While I was lost in thought, gazing around and wondering, How long has it been since I last saw you, O Sana'a? It has only been a year since my first visit, yet the situation seems to worsen; the features of suffering, helplessness, and oppression are glaringly apparent on the faces of passersby, an elderly woman who looks to be in her sixties tapped and knocked on the car window. For a moment, I thought she recognized me; she greeted me with countless blessings and prayers as she extended her hand toward me. Her eyes’ gaze reflected the harsh circumstances that had forced her to venture out of her home.
Actually, she didn’t seem like one of those usual beggars, accustomed to standing in the streets, but rather appeared compelled and dignified. I wanted—and indeed attempted— to say a few words to cheer her up. I felt my words had eased her pain, and then she responded, "I am the daughter of so and so, but these unbearable circumstances have driven me out of my home."
I tried to say something to cheer her up, feeling that my words were easing her pain.
A Life Amidst Misery and Hardship
I felt a deep sadness for the plight of women in my country—how their situation had deteriorated to such dire circumstances and how life had forced them to leave their homes. As we drove forward, I saw other women sitting on the pavement and sidewalks, begging passersby for something to sustain their lives. On the opposite side, young girls, in the prime of their youth, were selling strawberries, pumpkins, and water; perhaps they had found a more dignified way to stop the passing cars.
“I spoke to my child about my time at the college, about the fourth estate, and how we can uncover misleading truths, as well as about journalism—my job—and other beautiful stories. I shared with him my years of study and the memories of the classroom seats where I spent four years, as well as stories about his father. I could see signs of excitement on his face; he squeezed my hand happily and said, "Come on, Mom, let’s go inside.”
As I moved forward, the same scene repeated itself—many women, all intertwined with deep pain, would approach me at every roundabout and corner we passed, asking for a few riyals. On the other side, I found them gathered in front of restaurants and shops, pursuing the same purpose.
Such scenes, which may vary slightly across different Yemeni cities but are most prevalent in Sana'a, prompt one to question why Yemeni women—once honored and held a revered position within their families—are now living in such misery. I gathered all the reasons in my mind and hung them on the nail of war, which has been gnawing at our bodies as women since the very first spark ignited years ago.
Systematic Indoctrination
As we passed through Hadda Street in central Sana’a, I noticed large banners and slogans plastered everywhere, all directed at women. Various phrases read, "No to makeup; stay in your homes; the veil is a shield; a modest woman is the pride of her family," and statements against mixed-gender interactions, along with many other slogans.
I do not know how those who write these slogans perceive women, nor what deliberate indoctrination they seek to instill. I felt a pang of sorrow strike my heart as I saw all these systematic messages directed against us. I wished I could write: "The Yemeni woman is the only Arab woman who remains committed to wearing the Islamic hijab," and "The Yemeni woman has always been, and continues to be, a role model throughout history."
Later, as our car stopped at Remas Roundabout in central Hadda, I saw a girl who appeared to be in her twenties, with the features of beauty shining in her beautiful brown eyes. She was holding a bunch of fresh flowers, selling them to passersby. I smiled at her, while silently cursing this war and the political era that has forced such a girl to stand in the middle of the street just to survive.
Where Are You Going?
A few days later, I passed by the University of Sana'a with my child for a specific purpose. As I approached my college—the College of Media—I smiled, recalling my years of study as a student and the memories associated with them, our hopes and ambitions; every corner held a story, and every place was steeped in a cherished moment.
I spoke to my child about my time at the college, about the fourth estate, and how we can uncover misleading truths, as well as about journalism—my job—and other beautiful stories. I shared with him my years of study and the memories of the classroom seats where I spent four years, as well as stories about his father. I could see signs of excitement on his face; he squeezed my hand happily and said, "Come on, Mom, let’s go in. I want to see the place where you and Dad studied". Consequently, this made me even more enthusiastic; I was eager to greet my esteemed professors with my child by my side, especially since I hadn’t stepped foot in that cherished place for ten years.
I really wanted to visit the prayer room, that small place that once gathered us and held our stories. I longed to greet the trees and stones, perhaps even touch the ancient walls with my hands—walls that held memories deeply rooted in my soul. But as I approached the gate, a man dressed in civilian clothes stopped me, questioning with an air of arrogance and surprise, "Where are you going?" He blocked my path at the door, as if he had thrown a large stone into the midst of my tangled thoughts.
“I left the college gates, dragging the weight of defeat on my shoulders, just like all women in Sana’a—not only due to the college’s unjust decisions but because of everything. We’ve come to feel ashamed for no reason, simply because we are women! I remembered the slogans painted on the walls and the indoctrination propagated by some preachers and certain advocates on their platforms. I realized that what is happening in our reality is merely a natural consequence of all this.”
After a brief moment of silence, I hesitantly asked, "Can I enter the college?" The man, in an even bolder tone, replied, "No. It's forbidden." I questioned whether entering my own college was a crime. I asked, "What’s wrong with that? I just want to greet the professors and inquire about something." He responded with a single, final sentence: "It is absolutely prohibited for female students to enter during the three days reserved for male students." Then he turned his face away as if to say, "Don't argue." Anger surged within me. How could I, a journalist, be barred from entering the very institution where I had studied, based on gender-based violence policies? What crime had we committed to be denied our natural rights? As I wrestled with these thoughts, my child asked, "Mom, are we going into your university? I want to see it." I couldn’t bring myself to respond. How could I explain to a six-year-old that I was being prohibited from entering because I’m a woman? How would his young mind process this information, and how would it shape his views about women in the future? I made an excuse about exams and rules that prohibited anyone from entering for fear of cheating.
But Will We Get Accustomed to This?
I left the college gates, dragging the heavy weight of defeat on my shoulders, just like all women in Sana’a—not only due to the college’s unjust decisions but because of everything. We’ve come to feel ashamed for no reason, simply because we are women! I remembered the slogans painted on the walls and the indoctrination propagated by some preachers and certain advocates on their platforms. I realized that what is happening in our reality is merely a natural consequence of all this.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the paper on which I had written my desire to pursue a master’s degree. I tore it apart, as if I were avenging all those who wish to reduce women to second-class citizens. But, will we become accustomed to this? Perhaps one day we will be barred from entering any academic or educational institution under the pretext of mixed-gender environments or other excuses. A tear slipped from my eye as I recalled Dostoevsky’s famous line in Crime and Punishment: “At first, they have wept over it, but then grown accustomed and accepted it. Man grows used to everything—what a scoundrel he is.”
