tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3480938375400027172024-02-20T06:06:18.561-08:00The Ambiguous OdysseyOn a voyage to find myself under the showers of air raidsFatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-70683127310486745252024-01-12T04:51:00.000-08:002024-01-14T09:01:58.941-08:00The Scene in Yemen; January 2024<p><b> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">"The past is a place of reference not a place of residence" this is a sentence I have to constantly remind myself. It is okay to look back to ponder then proceed, it is life nothing more, as tough and as complicated as it can get. That being said; I never choose to revisit the past, I cannot decide whether it is due to fear or rather being past the past. I choose to deem it as acceptance, that it is a chapter of history I can learn from but should never mourn upon, although I usually choose the route of not looking back. January 5th 2024, Friday, was one of those extremely rare days that I sensed I was sent through a time capsule, 8 years back, early 2015 to be exact.</span></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>As I heard the sound of the war-crafts bolting through the serene blue sky of Sanaa, I was triggered. My first reaction was to run holding my head down, waiting for my home to come crumbing down to the ground. My rapid processing mechanism was concluding that Saudi is back at bombarding us, in sequence with the killings and assassinations that emerged the last couple of weeks throughout the “Axis of Resistance” as you might have heard of, by following the news. I thought this is it, Yemen is getting bombarded for standing with the people of Palestine. All of these thoughts were flooding through my mind, drowning me, in a matter of seconds; as I ran from the kitchen where I was making us tea for our afternoon gathering to watch the outing of hundreds of thousands of Yemeni men in the capital of Sanaa supporting Palestine, as we do every Friday.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYTYe5pjlCIu07PWidOz6IbjS8rh4VSrxqYV95sspyf84PWBB7YRoLMcm0fKgVzeiJiAyCrMxkKfbAMVasSed0oqxHHXApBIMHqqWQNjoEPKdFMYSLv3GtANwC9sbm3lf8NYwdelB__hDhESdceinxAECFXICIFvY9svB4RAarzOStkUV94LbGCLxNoma/s1280/photo_2024-01-11%2019.09.18.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYTYe5pjlCIu07PWidOz6IbjS8rh4VSrxqYV95sspyf84PWBB7YRoLMcm0fKgVzeiJiAyCrMxkKfbAMVasSed0oqxHHXApBIMHqqWQNjoEPKdFMYSLv3GtANwC9sbm3lf8NYwdelB__hDhESdceinxAECFXICIFvY9svB4RAarzOStkUV94LbGCLxNoma/w640-h360/photo_2024-01-11%2019.09.18.jpeg" width="640" /></a></b></div><b><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></b><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>As soon as my heart stopped pacing and my breathing regulated, I started contemplating why no-one else was running but me. My sister hugged me and said: don’t worry it is a Yemeni war-craft hovering through Sanaa, showing the “Prosperity Guardians” that we are now a force to be reckoned with. At that moment, I had a sigh of relief, as we ran up to the roof to watch first hand the war-crafts zooming through our sovereign sky. I felt the salty droplets streaming down my cheek, not of fear, but of might. I could not process or begin to comprehend that this sound that once made me shiver to my bones, that once put me at a loss of words, unable to speak, was now engulfing me in pride, honor, and dignity. On Friday, I heard them, the war-crafts, but I was not the same person I once was, I felt safe and secure because those war-crafts were not on a mission to kill me or my loved ones or both. These war-crafts were there to reassure me that I am now safe, these are my country's air force. The country that only eight years ago, had utterly no form of an Air Force not even an AA (Anti-aircraft) defense.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTqhoVyNOgKcBYbdCxMk1Co0UB6djYL5lGUO_zXc5_6mMtZt0juIV5LPK-ZjMAeP6hUH4VP3n-k-q8K1qaOmJDTdSUEAHPA0qJKh9I2khMps13FjJKnh1f6gb2biwpsfpNThYqPcifmyEba_RChROCZSs48TBCSXhrr50p0pH8sTOTbWaUjMA_KcRT0HPI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTqhoVyNOgKcBYbdCxMk1Co0UB6djYL5lGUO_zXc5_6mMtZt0juIV5LPK-ZjMAeP6hUH4VP3n-k-q8K1qaOmJDTdSUEAHPA0qJKh9I2khMps13FjJKnh1f6gb2biwpsfpNThYqPcifmyEba_RChROCZSs48TBCSXhrr50p0pH8sTOTbWaUjMA_KcRT0HPI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCN14xbWIUXQvTMuWbHg477WpZLdXtvk1em8Eggkd19vf5HdhZuSfOF8WVEWNibVN8Bmgpd-zhmclK9zlscLwOKCDFnY7FSr20cqddzZC6_MTGMRmfL43QxPuvZ_Lx5ucSUCzLKrG9nEBJ9fm2TeSqcpkgx1ncl3Pr12ScePhckV9ptEvfg5rObI9iO7sZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCN14xbWIUXQvTMuWbHg477WpZLdXtvk1em8Eggkd19vf5HdhZuSfOF8WVEWNibVN8Bmgpd-zhmclK9zlscLwOKCDFnY7FSr20cqddzZC6_MTGMRmfL43QxPuvZ_Lx5ucSUCzLKrG9nEBJ9fm2TeSqcpkgx1ncl3Pr12ScePhckV9ptEvfg5rObI9iO7sZ=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Eight years ago, we were left to fend for ourselves against such vile war crimes with our bare bodies, just like our brothers in Palestine today, just like our brothers in Palestine for the past 75 years. I was told time and time again to be unbiased to come to terms with the coalition against Yemen, to label it as a “civil war” and move forth with my life. I could never bring myself to accept this hypocrisy, that I was to be given a label and I was required to go with it or else I would be regarded as biased or small minded. I take my biased stances with honor. Today I take the decision of looking back into the past 8 years, years that changed me, who I am, what I believe in. I reminisce on that little girl scared for her life, clueless, trying to convince everyone that she is okay, that she loves her country and she will make it out alive. I graduated high school and then graduated university, and it all felt like a whim, but it was never a matter of how much I learnt it was how much I matured. I have come to the realization that maturity has nothing to do with how far you leave your hometown or how many initials you can place before your name. It is the ability to go through hardship and trauma and not allowing it to stop you from moving forth with your life, even if it comes in the form of air-raids and shelling.</b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEge5DnSeupv8akN9DlI9-jaTRkxccsZnxir2A9iHDRq4UHN79120WsjEbXTG516ytGbOFlG5TqWA8bMr0uu86lune5JIXxp_O6ww0ya1EEuRdHgOEjBlDR-rFfS7WvTitkcsz667iVvAy1f5CMqLCoA8aQ4EE1o2LalpUxgDTz4MitTDG4isW3Jye1j0vxV" style="clear: right; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEge5DnSeupv8akN9DlI9-jaTRkxccsZnxir2A9iHDRq4UHN79120WsjEbXTG516ytGbOFlG5TqWA8bMr0uu86lune5JIXxp_O6ww0ya1EEuRdHgOEjBlDR-rFfS7WvTitkcsz667iVvAy1f5CMqLCoA8aQ4EE1o2LalpUxgDTz4MitTDG4isW3Jye1j0vxV=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>I can not believe it has been close to nine years since that very first missile dropped on Yemen by the Saudi-led coalition. It feels like yesterday, it rattled us as a nation to our cores, the fear of the unknown, the fear of tomorrow, if there would ever be a tomorrow. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, so many lives have gone, so many limbs have perished, so many souls scarred for life. I do not believe a day could come where I would come to terms with the coalition as a whole; from main participants to supporters to unbiased people watching from afar, -or even worse up close-. I have been terrified of the beautiful blue sky for so long, it is hard to look up in search for tranquility when all you can remember is the bright light, the haunting sound, and your whole home shaking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>It has been a few years of "ceasefire" in Sanaa the capital in specific, I cannot plainly say an entire ceasefire considering that the cities near the borders are still being bombarded till this day although everyone chooses to disregard this painful truth. The ceasefire here in the capital is quite odd, I constantly feel cautious towards the skies like something might come shooting down on me at any moment, the situation is like a comma, you know it is not the end which is unsettling, but at the very least it is not the beginning. If they decide to come at us again at least it won't be our first rally. I believe the current situation has most definitely put Yemen on the map, loud and clear. I also believe Prosperity Guardian is not an unknown term and I feel prepared, I am no longer afraid, I am filled with fury and fire, absolutely nothing can change where I stand or who I stand with. Time teaches you who is truly watching out for you and who is on the watch for your downfall. It is only human to feel like life is tough, unbearable at times, but the value of freedom is worthy no matter how much it might cost, it will always be a price I am willing to pay. Even if the price is my youth, my health, my blood, or my entire existence, if that is what it takes for my dear country to gain its sovereignty.</b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>The last 97 days have been heart-wrenching and soul breaking seeing the pain our brothers and sisters in Palestine are enduring and I feel a personal connection, a connection that is almost spiritual. The Palestinian injustice has always been near and dear to us in Yemen since it all began over 75 years ago, it has been heightened in the last decade for my generation, a generation once brainwashed by "The American Dream" and the belief of a just “International Community”, a generation who constantly fled from their origins and their roots. The past decade has shown us the true colors of the brutal, cold-blooded humanitarian organizations. The truth is painful but refreshing like a cold plunge in mid-winter. The Palestinian injustice has always been known to us as neighboring Arabs but only in the past few years has light been shed so intensely on the case. Hence, I am now well aware, although I feel extremely guilty that I was not as enlightened before as I am today, filling me with wrath towards all the people I once believed were defenders of peace and human rights. I now know only certain people are worth defending in their hypocritical eyes.</b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Seeing the Palestinians' struggle for the past three months brought back the memories of what Yemenis have been through. It is safe to say, that our shared injustice and pain makes for an eternal bond linked by steadfastness, perseverance, and a cause we believe in. Yemen has chosen to stand with the suffering of the Palestinians by changing the sails of ships from the Red Sea to the Cape of Good Hope. Who would have imagined that the people of Yemen who were once taught to accept any leftovers given by our neighboring countries, are now making decision that change the entire economical course of the seas. The same country that was once bombed continuously and left to moan in silence, to grieve in solitude. So much can change in the course of a couple of years there are no ultimatums in life nothing is guaranteed to remain the same. I am filled with unprecedented pride knowing the dark horse gained power and used it for good to help the people of Palestine, proving once again that Yemen is rising from the rubbles with grace and gratitude to God for aiding us through our hardships and thanking him through relieving those struggling of oppression like we once did, but a million times worse. I thank God for where we are today, and who we stand with, who we stand by.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>As I wrote this entry last Friday, postponing it until it was exactly as I wanted it to be interpreted, my final edits being written down, in hopes of uploading today Friday the 12th of January, just a week later. I have lived to tell yet another tale, as always a tale of crime and injustice. I was awoken at 2 am today, to the sound of bombings. As you all may expect this time around Saudi seems to be out of the game. It is now the US and the UK bombing Sanaa, Saada, Taiz, Hajjah, and Hodeidah, in attempts to prove that they have the upper hand. I have one thing to say, I am not scared of your missiles, the people you thought you broke eight years ago are still here stronger than ever, ready for it all. Bomb us all you want, you will never get us to kneel. We will stand tall and Yemen will reign supreme. Five soldiers were killed and six injured, I pray no one was else was hurt and I hope to live to tell another tale.</b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhF1-113EbXzAlXvvp4CzYEJaQsfam4BJcTjujhZzHswRv7sJ9Vef8rM-O2WXcEJKZ5y8zyQeG0-jMrCA3uXqnIV99AGXBZT2AvAc0X5A3AB1rOR0tTS_s6gmq7WyqE8SMFqpDloS6z5dao3TzQScMirPW-2snJ0kfmmWopY6ibnoofN6oNp0cv9-H4nx/s1280/photo_2024-01-11%2019.09.26.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhF1-113EbXzAlXvvp4CzYEJaQsfam4BJcTjujhZzHswRv7sJ9Vef8rM-O2WXcEJKZ5y8zyQeG0-jMrCA3uXqnIV99AGXBZT2AvAc0X5A3AB1rOR0tTS_s6gmq7WyqE8SMFqpDloS6z5dao3TzQScMirPW-2snJ0kfmmWopY6ibnoofN6oNp0cv9-H4nx/w640-h360/photo_2024-01-11%2019.09.26.jpeg" width="640" /></a></b></div><b><br /><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></b><p></p>Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-90224452166516584172023-04-18T23:22:00.003-07:002023-04-18T23:23:13.200-07:00A Journey of Blissful Pain; The Prisoner Release Arrangement<p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Her tears were enough to reignite the flames of my rage, a fragile soul made of roses and daisies in such pain, unable to connect the dots between this man and the dad she knows from worn out photographs her mother keeps in the top drawer of her dresser that is slowly falling apart, she gazes into her father's eyes and it finally clicks that this is her dad, the man in the picture is real, this is the very first time she set her big, brown eyes on her dad, and she breaks down into showers of tear turning her face from pale to scarlet, filling every inch of her body with inexperienced joy.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92aGBsjRU0eevz5FHCdH06CIXBuY4vsrTy3TrNfQ0rq9qh4iqzSOedRLXHaMLeL6VuTN0TerxDsXiuHsMuW0fiLI5auRBv4fICTyMVVKwCdc7pYOlanj2jY4toxXL7S4MWkERR0VcXUZ_SmdebnB92KQ5I7y8zuzVFJBVRhVjlDyAIVvOIhXDeV_Bqg/s1280/photo_2023-04-19%2008.21.39.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92aGBsjRU0eevz5FHCdH06CIXBuY4vsrTy3TrNfQ0rq9qh4iqzSOedRLXHaMLeL6VuTN0TerxDsXiuHsMuW0fiLI5auRBv4fICTyMVVKwCdc7pYOlanj2jY4toxXL7S4MWkERR0VcXUZ_SmdebnB92KQ5I7y8zuzVFJBVRhVjlDyAIVvOIhXDeV_Bqg/w400-h225/photo_2023-04-19%2008.21.39.