My Diary in America: Here I Die Every Day
I stopped being a regular at that restaurant when I imagined the value of the waiter's smile as a dollar. Here, the prices are steep for someone like me, tightening my belt. Their costs do not align with the austerity measures I navigate, fearing a future that seems dark and uncertain—an unknown lurking and shadowing my steps every day. I left the restaurant and only returned when invited to a wedding or at the request of a friend.
I sought another Yemeni restaurant with more reasonable prices and found 'Al-Ameen,' a small and elegant place run by its owner, who also serves as the waiter and cashier. He struck me as noble, clever, and full of kindness. He seemed well-educated and cultured, perceptive, and beloved by his customers. I later learned his name is Younis Al-Sanaei from Ibb, who had worked for 'Hunt' in Wadi Harib.
I noticed many Yemenis frequenting this restaurant, and I joined them. I was surprised when some offered to pay for my meal, and some did so more than once. Some I knew, and some I didn't, but they recognized me. They paid for me while I didn't pay for them—a troubling and painful imbalance.
Sometimes, I managed to pay my bill. I occasionally tried to leave before I encountered someone I knew. At times, I would slip away like a cat, my face hiding my embarrassment whenever I managed to pay before them. It's heavy to receive kindness that I can't reciprocate. It's an uncomfortable situation, especially if one of them does me a favor twice.
* * *
One day, I called a friend to meet at the restaurant. Since it was still early, no customers had arrived before me. While waiting, I ordered only a salad, and the manager added a light meal without asking. It was as if he wanted to say, 'Enjoy your time,' or 'It's fine to wait, enhanced by breakfast.'
This caught my attention. I was surprised and puzzled by his kindness. Perhaps he had a good impression of me that I was unaware of, or maybe he had heard something from a customer that sparked his sympathy. It could simply be his pure generosity, or he might have seen me eating with great enthusiasm during a previous visit.
I was deeply embarrassed when he firmly refused to accept payment. It felt as though the sun had eclipsed right before me. I felt uncomfortable despite my trust in the noble intentions of this kind-hearted man.
Honestly, I don't know exactly what prompted him to act this way! I imagined him presenting the dish to me gently, with overwhelming warmth, and I felt as if it were my mother—who left this world, leaving behind a cosmic void—offering it to me. I wished she were still alive to cradle my head in her lap while I wept in despair until death.
My throat tightened as he categorically refused to accept payment. I sensed that people might be beginning to understand my struggles, even though I kept them hidden, pretending that everything was fine. But now, given the absurdity of my situation, it felt as if the donkey had left the market, and my pain was spilling out into the open.
In that moment, as he resolutely denied the payment, I nearly suffocated. I could only tell him, 'How beautiful your spirit is!' But a hot tear escaped my eyes, rebellious and spilling over before I even crossed the threshold of the door. It fell involuntarily while the lump in my throat remained. I left wondering if he had seen the tear swell in my eyes. In any case, here I die every day.
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My Diary in America: Here I Die Every Day
I used to visit a fine Yemeni restaurant for my daily meal. It's just one meal, but I can't quite label it—should I call it breakfast, lunch, or dinner? What I'm sure of is that it's all three. I stopped being a regular at that restaurant when I imagined the value of the waiter's smile as a dollar. Here, the prices are steep for someone like me, tightening my belt. Their costs do not align with the austerity measures I navigate, fearing a future that seems dark and uncertain—an unknown lurking and shadowing my steps every day. I left the restaurant and only returned when invited to a wedding or at the request of a friend. I sought another Yemeni restaurant with more reasonable prices and found 'Al-Ameen,' a small and elegant place run by its owner, who also serves as the waiter and cashier. He struck me as noble, clever, and full of kindness. He seemed well-educated and cultured, perceptive, and beloved by his customers. I later learned his name is Younis Al-Sanaei from Ibb, who had worked for 'Hunt' in Wadi Harib. I noticed many Yemenis frequenting this restaurant, and I joined them. I was surprised when some offered to pay for my meal, and some did so more than once. Some I knew, and some I didn't, but they recognized me. They paid for me while I didn't pay for them—a troubling and painful imbalance. Sometimes, I managed to pay my bill. I occasionally tried to leave before I encountered someone I knew. At times, I would slip away like a cat, my face hiding my embarrassment whenever I managed to pay before them. It's heavy to receive kindness that I can't reciprocate. It's an uncomfortable situation, especially if one of them does me a favor twice. * * * One day, I called a friend to meet at the restaurant. Since it was still early, no customers had arrived before me. While waiting, I ordered only a salad, and the manager added a light meal without asking. It was as if he wanted to say, 'Enjoy your time,' or 'It's fine to wait, enhanced by breakfast.' This caught my attention. I was surprised and puzzled by his kindness. Perhaps he had a good impression of me that I was unaware of, or maybe he had heard something from a customer that sparked his sympathy. It could simply be his pure generosity, or he might have seen me eating with great enthusiasm during a previous visit. I was deeply embarrassed when he firmly refused to accept payment. It felt as though the sun had eclipsed right before me. I felt uncomfortable despite my trust in the noble intentions of this kind-hearted man. Honestly, I don't know exactly what prompted him to act this way! I imagined him presenting the dish to me gently, with overwhelming warmth, and I felt as if it were my mother—who left this world, leaving behind a cosmic void—offering it to me. I wished she were still alive to cradle my head in her lap while I wept in despair until death. My throat tightened as he categorically refused to accept payment. I sensed that people might be beginning to understand my struggles, even though I kept them hidden, pretending that everything was fine. But now, given the absurdity of my situation, it felt as if the donkey had left the market, and my pain was spilling out into the open. In that moment, as he resolutely denied the payment, I nearly suffocated. I could only tell him, 'How beautiful your spirit is!' But a hot tear escaped my eyes, rebellious and spilling over before I even crossed the threshold of the door. It fell involuntarily while the lump in my throat remained. I left wondering if he had seen the tear swell in my eyes. In any case, here I die every day.
