Latest from Yemenat
Yemenat
11 hours ago
- General
- Yemenat
Shyness, Anxiety, and Alienation
I was intensely shy and profoundly introverted afflicted with a terrifying, crippling social phobia. This is how I first knew myself upon awakening to my own consciousness. True, I did not emerge from my first birth silent—I came with a birth cry I can imagine cleaving through the delivery room in our old house. And true, I was mischievous in childhood, perhaps in some stages of life. Yet none of this lessened the crushing weight of my shyness and withdrawal, which bore down heavily on my existence. The nightmares of my anxiety seized my tranquility, haunted my days and nights, clung to my presence, and pursued my escapes. My shame, above all, became the heaviest burden, the greatest impediment to my aspirations. I was consumed by a dense conviction that my shyness crippled me, that I was unfit for anything in this life, and that my future would be scarred by this disability—inescapable, inevitable, woven into my very destiny. With every failure, I felt the cause lay in my affliction. Often, I sensed my existence was superfluous, that there was no wisdom in what exceeded its necessity. Existence itself seemed at times absurdly indifferent to need. I lived my absence, my alienation in this clamorous world that bore no resemblance to my withdrawal, my shame, my dread, and had no need for my redundant, tiresome presence. Later, when I read Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I felt that the hump borne by its hero upon his back—I had long carried it upon mine. That hump reminded me of my shame and phobia, which weighed down my shoulders, denied me countless opportunities, deprived me of so much, and repeatedly confiscated my rights—even as my very presence felt like a burden upon existence itself. True, at times I committed acts that seemed bold, rebellious, or mischievous. But most often, my shame accompanied me like my shadow; sometimes its overwhelming tyranny engulfed me, leaving no breathing room, no space to retreat. My bones shattered in narrow straits where neither light nor expanse could penetrate. This withdrawal and shame wasted countless opportunities in my life—a life wearied by paths of loss, which I found myself captive to, or which exposed me to dangers, countless hardships, and innumerable embarrassing situations. At times, it birthed in me a thick sense of failure, profound disappointment, and inadequacy reaching the point of regret or annihilation. The feeling of intense phobia and shame made me believe fate had struck me with an inherent imbalance, a flaw in my very makeup—rendering me incomplete, abnormal.. I felt an affliction washing over me, inseparable from my being, inseparable from the feeling of it. An affliction that made me inwardly rage against the fate that diminished me, that caused this deep-rooted malady and fracture within the soul. They used to say angels have a role in shaping the fetus and perfecting it in the mother's womb. As a child, I would ask my mother: 'Why does so-and-so have a cleft lip?! She would reply: 'The angels forgot to seal that cleft..' Then she would scold me, forbidding me to belittle her, lest my own future children be born cleft-lipped like her when I grew up and married and had sons! Then questions would churn within me, and I felt filled with flaws and imbalance.. Deep down, I blamed the angels whose neglect had marred so much of me—my brain, my nervous system, my eyes. My shyness, my introversion, my feelings of phobia and embarrassment—were they not but a great negligence and failure on their part? Deserving of grief and reproach, and more if possible. As I grew older and gained more knowledge of existence, of the human and political reality we inhabit, I discovered many deeper, more pernicious forms of imbalance and affliction plaguing the lives of peoples and societies.. I discovered that the true monstrosities are the tyrants, the autocrats, the corrupt, the warlords and merchants of war. I became certain that these grotesques are the burden upon this life, upon humanity, upon this existence weighed down by them. * * * My phobia silenced my voice, buried it alive, heaping earth upon it.. tearing and scattering it until it dissolved like vapor.. choking it with an iron fist before it could rise to my mouth.. swallowing my tongue from its root, anchored in a throat gagged by shame. Phobia—a tyranny exercising its crude authority over a life burdened by its own suffering. I was still young, still tender in years, while my phobia and shame had grown larger than me—many times my weight and my lean years. I was pulverized by my shyness and phobia with relentless persistence, with repetition knowing no fatigue.. Disappointment and bitterness washed over me each time I fell prey to their nets, powerless to resist. I lived captive to my introversion, to the modesty that clamped both hands over my muffled mouth—soundproofed, preventing me from voicing a need, a plea for salvation or rescue. One can imagine the depth of my shame—a shame so profound one would prefer destruction over uttering a word no longer than two letters: 'Stop.' How can a person be ashamed of their own voice, their own company, and then commit an act bordering on folly? Preferring potential danger to letting others hear their cry? How can someone, driven by modesty, shame, and overwhelming phobia, leap from a vehicle hurtling like a storm—without even asking the driver to stop? It is a phobia akin to suicide. * * * I was always ashamed of my voice as a child.. Even when voice recorders reached us, my own voice brought me no pleasure; I may have even once railed against the Lord of this voice.. Perhaps I plunged too deep into rebellion in moments of passion and abandon… Its reins slipped from my grasp, galloping to the farthest horizons. I resist compulsion in all its forms, its authority, its force. But sometimes my rebellion veers off course, reaching what