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The mothers falling to their knees, eyes clouded with tears in complete denial that this day has finally shined upon them, the days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and she patiently waits holding on by her faith in God, she sees her son and breaks down, he might be injured and his legs are at the brink of being amputated, but in that moment nothing matters but him, he is here, her son who will always be the little boy running into her arms barely holding himself up, and is now the man barely holding himself up with his beaten up legs, using his crane to approach her as fast as he can. They finally meet and she falls onto her knees, and the world stops in that moment, happiness is everywhere.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5WDS6GuLz1ffKx_5NKA-UFBMu6wI79wp3ef71XTUX4hs4JCV8GC1DyV9vJI9_dEYerzPfNfFoSEHa4TlRgKhPCYD8nCHQVoXtncYVboCozqSKTa_2I0ohWhE7_o1nYIStkXZ-srR37MNcbfNZ_Rt6dWDjqZvMcWE93Fhou0Yy7rBfGQ2SjYV16p0YA/s1280/photo_2023-04-19%2008.21.31.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5WDS6GuLz1ffKx_5NKA-UFBMu6wI79wp3ef71XTUX4hs4JCV8GC1DyV9vJI9_dEYerzPfNfFoSEHa4TlRgKhPCYD8nCHQVoXtncYVboCozqSKTa_2I0ohWhE7_o1nYIStkXZ-srR37MNcbfNZ_Rt6dWDjqZvMcWE93Fhou0Yy7rBfGQ2SjYV16p0YA/w400-h225/photo_2023-04-19%2008.21.31.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Years spent behind bars imprisoned and tortured, yet they came home with so much pride, a vision of honor. Ready to sacrifice themselves all over again for these people, for this religion, for this country.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can't tell who is happier those who arrived or those awaiting their arrival, it is a scene out of an Oscar award winning drama movie, even I who was here the entirety of the struggle could not hold back the streams of my tears, they are almost flooding me in the sea of salty droplets falling from eyes. I cannot fathom or even begin to comprehend how these people the Saudi-led coalition and their mercenaries here in Yemen have such intense hatred, how they are filled to the brim with extreme brutality, these prisoners were held captive for years, beaten and tortured both mentally and physically and for no reason but defending their country that was under attack by this coalition. What surprises me is that some of the people captivated were not even in the battlefronts but rather unbiased Yemenis on their way to make a living in Saudi and they were held as prisoners for over 5 years tortured, hanged, and abused.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My heart aches and shatters into pieces once again, seeing families holding up photos of their lost children, they spent hours on the road from their villages miles aways to arrive at Sanaa International Airport in hopes of hearing any news of their children, their fathers, their husbands. They come from all over the country knowing their loved ones are not going to arrive but just in hopes that any one of the freed prisoners will have any information about them, are they okay, are they even alive? Questions I sometimes believe they would rather not hear the answers, but they spend hours under the sun from the peak of dawn till the very last freed prisoners sets foot in the airport asking them and pointing at the pictures, helplessly screaming, have you seen him? Do you know him? Such a tragedy, it is almost too tragic to process.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxNE10NElt-IvNWlCHqBEA0EeXprQEgmMktqi5JMNDVzR8Ifkm9920cyu6BMkL0U88S0_bwjt3VT4UYh9g6WqGvZKuSZl4yogezGAvuvPybgHpsONZpNk1zf8DWLehl6H46gIseAXDpfysFEbwLNG_SVrF13DevuQ60ptkFjSSHSwmHtUHVPEa0Xr6A/s1280/photo_2023-04-18%2000.54.28.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxNE10NElt-IvNWlCHqBEA0EeXprQEgmMktqi5JMNDVzR8Ifkm9920cyu6BMkL0U88S0_bwjt3VT4UYh9g6WqGvZKuSZl4yogezGAvuvPybgHpsONZpNk1zf8DWLehl6H46gIseAXDpfysFEbwLNG_SVrF13DevuQ60ptkFjSSHSwmHtUHVPEa0Xr6A/w400-h225/photo_2023-04-18%2000.54.28.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This prisoner's exchange went on for three days in three phases the first phase were those imprisoned in Aden, the second from AlMakhaa and Khamees Moshayt in Saudi, and the final group were from Marib. Yesterday marked the final day of this prisoner exchange and held some heart-wrenching stories, a family of thirty from Al-Ameer family were captives in Marib while not being in the battlefronts and three generations have been held captive for over five years now including three little boys aged between ten and thirteen, yes, that is right, literal children have been imprisoned for five years by the Saudi led mercenaries in Marib. Another heartbreaking story is that of Sameera Maresh a mother who was captivated in Marib in 2018 for absolutely no crime and has been left in their prisons tortured and in pain and solitude for five years now. These stories of normal by-passers who were held captives with no crime but existing how is this allowed, accepted? The prisons in Marib have not allowed any committees to visit them which is against all laws, but in moments like these you cannot help but question what is the law? Who are the peacekeepers? The prisons in Marib are by far the worst and just reminiscing on what goes down there my blood turns cold.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">How are we expected to be unbiased and unfazed by these captivations, these imprisonments, this unjust treatment towards the people of Yemen. How are we expected to adjust and accept having our people imprisoned and tortured, and are asked to just forgive and forget the Saudi coalition, after all they have done to the country and to the people.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After countless negotiations between the government and the Saudi led coalition and their mercenaries and going through round after round of negotiations for such a humanitarian file that should not be abused by them and meshed together with the political files, this inhumane treatment towards these captives infuriates me. In order for these 705 prisoners to be released the National Committee for Prisoners' Affairs went through nine rounds of negotiations both in Yemen and in countries like Switzerland, and although they endlessly stated their will to exchange "all for all" the other parties refused this offer which is unfortunate and saddening, considering the inhumane living situations our prisoners are going through. I once again question what is the point of the International Committees preaching for peace when they cannot seem to end a total humanitarian situation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It is said that in the upcoming month of May another prisoner exchange will be executed and I pray the other parties agree to exchange all for all, because the joy engulfing the people of Yemen these past day is truly heartwarming and beautiful. It is beautiful to know that although this country is war-ridden there is always the hope of a better tomorrow, the hope of meeting again with her son, her husband, her father. The hope of the future is what keeps us going, knowing that there is always a possibility of unexpected happiness and families reuniting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvuJu0YiBqExYnuyYmu-BR73UWGKm3XhwkQJLFoWBqgqNcqkzl9ttTVf1aomawLdFOB7tPb55OXye3XLgUtorMmpT5Q8i-PjA_UoV7o3h3cbOCZVzni0BS8EcTAyFx7gL2zJgkk-oa-EvTzJK-5MpJOZF29AItqdz4GHxykvwEkpQXVSMyhOr972nNg/s1280/photo_2023-04-19%2009.12.30.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvuJu0YiBqExYnuyYmu-BR73UWGKm3XhwkQJLFoWBqgqNcqkzl9ttTVf1aomawLdFOB7tPb55OXye3XLgUtorMmpT5Q8i-PjA_UoV7o3h3cbOCZVzni0BS8EcTAyFx7gL2zJgkk-oa-EvTzJK-5MpJOZF29AItqdz4GHxykvwEkpQXVSMyhOr972nNg/w400-h225/photo_2023-04-19%2009.12.30.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></span><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In the end, I pray for those behind bars and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I send my warmest regards to all the families who are reunited. Welcome home you have all been deeply missed!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiiyucxpX8y8cfYBOmLj5bSrO9txrg6DRATESuZAFsYEatIDsmEFcBnn9QBkOzls8y2G5b5Q2YqSPvOP8EfS8MLlp8OcMls77dJDyt61wen7e6edoxQ0pUTniqa878yigoOkEAQ-63ShriL2hioDI6YK9HD5EZmdUHANOMasMMd7xTimg3HxNVxARMA/s1280/photo_2023-04-19%2009.05.29.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiiyucxpX8y8cfYBOmLj5bSrO9txrg6DRATESuZAFsYEatIDsmEFcBnn9QBkOzls8y2G5b5Q2YqSPvOP8EfS8MLlp8OcMls77dJDyt61wen7e6edoxQ0pUTniqa878yigoOkEAQ-63ShriL2hioDI6YK9HD5EZmdUHANOMasMMd7xTimg3HxNVxARMA/w400-h225/photo_2023-04-19%2009.05.29.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-12094866698170693262023-03-26T13:08:00.003-07:002023-03-26T13:14:08.860-07:00Eight years later; the story goes on <p><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">The silence is frightening, like the calm before the storm. I am so used to their sounds, their thunders, now all I hear are my thoughts. As I wait for the silence to pass, this calm is now the unknown.</b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>I hear the airplanes passing and I can't help but shiver reminiscing when it all started eight years ago, when all I knew was silence that was cut off, always in a sudden, to hear a speeding warcraft above my head about to take away the lives of tens of people at once in a matter of seconds. How can I justify or explain to myself that these are not war crafts these are airplanes, the airplanes that used to sound so natural to me. The airplane that little children would wave at just eight years ago, those same children are teenagers now, and the children today would never wave at an airplane because it never is an airplane, it is always a hovering, killing machine about to take out little kids just like them.</b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><b></b><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Times change and although there is a truce there is no serenity, just the fear of tomorrow, when we are hit back with reality that this isn't the same Yemen we knew eight years ago, the people are stronger and the mountains stand tall, taller than they have ever stood. Eight years passed so much faster than I ever imagined, it was just yesterday when I was awoken to the news, not able to comprehend what was going on. Eight years feel like a minute, but when I stop to dwell on the years; my eyes fill up with tears, so much has happened, so many souls have gone. So many people have left, have changed, have given up... As I wipe away the tears I remember the person I once was and how this war against my country has changed me to the core. There is pain and there are miseries, but there is also a hope of a better tomorrow.</b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkpUqq3AYrtaIWZBBUkeqMk2ex5dg8GKd--GJbEiF_DZBAd4t3GfUJgTu42zlHKkfbRFfPErd7wQDJfnjZETQ2XZpVt1Rl_OSw0D1TAI89NTvoUJla4m8ZIBDikESjcbWJcNx4yF0hiw25N_fnir6VmoH7xbKlSt7jfqv12TLwFZLI6xFemwPeMUmIA/s1280/yemen_2023.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkpUqq3AYrtaIWZBBUkeqMk2ex5dg8GKd--GJbEiF_DZBAd4t3GfUJgTu42zlHKkfbRFfPErd7wQDJfnjZETQ2XZpVt1Rl_OSw0D1TAI89NTvoUJla4m8ZIBDikESjcbWJcNx4yF0hiw25N_fnir6VmoH7xbKlSt7jfqv12TLwFZLI6xFemwPeMUmIA/s320/yemen_2023.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">I still vividly remember the mark of the very first year and how 365 days seemed like an eternity but now close to 3000 days in so much has changed and this country rose from the rubbles. Yes, we rose from the rubbles while we were under attack by their air raids but we persisted in hopes of a future where this country regains its sovereignty, its freedom, its God given rights. Pain can be broken down into levels, at the start you feel engulfed or rather buried by the emotions, some days it feels overbearing where all you can see and touch is sorrow, everything is blanketed in grief. As you level up, you begin to view the world for what it is, as if you are awaken into reality, the sadness ends and a new wave of emotion begins, drowning you in facts, facts you cannot believe you never saw, and at that moment it all clicks, everything falls into place. The pain becomes valid and you are no longer in grief; in the contrary you are in a phase of rage, but not in a bewildered, feral way, rather in a legitimate, sane form, this is what I believe maturing is. Maturing is knowing where your emotions stand, what they mean, and what they will lead to, it is taking actions and taking a stance.</span></b><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><b></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>I have seen such high levels of brutality from this aggression by the same countries that I once believed were symbols of peace, signs of freedom. In the beginning it was hard to wrap my head around the fact that the countries I looked up to were now spending fortunes in attempts to demolish my people, to demolish me. It was painful coming to this realization, but I can now clearly see the world in a way that I could have never deemed to be the truth years ago. It is at the moment we take off our rose-tinted glasses that we see the world for what it is, and although at times it may seem brutal and in all truth it is, the world is not a happy place, but it is a choice that we make, we shape the world we live in, and when I awoke and took them off I was freed. Freedom does not come easily and it comes accompanied with mountains of agony, but once it settles in you witness serenity even under the showers of air raids, bombs, and the fear of death. This is the reality check we all need and all it takes is setting away your rose-tinted shades.</b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><b></b><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>We are told to accept the situation we are in, the state of no war and no peace, the so-called truce. The truce that in itself is a form of aggression and the ongoing blockade is another form of aggression, this is a situation which we will not accept nor will we tolerate. Peace is not achieved in this way, it is not a double-sided deal, peace is taken in its entirety, not in bits and pieces. It always leaves me dumbfounded that as a third world country we are expected to simply accept that a dictatorship like the United States has all the right to come and take over a country, taking the natural resources and their sovereignty and in return they give the people crumbs that have been chewed and spit out for them to indulge in, and accept. This is not a life the people of Yemen intend on living and this war can go on for centuries, but we refuse to bow down or let go of our rights because the effect of this war is not one that can be forgotten, the souls that have been lost, and the misery that has overshadowed this land, this country belongs to Yemen and its people, not to the countries that invaded it and those who supports the invaders.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><b></b><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Eight years have passed and we have grown, matured, changed. Eight years have gone by and we have grieved, cried, broken down. Eight years felt like a glimpse of an eye and an eternity all at once, this is Yemen and we will not surrender or accept defeat in our just battle of defense. Here’s to a bright, prosperous future for the children of Yemen. I have faith regardless of all the pain that we have endured that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and we will rise from the ashes.</b></p>Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-26754040466717548732020-04-01T03:08:00.001-07:002020-04-01T04:47:20.941-07:00Steed Sorrow<div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
