Never in my life have I seen such a sad face

 as that of Ashwaq

18 October 2022

By: Manal Qaed

Among Yemeni stories, on the verge of war and its sad margins, many are standing on the dividing line between death and life. Here, you have no clue how to convey condolence for the loss of those who were with them or how survival in such circumstances can be considered good luck.

In the last stories that I met, Abdo Ali (23 years), always begins his narration with “I was with them…” before he starts to tell, “I was with them in the same car. We were laughing and talking about the war and the severe fuel crisis. We passed by our village, which I love, and I decided to end my trip and get out of the car.”

Only five minutes after Abdo got out of his brother’s car a mine planted by the Ansar Allah group “Houthis” exploded in Hodeidah city, killing five people at once; Abdo’s brother and four of his nephews. Abdo did say goodbye as they agreed to meet soon within a few hours.

Whenever someone asks him to tell what happened, he raises and lowers his head, as if embarrassed of his survival, and repeats from time to time, “I was with them… and when I got back to them, they were flesh hanging over electric wires.”

In the first stories I came across, I met Ashwaq Abdullah (28 years), a mother of four children (Salem, Osama, Khaled, Jamal). On August 18, 2015, death chose them all at once by a Saudi / UAE-led coalition bomb that ruined their home and its peace while they were watching cartoons and were possibly laughing or arguing over the change of channel.

Death picked everyone in the house except for Ashwaq. Her four children, mother-in-law, sister, and niece were all snatched away in an instant, leaving her as a cut-and-burned tree. I have never seen a face so sad as that of Ashwaq, and the sadness I felt when I imagined myself in her shoes will stay with me forever. 

The kids pass away without saying goodbye and she was not able to see them for the last time.

**

I also know Bashir, a young kid with a cascade of tragic stories. This year he will be ten years old. When I knew him, on November 7, 2017, he was only five, in a bleak intensive care unit. 

Bashir’s mother died while giving birth to him just before the war began. His uncle’s family welcomed him and raised him as their own son for five years. 

Four bombs were dropped by Saudi/UAE-led coalition jet in the Haran area of Hajjah Governorate, killing Bashir’s new family (his uncle, aunt, and their sons), as well as his father, grandfather, cousins, and anyone who tried to help them, totaling 22 persons.

The young boy awoke after 10 days in intensive care with no family, waiting for another family, which I don’t know if he has.

I also know a child soldier who did not forcibly go to war but came back with a burnt face and five missing friends. Don’t talk to the only survivor unless you’re holding your heart out of fear!

Until the war is over in Yemen, all of us will be standing with our chains held up in one queue as the only survivors of this brutal war where all of us are hoping that death won’t choose us as its next victims.