is extreme and distant.. I remember a day when my father struck me with his shoe—twice, three times—merely for being late to bring water for ablutions before the Maghrib prayer for a relative (may God have mercy on him). In a fit of rage and stupidity, I relieved myself in the bowl before pouring water over it, then gave it to the man to perform his ablutions—while my eyes swam in tears I fought to hold back. My anger and agitation subsided, and perhaps a strange smile mingled with my tears as I watched him rinse his mouth, sniff water, and wash his face and countenance.. My foolishness had struck an innocent victim of the shoe-beating—even if I sensed at the time he was partly deserving of punishment. The paradox is vast: between one who dares such an act, and in another context, is ashamed to let others hear his voice.. Strange paradoxes sometimes unite the un-unitable. Perhaps my state resembles, in these days of ours, those who claim to have 'resisted seventeen destinies' while trembling in terror at a word or a social media post. This can only happen due to a flaw and imbalance in the brain and essence of the claimant—a foundation of overwhelming fears, preventing exposure of errors and grave sins: corruption, violation, and a lack of confidence a thousand times greater than what I suffered in my youth and tender years… Thus life appeared to me, teeming with parallels and wonders, replete with contradictions, paradoxes, and fears. * * * I was likely less than fifteen years old at the time… Abu Shanab stopped his Land Rover when I signaled for him to halt and allow me to board – what we used to call 'hitching a ride.' Abu Shanab, the man of the people, was exceedingly kind-hearted and accustomed to students 'hitching rides,' those without a penny to their name. He would ferry them without taking a fare, especially if he found you walking along the road and you shyly beseeched him with a wave of your hand to take you along. The driver was returning to the area of 'Dhawka,' while I was bound for 'Shi'b Al-A'la,' hastening to my village in Al-Qabeyta.. The vehicle was crowded with passengers. The driver stopped for me, and I clambered onto its running boards, securing a small perch at the very rear… Shortly after, I was dismayed to discover the vehicle was heading away from my destination. I had assumed that one or more of the passengers would ask the driver to stop so they could alight, perhaps their destination matching mine. But disappointment swiftly overtook me as I realized everyone was heading in the opposite direction of my intended path. All were bound for 'Dhawka'.. Paralyzed by shyness and an overwhelming sense of dread, I couldn't muster the courage to cry out or even request a stop to get off the speeding vehicle. It devoured the distance with greedy haste, surging relentlessly towards its goal. Driven by panic, I resolved to jump rather than ask it to halt… It nearly proved the saying true: 'Shame kills.' I leaped from the car.. My body slammed onto the ground. In that first instant, I thought my frame had shattered like glass… My chin struck the earth with brutal force. My teeth clashed violently together. The jaws collided upon each other until I could no longer distinguish upper from lower.. I felt my head explode and scatter like shrapnel from a bomb. Sparks seemed to fly from my eyes, tumbling in every direction.. The impact made me feel like scattered wreckage, impossible to reassemble or gather; while the passengers inside screamed, startled by the sudden fall of one of their number, unaware I had leapt by my own will, driven by terror and shame.. The driver halted the vehicle at their cries to see what had happened? My body bore multiple injuries.. Blood streamed from scrapes and scratches scattered across my limbs.. My shirt was torn in places, my trousers now dust-covered and soiled. Dirt and grime were most evident, as if I'd emerged from the vehicle's exhaust pipe.. Blood flowed from the abrasions, some trickling from beneath my chin. The driver descended from the cab to investigate. Meanwhile, wrestling against the shock of the collision and the sparks of pain, an even fiercer wave of embarrassment and shame forced me to gather my strength. With a defiance unknown to youth, I struggled to my feet to signal to those in the stopped vehicle that I was unharmed and all was well. The driver, for his part, looked like the survivor, not me.. My defiant, rapid rise, spurred by shame, was potent and absolute, achieved without uttering a single word… I bore the appearance of one assuming full and unmitigated responsibility for the incident. After great hardship and battling the pain, I reached our home in Sharar. The first thing I saw when I looked at my face in the mirror was my wounded chin.. I saw an asymmetry beneath it – one side protruded, the other was recessed, jarringly out of alignment. The symmetry and evenness were gone. This imbalance, this flaw, remains noticeable to this day, visible to anyone who looks closely. Today, we have grown, and we and our homeland cry out at the top of our voices.. The vehicle carrying us hurtles recklessly – no brakes, no headlights, no doors.. A vehicle wrestled over by drivers without licenses, devoid of skill or mastery.. Madmen of war, incapable even of reckoning profit from loss.. The vehicle careens at maximum speed and madness.. Jumping from it has become impossible for us.. Now it races headlong towards the precipice.. The fate of us all, and of the homeland, has become unknown and terrifying. I conclude here with a reminder: silence, perhaps, also holds a meaning and a voice more profound and resonant than the clamor we hear.. And if our fears overwhelm us at times, and our silence grows louder than the noise, perhaps even this holds wisdom, lessons, and insight. What we need is a world, an environment, that understands it. For Shams Tabrizi once said: Silence, too, has a voice, but it needs a soul to understand it.
