The Setting Sun

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

As my father’s age began to wane like a setting sun, trailing its pale red remnants, the mountain sighed with its sorrows and memories, heavy with longing, pain, and reproach.

He spoke of death as if it were already encroaching upon him, its presence hovering ever closer. I observed my father gathering his resolve with a serene demeanor as he dug two adjacent graves for himself and my mother, who assisted him in this solemn task.

They had both resolved that their bond would not be severed by death or fate; they would challenge absence and dwell beside each other in the afterlife. It mattered not who departed first; the one who remained would patiently await the other’s arrival.

I still recall my father’s words during our last meeting as I prepared to return to Sana’a with my cousin Abdu Farid. He spoke of life’s fleeting nature, informing us that little time remained.

He urged us—almost as a final testament—to stay united, to bear our responsibilities toward our siblings, and to support one another as they needed us most.

He emphasized the importance of solidarity and family ties, particularly urging us to care for our younger brothers, Saleh and Abdul Karim, while remarking, “As for Ahmed, despite his behavior, he is not a cause for concern.”

From the day they dug their graves, my father and mother had been preparing for an inevitable farewell. A departure loomed, whether slightly delayed or extended over time. Whoever left first would be patient, while the one who remained would care for those still in need, offering support and assistance.

My father passed away in 1997 under circumstances shrouded in suspicion and mystery.

Twenty years later, my mother died in Sana’a in 2017 from cholera. Her sole wish was for us to take her body back to our village to lay her to rest beside her husband in the very grave they had prepared with deep affection.

My mother’s request was fraught with difficulty, especially amidst a brutal war orchestrated by the most depraved and corrupt factions, compounded by dire circumstances besetting us from every direction. Numerous obstacles and dangers stood in our way, yet I felt compelled to fulfill her wish.

After her passing, I realized her dream, allowing her to rest beside my father in peace and tranquility. May their spirits find eternal solace, whether in the heights of paradise, the depths of the earth, or even in the realm of nothingness.

They departed without return, leaving me with a bewilderment that knows no bounds—an uncertainty that sighs with a sea of ambiguity and questions. An ache lodged in my throat, choked with thorns, prevents me from speaking out or voicing my inquiries in a society that is strict and rigid, steeped in ignorance and backwardness, where the grip of ignorance holds us firmly.

I have lived, and continue to live, a heavy reality—not merely racing from birth to death, but shouldering burdens that threaten to break my back and exhaust my spirit. This reality refuses to grant any respite, any moment to catch my breath, feeling as if it has reached the very edge of my existence.

Grief weighs heavily upon me, and the burdens have bowed my back. I am utterly weary; misfortunes seem relentless, refusing to sleep or leave us untouched. Calamities pursue us to every refuge and sanctuary; the roads are choked with blood, and the victims are countless. The innocent have seen their blood devalued, reducing the worth of a citizen’s life in war and beyond to less than the shell of an egg.

The calamities wrought by humanity have surpassed the natural disasters that descend upon us from both earth and sky.

Death is so prevalent that our graves have become overcrowded, while poverty engulfs us, expanding daily and tightening its grip around the bellies of the hungry.

Children perish by every conceivable means, and with them, hopes and dreams fade, bringing profound tragedies to every household. Many of us find ourselves without a home, a tent, or even a homeland. Even more despairingly, we can no longer afford a grave or a shroud.

In this moment of desolation, a quote from Hemingway springs to mind: “We build a world, and it collapses; then we build it again, and we ourselves collapse.” This resonates deeply with the cycles of loss and struggle I have witnessed.

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