In her eyes I saw pain, I saw the feeling of helplessness that I have seen too many times before. In her eyes were wails and screams, the image of a broken soul. She stood so tall yet so frail like the slightest breeze of air could shatter her to pieces. Her bloody body standing above her little one with nothing to do but to accept the pain and to dwell in the sorrow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Wars are never easy and the losses are never predictable, the only thing guaranteed is pain. Over 1800 days have passed and the only thing that has been stable is the pain. The only constant in our lives is pain. These horses were more than just animals to us Yemenis, these Arabian horses resembled both nobility and courage which are the two components Yemenis are made of. In the past fifty years Yemenis were portrayed and conveyed as savage illiterates who have no morals, all of which are false allegations. In the past five years I have got to know my people because nothing brings people closer together than common cause fed by pain. Yemenis will give you their last piece of bread and go to bed on an empty stomach to make you feel at home. Yemenis will open their homes to a person in need without a second thought. Yemenis are selfless and noble, they do not compensate with wrongdoings and they do not break their word.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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These horses show us that pain is felt in nature as a whole that we are all the same, we all share the pain. When a country is in crisis the land and sky are in crisis, the living creatures are in crisis. These horses have been through a lot they have been scared and lonely. They have experienced loss the same way the rest of the people have. These horses are more than just an additional number of casualties, these horses were a part of us and a part of you.</div>
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Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-5948883200113153932020-03-27T01:17:00.003-07:002020-03-27T01:17:41.550-07:00The 26th of March; Five Years In <div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
I remember this day vividly, half a decade has passed and it feels like yesterday. It was a Tuesday and I had decided beforehand to skip school that day to study for an exam. I slept early the night before as I always do, then when I woke up, I grabbed my phone, opened WhatsApp and found my class’s group blowing up with messages. I began to read through them and I was not comprehending the words “Saudi declared a war against us” it seemed insane. I went out of my room, I found my mother and sister in front of the TV watching the news and it was in fact real. Everyone in Sana’a was awake, the first bomb thrown left the whole city awake, except me that is, that is also when I discovered what a deep sleeper I was. It did not make any sense to me, why were we attacked? A few days prior on the 21st of March, 2015 there was an explosion in a mosque during the Friday prayer which led to the death of so many. Maybe that was the warning sign, but I never saw it coming. The whole day I laid cuddled in my blanket trying to watch the news. Before I knew it one day turned to another and one week turned to one month, one month to one year, one year to five years. They bombed children’s schools, hospitals, markets, weddings, funerals, and families in the safety of their homes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Even after all the air raids I am still not accustomed to it. I still panic and shiver and shake. That is what a war against your country does to you, it changes you and everything you thought you knew about yourself. A war leaves you with battlefield scars even if you were never in the actual battlefield. You will never look at airplanes passing by with an easy heart. You will never leave the house sure it will be there when you come back. You will never know if this is the last time you will see your loved one. Every breath felt and still feels like the very last</div>
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It takes courage to move past your grief and into your anger. I was just sad for the first few weeks I was in denial, I could not even process anything of what I was hearing. Of course at this time electricity was shut down and I remember the first time my sister and I left the house, it was a gloomy afternoon we went outside and expected to see no one, like a scene from an end of the world movie, but everyone was out and about and I could not help but smile that there was still hope, there was still a possibility of a better tomorrow. That day we bought the very first radio I had ever seen so we could keep up with the news. I genuinely thought it was the apocalypse. A month later the air raids were so close to our home that we had to evacuate, at that moment and for the first time in my life I understood what fear felt like, nothing prior to that experience could come close to how helpless I felt. Life has a way of teaching you lessons you never thought you would learn. I never thought a time would come where I was the one running for my life and having to choose my most precious belongings in a matter of minutes with the chance of never coming back home. It is scary how close you can get to death and how unprepared you always are. Before 2015 I never really witnessed loss, I never really understood what it felt like to be filled with sorrow, but then I understood how terrifying it is to always be a moment away from losing your loved ones, a moment away from losing a limb, from losing your home. Death is frightening but nothing compares to loss, to grief.</div>
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The first forty days of the aggression against Yemen were hard and I was hopeless, but then suddenly on the mark of the fortieth day, the Yemeni army and people’s committee made their first attack against the Saudi regime. Using primitive weapons like scud and tochka because the dictator Ali Abdullah Saleh had bombed all our weapons under American supervision in the early 2000s. So when the time came that we were under attack by over 10 countries led by Saudi and Emirates with the green light from the USA we were left hopeless and helpless. I loathe Ali Abdullah Saleh and nothing in this world would ever change my mind. He made me hate my country, he taught me to look down on my fellow Yemenis. Because of him Yemen has always been below the poverty line, over half the population was a victim of malnutritioning , not once did he build a hospital or a school. Yemen’s public schools are so short in supply that not only do the students bring their own chairs with them, but they also have to come at different timings some attend from 8 am until 12 pm and others from 12pm to 4 pm. It would be acceptable if Yemen was just a desert not a country filled with oils mines in Mareb that the French, Brits, and Americans take for themselves and give the Yemenis who work for them near to nothing. Yemen has the best strategic positioning considering Bab el-Mandeb strait which gives Yemen the ability to control all the ships passing by, but Ali Saleh and his supporters stole it all for themselves giving this country and its people nothing. I will not waste my time in counting his crimes because that would not end. The point is after forty days hope was reignited. Yes we were still being bombed but at least we were trying to fight back we were not as helpless as we were before.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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In the mark of one year Yemen was stronger than ever and the strength of my beloved country grew greater and greater, until we now have our own weapons that are up to date and have incredible capabilities 100% made in Yemen. We have our own war crafts, we are now defending our land and our people. Even if it took me five years to understand how much you can love a country I am happy and proud to have been given that chance to stay here for the past five years to see how much the average Yemeni has evolved how his pride has been re-obtained, how he is no longer being belittled and looked down upon as he once was. Through death comes life and through fear comes courage. Five years, half a decade and we have come so far. I hope the following five years enrapture us in freedom, sovereignty, and peace.</div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-9953982855230204262020-01-09T20:03:00.000-08:002020-01-09T21:02:56.212-08:00The Power of a Decade <style type="text/css">
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I remember my excitement for 2010 I had just turned 11 and the world seemed to be my oyster, I had a whole plan set out for myself. I was a hardheaded child with a plan, a well thought of plan, I was going to graduate high school at 17 and start university directly after, as a law student of course, and Harvard was the obvious choice. Nothing seemed too far, nothing seemed unreachable, every dream I had was valid, every dream was a possibility. It is hard to reminisce the past, how all that energy is long gone, I blame this war for it. </div>
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In February of 2015, I was sixteen preparing for my AS-Levels to elevate my chance of getting into a league school, my life revolved around books and studying, I would stay put for six hours straight without budging studying maths day in, day out. I missed out on so much all for an exam I never took because the moment this aggression began all hell broke loose, everything was cancelled and I was left to panic and cry that my life plan would not go forth. All the time spent studying maths and writing commentaries are all gone. Nothing will ever give me back my youth, my time, my life. I still had a small glimpse of hope that maybe not taking the exams was okay. As always I had a second option, a back-up plan. I was chosen a few weeks prior to the start of the coalition, with a few students from my grade as possible candidates for the UWC scholarship, I remember video taping myself that day after school crying tears of joy that my efforts paid off; I was chosen! I could not have been happier, I have never felt that much excitement from a mere idea of possibly getting chosen, chosen for a scholarship that would lead up to me entering into a league school.</div>
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Suddenly this coalition started, only a month after I received the news that I might be getting a scholarship.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My interview for the scholarship was set for the start of April, I was so nervous I could barely breathe, both because it might simply be cancelled considering the situation, and because I am a naturally nervous and anxious person. The interview was set and that day I was so stressed that I wouldn’t be chosen. The interview went well, I was not extremely confident because the competition was real. The following week I got a call saying, congratulations! You got the scholarship, we chose you over seventy other candidates. You are going to Norway. I just kept repeating the phrase thank you, I hung up. Ran upstairs to my mother, jumping up and down and she stared at me with looks of disbelief and said; you can’t possibly be thinking of leaving. No way. Impossible. Not going to happen. Not in this household. And that is when I felt my whole life falling apart. I was devastated, heart broken I felt betrayed, how could she let me apply and then when I get accepted she simply says no. I felt every form of anger I wanted to smash my fist in a wall. I balled my eyes out, I called my dad dwelling in tears like the world has ended and at the time it seemed like it did, I told him what happened he told me to calm down, he would talk to her and so he did. She did not budge, she came to my room and I wouldn’t look her in the eyes. She came to give me a talk, she told me she couldn’t let me a sixteen year old travel to Norway for a year with no one by my side, that she let me apply thinking I wouldn’t get the scholarship and that some rich kid would get it -as would happen in Yemen-, she wanted me to give it a shot, but she never thought it would work. She said when you are done with high school you can just go to America and stay at your Aunt’s place and go to university there. All I remember was barely being able to look her in the eyes, I felt betrayed. </div>
