I only saw a photo of him, once, in his aunt’s phone – and I was in love with him. When his father, my friend Ali, told me that I could be his Godmother, I was overjoyed, and with tears in my eyes, I kept chanting the name of my little godson over and over again.
Hussein. Hussein Ali. Born to Ali Ali and his wife Saba on 21st March 2015 in Sana’a, Yemen, Hussein now had a Godmother in India. The innocent soul came into this world when all he would ever know was being torn apart. His parents were due getting divorced, the country was at war, and the little one’s father was hundreds of miles away in India, where his own mother was getting a medical treatment.
His father was impatient. Not being able to return to his country and his family, and not being able to embrace his dear son was frustrating him. Although he had grown to love India, he wanted to go back to where he belonged, no matter how bad a warzone it may have become.
‘I’ll come back with my son, and work here. I want to settle in India.’ He had said before he left.
When his father left India, Sana’a was in flames. Missiles dropped into the backyards of houses like bird-shit on a car’s windshield. It never missed the civilians, and always caused damages. He was terrified. Crying at nights and not being able to sleep, being hungry and hiding, because the houses were falling like dominoes… Hussein did this when he was less than two months old and still depended on others for everything there was.
I don’t know what his fault was. Maybe just that he was born a Yemeni. His future is a broken blackboard buried under the rubble, but maybe his father will really return with him to India, and maybe they will start a new life. Maybe I will meet my godson. Maybe he’ll love me too.