Latest from Yemenat
Yemenat
8 hours ago
- General
- Yemenat
From My Diaries in America: Between Bitterness and a Bitterer Experience
A dear friend wanted to help me with his legal connections, breaking the isolation that had been tightening around me. He lifted my spirits and engaged me in a field I love, pulling me out of a depression that had been suffocating me. This friend tried to open a new horizon against the darkness surrounding me. He sought to create a path in the face of the obstacles preventing me from stepping into the world and freeing myself from the shackles that others wanted to bind me with for life, making my existence feel like a grave until the end of days. For a long time, my friend understood my passion for the field of rights and freedoms, a space I cannot live without. He recognized the disappointments I had faced and the opportunities withheld from me. I often felt the absence of equality and the lack of equal chances, realizing how unfortunate my fate had been. * * * Desire and illness battled within me—dignity and death. I tried to keep things in a state of postponement for the sake of my health, weighing what was important against what was even more crucial. Yet, this did not stop my friend from recommending me to his friend in an effort to take the first step: participating in an international conference related to freedom of religion, belief, and peace building. My friend wanted to help find a gathering that might offer me an opportunity or choice I could use. My health was a priority, but as my doctor appointments grew sparse and time dragged on, my dignity suffered more each day. I began searching for job opportunities in any country that might offer work aligned with my desires or skills—something that could help restore my wounded dignity. I sought any job that could alleviate the oppressive situation I was living in, a dignity intertwined with that of a wasted homeland trampled by its rulers. Finding work here seemed impossible, and obtaining a work permit was nearly out of reach without asylum or residency. I did not want to end my life as a refugee, displaced and searching for a nonexistent homeland. I began looking for work, even if it meant leaving America for other countries for both employment and treatment. My priorities shifted out of necessity—a forced choice between bitter and even more bitter, between difficult and more difficult. Instead of seeking health, I was now in search of a job that could lift me from the profound oppression I was experiencing. Instead of pursuing health, I was seeking dignity that was being slaughtered, suffering, and in pain every day. A glimmer of hope came from two women I met at the conference. The first is named 'Holda,' and the second is 'Hoferinanda San Martin.'
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
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.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- Health
- Yemenat
From My Diaries in America: A Confession
I arrived in America from Cairo, and I had to take heart medication twice a day, after lunch and dinner, according to my doctor's instructions back in Cairo. When I started having only one meal a day, my routine fell apart, leading to a disruption in taking my medication, and adding more distress, anxiety, and depression—more stress and frustration. I didn't realize the toll this was taking on my health until a cardiologist compared my recent medical records with the old ones and informed me that my condition had worsened. He even presented me with the option of open-heart surgery to replace some arteries. In Egypt, my priority was a surgery for a cleft palate and a herniated disc; now in America, my heart issues took center stage. I still had other health concerns waiting in line, while appointments here demand both time and patience. Before seeing the doctors, I had to wait a month and a half just to begin the approval process for treatment. Health is vital, and health requires living with dignity, which, unfortunately, has become compromised. Living here has its harsh realities that leave no room for leniency or joking. After arriving in America, I received nine hundred dollars from three members of the Yemeni community in New York, with each person giving me three hundred dollars. I accepted it with immense pain, embarrassment, and a profound sense of shame—blame falls on those who govern and support the tyrannical rulers and the authorities in Yemen. One of my friends recognized my struggles and gave me five hundred dollars, and later, without me asking, Nabil from another state helped me with a thousand dollars, two-thirds of which I sent back to my family in Yemen. I wanted to work here to cover my living expenses, but to work legally, I need a work permit, which I can only obtain after applying for asylum, taking at least a month or more, or by securing residency. All these circumstances push me toward seeking asylum for political or humanitarian reasons, yet I haven't done so, and I don't think I will, no matter how dire the situation becomes. I continue to resist, and my heart still beats, despite its damage, while the politicians in my bloodied homeland reap the daily harvest of suffering.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- General
- Yemenat
From My Diary in America .. My Friend Al Harazi