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After endless efforts from both my father and the scholarship people, it was decided she would not let me go. I know she could not have forced me to stay, but I could not leave knowing she did not want me to, I could not even imagine doing it. I wanted this scholarship more than anything I have ever wanted, I was traumatized that I would not be taking the AS-levels and I would not travel to Norway, everything seemed so dark and sad. I have never felt that kind of sadness ever again. It was not sadness it was misery and helplessness coated in a thousand layers of disappointment. All I remember is crying and crying and crying. I thought of running away to my father, it seemed like a choice. My life suddenly stopped in the middle of my school year in eleventh grade suddenly my life went from constant studying and planning for the future to staying at home with no electricity and the fear of dying. I felt empty on the inside like all my life has been a waste.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I remember my inability to comprehend the magnitude of the situation during the first few weeks of the Saudi-led coalition. I was so self-consumed, nothing other than my disoriented life mattered to me. The deaths around me seemed so far, everything seemed so distant to me. It felt surreal nothing was the same yet I could not adjust. All I did was dwell in my sorrows, in how unfair life was to me. After a few weeks my mother as the strong-willed woman she was, obviously did not stand back and watch as her country was being bombed relentlessly for no valid reason she took it into her own hands to search for every possible way to display the situation to the rest of the world and of course I had to be part. That is the thing when your mom is the brave, just, well-read person my mom is being active is not a choice, there is no other way to live. That is when I was pulled out of my ocean of self-grief and into reality and I changed forever. My purpose was to show the rest of the world what was happening how unjust it was to kill little children, to displace families, all for what? And why? Because we want our sovereignty. We went out to every march, I spoke in many events in English, all in hopes the world would take action but in those few months I realized the world does not care. It shocked me, I was so disappointed in everyone, but once again when your mom is the incredible mom I have being disheartened is not a choice, I learned to persevere and here I am almost five years later a changed person.</div>
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Since I no longer had a school to go to I was dedicated to writing on Facebook expressing my wrath, my anger and that is when I felt I had purpose, that is when I realized that maybe that is why my mom did not let me leave because I would have dismissed the growing intensity of the aggression against my country because it is hard to relate when you are unaffected, when you are unmoved. I do not regret staying. My school re-opened nine months later and suddenly I was a senior in high school, but I was a changed person. In the nine months that passed I moved twice to different relatives homes it was tough. We left because we feared for our lives, a bomb would drop and everything in our humble home would tremble and dust would flood our rooms. I would shiver and turn ice cold, I would be unable to speak for an hours or so. I loathed the feeling of being weak, how much fear filled my mother’s eyes when she would see me so broken. I felt anger, the wrath of the seven seas. I felt at times helpless like my voice was unheard, like my death would make no difference. Whenever I saw a window I was startled because windows and bombs are the most terrifying combination. Every bomb was a reminder that I might be next and death no matter how far it seems is ever so close.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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When I started school I was quite accustomed to the bombs, I was a bit stronger the bombs still frightened me, but at least I felt some momentum in my life. I remember vividly my last first day of school, my mom and sister escorted me because I was terrified the same way I was 12 years prior when I started school.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is quite amusing how vulnerable the human is how even if you are sixteen you are still as scared and anxious are you were at four and that is both sad and beautiful. During the nine months I spent at home and looking back at those times I see how much I matured how you do not choose when you grow, your birthday does not indicate it, it is the experiences you go through, the struggles and triumphs, they are what determine your age and that is what a war does it steals your youth, you are between being a child diffused in fear and a crippling elderly unable to speak. There is no in-between, a whole phase of your life is taken away from you and there is no way to ask for that time back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I finished high school, my brother left to study university the day after my graduation, and I decided to stay an extra year before leaving to the United States, the year passed and with the passing days I changed. My wrath, my anger, my fury increased. I think it is worth mentioning that when I was 16 I lost my interest in law, I wanted to major in education in order to enhance the educational institution in Yemen. I wanted the generation succeeding me to grow up unscarred by the cruelty of the educational system. I wanted the next generation to be taught to think not to memorize, I wanted qualified teachers to educate them and not qualified in terms of diplomas but in terms of capabilities. I wanted capable, intelligent, and kind people to teach the next generation. I was lucky enough to come across two amazing teachers in my life time, one taught me English and the other taught me maths, they have impacted my life in so many ways. They gave me the ability to think and their hard work did pay off. If it were not for their support through my teen years I would not have been the person I am today. The year passed and I was planning on leaving on October 2017, I was ready for the next chapter of my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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In Yemen, most high school graduates take a year off, so by the time I was planning on leaving all my friends were starting university in the only “certified” university in Sana’a. I was quite upset that I was not sharing their excitement, I felt left out. My mom was visibly sad that I was leaving the nest, and I wanted to share my friends’ excitement, so I thought it through and decided to take a semester in this university to both enjoy the fun with my friends and a few extra weeks with my mother. Then, I would leave for sure in January. As you can expect there are almost no choices in majors in the university I joined, nothing even close to education nor was there law, the options were so limited. I thought about what subjects I was good at and came to the conclusion electrical engineering will be fun to try. When I went to register, I explained how I was only planning on staying a semester and the registrar advised me otherwise, saying it is not worth it, I would not be gaining any experience in electrical engineering from the first semester and I insisted on taking the three months semester. I remember how scary it all seemed although it was literally two buildings that are anything but intimidating. I took pre-calc and I was getting 100 on every exam because I loved maths and it was super easy which surprised me considering the fact university should be harder than school from my perspective. My first semester finished I got straight As and I did not enjoy the major at all, but I wanted to beat the odds by being a female electrical engineer. I decided to stay.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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This is where I explain why I decided to stay in one part I would like to say I enjoyed the university that I was in but that is a lie because I absolutely hate it and I still do. The reason I stayed is because it felt like if I left I would never come back and it was true. Who can leave a war-ridden country with no electricity and then willingly come back? Maybe I would have come back but I would be a changed person and I know this for a fact. I chose to stay because everyone seemed to be abandoning the country and the only people left were those who hated Yemen and if given a chance to leave for good they would. I felt a responsibility amongst myself to stay and I did. I eventually changed my major to IT which I also dislike considering the dreams I had. I am starting my final year of university in a few months, it did pass by faster than I thought it would. My ten year old self would never had imagined that I would be an IT graduate from a below-average university and somedays it is hard for me to believe it too. The only thing that makes it all bearable is seeing history being made in my country and staying here taught me something traveling and achieving my dreams never would have. I learned that there is a whole country populated with 27 million people other than me, I learned that life is not about what you achieve as an individual but what your country achieves as a whole because my country’s success is my success and its failure is mine as well. I learned that loving a place is harder than loving a person. I learned that no matter what are plans are something different, something right will be awaiting you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I know this might disappoint a lot of people to see dreams fade away, but looking back at it all I can not imagine not being a part of the ongoing change in my country. I was raised privileged and I am now learning how to think like those with less. A war-ridden country teaches you more about yourself and more about humanity than you will ever learn in peace. I have seen so many displaced people, so many sick, paralyzed, wounded, mentally ill people that mourning upon my materialistic losses is invalid and inhumane. I am proud of the person I have become and there is not one part of my story I would change.</div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-61529741838709391492019-09-26T11:40:00.000-07:002019-09-26T11:40:12.237-07:00The Price of a Revolution <style type="text/css">
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When I just turned fifteen during early 2014, my brother and I were traveling to Spain in the Summer but as Yemenis we had a few bumps on the road. Our American passports were expired and we only had our diplomatic ones which in some countries actually mean some sort of immunity, but not in Yemen not under Hadi’s ruling. There was no Spanish embassy, so we went to the Italian embassy to get shin-gin visas. As we arrived to the embassy with our uncle who wasn’t allowed to come inside, only my brother and I were allowed in. The degradation began with their searching of our belongings, we were not allowed to let our phones inside and we were treated badly at the gate. As we stepped inside the embassy, quite a fancy place, we were led to an empty hall and awaited for what seemed like an eternity then the interrogation began. Finally, a few hours later we were set free and left with papers to fill. I remember how annoyed I felt, but at the same time although I felt degraded and belittled in my own country I felt like it was okay to be treated like a threat.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I traveled to Spain that Summer, my brother renewed his passport, but I did not and we were set to go back in December, in timing with me sixteenth birthday and that is when the true feeling of degradation sunk it. This feeling was not one I made up, it was a collective feel it grew with me throughout the years. I remember vividly 4 years ago while my brother and I were on our way yet again to Spain from Yemen, my brother traveled using his American passport and I traveled with my Yemeni passport, as we stopped in Dubai for a transit he was allowed to pass through the arrivals gate while I had to wait until my father arrived. He had to pay an exaggerated fee in order to let me in to the country for my two day stay. I have never felt so worthless in my life, my brother who was my life long companion since birth with only an 18 month difference between us was given the upper hand just because he was “American” while I was treated as a possible threat to a country at just sixteen. This was on the sixteenth of December, 2014 the day of my sixteenth birthday. That feeling of degradation will stay with me for life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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So, in timing with the 57th anniversary of the so-called Yemeni independence marking the downfall of the kingdom and rise of the republic, I want to state as a young woman that I have never felt independent. I have never felt of worth. I have never felt proud of being Yemeni. I hated every part of being Yemeni that was all until the 21st of September, the start of the real Yemeni revolution that just marked its fifth anniversary. The anniversary of the revolution that changed the course of history for Yemen and the world, I am now proud to say I am Yemeni. As an American born Yemeni woman I know through experience how proud I was of my second nationality. At times I wished I had an American name rather than my oh so Muslim-Arabian name. I felt such shame coming from Yemen that whenever I would travel I would hope no-one would know where I came from and would deem me as an Omani or an Egyptian anything other than a Yemeni.</div>
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I believe this fire in my soul is only normal considering how I was raised in a revolutionary family where everything was to be questioned and settling was never a choice. I remember my questioning since my earlier days and how I would openly say, “Nope, I don’t like Ali Abdullah Saleh.” As a child I was never afraid of stating my mind, the fear appears as we grow older. I remember how much rage I had back in the Arab Spring I was confused but I was there, it felt right. As the years passed and I began to understand a few things, I learned that standing with what is right costs relationships and that in this life we are given the choice to either stand up for what we believe in or to accept the lifelong feeling of worthlessness.</div>