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
A School Without Co-Education
Hashed The students of 'Proletariat School,' numbering in the hundreds, were all male. There was not a single female student in the school—a barren wasteland devoid of green plants or gentle breezes, even in the late hours of the night. No dew, no drops of rain; only a harsh dryness that cracks the earth. 'No water, no greenery, no beautiful faces!' There was no joy, no hope, no promise—only desolation and dust in every direction. The past, burdened with its weight, views segregation and the separation of genders as virtuous behavior dictated by the values of good morals. They elaborate on this, until heads, cloaked in shame and rigid fatwas, rise beneath their aprons. Meanwhile, we see that balance, a thriving life, and protection come from awareness, refined ethics, and proper upbringing. Mixing offers attraction and competition, transcending our heavy heritage, and overcoming deeply entrenched social constraints. Separation and isolation weigh heavily on us, alienating us from the era we live in and leading us backward, away from the future we desire. Life under the pressures of repressed complexes, swollen with intense tension, and rampant sexual obsession grips our thoughts and distractions, consuming our awareness and attention, resulting in unhealthy outlets and disgraceful behavioral deviations, while abandoning what is considered normal and healthy living. It is not normal to wait for the weekend to travel over ten kilometers just to catch a glimpse of a girl you love; you may find her, or you may not, leaving everything to chance—of which there is little and rarely any. It is not normal to harbor a deep love in silence for three consecutive years without knowing where the one you love is! I am not well if I spend three years loving from a distance, unable to confess or reach out to the one I adore! It is unnatural for shame to consume you to the point where your forehead furrows under its weight, causing you to miss out on opportunities one after another, while your limp love yields nothing but disappointment, sorrow, and loss. It is not normal to wish to spend a single night with the one you love, only to condemn yourself to death with thirty bullets in an unblessed morning. This is what I longed for on a suffocating day, ablaze with the revolution and volcanoes that churned within me—a struggle against a tyrannical instinct, an insatiable sexual hunger, and a predatory, terrifying urge. If mixing were allowed, the utmost I could imagine would be the pursuit of love and the happiness we desire—the search for a passionate, complete love, for the dream knight who embodies a life of joy and authenticity, the suitable wife for the future. Yet, in our current state of separation, I find some who travel miles to engage in deviant acts with a female donkey, while others go to 'Sisbane' to quench their burning sexual desires in exchange for money. Some of us watch television, following series and films, then live out the roles we imagine, sharing moments with actresses like Shams Al-Baroudi or Yosra. I found myself in heated debates with friends about the most beautiful women, dividing ourselves into teams, arguing passionately as we extolled their virtues, wagering on who was the most deserving of admiration. We sought out judges to settle our disputes, and when a ruling was unfavorable, we searched for another judge, only to witness the judges themselves divide, seeking yet another ruling: Who is more beautiful, Warda Al-Jazairia or Aziza Jalal? I stood in support of Warda. Our dream was to learn and find a livelihood that would sustain us against hunger. When this dream, or some portion of it, was realized, we began to see mixing as a dream and a necessity. Human aspirations do not end with the fulfillment of a specific dream; dreams, too, breed like light. My friend Mohammed Abdulmalik and I would go to Aboud Mixed High School, where he had a relative living within its premises. There, I witnessed freedom pulsating with light, love, and reconciliation with oneself, while I silently endured pain, alienation, and loss. I felt a profound sorrow as I compared 'Proletariat School' to Aboud School, which thrived in mixing and vibrated with life, love, and joy. Our school, in this comparison, seemed as deprived as we were—a barren desert, with winds blowing dust into our weary eyes throughout the year. Meanwhile, Al-Shaheed Aboud High School in Dar Saad appeared more than just an elusive dream—and it pains me even more today to know that they have even changed its name. I always wished we could stage a protest demanding our right to mixing, akin to the protest for better nutrition, but my shyness held me back from even whispering such desires. Inside me, a volcano roiled and boiled, while my shame and modesty formed layers of steel and ice that suppressed any revelation of my inner turmoil. I swelled with repression and congestion, striving to shatter every tradition and belief. I attempted to view matters with a perspective that perhaps transcended a thousand years into the future beyond what was prevalent. I yearned for a world of vastness and orbits, a world unburdened by constraints, borders, and traditions. It was a surge