Hunger suddenly descended upon my body, ambushing me like a predator lying in wait. My legs felt weak, on the verge of collapsing under my own weight. I was dripping with sweat, my hands trembling, losing control of their steadiness. My entire body seemed ready to crumble into a heap of debris. There was no restaurant nearby. My feet could no longer carry me to the nearest eatery, which felt distant and out of reach. I stumbled into a nearby grocery store, my steps unsteady, as if I were trying to explore something in a hurry. I approached a foreign worker in the store who was stuffing pastries with various fillings, names of which I couldn't recall in English, and some I didn't even know in Arabic. I attempted to communicate with him, but we were lost in translation. * * * I tried to find a translation app, hoping it might rescue me from my predicament. My trembling hands felt uncooperative, and my mind seemed to fade away. I felt lost, unable to concentrate, struggling to piece together my scattered thoughts, filled with confusion and uncertainty. With what little strength I had left, I tried to withdraw, dragging my weary steps toward the door when suddenly, the store owner called out to me, asking, 'Where are you from?' My face lit up when I heard him speaking Arabic, and I replied, 'I'm Yemeni.' I then asked, 'And where are you from? He answered, 'From Haraz.' In that moment, I felt a door of joy open and envelop me with warmth. * * * I ate a piece of chocolate and felt a wave of refreshment and balance wash over me, as if I had narrowly escaped a crisis. My health was improving. We started chatting, and I sensed he recognized me, but that didn't stop me from asking: Do you know me from before? He replied, 'No.' Then I asked, 'Do you know Majed Zayed?' He answered, 'No.' I realized that this man had been away for a long time. I then asked, 'Do you know Abdu Bashr?' He said, 'Yes, but only a limited acquaintance. We had a few brief meetings a long time ago,' without hiding his admiration for the man, emphasizing it with the word 'Tahtouh' which means 'a shrewd man'. I felt an unusual warmth and familiarity from his kindness towards me, as if I had known him for a long time. His face was friendly, his love abundant, and his kindness overwhelming. He asked the worker in English to prepare something more than what I wanted, with generous hospitality. * * * When I asked Al Harazi about the cost of what I had taken, he refused and insisted he wouldn't take a single cent. I thought this would be a one-time occurrence, something that sometimes happens here, especially if you're a Yemeni newcomer to America. In the area where I live, which some call 'Little Yemen,' there are over fifty thousand Yemenis. There are some grocery stores, restaurants, and retail shops owned by Yemenis; even their names are in Arabic on the signs. There is also a street named after Ibrahim Al-Hamdi, and you can find some Yemeni products in larger grocery stores, like Shamlan water and Abu Wald biscuits. On the second day, the same scene repeated itself, with added details. When I asked him about the amount, he swore again that I wouldn't pay a single cent. I introduced myself as a member of the Yemeni Parliament to convey that I was capable, even though the reality was quite the opposite. Yet, I felt he understood my nature better than I did. He persistently urged me to have coffee, water, or any drink with the sandwich pastry, while I refused with a painful pride, claiming that I had everything I needed. With the repetition and the embarrassment overwhelming me, I felt as if I were standing naked before him. Since he had memorized my situation and traits, he too felt shy and made sure not to hurt my feelings. More than once, I sensed he was even more embarrassed than I was, but it was difficult for me to interrupt him because I felt an unusual warmth towards him. I told him, 'You know me well. You know my details without even telling me.' He would respond that he didn't know anything about me and had never heard my name before. The man was successful in sinking me deeper into my confusion. I said, 'Please, I want to be your customer. If you continue like this, you'll cut me off, and I won't see you again, which saddens me. This happened to me with a generous grocery owner down the street, and I had to leave him, and I don't want that to happen here again.' However, Al Harazi immediately raised his hand, warning me that if he saw me in the street, he wouldn't say 'peace be upon you.' To soften the situation, he would sell to me at half price or even more sometimes, justifying it with 'my capital without loss.' I felt he did this to ease my spirit and lessen the weight of my embarrassment. I accepted this arrangement and became his customer, starting to eat two meals a day instead of one—one from him and another from a nearby restaurant. I found myself exhausted by my shyness, grappling with the challenge I faced, and burdened by a miserable situation. Meanwhile, a petty official in Sana'a accused me of being a secret agent, and an inflated figure in the 'legitimacy' mocked me without knowing the hardships I was enduring and the existential struggle I faced between compounded illness, financial strain, and the relentless misery of filthy pens digging their rusty blades into my weary body.