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When the events began to heat up in early 2014 I was ready to fight, I was filled with every revolutionary feeling there was, then victory arose and for a moment I felt like perhaps this was the start of something new, something positive for Yemen. Perhaps now I would be proud of being Yemeni. Life was good for the first few months then the coalition began. Yes, this revolution came alongside a war, just six months after its rise, the country I just learned to love was under attack. I was once again filled with rage and anger because the six months were some of the best I have ever lived. After being accustomed to assassinations and degradation, we were safe. Yemen for once seemed to be on the right track.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I remember the fear that filled my heart with every missile strike. I remember every shudder of glass and every sleepless night. I remember how much I feared the death of my family. How could I possibly forget? But as the years passed I grew and so did the Yemeni armed forces and for once I was no longer ashamed of being Yemeni instead I was proud and I wanted to brag about being the underdog country to standup to over 10 countries. It is incredible that through the shackles of slavery Yemen was able to reign supreme. Through the years of degradation and being burnt to death in Saudi borders, now people think twice when they come across a Yemeni. Through being the world’s kicking box, we are now a missile shooting, God trusting nation. Yemen has found something in the past five years that the world hasn’t found in the past 1400 years and that is the power of faith. He knew it since the early 2000’s and we comprehended it now almost 20 years later, but at least we did, and look at where we have come. God did not leave us here to feel less, to feel helpless, to feel degraded just because of our geographic positioning, but as we all know sovereignty is not given it is taken. No one could stand the thought of Yemen actually living to its full potential, yet here we are four years later and building our own war-crafts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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In the end, I am proud to say that I lived through it all, I lived the dark ages before 2014 and I now live in the light of God, in the light of a better tomorrow. I can assure you that not even the raids and the fear of death compare to the darkness and degradation of the past. So, here’s to revolutions that change the course of history. Here’s to the 21st of September.</div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-89697503875899921332019-08-25T20:32:00.000-07:002019-08-26T22:49:20.677-07:00Why Him? Why Not Me?<style type="text/css">
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Are we chosen, given, or gifted the lives we get?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Are they the accumulation of our actions? Are they tests or are they results? These are the questions that ponder abstemiously in my mind when I hear his wailing, his cries.</div>
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The human mind such treacherous place, an embodiment of a prison, if this mind feels the imprisonment there is nothing keeping you away from losing all sanity. Why him? Why not me? This question is burying my every thought. Why him? Why not me? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I have been going to see a physical therapist for an issue I have, not one of much importance, I was just a bit concerned. I arrived at exactly 8:30 am and there was almost no one, I was assigned to the last room in the hallway. As I got settled I heard a voice both husky and incomprehensible. I predicted the calls were from an elderly man who was mentally ill and paralyzed. As I was waiting I could hear his grunting and I was growing anxious I decided to approach the room neighboring mine and I saw the edges of a bed I was hoping to get a closer look but I hesitated because when he first heard my foot steps his calls increased “Doctor? Doctor? Come doctor”. I quickly went back to my room and told my mother what I heard and we continued waiting and wondering when someone would reply to this patient. The centre opens at exactly 8 am so I wondered why he was here without a companion, but I just disregarded the thoughts and continued to wait for the doctor to come. The hours passed, the place was flooding with people with all sorts of physical issues from simple ones like mine to extreme cases and unfortunately there is only one doctor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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As the time passed a lady sat near my mother and I, and as most Yemeni people are she was extremely friendly and chatty, she told us she was here with her mother who developed DVT and her complete left side is now paralyzed, we chatted for a while, and she told us a few stories of the people who come to this centre. One story led to the other then I asked about the man in the room near mine and at that moment my life changed forever. The man who was grunting in the room near by was in fact the only resident in this gloomy centre, the only patient who lives in this place. This man has been living in this room for six years; alone. He is almost in his mid thirties, a young man, the brother of the centre’s owner, who opened this centre to possibly help his brother. His journey with paralysis began by a year in India, the following year in Egypt, and for the past four years in this room. Held captive to the bed until someone shows mercy and lifts him or gives him a walk, or changes his diaper, or feeds him, gives him a shower, a hair cut, or even a mere good morning. It is in these times where I stop and ponder upon the fact life is far from perfect and everything is bound to disperse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Six years ago I was teenager and my biggest concern was how to become a size two and my greatest battle was that of accepting my body that I viewed as “big”. Six years ago he was in the start of his life as a successful doctor in his field, a father, and a husband enjoying his youth and the wonders of being a successful persona. One day he went on a road trip with his friends and next thing he knows he is in a car crash and everyone in the car is dead, everyone but him. He may have escaped death but he did not escape his destiny, he is now paralyzed from the waist down, as well as his right arm, and his mouth. Sometimes death seems warmer and sometimes having no mind is better than being enraptured by your thoughts; imprisoned by them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Today, I have the flu and I feel angry, helpless, and tired. I want to sleep but I cannot from the simple flu, from my nose that has often been referred to as a “small” nose, this small nose has me up and agitated while every other organ is fully functioning. Even the beautiful lighting in my cozy room is irritating me. It is in this moment I realize how ungrateful I am. He is there and I am here. He is in that dark room all alone and I am here with my sister next door and my mother nearby. I am here while he is there waiting for the sun to rise, for someone to open the door and perhaps be kind, perhaps make the time to treat him like a human, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He is drowning in his sea of perhapses while I am given the choice to live my life. He had that taken away, his life is no longer his’.</div>
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His wife left him and left their two year old daughter and fled once he was paralyzed and it is in times like these where you understand who you love despite and not because, you should love despite the pain and agony and not because of the good times and laughs. He was left with a two year old and a body that is nothing but deadweight. His brother who opened this centre for him lives his life normally one the third floor with his family and his niece, while this man enjoys the solitude on the first floor through the rough and cold nights, and the disturbing summer heat, all alone. No one really wants you when you are sick, sometimes you do not even want yourself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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What pains me is the fact that he is not mentally ill his brain is 100% functioning he remember his glorious past, he dwells in the reality of how helpless he is every minute of every day. He can’t speak properly nor can he write, he can not feed himself and he can not even be fed any solid food only foods that have been processed, foods like porridge which is horrid. He sleeps using an IV drip filled with sleeping medications because no one wants to hear his noise. Suddenly in a matter of seconds he transformed into a man who is nothing more than a burden. Someone everyone avoids, no one wants to give him a bath, or change his diaper, or feed him, or even spend time with him. Suddenly he is nobody. The doors of the centre close at sunset and his sanity begins to fade with the sunset. He is left awaiting the medications to kick in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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They occasionally take him out on a wheel chair to get some sun in the morning and for that he is grateful. You can hear him in the room speaking in his indecipherable voice chanting: “I am left here in the mercy of a bed and chair”, “All I have left are the memories of a life I once lived”. It shatters my heart, the thought of suddenly losing everything, suddenly becoming an outcast, and suddenly becoming so vulnerable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Four years ago was the start of this aggression on Yemen I can only imagine how terrorized he was the night it all began. How helpless he must have felt wanting to find shelter from the bombing but having no way to escape, having no one to share your worries with. Yemen has been through some horrific bombings, bombings that I still shudder when I remember, I can not even fathom how much worst it must have been for him, not knowing what to expect or how to act. It is in moments like these where I can only sympathize.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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This man who I have never met and who I will never be able to look straight in the eyes will forever be my reminder of how nothing is forever and how everyday we live is a chance to do good, to be good, and to spread good. And now I know the answer to the question I never asked. It was never about why he is in pain but it was my reaction and how I was affected by him, the man I have never met.</div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-8739846923456308772019-03-26T01:32:00.002-07:002019-03-26T01:32:13.585-07:0026th of March; The 4th Year of Resilience and Resistance
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJp6Or-l47ZtCggtqHGcN8XQkuRYyKe1uNalycBNCY96-KIEezYws9RRqKaol54KVqaQKVEz2KyL6UjimPHZezeUKd0rCckowiSu4yiTU5pXS0U0sMv1uSN9wTd9AMA-NhY3o5ntKuhfzu/s1600/photo_2019-03-26+11.30.33.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJp6Or-l47ZtCggtqHGcN8XQkuRYyKe1uNalycBNCY96-KIEezYws9RRqKaol54KVqaQKVEz2KyL6UjimPHZezeUKd0rCckowiSu4yiTU5pXS0U0sMv1uSN9wTd9AMA-NhY3o5ntKuhfzu/s400/photo_2019-03-26+11.30.33.jpeg" width="400" /></a>It’s in moments like these that I am filled with some unspoken form of joy, pride, and hope. Today marks the fourth anniversary of the growing mound of grief we have become. It is hard to come to terms with the thought that when this started I was a teenager that just turned sixteen and now I am twenty and in my third year of university, still alive. Four years later and I am still beating the odds, one torturous day after the other. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought this is how my life would turn out; a constant fear of tomorrow. As this aggression continues to end the souls of many and leaving people homeless you would think that this is where it ends. You would think that the bombs are all we fear; those missile falling from the sky like comets just with the additional fear of death, but it is not, these four years have changed the place I call home. The pain lies here in the fact it hasn’t changed because of the destruction of homes or the death of people alone rather it has ended and slaughtered the humane side. Drugs are being smuggled into Yemen through Saudi in vast, infinite, and unthinkable amounts yet medicine can not cross the borders. The United Nations you may say has been sending their so-called “aid” that is all expired; wheat filled with worms, expired medications, and worst of all false implications. All the UN does is portray Yemen as a country undergoing famine and completely dismiss the main issue that is that we are being bombed, that we have been bombed for the past four years and that they have bloody hands involved in the death of many. The United Nations should be held accountable for all the destruction they took part in. Martin Griffith is in and out of Yemen constantly on his airplane while the Yemenis who are injured, the Yemenis that are in desperate need of surgery, the Yemenis that are at the verge of death are not allowed to fly by an airplane rather through land which takes days, just to cross the borders. I can not fathom how there are people out there who believe in the UN when they are the promoters of war, agony, pain, and death. They have indeed united to end our lives. How is it fair for the UN who has so much power to allow Saudi to close our airport? How is it humane to allow Saudi to control what comes in and out of Yemen? How is it even possible that those who need their kidney dialysis can not undergo the procedure because thanks to the United Nations they gave Yemen all the tools that are incompatible with the devices although they had a detailed description of the tools they needed and the specifications of the devices we have. I lie in disgust from the UN and I will never forgive them for panhandling in the name of my country. Yemen will rise and I know that for a fact because the will to go on, to surpass, to elevate, to rise runs through my blood and the blood of the 25 million Yemenis. It’s in moments like these, like today the 26th of March that I realize that I will never accept being a mound of grief; I am Yemeni. I am Yemeni, I stand tall and beat the odds. I am Yemeni and no one can take that away from me, not in a million years not even when I am burned into ashes after a missile falls on my body. I refuse to give the world’s worst criminals the joy of seeing my country burn, I will resist and fight till my last breathe even if I am the last person standing. The 26th of March is when this all started and today I relive the past four years and see how much I have grown and how much my country has changed. The people of Yemen might seem small and vulnerable but they are far from that they are some of the strongest people on the globe. The people of Yemen have sacrificed their blood to keep us safe, to keep me safe and for that I am eternally grateful to them and to be part of this land; the land I call home. Here’s to another year of unprecedented power, strength, and most importantly reliance on God.</div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-337958486339286872019-01-28T07:14:00.000-08:002019-01-28T07:14:07.226-08:00A Letter to YOU My dear, you will never be the right person at the right time, but the fault does not lie within yourself rather it lies in the depth of their faults, their insecurities, their self-loathe. So, don’t you dare put the blame on yourself or carry the burden of others. The burden of those who give themselves valid excuses to give you the cold shoulder, those who decide that you are the one to blame for every mishap they come across, those are the people you happily cross out of your life. Sometimes those people are the same people who once built walls and fought dragons to protect you but little did you know that one day you would need walls to shield you from them. So, gently my dear, take a deep breath, take a step forward, and set yourself free. Set yourself free from the chains that are no longer visible for these chains have been holding you back for so long. They have been holding you back from all the possibilities of a better tomorrow. Yes, it is hard to break through the shackles that have become a part of your being, part of your identity, part of your character. Yes, you will not recognize yourself at first, but one day you will wake up and you will not believe how you lived with those chains, how you lived as a captive in the borders of your body. Finally, my dear, never feel the need to apologize for being yourself, for transforming, for trespassing the borders they have set for you within you.Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-44731506288943255172018-11-15T05:43:00.001-08:002018-11-15T06:58:02.974-08:00Diaries of a nurse: The Labor Room pt.2<style type="text/css">
