Heardle.eth
@goblen
Three Times Death Missed Me: A War Survivor’s Story Nine years ago, the war in my country, Yemen—specifically in the city of Taiz—took a violent turn. At the time, I was a university student with a dream and a future ahead of me. But everything changed overnight when the Houthis stormed into our area. They destroyed everything beautiful. My entire family was forced to flee. Only my brother and I stayed behind in our home, leaving my mother in tears. Imagine a life where you’re only allowed outside for one hour a day to buy necessities—that was our reality. I’ll never forget those days. Our house was surrounded by violence, bloodshed, and shelling. My brother and I took shelter on the first floor, praying we’d make it through each night. I remember going to bed not knowing if I’d wake up alive the next morning. My dreams quickly faded. My only goal became survival. The first time I escaped death was during one of those desperate trips to buy essentials See more 👇
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Heardle.eth
@goblen
Fierce clashes were erupting in the streets, and I had to sprint behind a wall for cover. Beside me was a man from my neighborhood—we were walking side by side. Suddenly, I saw him drop. I turned toward him in disbelief. This was a man with three children who depended on him. I hit the ground and pulled him toward me, only to see that a bullet had pierced his head. His brain spilled into my hands. That moment shattered something inside me. I’ve never fully recovered. I kept asking myself, “Why him and not me?” After all, I was standing in the bullet’s path. The answer? I was a few inches shorter than he was. The bullet missed me by the width of two fingers. I was devastated. I stayed there lying beside him for three hours, still holding him, waiting for the fighting to calm down. I cried uncontrollably, thinking about his wife and children—hungry, waiting at home for a father who would never return. The tragedy was beyond words. See more 👇
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Heardle.eth
@goblen
When the gunfire finally ceased, I went to his house and knocked on the door. His oldest son, about eleven years old, opened and greeted me. I asked to speak to his mother. Then, I gave her the news: her husband was gone. At that moment, I wished I had died with him. The look in her eyes—the fear, the shock, the grief—was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It was enough to make your blood pressure drop. I’ll never forget that day. To be continued... My story of war.
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