The forces that fled from Hodeidah were divided on the way into three peoples


I posted ten posts in one day, all about what happened in the western coast of Yemen.
Since 2018, I have gradually lost my enthusiasm to follow what is happening in Yemen. There, where the smoke of the villages is intertwined, you can be a hero and a traitor at the same time. Yemen lost its people before the opposite happened. The people as a historical function, or: what makes the Yemeni a Yemeni, has collapsed in a way that is difficult to treat now. But why did you write the ten blog posts? Did I get my enthusiasm back at once? Winter effect? Personal pressure? Sam? muffled anger? Too much adrenaline? effect of truth? Perhaps a mixture of all of this, and that. I wrote the posts in a short time, like a man who gives testimony and goes on his way. It is no longer possible to revive the country and return it to its previous state. What is currently possible is more ripping apart, more digging, and the creation of new enemies, or: reviving the enmities that time has almost buried them. In the past few days, I wanted to write: Do not hate me, for I am with you. With the Houthis as they try to storm Marib, with Marib as it stands firmly against the Houthis, with the transitionalists trying to divide the country, and with the country as it faces the intentions of division. With the Emirates and Iran, and they share the country, with Saudi Arabia, and its influence has been limited to one or two crossings. With Oman, it is doing the same thing and its opposite, with the old and the modern Afashi. I’m with you, so don’t make me hate you. In fact, I regret that I wrote ten posts in one day. What was I going to say? Do I think that empty words, even metaphors, can do anything, especially if they are thrown into a lake infested with crocodiles and bones?

I spent the past two years devoted to medicine and literature, and I gained a lot. Twenty years ago I feared a day when individual salvation would be the only option. Idiocy and fugue run through the vessels that were once teeming with testosterone and adrenaline. Staring at your family’s disaster as if you were looking at history. Tariq withdraws from Hodeidah, so let him do it. The game was over many years ago, what is going on now are just short stories inside the mother book. The mother board is standing as it is, neither the fall of the cities nor their rise will change it. He raped the Yemeni himself, he raped her with all violence and greed. Then he sat staring at his fate and looking for an actor. All questions are stupid, and stupid answers. Yemen has become a pity spot for the whole world. It is no longer possible to divide the victims into doers and subjects, nor into heroes and thieves. After the Yemeni had raped himself, he called out to others, and the Gulf and Iran came and did it. A new generation grew up in public, entered the circus, actors who were young students ten years ago. The self-raping generation quickly aged, and everything is gone. You will save nothing, and perhaps that spot would be best destined to go to its worst enemy. Who knows. What can you do for someone who rapes themselves every day? Our history has intensified in the past ten years and has taught us nothing. Why did you write ten blog posts about the coast? I don’t understand anything about coasts or wars. The current Yemeni lives in its utmost weakness, and above it roaring forces equipped with baskets of weapons and money. The hungry are good mercenaries. Mercenaries sell countries. Countries lose their people when hunger strikes. Hunger destroys kingdoms. The elderly are still ahead, in the vanguard. It is true that they are getting slower but they know the short ways to the thing. They arrive faster. The disaster can no longer be put into words. There are wonderful warriors standing inside that flood hoping to stop the catastrophe. They die one by one, and one day there will be no one left of them and we will weep for them until their names overlap and we forget them. Much blood mixed and the resemblance of the hero and the traitor. I wrote ten posts, I was angry that the Emirati coast went to the Iranians. Or: Because the Emirati-owned forces handed over the sea to the Iranian-owned forces [يستخدم اليمنيون كلمات أنيقة مثل: المدعومة]. Overlapping smoke villages and the similarity of the thing and its opposite. The country has lost its people, and its people insist on saying: We have lost our country. I wrote ten posts on a matter that cannot be fixed, on the matter of its absence, like its presence, and on active subjects. The victor and the vanquished are owned by a third person. It wasn’t a decision to lose my enthusiasm, it was a sustained hemorrhage of everything: the excitement, the adrenaline, the road, the battle. A person cannot gamble on a matter that is neither conducive to victory nor defeat. The battle descended into layers of chaos, and new peoples spawned. The forces that fled from Hodeidah were divided on the way into three peoples: a people who clinged to their accusation, a people who returned to their southern land, and a people who walked the mountains to Taiz. Each of the three nations will usurp itself in the future and spawn into smaller nations. There are heroic resistance fighters who do not have the luxury of turning to literature and medicine. They will fight, and they will die. It would be a wonderful and great death in a country that offers only one honor: death as a hero.


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