from a deep well, the aftermath of sexual urges weighed down by shame and heavy customs encased in isolation and separation, by fire and iron. I was radical to the point of madness, and such madness would not have existed were it not for my awareness of this oppressive shame, the strict social repression, and the immense pent-up frustration. I bear witness to my friend Muhammad Abdul Malik's balance in contrast to my thoughts, which swung between the hammer and the anvil, caught between the fire of suppressed desires and the heavy burden of shameful reality. I studied and graduated from Proletariat High School in 1981 with a score of 82%, a challenging achievement at that time, qualifying me for a scholarship abroad. Yet I remained shy and lacking in knowledge, without anyone to advocate for my right to justice or support my case in any competition.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
A New Cognitive Transformation
In high school, I would read and reflect as I roamed the desert after noon on the chosen days of the week, distributing my directions and traversing a new path each day. Sometimes, I aimed for a destination at a specific angle in the vast expanse of the desert, returning without necessarily retracing my steps. I ventured deep into the desert, as far as I could go, as if searching for a new world, always mindful of the time to return before dusk, ensuring that darkness did not descend before I reached my dormitory. I felt as if I were the first human to traverse that neglected desert, seemingly untouched, with no significant trace of human activity across its wide stretch. I appeared like the first explorer, treading upon its vastness. Just as I raised my voice in the desert, I also unleashed my questioning mind. In the face of doubt, I flung open the doors of inquiry. The bewilderment of questioning occupied much of my thoughts. A stark contradiction brewed between the notions I had grown up with, shaped by what I learned in Islamic education, and the knowledge I was gaining in geography, biology, philosophy, and other sciences. The questions stimulated my mind and consciousness, still tender and inexperienced, as I eagerly sought to understand all that was possible and new. Through accumulated knowledge, I realized that submission does not cultivate awareness or understanding; rather, it breeds stagnation, lethargy, and dullness. It is the debate, contradiction, and pursuit of answers to the questions simmering in consciousness—even the simplest ones—that create knowledge, enriching it and challenging the ignorance and false consciousness that cling to the mind. The skeptical questions opened my mind to deeper understanding, including some that defied answers and sparked frustration in my mother during my innocent, curious childhood. As I contemplated the desert, I delved deeper despite the heat and the scorching winds and sands. I would ask myself: Has this desert always been in this state since the earth was formed or since God created the simple existence? I would pause at small, peculiar stones—lightweight black rocks, jagged or filled with numerous voids in their outer walls—that seemed out of place in the desert's nature. Clearly, they had come from a different environment altogether. Most were about the size of a fist or slightly larger. I would wonder: Were these once celestial bodies or asteroids drifting through space? Could these be remnants of meteors cast by God to thwart the devils? Whenever I spotted the various shells scattered across the desert, I would question: Did the sea once cover all this land? When did the sea rise to this point, or was it here and then receded? Were these shells a stage in the evolution of life? * * * I was captivated by my tall Palestinian biology teacher, with his fair skin and political affiliation with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, as he explained Darwin's theory of evolution. I followed him with astonishment, thinking to myself: it seems quite reasonable and logical, at least to a large extent—especially the parts supported by evidence and scientific endorsement, which appeared to hold a degree of certainty or a place on the ladder of truth. What I heard from my biology teacher was unlike anything I had encountered before. His words were striking and worthy of attention as he spoke of the ladder of evolution and its many details. I found some aspects of human origins shared or closely aligned between Darwin's theory of evolution and some ideas presented by Engels in his work 'The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State.' Perhaps I sensed the logic in the theory, or at least much of it, which, at its worst, contained elements of truth and utility. I enjoyed the way he presented it and the evidence he provided for its various facets, which perhaps unsettled some of my convictions and sparked doubts, shaking the foundations of my firmly rooted beliefs, while also exploring broad horizons for the possible. Today, supporters of Darwin's theory continue to grow steadily within scientific circles, and it is increasingly applied in fields such as biology, paleontology, and anthropology. In 2009, a nonpartisan American research center called the Pew Research Center conducted a survey within scientific