Standards Authority warns against German-made Happy Candy Fies (Haribo)
The Yemeni Standards, Metrology, and Quality Control Authority (YSMA) has issued a public warning to consumers and merchants regarding the German-made Happy Candy Fies, a product under the Haribo brand.
In a statement, the authority clarified that this product contains a prohibited narcotic substance whose use in food products is forbidden due to its potential negative effects on consumer health. YSMA strongly advised consumers, wholesalers, and retailers against purchasing or selling this item.
The authority urged citizens to avoid consuming this product and to report any suspected presence in the product in the markets by calling their toll-free number: 8001222.
YSMA stated that it is actively taking necessary steps to ensure the product is removed from markets to protect consumer health and confirmed that appropriate action will be taken against any violators.
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In our days, we lived with hunger, grappling with our fates, able to snatch life from the claws of death by hunger. Today, however, a people dies every day, besieged by all sorts of filth, mafias, and waste. Death is both absurd and lavish in a world ravaged by tyrants, the gluttonous, and the trivial. It is a world complicit in our destruction through a war that has become grotesquely savage, with hellish shepherds who refuse to halt it or lay down their burdens. A cruel siege tightens with both hands, pressing with all its might on the mouths of those who have escaped death or remain alive. This war has become profitable, drowning its perpetrators in wealth and abundance as they convert our blood, hunger, famines, and immense tragedies into bank accounts. I have often been hungry, wrestling with want, need, and deprivation. I suffered from emaciation, weakness, and the exhausting hardship that wears down both body and soul. I lived through long years of malnutrition, 'anemia,' thyroid issues, painful swellings in my feet, as well as amoebic and giardial infections, and bouts of fever that would seize me from time to time. When the fever struck, my body would revel in the warmth, enjoying the sun's rays for longer, wishing for the heat to intensify. Yet, as soon as I felt its grip loosen, I discovered that the fever surged and intensified, growing stronger against my frail and weakened body. The 'sun of the dead,' as we call it in our village, bidding us farewell with its reddening and fading light as it withers toward sunset, reminded me of my deteriorating health and my departed sisters, Noor and Samiyah. During my time in the middle school at 'Tor Al-Baha'a,' the prescribed meals were never enough; they barely satisfied my hunger. I continued to live a life of hardship and exhaustion, spending most of my days in a bitter struggle, desperately clinging to survival amid great suffering. 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The nurses exhibited great care and responsibility, while the German doctor was particularly attentive and aware of his duties. God bless the German doctors who were meticulous and present in many details at this hospital run by the Ministry of Interior. I left the hospital completely healed, feeling as strong as a horse. I then moved to stay for a while with our relative Abdulkarim Haza in Al-Qat'i neighborhood of 'Crater.' Typically, the main lunch at the family I stayed with consisted of rice, 'Zenob' fish, 'Sanonah,' and 'Ushar'—a truly delectable meal by my standards. From that day to this, I have loved and craved this dish. The problem I faced was my overwhelming shyness, a modesty that gripped me to an incredible extent. I would eat only half of what I needed, and sometimes even much less. In Aden, it was customary—at least in the family I was with—not to serve rice and fish all at once, to avoid throwing away any leftovers into the trash. 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Most of my bites didn't even include fish, while my true appetite, if unleashed, would surely demand more than just a meal of rice and fish with 'Ushar.' Perhaps that repressed craving, stifled by my shyness, has made me love this meal even more and yearn for it with greater intensity to this day. Abdulkarim Haza, the head of the household, noticed the overwhelming shyness and embarrassment evident in my hands, face, and demeanor. Instead of insisting that I cast aside my modesty when it came to food, he addressed the matter in a manner that was both ingenious and unexpected. Rather than pressuring me to eat more fish, he said, 'Ahmad doesn't like fish.' I feigned agreement with his statement, completely abstaining from the fish offered to me. For the following days, I cited this as my reason for not eating fish, effectively becoming a vegetarian at the table of fish. When they cooked 'Zarbiyan' meat, a delicious dish, just as I was about to reach for a morsel, he interjected, saying, 'Ahmad doesn't like Zarbiyan meat.' With a sense of shyness and embarrassment, I replied, 'Yes, I don't like Zarbiyan meat.' Under the influence of his words, I deliberately deprived myself of the Zarbiyan, despite its enticing aroma that teased my senses, sharpening my appetite and stirring my innermost cravings in silence. This pattern didn't stop there; it continued with chicken as well. Just before I could reach for it, he said, 'Ahmed doesn't eat chicken.' I feigned agreement with a forced smile, falsely testifying to my own distaste for chicken. The next day, before I could extend my hand toward lunch, he remarked, 'Ahmed doesn't like rice, Sanonah, or Ushar.' At that moment, I felt cornered by my shyness and embarrassment, pushed toward an impossible choice I couldn't possibly uphold. The others erupted in laughter, as if they had been expecting this moment from what he had said. I sensed that his intention was to encourage me to shed my shyness and retain what was reasonable and manageable. This time, I responded with a decisive tone, albeit with a smile: — I like everything. * * * During my time at the middle school in 'Proletariat' High School, there were many students in the dormitory, leading to long lines for dinner and lunch. Sometimes, dinner would run out before I could reach it, and other times, I would barely manage to get a small portion just as it was about to finish. I was consumed by a shyness that prevented me from pushing my way forward. My sense of ethics also held me back from bypassing those in line ahead of me, no matter how intense my hunger grew, or how much I felt I might miss out on my designated meal. Meanwhile, many behind me in the queue would boldly cut in line, leaving me gradually at the end without dinner. 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At times, I would sneak out with others under the cover of night to the distant farm to gather a handful of sesame seeds, and we would sometimes detour to the lemon trees, plucking a few fruits to eat with their peels or to enhance our meals, improving the flavor of the poorly cooked beans.
