God is most present in darkness and war.
We behold Him in the tears that rest in the midst of our eyes,
In our amazement and dread,
In our solitude we exist,
In all this affliction.
He is present, and solely we apprehend Him,
We alone grasp this vast shadow.
***
Every night I waited for a shell to pass through the window, explode in my bed, and scatter my crumpled body against the walls of the room. I deliberately slept on the edge of the bed, or even underneath it, hoping that if such a tragedy were to occur, I would at least fall as a complete corpse.
Every time I got behind the wheel of my car, my mind would race with fear. I couldn't help but wonder where a stray bullet might strike me. Would it take my life in an instant, or would it leave me wounded and disfigured? The mere thought of someone finding me, my body mangled and bloodied, brought on a fit of hysterical crying. I could then imagine my mother, her eyes filled with fear and anguish, haunting me with the same question that kept me up at night.
The thought of stepping on a mine was equally horrifying, imagining myself as a lifeless doll with limbs strewn about and eyes still wide open.
The words of those who fell, death passing through their ribs, echoed in my mind, lingering like the scent of blood and flesh that permeated my memories. These recollections seemed to have a timeless quality, as if they were meant to remain eternally vivid and never fade away.
***
I met Rawda at a coastal hospital in Al Hudaydah. She was a young woman in her early twenties, with brown skin that bore the weight of sadness and fear. In just one sentence, she described the accident and painted a vivid picture for me:
"My brother's chest was open like a gutted fish, lying on the ground."
Her words evoked a flood of memories for me. I couldn't help but see the image of my own son's emaciated body on the ground, his chest bones etched into my memory alongside the countless other horrific scenes I had witnessed or heard from survivors.
I left the hospital with a sense that all my faith had been drained by the sight of the boy's lifeless body, victim to the mine explosion that had engulfed the bus traveling from a small district in the Yemeni city of Al Hudaydah to Mukha.
When I got back home, I immediately took a bath to wash away the misery of the gloomy day that had clung to my heart's walls.
As the water droplets rushed down slowly, I clenched my chest with convulsive fingers, hoping to release whatever had attached itself to my heart, but it was all in vain. My mind, my heart, and my lost faith were all searching for a just God, a hidden hand that could ease our pain amidst all the bloodshed.
But there was no comfort to be found. Instead, it felt like a warning, indicating my vulnerability. Maybe it was only a place to cry and hide from my mother's gaze, as my false smile always reassured her that the war would end and life would go on.
The image of the young woman stayed with me throughout the night. Her grave condition and spinal injury made me feel guilty for having a healthy spine, even though I wasn't the one who planted the mine nor the bus driver who promised them a safe return home.
In March 2017, Al Hudaydah seemed to be in a fierce race for the title of the bloodiest city on earth, with daily air raids, mine incidents, explosions, and arbitrary arrests.
Escaping was not an option. We all stood in line, forced to play our next role, whether as a spectator, victim, or lone survivor.
Three days passed since that incident, and I decided to go back to visit the girl again.
broke down and gave their oppressed bodies a sad conclusion.
In the cramped hospital hallway, I encountered her brother who informed me that the hospital had halted Rawda's costly medications until the first payment of her bill was received.
This was not the first instance where I had witnessed such degrading and disheartening conduct.
The memories of the Zaydiyah prison victims who were not appropriately accommodated in the city's morgues and were instead stowed away in a refrigerated chicken truck, which subsequently broke down, leaving their oppressed bodies with a pitiful fate, still lingered in my mind.
During my search for a savior who could assist Rawda and her family, I strained to catch a glimpse of God from a far distance.
It was only one night later that I managed to collect the funds for the bill, with the support of two friends who seemed to come from the realm of angels. In a time when charity work was plagued with doubt and suspicion, their selfless help renewed my faith.
I handed over the money and transfer receipts to Rawda's brother in the hospital, anxious not to raise any suspicions. Despite my insistence that I didn't expect anything in return, he tried to give me some money back. I declined and left, hoping he understood my intentions were purely to help.
Later that day, I received a surprise when I found out that my phone bill had been paid for seven thousand Yemeni riyals. Rawda's brother had left me a letter explaining that this was to cover the cost of the calls I made to get help for them.
But what could I do with such a sum of money (equivalent to 11 dollars)? Even if I spent it all on romantic calls for the next seven years, it still seemed like a lot to me.
The next day, another heartbreaking incident occurred when a boat carrying Somali immigrants was bombed during their illegal transit across the Yemeni coast. The memories of the incident still haunt me, especially the strong odor of blood mixed with wet clothes.
At the hospital, I felt overwhelmed and powerless. I witnessed the aftermath of the tragedy - amputated limbs, blood-stained floors, and people crying and searching for their loved ones.
It was a cruel and terrifying scene, as if they were "facing bullets and drowning at the same time." The victims' expressions of shock and horror made me realize that no words could describe the horror that had occurred.
Since the early morning, I had been traveling between three hospitals, trying to meet with the victims and verify the number of survivors. By the time I arrived at the fourth hospital in the afternoon, most of the victims, who were mainly women, had been distributed across different inpatient rooms.
Amid my astonishment and helplessness, one of the female survivors pointed at my phone while speaking broken Arabic, saying "call." She was crying and speaking a language I couldn't understand, but I realized that she wanted to contact her family.
Without hesitation, I handed her the phone, reflecting on the amount that had been paid for my phone bill. It dawned on me that the money was meant for them, and that there are no coincidences in life, even during times of unjust war.
During the short calls with the victims' families, my attempts to calm their fear and grief were unsuccessful. I felt just as afraid and lost as them, searching for the hand of God, or even a sign of His presence.
It was a turning point for me, where the tension between doubt and certainty that had plagued my mind for years finally dissipated. I felt as though I had found God once again, even though I knew there was still much I didn't understand.
But I realized that I could only truly see the divine shadow if love and forgiveness washed over my entire being and memory, and I was committed to pursuing this path.
