Zainab Saleh Basultan

- I Became a Creative Writer -

A writer does not live once. To the contrary, a writer lives multiple lives. A writer writes her pain so that others know they are not the only ones who passed by this monstrous world. To become a writer means that patience has reached its threshold and that your heart is bumping overwhelming hustle that only a pen is able to hear. What else embraces tears but paper?

A writer is a person who brings all people together in her belly.

Now that I am a writer, this means that I can weave my thoughts in lines that can be tailored and worn by my readers. I became a creative writer who knows the way that allows her to express herself. Barracks are no longer hiding me away from sight at every turning point.

I used to write poetry before, but now I am sailing towards other forms of literature. I am beginning to become an author.

Our writings are ours. We do not compromise them. We do not all fear to pick the blossoms of our year no matter what.

- My Friend’s Story -
A Short Story from An Interview

She has a fish and two birds. She has dreams that she labors to achieve. She even learned to speak the language of the people of the Earth as soon as she arrived from Mars. She sees the people here on Earth just like those on Mars. There is the just and the unjust. Her only obstacle is that she is short of money. She gets frustrated but calms down shortly. She steadily keeps on walking towards her dream with no room for giving up.

Corresponding Thoughts to the Story Collection Titled “Blouza: The Blouse” by Reem Mohajed

In “Escape”, one of the collection’s stories, I saw myself in the grouchy mother who did not want to leave her belongings behind. This is how I am. In “Road”, the other story, I felt the horrors that the narrator went through shake my body.

This war has taken so much from us. It took away our own souls, the life we used to have and the one we currently have. It took away souls that had lots of life within like we did, the very life we had to burry so that we do not grow Fragile. We strive, as we never had the time to understand what happened or the aftermath of very unexpected cruel lessons.

I lived the war events in Sana’a since the first day. I found myself alive every morning with hopes for a walk or time to play, but war kept all doors shut. It all made me wish I were born in different times or perhaps not born at all.

- On 19 Days of Creative Writing -
Thoughts on the 19th Day of Creative Writing

The most beautiful days of my life! I began to get to know myself, to dare further in my writings with no fear. I love you, Sarah. You have lit my way towards writing.

Writing became an essential part of my life. In my imagination, I have names and characters that I lived through their creation. I feel that I am one the characters, I cry for their tears and rejoice for their joys. Our characters, I love you! You came from us, our own imagination.

I am like ships that do not know where to sail each time the tide rises. I dropped my anchor here and found what I have lost long ago. Creative writing has become my outlet for all my creativity and thoughts. It has become my refuge and guidance. More beautifully, I have these extraordinary peers who have become a crucial added value in my life.

This is who I am when I write. This is where my fate took me. Thank you, fate!

- Six Images from Memory -
Thoughts that Followed a Walk in the Neighborhood

Zainab is nineteen. One day, she went out for a walk in her neighborhood. As she walked, she looked at the streets, the trees and the animals. She suddenly saw a fancy black car madly racing towards her. If felt as if the car were asking Zainab to rescue her from the driver. She almost heard the car scream: “Save me before he puts my life to an end!”

She looked away from the car and began thinking of the buildings that had various degrees of height, beauty and colors. “Perhaps these buildings are full of people. Perhaps they are only full of void. Perhaps the residents here are rich and sick or healthy and poor.” Zainab, thought.

In front of her, there was a spacious park full of people from all backgrounds. They come from different towns, some are skinny, and some are tall. Some were drowning in thoughts and some were having fun. Some were rich and some were poor. Some were walking aimlessly while others were chasing a dream. Zainab smiled at all these differences and climbed to walk on the fence. She saw two young men. One seemed to be harassing her, which she did not realize until he unleashed his yellow teeth in a creepy smile at her. The other young man was riding a white horse. The horse was exhausted and his eyes were reeking of exhaustion, hunger and continuous standing. When will humans stop harming animals?

At the end of her walk and as she was watching the trees open their lungs for oxygen, she saw an older woman collecting grass. She remembered her village at times when it was possible for her to visit. The trees interrupted the memory as they danced on what felt like a song: “Let the past days go, turning back only brings the end.”