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The gift of life is truly an out of this world experience. As I was running around the hospital from the operation theatre to the gynecology and obstetrics section to make sure the patient's blood pressure was stable for her surgery, I ran to double check a few points with the doctor and there was a birth, not any birth but twins! August 2nd, 2018 my third birth to attend and I was filled with butterflies. Twins! I took the papers from the doctor to give the patient's husband to run the labs and to give the BP patient her medications. In that moment I learned that nothing is faster than a second in a hospital; everything happens in the blink of an eye. I ran back to the labor room and a beautiful little girl was on her way out to this world, head first prepared to get down to business. The umbilical cord was cut and she was placed on the heater, disturbed by the excessive lighting and crying for dear life. Just a few feet away her mother was awaiting her second baby to join us. As I stood there holding the cloth in my hand to carry my very first baby something odd happened, 18 minutes after number one, at exactly 12:18 pm a baby's bottom appeared rather than the head and as the doctor tugged the baby, a little boy appeared. The baby was startlingly white, his lips were purple, and he wasn't crying, my heart skipped a beat, the very first baby I would hold was going to be a corpse. The doctors rushed the baby to his sister and started CPR, all the while his sister sat quietly like a mixture of serenity and fear; an agonizing view. The doctor told me to go call for a doctor from the neonatal section. As soon as I arrived, I screamed for help and no one could hear me. I got closer to the door and the nurse yelled at me stating that I should not be in there and I am explaining how urgently I needed a doctor and that there was a baby who would die any moment now. She told me to calm down and I wanted to punch her in the face; a few seconds later the doctor appeared and followed me back to where the baby was. Once we arrived and thank God the CPR worked! He was slowly pinking and crying. I never believed crying would be so calming until I heard a newborn's cry; the gift of life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The cries sounding like Chopin's beautiful piece "Nocturne"; so beautiful and so harmonious. </span></div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-2067266401704734032018-09-29T20:42:00.005-07:002018-10-07T20:46:40.426-07:00Diaries of a nurse: The Labor Room<style type="text/css">
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Finally, we were upgraded to the labor room! The first week was filled with gauze and linen sheets. It was an eternal process of making beds and folding gauze, and honestly I started to doubt <span id="m_-1730421919197170yiv6972456494yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1538657578947_5348" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, "Lucida Grande", sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the day to enter the labor room was ever going to co<span id="m_-1730421919197170yiv6972456494yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1538657578947_5749">me and if it was worth all that preparatory work</span></span>. Everyday, women would come and give birth and there would be other nurses in-training like ourselves that were very “pushy’, so as you could imagine, we were always asked to leave and they would get the chance to watch the gift of life. Next thing we did was go in extra early and build strong relationship with all the people in the labor room. However, we would always arrive 2-3 minutes later than a birth, yet we would get to clean the beautiful newborn and dress them up and our mission was soon to be accomplished! So, the next day we got in, there was such a beautiful woman, painfully lying on her bed, but with such an angelic face. She was due on that same day but not in the labor room just yet, but we persevered and waited and waited and waited. All the other trainees got bored, so we were left to wait. Her contractions were getting closer and we were on the edge of our seats, awaiting the moment of truth, then, she unexpectedly fell asleep amidst her contractions. I went to take a breath of fresh air and saw a woman asking about her. The woman was her mother, apparently she was about to travel because her husband is waiting for her, but she couldn’t leave her daughter, so she came back from the middle of the road. Her husband -the patient’s father- was furious about his wife’s decision, as she said. She kept on asking me if she already gave birth and I just nodded with disappointment filling my soul. I re-entered the labor room and next thing I know we are walking her to the labor room, I stood next to her during the birth and I believe the most beautiful moment is when the final push comes, when the mother’s face seems filled with every form of pain and then the baby comes out and all that pain disperses. In this case, two pushes was all it took and He came to life. I could not believe my bare eyes, I could not seem to comprehend the fact I just saw a live birth, and I could not believe how beautiful it was! I ran outside to tell her mother and she started hugging me and crying; I was at the brink of tears, too. Trust me the labor room gets us all cuddly and lovey-dovey, no-one can resist the emotion overflow. The baby came out smoothly, almost an angel, just like his mother. We cleaned him and dressed<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>him up and I asked her what she would name him, she replied gently: “Abdulwali, like my father”. We chatted with her for a bit before leaving and trust me I never saw anyone more beautiful in the labor room. It was the most mesmerizing experience and I stick to the words I tell everyone I meet: <b>“Think of the happiest moment in your life, how you breathed with ecstasy, how your heart pumped with delight, and how the whole world made so much more sense. Watching a live birth makes you a hundred times happier than that.”</b></div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-100569728281340562018-09-23T20:17:00.002-07:002018-09-23T20:17:55.270-07:00Diaries of a nurse: Gynecology
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<span style="color: #353535; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; mso-bidi-font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;">July 24th<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #353535; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; mso-bidi-font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;">I was moved unfortunately from the ER to the
gynecology and obstetrics sections and oh boy was I disappointed. As soon as I
set foot there I was given paperwork to fill out and we all know how boring
that can be, so I got the worst first impression. The nurse who was in charge
of the section Sister Shahinaz was the sweetest, kindest, most giving nurse I
came across. She honestly taught me so much and for that I am eternally
grateful. I changed sections with a fear of cannulas which she helped me
overcome. So, a few days into the section she told me to go get a patient from
the OT, I obliged and went. As soon as I arrived, I felt a cool air striking
me, and my heart ached when I saw her there lying in fetal position, so
vulnerable, so fragile. Almost a dead body on her side, on the cold, unsteady
bed and that devil-like surgical nurse standing like a tyrant above her frail
torso. Yelling at us to hurry up and transfer her to the other bed to move her
back to her room. The bed we were pushing was out of shape, pre-historical. The
kind that squeaks like a rusty old swing and the wheels were moving left and
right, all the while that nurse was yelling at us to hurry up and take the woman
from the bed. We took her and thank the lord for the power of being drugged -or
maybe not- she was thrown like a sack of rotten potatoes onto our bed. Slowly,
gently we tried to push the bed and the guard yelled at us to hurry up and to
inform our supervising nurse that he doesn’t want “trainees” to take anymore
patients from the OT. It was as if the problem was us not him, not the fact he
was a criminal dressed in scrubs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; mso-bidi-font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;">We went back to the Gynecology section and
suddenly a few hours later I was handed a jar that held the poor woman’s Uterus
and Cervix. I felt sick holding it as it floated in the yellowish water, I was
asked to hand it to the family and I would have rather died. I obliged and held
that Uterus, entered the room, took a breath, and handed it to her mother. She
took it from my hand and began unscrewing the bottle and my stomach flipped. I
urged her not to open it just to send it to the labs and she said ok and shoved
it in a nearby closet. I thought the craziest thing one might find in a closet
is a sandwich little did I know that you could find a good old Uterus and
Cervix. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; mso-bidi-font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;">The days passed by and the woman who went
through the surgery was awake and I got the chance to speak with her. We
chatted for a bit then I asked her if she could remember anything from the
surgery and I was shocked by the answer; “Yes”. I waited a second and asked her
what she remembered exactly and she said; “their voices, I could hear them
speaking but couldn’t see them or speak back.” I stood quietly, feeling broken,
not just for her but for every Yemeni. An entire nation who have never had the
right to file a complaint or to open a case against these criminals. There’s
this untold motto; if it’s a public hospital it’s valid to be treated like you’re
a worthless being, as if you are some sort of burden on this society. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; mso-bidi-font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;">The woman was in so much pain that every
morning I’d hope to show up and she was already discharged. All I remember was
her constantly puking and her urine drainage bag having been incorrectly
inserted. It was truly a painful case to watch, one of the cases that to this
day repeat vividly in my mind from the moment I first met her in the OT till
the day she started to gain back her strength and to speak with a hint of hope
for a better tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-22898865236511990382018-08-25T09:54:00.000-07:002018-10-01T20:48:20.523-07:00Two steps forward, one step back<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">We grow so accustomed to certain rituals, like the way we have our morning coffee without a touch of cream, but I never thought I would find death so routine. Three years into an unjust war against my country and each day turning into another dozen of funerals, yet here I am sipping my coffee and staring at a screen as if nothing is happening. It’s not that I am unmoved by the reality of what’s going on, rather I’ve been programmed into an object that finds death nothing out of the ordinary. The daily raids that steal these lives no longer fill me with sadness but the void is filled with hatred and rage towards not only the coalition that’s attacking us, but also the people who watch the suffering silently and believe -yes, truly believe- that they are allowed to be so unbiased. Three years into this war and here I am done with my first year of university but have absolutely no future to think of, not a single plan for the next few years other than praying that my backyard won’t double as my graveyard. So many events have occurred and so many people have died, so many people are still dying but I am still alive, and I don’t know why. Why I was chosen to live an extra day. As the time passes I come to realization that the extra day is a test and</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I promise to surpass the misfortunes of my life in a war-bound country. I will stick to my choice to stay here under the shower of air raids and I’ll move forward, step by step to make my journey worth while, to make a difference. "To make a difference" this is why I blog even if I rarely do so, because I honestly get to a point where I no longer want to type all I want to do is sleep and hope for the best, but I don’t want my backyard to be my graveyard, I don’t want today to be my last day. I want the chance to dream of a thousand other tomorrows, I want the opportunity to apprise and to inspire. I don’t want to take place behind a set of unwritten words and hope my voice is heard, I want to speak of these stories ten years from now. I want the infants I see today to have someone left from these times to tell them of all what we have endured and all what we’ve surpassed. The mountains of grief and melancholy we’ve climbed. I want to beat the odds and make it through to tell them what a journey Yemen has passed in the struggle towards freedom and sovereignty. Yes, I believe that someday, one day we will have won this battle against the world’s cruelest leaders.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdqkMf35BCtdO4cCokoQwPkqI_9wNxNA425DK1HJfTJ6Ts4LXB0jVDGqka3cSJYUriDaULLT3CrWVC4faWADvBy4xsY4aUt1rXC-YFJwFG__Titi0e2wnyVwVLSrcFRHB5tvOosenXsSq/s1600/DlZUP_jXgAAgTah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="788" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdqkMf35BCtdO4cCokoQwPkqI_9wNxNA425DK1HJfTJ6Ts4LXB0jVDGqka3cSJYUriDaULLT3CrWVC4faWADvBy4xsY4aUt1rXC-YFJwFG__Titi0e2wnyVwVLSrcFRHB5tvOosenXsSq/s1600/DlZUP_jXgAAgTah.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork by: Ahmed Jahaf </td></tr>
