In Yemen, we comfort ourselves and think: It is not as bad as Gaza | Opinions
In the first week of April, the United States launched an air strike on Yemen. A strike hit a street from my family home in a quiet neighborhood in the port city of Hodeidah. Like a sudden attack, everything happened, everything happened: the sound of explosions, the shaking, the kids screaming, and the struggle to understand what was going on.
It has been ten years since the beginning of the Yemen War. The coalition's air strikes have ceased, but Israeli and US bombings have taken over. It feels like we're in a video game now, and we've just risen to the level of facing another monster – more ferocious than the last one.
I think life through so much attack will help us conquer our fear. But I was wrong. The sound of the explosion this month has put my son Tamim into my arms. We are all scared, but what I see in the eyes of the little boy is pure horror. He doesn't remember the entire war. He was only six years old and was still discovering the world, and that day on the day in early April it showed him an ugly face.
He put his hands on the side of my face, his little fingers trembled. Then, he whispered, “Is this an earthquake?”
As everyone in the family was busy figuring out where the bombs fell, I looked in my mind for answers to solve my child’s problems.
I smiled, trying to calm him down, still thinking about the answer. Should I lie, tell him? Or should I explain the reality of war, fighter jets and missiles? Should I tell him the truth: the world has abandoned our destiny and continued to bombard it with a deadly death?
I told him that it was not an earthquake, it was an aircraft that fired missiles. I decided not to share with him the horrible details once the missile landed in a civilian community. I don't want to twist his love for airplanes for him. Tamim's dream is cloudy and he has been saving a meager pocket money to realize the day.
The mention of the plane relieved his fear and made him think about his own aircraft. What really worries me is that one day my son will realize what it really means to hear the sound of a plane in Yemen.
We soon discovered what the target of the air strike was: the building next door was a house I had visited before. This is the home of a close friend of mine. I was overcome by a premonition of anxiety and decided to call my friend who lives in another city.
At the beginning of the conversation, I couldn't tell her what was going on. She sounded happy on the phone. But she understood something wrong from my shaking voice. Unfortunately, I had to be the carrier of horror news.
Later, we learn that her nephew was an 18-year-old Mohamed, who was killed by the explosion. His biggest dream is to get a scholarship to study. He returned home just an hour after class at the English Academy.
Mohamed may never have thought that the scholarship he will receive will be another world, and it does not require any qualifications except Yemen.
He became a number quoted in the news several times before being forgotten.
Two weeks later, when I started writing these lines, there were 80 people who had been killed in bombing the port of Ras Isa. The United States sees the port as part of the Ansar Allah Group's fuel supply chain, but it decided not to consider the civilian workers hiring there.
Most of them returned to their families with burnt bodies. Some people didn't return at all – like 26-year-old Abdel Fattah. His body cannot be found. His colleagues who survived said he was at the place where one of the missiles fell. When they searched for him, there were no traces – no phone, no shoes, no hair, and even no skin. Abdel Fattah was crushed.
This is the worst nightmare for a family: no lost loved one's body can embrace and mourn.
More and more days are coming. More air strikes hit Hodeidah. I can't describe the heavy moments after the bombing was over. Who will be the next victim? Where is death lurking? People are in a crazy call to their loved ones. Simple decision to turn off your phone can cause families to panic.
Yemen, in all death and destruction, still found a way to show kindness and resilience. I often hear people say that the pain we suffer cannot be compared to what happened in Gaza. My fellow Yemeni thinks pain is a comparison, not a matter of justice – as if pain must compete with others for recognition.
I often ask myself: Do we suffer from collective depression? Or do we have supernatural powers that allow us to adapt to this abominable resignation?
Nothing can calm our minds whether the air strike increases or stops. This sorrow accumulates in our bodies, making us afraid of what is about to happen.
Yemen no longer focuses on the rest of the world, which has reduced our numbers to just in reports and news broadcasts by international agencies.
We have no choice but to write. Perhaps writing can keep the memories of Muhammad, Abdel Fattah and thousands of other Yemeni alive. Maybe one day our writing can help stop missiles.
The views expressed in this article are the author's own views and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.