يمنات
Yemenat
Ahmed Saif Hashed
When I completed my primary education, I had to enroll in a preparatory school. However, there was no such school in our remote area, located in the far southern reaches of what we referred to as the State of Sana’a—though we simply called it the Authority in the North.
Our region and village were distant and deprived of even the most basic services: no transportation, no communication, no healthcare, and no social welfare. We felt little interest from that Authority, which was only present in our lives to exacerbate our suffering through enforced levies, security crackdowns, and tax collections.
The state’s services were virtually nonexistent, creating a significant void akin to the absence of a homeland. What little did trickle down was insufficient to alter our circumstances. Even the funding for building primary school classrooms fell on our fathers’ shoulders. The state was, in essence, just an authority with no obligations toward us, expecting all rights and duties to be fulfilled by us. Ignorance gripped our condition and dominated our minds, and we struggled to extract what we could from the impossible, forging a path to light amid the thick darkness.
Our only refuge from the inevitable oppression of ignorance was the southern state, where a preparatory school existed in the center of Tor Al-Bahah. This school was about twenty kilometers from our village, and fortunately, it had a boarding section that provided housing and food for students like us. We would visit its market every Saturday as necessity called.
The Martyr Najib Preparatory School in Tor Al-Bahah became our bastion against ignorance. Many students from neighboring areas in the North, threatened by ignorance and the risk of dropping out, found in this school a savior and sanctuary from harsh realities.
The school was large compared to what we had experienced in the past—clean, organized, and staffed with competent teachers. I was overwhelmed with joy when I discovered spacious classrooms, modern architectural designs, bright colors, distinctive glass windows, and chairs fit for those of a higher status than ourselves. I had never encountered a school like it before, and its boarding section was either new or recently built.
On our first day, we were enveloped in happiness as we received new blankets, sheets, and clean utensils. Everything was free and without flaws, though the food provided was often insufficient for our appetites. Throughout my time there, I struggled with malnutrition.
Fever frequently assaulted me, and I found solace in the sun whenever illness took hold. Anemia and malnutrition were constant companions, weighing heavily on my health. At times, I faced poverty, and my mother was my greatest support in overcoming those challenges.
We were allowed to leave on Thursday afternoons to spend Fridays with our families, returning to school on Saturday mornings. Cars would take me to Ras Wadi Shaab, from where I would walk back to the village, just as I did on my way there.
Sometimes, I would walk all the way from home to Tor Al-Bahah to save the transportation money my father gave me, doing the same on my return journey. While walking, we sought shortcuts like the “Nafakha Road,” and occasionally we would cling to the back of cars traveling along the road for free—a practice we called Ta’bira (hitching ride) indicating our transport without charge.
Oh, the nobility and kindness of the car owners who understood our circumstances and did not ask for payment! How generous was “Abu Shanab,” the owner of the worn out car, who often showered us with kindness that remains with us to this day! How beautiful was the spirit of “Rajeh,” the poor man who radiated joy and humanity, overflowing with generosity and warmth. And then there was the lovely Abdulnoor, Saleh Saeed, and others from whom I learned the importance of creating beauty in life for those in need. They have all departed, yet their profound humanity continues to resonate within us.
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