Yemenat
5 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
?Political Translation in the Age of Artificial Intelligence: Can Machines Be Biased
Assistant Lecturer, Department of English, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Sana'a University, Yemen, and PhD Candidate in Translation and Artificial Intelligence In the digital era, political translation has emerged as a powerful force in crafting narratives, conveying ideological discourse, and shaping collective perceptions across borders. With the rapid evolution of artificial intelligence and the growing prominence of machine translation tools like Google Translate, DeepL, ChatGPT, Deepseek, Gemini, etc. reliance on automated systems has reached unprecedented levels. Yet this progress invites a pressing question: Are these machines neutral agents? Or can artificial intelligence, by nature or design, be biased when translating politically charged content? The Invisibility of Bias: Can Machines Be Truly Objective? While AI systems are often perceived as impartial, they learn from vast datasets created by humans, datasets that inherently carry cultural, political, and ideological assumptions. This means machine outputs reflect the biases, blind spots, and power dynamics embedded in the original content. Consider the phrase 'المقاومة الفلسطينية' ('Palestinian Resistance'). Some AI translation systems render it as 'Palestinian Resistance,' capturing its nationalistic connotation, while others convert it to 'Palestinian Terrorism,' a drastically different framing that invokes international criminality and strips the term of its sociopolitical context. Likewise, the word 'شهيد' (martyr) is often translated as 'the deceased' or simply 'killed,' diminishing its deeply held cultural, spiritual, and ideological significance. Real-World Cases of Linguistic Distortion by Human Translators and Adopted by AI Systems: Biased translations are not merely theoretical. In 2021, when Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan spoke on the Palestinian cause, his statement 'القدس خط أحمر بالنسبة لنا' ('Jerusalem is a red line for us') was mistranslated in international media as 'Jerusalem is important to us' a softened version that diluted the strength and urgency of Turkey's stance. The phrase'العملايات الاستشهادية', 'Martyrdom Operations' offers another clear illustration. Often used in certain cultural contexts to signify sacrifice, it is commonly rendered in Western media as 'Suicide Bombings,' a term that repositions the act within a narrative of violence and fanaticism. Depending on the translator's cultural or ideological lens, the action is reframed as either resistance or terrorism a pivotal distinction in shaping global perception. Political translation becomes especially fraught in contexts of ongoing conflict. Take the term 'جدار الفصل العنصري' ('Apartheid Wall'), commonly used by Palestinians to describe the Israeli separation barrier. Israeli narratives often refer to the same structure as a 'Security Barrier.' The former phrase evokes racial segregation and moral indictment; the latter emphasizes protection and pragmatism. Thus, translation doesn't merely carry meaning, it crafts political reality. The Arabic term 'انتفاضة' (Intifada) faces a spectrum of translations: 'uprising' highlights popular resistance, 'revolt' implies rebellion, while 'violent riots' reduces it to disorder. Each label carries ideological weight, affecting how audiences interpret the legitimacy and nature of collective action. Historical memory is also subject to semantic reshaping. 'النكبة' (Nakba), denoting the 1948 forced displacement of Palestinians, is sometimes diluted in translation to 'The 1948 Palestinian Exodus,' reframing a catastrophic event into a seemingly voluntary or inevitable migration. Similarly, 'حق العودة' ('Right of Return') a legal and moral cornerstone of Palestinian discourse, is occasionally rendered as a 'Request' or 'Demand,' minimizing its legitimacy and eroding its rhetorical force on the international stage. Even seemingly straightforward terms like 'المستوطنات' ('Settlements') are at risk of distortion. When translated as 'Neighborhoods,' the term sheds its colonial, legal, and political implications, offering a sanitized narrative of urban development. Meanwhile, 'التطهير العرقي' ('Ethnic Cleansing') has at times been softened to 'Displacement,' a term that downplays the systemic nature and severity of the crime. Beyond Language: The Ethics of Translation in the AI Age The abovementioned examples underscore a broader truth: AI does not invent meanings in isolation. It inherits and amplifies the linguistic and ideological biases embedded in its training data. Political language is inherently fraught, context-bound, and often contentious, realities that machines, without guidance, are ill-equipped to navigate on their own. The challenge, then, is not to discard machine translation, but to calibrate it. The way forward lies in a hybrid model where human translators, steeped in linguistic nuance and cultural literacy, collaborate with AI to ensure translations are not only technically correct but also ethically informed and contextually accurate. In brief, in an age increasingly defined by algorithms and automation, political translation remains an area where human insight is indispensable. Artificial intelligence is not immune to bias, especially when engaged with polarizing issues like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or the Russia-Ukraine war. To prevent AI from becoming an unwitting agent of distortion, we must pair the precision of machines with the conscience of humanity. Only then can translation serve as a true bridge between cultures, rather than a battleground for competing narratives.