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Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-76346922428863361242018-08-10T19:43:00.000-07:002018-08-25T09:59:27.665-07:00Diaries of a nurse: The ER<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica neue";">I am here to describe my experience as a nurse in the ER. At first, I thought I would spend my first week in training in the pediatrics section or even better with the premies. However on July 16, I was destined suddenly through a series of coincidences into the ER. The moment I set foot in there I was shocked not by the filth -even though that truly was a problem- but rather the treatment how there is suddenly this huge gap between the person who wears a lab coat and the common citizen. These people enter this hospital in seek of help, of assistance, even if this is a public hospital they are still live beings who deserve their fair share of care. My mother has always been a strong believer that hospitals aren’t the answer, hence, I’ve never entered a hospital here in Yemen. This experience gave me a broad vision of the reality of my country.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica neue";"> </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica neue";">No, this isn’t because of the coalition. Yes, there are a lot of bumps on the road due to the coalition, but to know that people no longer have an ounce of humanity left in them can't be blamed on anyone. They’ve just become walking masses, no different than a mountain or a rusty rock. I couldn’t find a cannula or a needle. There are no gloves, sanitizers, tourniquets, and these are only some of the basics of a hospital. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">These poor, helpless patients must go out under the hot sun to buy a needle, or a cannula. He could be dying -yes, some doctors are kind enough to use their own money to go and buy the needed tools- but otherwise they are helpless patients. If they are elderly and have no one by their side, they are left there unattended.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>On my first day, a woman was finally diagnosed with MI, something that could’ve been handled in the golden hours but no one cared, no one gave the time. So, there she was trying to gather her belongings and leave because what good is a diagnosis with no care? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The problem I’ve come to realize is not that there aren’t enough human resources (labor force), but rather there are soul-less humans. I do understand that they believe that they are underpaid, but this is not an ordinary situation, this country is under nonstop air raids and a severe land, sea, air blockade. Regardless, the moment you step into the medical society you vow to be a human, you vow to save lives not only for a price, but for the mere concept of saving a life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I’ve seen so many things that have teared my heart into a million little pieces and other things that made me smile from my heart. I am always left stunned about how kind, genuine, and pure Yemenis are, as a trainee sometimes the nerves get to me and I apologize about a hundred times when I fail to apply a cannula on the first attempt and their reply is always the same: “It’s okay! You’ll get it next time, it’s okay! You have to make mistakes in the beginning.” These gestures helped me move forth or else I wouldn’t have step a foot back to that graveyard of a hospital. I would've spent the rest of my training crying on my bed knowing how much brutality and pain was set behind those four walls It hurts me to know that they are so used to being in pain that they don't mind a trainee shoving a cannula up and down their arms in search of a vein. It's terrible to know that this is how hospitals are all over Yemen, and the amount of sick people is incredible, almost unimaginable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> A true crisis, a scream for help.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The ER is a place of wonder it’s the line between life and death, the more time I spent there the more I believed God is taking special care of this country because there is no valid reason these people aren’t dead. I mean after all, all the odds are truly against them: unsanitized tools and rooms, no sharps containers. How else are they alive? We all know that hospitals are where most diseases are spread from yet here we are..<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Yes, my first week was a disaster but I met some of the loveliest people who prayed for me as I walked them to the clinic; the elderlies who come alone are usually above 75. So, I’d walk them to wherever they needed to be, why? I asked my supervisors what to do and they'd tell me “Just ignore them until they leave, it’s not out problem if they came without an escort.” How could you possible ignore an 80 year old man who has problems hearing, who walks using a stick as a crane and whose eyes are blurred from glaucoma? As we walked to the clinic I asked why he came alone. He told me he only had a son who worked as a farmer and if he were to come to the hospital they’d take away a part of his modest salary, that probably doesn’t exceed 50$ -if he’s lucky of course- and his daughter in law was about to give birth and couldn’t assist him. He said none of this with sadness rather his blurry eyes glimmered when he spoke of his soon to be grandchild. I</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">n the end we are all the same, whether poor or rich, we all feel the same feelings, fear the same fears. So, how would I possibly leave him there? How can they see someone so frail and just let them be? I am sure these people were once humans with emotions just like you and I, I just can't seem to validate why they've become so ruthless, so cold, so cruel. We got to the clinic and it was closed because the “Doctor” went to “eat” and won’t be back for a few hours, the old man told me he’ll be back in a few days for some sort of heart test, and I told him to wait till then to see the doctor in the clinic. He continued to pray for me, genuine prayers as we parted; myself to the ER and him to his next stop in the unknown. It’s people like him who make the world seem so much colder, so much darker, so much harder; the fact that there was all this pain and suffering in my country without my knowledge makes me feel like I’m a part of the reason my people are in so much pain. I feel guilty as if I've been solely charged for mass murder.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span></div>
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Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-18905324954865331652018-04-28T08:44:00.001-07:002018-10-01T20:53:30.676-07:00Russian Roulette <style type="text/css">
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There is some sort of unspoken of serenity in watching the windows while the air raids occur. It's as if the more I stare the less likely it will be our turn. You think you'll grow accustomed to the bombings but you don't. Every time a missile hits the ground it feels like the first day. Even after the raid stops I still await the next hit or when it will in fact be me. A shudder then a loud boom. I am impressed by the strength of my frail window made of steel and glass. I know at some time, some year, I will no longer hear an air raid, but by then I'll be too accustomed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bomb dropped while Yemenis were paying their condolences to the martyred president</td></tr>
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With every bomb drop I wonder why me? What makes me so special? Why hasn't my youth been stolen? These war crafts have destroyed everything dear to us. They've killed our president, and with every passing day I wonder when this will end? When will we get the chance to move forth? It's funny how each missile has it's own unique terror code, each one scares you in a different way, each one attacks a different family, some leaving only a lone child while others wipe out the whole family. I am still glaring at the black window and dim light praying it won't be us. Fear controls us even if we want to be unweathered by death the fear still encompasses us. Death is frightening because you can't guarantee anything. I return to watching the darkness of the window, then I fall asleep.<br />
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I wake up the next day and I am embraced by shock. I know or actually I don’t know how the people of my mighty country have all this courage. The courage to play a never ending game of Russian roulette, when even their death will be unspoken of, unheard of, undeclared. When they might end up in a pile of ashes when you can't tell apart a man of 80 years and young boy of 20. They will all merge together, souls uniting into one. As our great president Saleh Al-Sammad has been murdered by an airstrike led by the Saudi-American coalition, I wonder when it will be me. I now watch the free people of my country gathering to show their loyalty to our martyred president, and the soldiers marching their way to show our strength. The people at home watching the TV wishing they were there. There are missiles falling a few meters away from the funeral and yet they stand there paying their condolences with no fear, once again playing another game of Russian roulette and I am once again astonished by how fearless they are. The Saudi-American coalition targets each and every Yemeni civilian, with absolutely no interest to whether they are civilians or not. Yet, Yemenis still go out and still play the game and still win every time. They still beat the odds, even when there are casualties it doesn’t hold them back. It only pushes them forth. We will not sunder or surrender, we will stand tall against the world. We will be patient, we will continue to bet on God; on ourselves. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-1706703535232035112018-02-28T19:18:00.002-08:002018-02-28T19:18:31.722-08:00LORD
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Lord, as time goes by it is hard to look back or reminisce upon anything. Maybe I try my best to avoid looking back or even peeking because it hurts to look back into a time that is no longer tangible, a life that is no longer ours. It is hard to move forth without -genuinely- moving forth. So, dear Lord I come here as your humble sinner asking you for the strength to endure these coming days, the power to see further than these simple minds. Enlighten me with your wisdom to see these men as more than what they utter; as humans, as wholes. It's becoming such a hard journey from darkness to light because dear Lord there is so much darkness encompassing my days. Lord, how can I see the good in the world, the future ahead with some glimpse of undecided hope? Where as I grow older I fear I won't be worth the wrinkles I’ll be wearing on my face if I haven't made a change, if I continue accepting their square shaped brains and raven black hearts. It has become a disgusting society to live in, dear Lord. I know you are here with us yet it gets lonely with their monotonous words and tuned laughter. War, death, and privileged entities, what an odd combination. What an odd reality. The rich get richer and continue complaining about every flaw in this land. Lord, somedays I doubt they deserve any of your light. Regardless, you guide them with signs of where the good is yet they continue to dwell in their imaginary despair cloaked in their so called "patriotism". Dear Lord, give me strength to turn my rage into something of worth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
<br />Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-27923250503448166632018-01-03T19:14:00.000-08:002018-01-03T19:14:11.994-08:002018; The Year of Strength <div class="p1">
It’s been a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>month since I began writing this blog, but it just became harder to post each day that passed. I can’t identify why I have this constant feeling of fatigue; the unwillingness to make any effort to do anything at all. That being said, I made a vow to continue blogging, so here’s my attempt to complete my unfinished piece.</div>
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Four. That’s all we are four helpless, defenseless women and a cat. My mother, her elder sister, my elder sister, and myself; the four of us in our 3 story home showered by rockets and missiles. We’ve had a tough week since Saturday, December 2 the day Tarek Saleh’s militias took over our neighborhood and placed a real live cannon on the ground and real live assassins on the rooftops. I genuinely believed I would die. Yes, I’ve been showered by missiles and rockets since march 25th, 2015, but in some absurd way assassins are much more alarming then rockets falling from the sky. So the first two days we were panicking because our fridge was near empty we intended to go grocery shopping on Saturday. It was horrible the feeling that you might starve, I promise you I’m not exaggerating.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Thankfully, my step-father came to the rescue after having to take another road to reach our house that was literally a red zone and took my sister grocery shopping. According to her it was like the apocalypse -I know it’s a psychological game to scare us into thinking it’s doomsday-, we had canned food the first two days not that I’m complaining. December 4th, Ali Saleh Yemen’s former president and well-known dictator is shot dead on his way to Mareb most likely leaving to Saudi as he has just declared on the 1st of December that he’s willing to start a new page with the countries who have been attacking us in all sorts of brutal inhumane ways. Then he declared his people to start a civil war which is what led to his Nephew Tarek Saleh’s assassins to appear. So honestly his death was well deserved and Ali Saleh’s crimes deserve an article on their own and I will be sure to get to that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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December 4th at 10 o’clock a series of missiles began attacking Ali Saleh’s house after it was taken over by Ansar Allah and his house is a few streets down from ours, so you can imagine how terrifying it was. Our cat Nono’s heart was beating so fast and his pupils were enlarged. It is terrible to see a small, fragile animal in so much fear, but what was even worse was the fact he ran away from us to his little frail home, for some reason he thought that his home was safer than our arms. I don’t know why but that spoke to me, he doesn’t think we are capable of protecting him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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So, here we are a month later and yesterday there were two horrifying missiles dropped on the mountain that is literally a few meters away from the university I study at. I thought I was done crying over missiles, but the tears overwhelmed me, the thought I might arrive home dead and if not dead then in need of a prosthetic. Once again for the third year I am beating the odds of death. Somedays I wake up weary. Somedays I am at the edge of just losing hope. Somedays I wish I wasn’t Yemeni, but then I remember this is my home. At the end of the day this is where I belong. This is the only place in the whole entire world I could be and feel as safe as I do when I am cuddled up in my bed in the safety -yes, safety- of my four walls.</div>