communities regarding Darwin's theory of evolution. The results indicated that 97% endorsed the view that humans and other living organisms have evolved over time, with 87% attributing this evolution to natural processes such as natural selection. * * * I found myself captivated by the subject of philosophy and its teacher, a Palestinian with a slight olive complexion who was also affiliated with the Popular Front. He introduced the philosophical question: 'Is man free or destined?' This was the first time I had encountered such a question, and it continued to stimulate my mind, revealing the fragility of my beliefs as I tentatively approached the thresholds and doors of knowledge. From philosophy, I learned the importance of debate, the collision and fusion of ideas and theories, and their historical evolution within the broader process of knowledge. I became aware of the significance of questioning and doubting assumptions in the pursuit of truth and understanding. I recognized my own illusions and the many weaknesses in the beliefs that had dominated my mind during the years that had passed. I generally enjoyed subjects like the sciences and social studies, feeling that they shaped my awareness and made a difference in both my academic and general knowledge. They posed numerous questions to my mind, leading to newfound insights or brighter understandings in the face of ignorance. Many things in my young mind shifted from what I once thought and believed. I felt these subjects were adding something new to my experience, something I had never encountered before. In my third year of high school, the distance between me and my previous beliefs began to shift in favor of doubt, or at least some of it. I recalled the questions I had innocently and spontaneously posed as a child. New convictions started to form—convictions that were more logical and reasonable, some supported by evidence. I sensed that new concepts were crystallizing in my mind, moving away from sentiment and emotion towards rationality, fueled by increasing doubt and a plethora of questions.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
When Translation Betrays the Text: How Errors Create Entirely New Meanings
Translation is far more than the mechanical act of converting words from one language to another; it is an intricate art that requires deep cultural and contextual understanding. While the primary aim is to preserve the original meaning, translation errors can sometimes result in unintended consequences, ones that reshape concepts and introduce entirely new interpretations never intended by the original author. These mistakes may result from a misinterpretation of context, an overly literal translation, or an inadequate understanding of linguistic and cultural nuances, all of which can be a recipe for disaster. Throughout history, mistranslations have played a role in shaping significant events. One of the most infamous examples is the mistranslation of Japan's response during World War II. When the United States demanded Japan's unconditional surrender, the Japanese Prime Minister used the word 'Mokusatsu', which can mean either 'no comment' or 'contempt' in Japanese. When it was mistakenly translated into English as 'contempt,' the U.S. assumed Japan was rejecting negotiations, a misunderstanding that contributed to the decision to drop atomic bombs on 'Hiroshima and Nagasaki'. Overly literal translations often produce unintended and, at times, absurd meanings. For example, directly translating the English phrase 'It's raining cats and dogs' into Arabic would make no sense, as the intended meaning is 'heavy rainfall,' not animals falling from the sky. Similarly, the phrase 'Lost in translation', when translated word-for-word into other languages, fails to capture its intended nuance, which refers to the inability to convey meaning accurately across linguistic boundaries. In business, mistranslations have led to branding disasters. A well-known example is Pepsi's slogan, 'Come Alive with the Pepsi Generation,' which was mistranslated into Chinese as 'Pepsi brings your ancestors back from the dead.' The unintended phrase caused confusion and amusement among Chinese consumers, demonstrating the importance of linguistic precision in marketing. 3. The Impact of Translation Errors on Literature and Film: Translation errors can also significantly affect literature and cinema. A notable instance is the translation of Russian author Dostoevsky's works, where certain English translations altered complex philosophical ideas, making it difficult for readers to grasp his original intent. Additionally, film titles and dialogue have suffered from poor translations, altering the audience's perception of the movie. One famous case is 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,' whose title was translated differently across languages, sometimes making it seem like a lighthearted comedy rather than the deep, philosophical narrative intended by the filmmakers. Translation has the power to shape and even transform cultural understanding. Words like 'Freedom' and 'Respect' may seem straightforward, but their translations carry varying connotations across societies. For instance, 'Freedom' is typically translated as 'حرية' in Arabic, yet in