Early Childhood

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

A fragment of my early childhood in Aden is etched in my memory; some recollections come easily, while others elude me.

Many of these memories were gathered from my mother’s stories, shared at various stages of her life, recounting that formative time of mine. This endeavor was fraught with challenges—a long pursuit of clarity, punctuated by continuous review, adjustments, recollections after forgetfulness, corrections following mistakes, and the revival of memories that had faded. All of this was aimed at sketching what I could of the contours of that early phase and bringing it forth in writing. Despite the sadness and misery that marked this period, I write about it, conjuring it here with a sense of nostalgia, a deep longing, and a fervent spirit.

After years of my father working at the “Al-Bass” company in Aden, he brought us from the village to join him in the city.

That job provided him with a modest yet stable income, allowing us to reunite as a family and maintain a humble existence in Aden. However, this stability came at the cost of his health—a sacrifice we did not fully comprehend until he began to suffer from recurring fits of coughing that would seize him from time to time.

During these episodes, his face would swell, turning a deep crimson, while his veins would bulge, appearing as if they might burst. His neck resembled a fountain, constricted with blood during the pressure of his cough and the expansion of his lungs.

In those moments, it seemed he was on the verge of collapsing from his seat or falling if he stood, leaning against the wall with one hand, while the palm of his other hand rested gently on his forehead.

In Aden, we settled in the Dar Saad area, named after Prince Saad bin Salem, one of the city’s suburbs.

I was around two years and a few months old when we moved from the village to Dar Saad, accompanied by my mother and my twin sisters, Nour and Samia, who were less than a year old. We lived in a small house rented by my father, consisting of a single room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living area.

Meanwhile, my father’s second wife, Saeeda, a woman of kindness and patience, remained in our village of Sharar. She had spent some time in Aden with my father before my mother arrived, but she struggled to adapt to the city, particularly with the constraints on her freedom at home, accustomed as she was to the open life of the village. Thus, she would often lament:

“I cannot endure this land of people or their company,
I long for my homeland; I cherish my sunshine.”

As for her son, Ali, my half-brother, he had fled from our father and Aden before our arrival, heading to Sana’a in 1963 at the age of fifteen, where he enrolled in the second batch of the military academy.