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Red, white, black; not my favorite color combo. Never was, my eye could never acquire to it, but when you fall in love everything looks different even the things you used to fringe at suddenly become your passion. The moment I fell in love with my country these three colors suddenly made so much sense. They had so much harmony. My heart was overwhelmed with how beautiful they are, as if I was blind and just saw the light for the very first time. My war torn country mesmerized me I fell in love with every last piece of collateral damage. The beauty that lies within the rubbles is much richer than that of plastic towns and plastic people.</div>
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Looking back at the past month, we are everything but helpless women. We made it through a civil war in one piece and stronger than ever. Maybe our cat gained some courage as well. In the end, you choose whether your experiences turn you into a defenseless being or a strong, invincible one. I chose and will continue to choose being strong even when I am weak. We are greater than we think. We are stronger than we believe. And we are not defenseless.</div>
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Here’s to another year of beating the odds. Here’s to falling in love with a land and its merciful God. Here’s to my beautiful country Yemen.</div>
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Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-77278063287106700912017-11-11T09:21:00.003-08:002017-11-11T09:23:23.604-08:00Numb World<div class="p1">
Why did this happen? How did we grow so numb to all the damage happening? When did we become so passive? Yemen is on the brink of the world’s worst famine. We are isolated due to the Saudi led coalition’s decision to block our access to the world. Fuel has risen up to 60%. The dollar is escalating rapidly. People are out of jobs. Children are hungry. There is a cholera outbreak. What more is left? this is by all means genocide.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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We’ve been under a constant shower of air raids for the past 962 days. We wake up every day and defy death, but now not only do we fear death by a missile n<span style="text-align: center;">ow we fear death by starvation. Saudi has no right to isolate us from the world. And the world has no right to turn the other cheek to what’s happening in Yemen. You are all held accountable for every death happening here. Every soul. Every martyr. Every orphan. You are all taking part in this brutal, inhumane war.</span></div>
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</style>Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-22803936828831428732017-11-08T21:01:00.001-08:002017-11-08T21:01:05.636-08:00Bold and Brave
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In my tender, brutal days I’ve come to learn that connections can’t be enforced, some things are inherent, a natural reflex. We grow up believing that emotions are always two sided, that even the dark days aren’t that dark, to some extent that might be true, but as we evolve mentally we realize that life is far from fair. As we move forth we conclude that our connections may reach a certain depth then break off, and that is ok. It’s okay to end a link even if it’s a blood link. Nothing is worth than enforcing emotions, enforcing a connection. Blood links are the hardest to surpass but sometimes they are the most toxic ties we have. Letting go of that string is scary, but in time you’ll learn how to fly. Be brave and have faith in your strength; most importantly have faith in your self, even if you feel like your frail and weak. You have so much more to give back to this world as you stand solely at the top of your summit about to take off. You don’t need those chains to rise, cut them loose, break through.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-61564719620468547182017-08-26T21:05:00.000-07:002017-08-26T21:05:18.705-07:00Gold Mind <div class="p1">
It is one thing to state you love yourself and a whole different thing to literally love yourself. At eighteen I’ve learned that loving yourself is such a hard battle, yes, a battle. A battle between the taste you’ve acquired and the tang you deserve. You can’t transcend into a higher level if you are held back by all the expectations. No, this can’t be blamed on society this is us. We chose to let our happiness constantly be a verdict made by whoever we have grown fond of. It is time we arise from the rubble we have created subconsciously. What we have become is our own doing. Playing the blame game takes us nowhere and I know this very well, I’ve been playing it for as long as I can remember. I know writing how strong I wish to be won’t actually make me strong, and I know actions speak louder than words, but I believe having my words visible to the world might pressure me to pressure me. We are stronger than we think we are and yes, maybe we’ve long lost who we truly are, but nothing is completely unrepairable all we need is a little faith in ourselves and if you can’t find that faith, trust me. Trust that you just need to dig a little deeper till you reach your goldmine. I haven’t reached my mine, yet I know at some point, at some time I will. You deserve to believe in yourself just as much as I do. I know it’s hard, so very hard to believe in yourself if you’ve been beaten to the ground, but you are strong enough to dust yourself and reach the finish line even if you fall down again after you’ve risen.</div>
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“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game. __Babe Ruth”</div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-31394093802514178852017-08-23T07:53:00.004-07:002017-08-23T07:53:54.983-07:00Twenty One <span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I have learned that a fresh start must start at your mind before any other place. Trust me the decisions that are made from the inside are so much harder than those externally edited yet much less visible. It takes 21 days for an action to become a habit, that's 21 days too long. It will take me 21 days to be me again but this void is so compelling to continue living in. I am trying to motivate myself, to create an illusion of a finish line but I know too fondly that there is nothing. I mean doing the bare minimum drains me, how will I push myself forward? I genuinely do not know, and from some perspective I pity myself for letting myself fall this low and even worse not pushing myself back up. So I am sorry me but the days are too long and we're together for 24 hours too long and I can't think of more escapes from me. I am sorry for all the years I pushed me past my limits to only land us here. I am sorry for selling myself out. I am sorry for the way this turned out. I am sorry for not being my own hero. I am sorry for raising your hopes up far too many times. I hope one day I can make it up to me even if it takes 21 days. </span>Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-49115388077827039582017-08-21T07:05:00.000-07:002017-08-25T20:37:14.258-07:00Blank Walls, Blank Pages<style type="text/css">
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I see you there. I see you there breathing. I see you there being. I see you with my eyes closed shut and my room all dark. I see you not through sight but through every other sense. I see you passing by untouched. I see you being unmoved. I see you seeing me yet not acknowledging me at all. That’s the thing about the past it grips on to us and refuses to let go. I’ve been running in a loop for too long and I am impatiently waiting for the end of this to come. I am waiting for the day I no longer stare blankly at the wall reliving those treacherous memories. I know that day will come eventually but I need eventually to be right now because I can’t bear one more nightmare, one more false hope. I hope that the choices I am making in the now won’t haunt me like my earlier choices that elevated to mistakes that bruised my mind. I hope I don’t let myself down again. I hope I can gain back my lost strength to carry myself to my desk to open my journal to write down my prolonged voyage with pain. I wish I could get myself to read my false hopes but I know my destined reaction will be yet another breakdown. Even typing words into this keyboard has turned into a burden which hurts me. I hate how one mistake can make every fruitful thing seem so vain, so bland. In the end, we are our mistakes; without them our ambiguous odyssey wouldn't be so ambiguous for hurt only hurts because it is so unexpected. When my "eventually" arrives I will stitch my wounds together and watch them heal then rise to be the me I deserve to be. </div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-55488117738611591402017-07-01T14:42:00.001-07:002017-07-01T14:42:27.184-07:00Blossoms And Battle Scars
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This is where the problem lies; knowing the end. It is saddening to be aware of how the ending will be. It shatters us to the core knowing there is a finish line, knowing this is all merely the high. That's the problem when you've already died and revived yourself; you're never fully alive again. It isn't the same as the first time, that wound has left a scar and this scar is a reminder that the finish line is what you deem it. I feel like I've acquired the taste of disappointment and maybe that's why I can't adjust myself to this new flavor, a mixture of chance, hope, and love; a tang so heavenly. I attempted and I continue to attempt building a home in a land to which I don't belong. There is still that voice that asks, how can I mold it into an asylum when it is not mine? How can I stay, reside in a place that is overcrowded? How did I lead myself here? But I silence that voice because I am so overwhelmed by the thought of what might be. The what if's and maybe's are intoxicating but here I am inhaling all the unrealistic possibilities in hope that the end might be modified. The feeling of home can't be enforced it is a choice. This choice isn't an independent one it has to be two sided otherwise the four walls that are holding us together eventually collapse for when the base isn't strong, when it isn't solid it falls apart and when it does it takes a piece of us with it. A piece we can't get back, we can't recollect. We are left scarred. Yet the scars we bear aren't a shame they are power. These wounds will heal and they will mend us into warriors. This hurt will end and we will blossom.</div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348093837540002717.post-69615574607950587012017-06-08T23:44:00.001-07:002017-06-08T23:44:08.078-07:00GRIEF
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That’s the thing about grieving life it comes in droplets like a drizzle before rain then suddenly it showers you. One day you wake up feeling like you’ve surpassed the mountain of grief and the next you are back to ground zero barely feeding yourself. Nothing is harder than grief. Nothing is as consuming as it. Nothing is as blood sucking and ruthless as grief. It breaks you and crushes your frail bones then throws you out to face the wild as if your pain was worth nothing. Sometimes you wish the person you were grieving were actually dead rather than having to live with the reality of them actually still existing. Yes, I know death isn’t easy but neither is life. Neither is convincing your brain that: “No, brain they aren’t coming back. No, brain it is over.” It hurts to be weak and what is worse is that some days all you have is to be weak. Especially, if you are an emotional person, a wreckage of a human and all you do is build hopes and expectations that maybe tomorrow they’ll come back from the dead. Maybe tomorrow I’ll understand and it will make sense. Maybe tomorrow I’ll realize that it is all a dream. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be better, maybe tomorrow I’ll be better, but then tomorrow arrives and you’re still trying to fake it till you make it, fake it till you become it. Somedays like today I doubt I’ll ever move on because here I am still writing and I can no longer trust myself, whether my emotions are valid or whether I am lingering on to the past. It is horrible to lose trust in yourself, in your judgement and it is hard to talk to people about how you feel because everyone thinks that you will be fine and maybe you will but sometimes we need someone to tell us that we might continue to feel this way for a long time. Last time I grieved I wasn’t honest with myself I immediately filled that void but now I want to dwell in the emotion and pain of grief. I want to indulge myself in it. Here’s to grief may we find it, linger on to it, then finally surpass it and never look back. </div>
Fatima Nomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10907754270211770662noreply@blogger.com0