different political contexts, it can imply independence, personal liberty, or even rebellion. Likewise, 'Respect' is rendered as 'احترام,' but in some cultures, it encompasses not only politeness but also deep-seated obedience and social hierarchy. In the realm of translation, there is a saying: 'Translation is a beautiful betrayal.' It reflects a paradox at the heart of the translator's craft, true fidelity to a text often requires sacrificing something in the process, whether it's cultural nuance, rhythm, or tone. Yet, when this so-called 'betrayal' is undertaken with intention and artistry, it can give rise to something wholly original. A striking example lies in the Arabic translations of 'Saadi Youssef', particularly his renditions of Lorca's poetry. Rather than cling to literal meaning, Youssef used the full force of his poetic sensibility to breathe new life into Lorca's voice, reshaping it in a way that resonated with Arabic readers while preserving its soul. Likewise, 'Guy Deutscher's' English interpretations of Al-Mutanabbi demonstrate that straying from the original meter can be a brave and respectful choice in service of deeper meaning and poetic power. Consider also 'The Little Prince', whose many translations differ subtly yet significantly. Each version reflects the translator's vision, sometimes enriching the text in ways the original never imagined—proof that a faithful betrayal can unlock new dimensions. Here, betrayal is not failure. It is creativity in motion, an act of interpretation that transforms the translator into a co-creator of art. Sometimes, to honor a voice, we must dare to reinvent it. In brief, translation errors do not always result in failures; sometimes, they lead to new meanings and unexpected cultural insights. However, the art of translation demands more than linguistic accuracy, it requires sensitivity to context and a keen awareness of how words resonate across cultures. Whether in diplomacy, literature, business, or everyday communication, translators must not only convey words but also capture the essence and intention behind them.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
My Boisterous Reading
I used to study my lessons aloud. Silent reading, or even reading softly, never appealed to me; its yield felt scant and fleeting. My boisterous temperament finds no harmony with the quietude of silent reading, which I have neither grown accustomed to nor embraced. In fact, I find that this muted approach burdens my memory, demanding constant nudges that lose their significance after reading a page or two. Soon, boredom and tedium creep in, perhaps even drowsiness, while in other moments, silence scatters my thoughts in every direction. I become like a small child, aimlessly chasing the shadow of a bee flitting among flowers, never catching it, nor lingering long on the bloom. When I read in silence, I find myself easily distracted, my mind wandering. Sometimes, drowsiness overtakes me after an hour, if the atmosphere allows, while at other times, a stretching boredom pulls at my limbs, and a sense of disorientation sweeps me away to places I do not wish to go. I feel distanced from what I am engaged in, far removed from the very text I intend to read. I cannot explain how the habit of reading aloud clung to me since my middle school days, only to find myself in high school even more attached to it, unable to find any other method that suits me. In university, and later at the Higher Institute of Judiciary, it became second nature, perhaps even a characteristic trait of my reading style that I cannot abandon, except out of necessity or urgent compulsion. My comprehension while reading aloud was significantly greater than when I read softly, and my focus while reading aloud was exponentially higher than when I engaged in silent reading. The latter often leads me to squander much time for little benefit, with much of that time lost in chasing the fleeting thoughts that dart in every direction. I would step out from the dormitory into the desert, traversing its expanse as I studied my lessons aloud. I gestured with my hands and feet unconsciously, taking a few steps before pausing to repeat phrases until they sank in, attempting to memorize them. Once I finished a lesson, I would write in the sand, 'O Lord, increase my knowledge,' sometimes adding, 'from the cradle to the grave.' I did this driven by pure whimsy, which too claimed a share of my wasted time. Those who observed me from afar might have thought I was possessed or perhaps truly mad. I read with my mouth, my hands, my feet—every part of my body engaged, my face flushed by the sun and wind, transforming my reading into a vibrant spectacle, akin to a boisterous performance infused with movements that invigorated my memory. This was a facet of my diligence, in which I found myself more committed than ever, full of interest, perseverance, and effort. I felt the weight of ambition pressing upon me, embracing my aspirations with a heightened sense of responsibility. At the 'Proletariat School,' I began to appreciate the significance of education, of exploration and knowledge. My self-confidence grew, and the joy of learning deepened with each moment I devoted to my studies, drawing ever more from the well of knowledge.
