A Captive Childhood

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

As I began to understand my early childhood, I now delve into its depths, excavating memories that have aged and partially faded into oblivion. I was more akin to a prisoner than a child enjoying a stable life, with few moments of joy.

In that childhood, I found myself confined between a room and a hallway, burdened by sorrow and distress. My steps were hindered by an unyielding barrier, preventing me from crossing the threshold of our closed door or peering out through a tightly shut window.

This imprisonment denied me the opportunity to witness the vibrant life outside—a world brimming with wonder. My right to observe what transpired beyond my confinement was granted only in rare moments.

This fragment of my early life was lived under constant siege and ongoing repression. I endured profound hardship within walls I had come to know so well that I grew weary of them, with memories narrating tales of deprivation and misery that clung to me like a shadow, leaving no room for escape.

I had no toys to amuse myself—no ivory or wooden trinkets—nor had I ever known a single game available to my peers at that time. My existence was devoid of activities beyond the mischief I enacted, which often rebounded upon me, met with familiar reprimands and punishments, resulting in an unending restlessness that refused to subside.

My knowledge was scant, while my ignorance loomed vast and oppressive in every direction, weighing heavily on my weary breaths, as if the very walls conspired against me. My days stretched long and unyielding, my sense of isolation expanding, while boredom pressed upon my childhood, which had lost its hope after death had stolen from us the light and nobility of life.

My youngest sister, Nadia, was a recent arrival, born with a disability that barred me from playing with her or spending time alone in her company.

As my emptiness grew larger than my confinement, the little happiness that occasionally graced me was no longer sufficient to fill the expanding void.

The walls I attempted to scratch and deface with whatever was within my reach resisted my efforts with stubbornness. My mother’s punishments, familiar and repetitive, reflected her understanding of my failures and despair.

The walls closed in on me, baring their fangs at my innocence and suffocating my childhood beneath a weight of fatigue, casting a harshness that was both cruel and dry.

I felt my chest constrict, as if my very insides were about to burst, and pressure tightened around my neck, nearly suffocating me.

Days and months dragged on slowly, like a tortoise trailing behind a heavy shroud of sorrow. I suffered profound alienation that engulfed me from all sides.

I experienced the bitterness of my isolation, ignorant of what transpired beyond my prison. Each day, I heard voices, murmurs, and laughter—details I could not comprehend. How I longed to be present in those moments, to allow my weary eyes to sparkle with the fervor of curiosity, to see what remained hidden from me.

I cradled a sorrow that wandered within, and a curiosity that stirred inside me like a wild stallion, coupled with a bewilderment that had long accompanied me, embracing me as if I were part of it, even as I sought to dispel it and explore the depths of its mysteries.

I wandered alone in the orbit of my emptiness and solitude, which spun with increasing intensity, threatening to consume me like a fallen comet burning in the atmosphere.

The walls scowled at me, darkened, and the closed doors obstructed my path, blinding me with their dust. The weight of my constraints stifled my passion and desire, drowning me in the depths of despair.

I am enveloped in an oppressive loneliness, an isolation that tightens its grip, accompanied by an ignorance that stifles a spirit yearning to unfurl its wings in boundless space. My face is clouded, my eyes dimmed, surrounded by walls that evoke melancholy, a closed door, and windows sealed tightly—prohibited from opening even on festive mornings.

This weight bears heavily on my childhood, a burden almost unbearable for a child eager to explore the world around him. I endure a relentless siege, with walls closing in tighter, suffocating me. I can feel a collar constricting around my neck, making it difficult to breathe.

I do not know a garden, nor do I have the freedom to roam on weekends or to enjoy outings on New Year’s Day. I rarely leave our home, except for the occasional visit to a sick acquaintance, the looming specter of death at our door, or a rare visit that does not repeat the following year.

My outings are limited and infrequent. I recall one holiday visit to a neighbor, where I wore new clothes and savored colorful sweets—sugar both rare and delightful, leaving a lingering sweetness on my tongue. It was my first and only encounter with “Langous,” and it lifted me high, as if magic had granted me a carpet and wings.

The second visit was more recent, yet I remember little beyond my mother’s account of a strange affliction that had overtaken her skin, a condition that nearly overwhelmed her, attributed to my sister Nadia, who was born later and suffered from similar ailments.

* * *

My father labored for nearly ten exhausting hours each day, tirelessly working to provide for our modest needs. My aunt, Umm Ali, and another sister of my father lived in the village, eagerly awaiting the provisions my father, burdened with the responsibility of supporting everyone, would bring.

Life was hard and strenuous. My parents fought primarily for survival, striving to maintain a meager existence—this was their utmost ambition, with little desire for more.

My mother often asked my father to lock the door from the outside, fearing that gossip or rumors might reach her. Proudly, she would describe herself as the daughter of a “sheikh,” and my father never denied her request, securing the door until he returned from work at day’s end.

Exceedingly modest, my mother preferred to confine herself rather than claim a fragment of freedom or a breath of fresh air. I knew her as deeply conservative and acutely sensitive to shame, living with obsessive fears regarding such matters. She was harsh on herself and on me, filled with anxieties about city life and her new alienation. The cost of her modesty weighed heavily upon her. My father was the sole keyholder, both opening and closing the door, while my mother occupied herself with cleaning, washing clothes, cooking, and managing all household chores.

But why was I also confined, not allowed to play with the other children outside or even peek at them from a window? I yearned to see what happened beyond the walls of our home! I longed to witness the faces, the children, the people—I craved to experience the movement and vibrant noise of life.

Every hour of day and night—except for sleep—my gaze collided with the walls and ceiling of our home. There was no crack in the window nor a keyhole in the door!

I could hear some of what transpired outside, but I could not see it. My curiosity was stifled by concrete walls and wooden barriers, leaving no room to witness the commotion, fights, and laughter in the street. I burned with desire, only to have it suppressed by harshness and severity.

I wanted to know the world beyond our home. I yearned to see the neighbor’s children and the wild “Shams” lounging on her bed by the main street, surrounded by bags, papers, and empty cans I had glimpsed once when I accompanied my father on a visit for his illness.

I wanted to observe every detail outside the modest house we rented. There was no way for me to experience the world beyond our walls. My path to the outside world was cut off and blocked by prohibitions.

Everything felt cramped within that house, just as my chest tightened with its contents, and my mind could no longer endure the suffering and deprivation swirling within. Whenever I misbehaved and demanded to go outside, my mother frightened me with tales of what she called “Al-Jabart.” I often felt suffocated by the confines of our home, fearing the terror that lay beyond, what I knew as “Al-Jabart.”

I sensed that I was spending my days in a small, iron-bound bottle, choking my breath and tightening its grip around my neck, while the world of “Al-Jabart” outside filled me with dread. I found myself caught in a vise, more constricting than any other. I began to imagine “Al-Jabart” as a horrifying specter, always lurking near our door, waiting for my exit to the outside world.

Thus, it was only natural that I would be mischievous and feel a sense of constriction, reflecting the deprivation and suffering in my rebellious behavior within the confines of our home, while simultaneously harboring fear and terror of “Al-Jabart” passing in the street or the lurking figure waiting for my departure.

It was a distorted equation, one that forced me inward with the fright of the outside world, expressed in the term “Al-Jabart” to further impose the reality they had created. A suffocating siege within, and terror from without—a deadly confinement akin to what we endure today.

* * *

“Capitalism will turn life into a continuous race, crushing those who stop to catch their breath.”
– Karl Marx