

I exist in the belly of the serpent against my will, having come into being without even a moment to refuse existence or a chance to consult my own desires. They severed my path back to non-existence long before I was born, denying me even the return to my mother’s womb.

Before me, fire rages, while the sea pursues me, its maw gaping wide. I did not choose my name or beliefs; I did not choose my place of existence or even the date of my birth. Alienation haunts me, and misery promises its due. I engage in a battle of coercion day and night, while the unknown lurks, watching my every step.

If I were fully aware and had the power to choose, I would select non-existence and reject life a thousand times over. My existence has been forced upon me, and for this reason, I rebel and resist, even as my suffering intensifies. I refuse to surrender.

I am compelled to endure this state; I am coerced into life and existence. I cannot find contentment in a life dictated by misery and enveloped in tyranny. I cannot accept a condition defined by the exploitation of one human being by another, where blood is spilled and souls are taken in ways that even the fiercest beasts of the wild would not dare to commit.

I resonate with the words of a philosopher in The Damned Human Race: “From the day of my birth, I have found myself at odds with the world.”

Sometimes, I celebrate my birthday as a respite from routine. On that day, I venture far from my consciousness, stepping outside myself in protest, seeking to lighten the burden of my existence. I seize a moment of joy from a new year that holds no less darkness than the one preceding it. My shoulders are heavy with sorrow, and misfortune accompanies me throughout the year.

The reality I face is bleak, and the truth is bitter, as Nawal aptly put it: “Brutal and dangerous.” In response, I retreat into my imagination to compensate for the losses and deprivations I have endured.

I rebel against the fates imposed by reality in an environment where the majority accept their circumstances with submission and stillness. I hurl a resolute “no” in the face of the oppressor, repeating it in a world saturated with “yes.”

I recall the glory of hope, weary yet unwavering, proclaiming: “Glory belongs to those who say no in defiance of those who conform.” I cast my defiance against tyranny, echoing it toward the masses. I am prepared to pay any price, no matter how steep it may be. I will endure and press forward, regardless of how constricted and harsh the circumstances become.

The toll I bear is exhausting, yet I refuse to yield. This hell I endure is intertwined with my existence, along with the anguish of my spirit. As long as I draw breath, I must, without hesitation, assert my being to the fullest against injustice, oppression, and the tyranny of coercion.