I’ll dance with Layla in the streets of Sana’a again

This text is published as part of Let’s Imagine, an open file featuring texts, blogs, stories, interviews, and reports through which we envision the future we wish to live in—or one that will be imposed upon us.

On the morning of Monday, August 5, 2051, I woke up early, feeling unusually light and energetic—perhaps because I had a date with my wife, Layla, whom I had promised I would spend the entire day with.

Lately, she had grown weary of my constant preoccupation with writing about the dangers of robots. She was right to feel that way, but I also couldn’t stay silent in the face of this destruction and erasure of life. Just last night, I spent hours writing another article about how robots threaten social life in Sana’a.

What does it mean to go to the post office and be greeted by a mindless robot instead of a girl with a soft Sana’ani accent? What does it mean when Uncle Saleh, the traffic officer whose melodious voice we had grown accustomed to hearing as he hummed during his rounds, is replaced by a soulless lump of metal?

Hadn’t we carried out the last Sana’a revolution precisely to reclaim our social life from religious groups? So how could the government now allow it to be robbed away again—this time by the new capitalists who flooded Sana’a with these damned robots?

On the morning of Monday, August 5, 2051, I woke up early, feeling unusually light and energetic—perhaps because I had a date with my wife, Layla, whom I had promised I would spend the entire day with.

After finishing and submitting my story, which will, of course, be received by some damned robot and published by yet another robot, I went to get dressed—my navy blue pants, a black shirt, and the winter coat Layla had gifted me last year for our 25th wedding anniversary. Layla, too, had finished getting dressed—her navy skirt, pink blouse, and her bright orange coat—her favorite color. And, of course, she hadn’t forgotten the necklace adorned with two orange roses handcrafted from wool—the very necklace I had given her when I first confessed my love, on an August rainy day just like this one, 26 years ago.

Back then, I had told her that I had poured all my love into that necklace, and from that day on, she never took it off her neck. She says she wears it constantly so she’ll never forget that day. As for me, I remember it as if it were yesterday. That confession happened at a table in the family-section in one of Sana’a’s restaurants—before the last Sana’a revolution, when lovers had no choice but to steal moments of affection behind the curtains of the family sections.

I was ready to leave, and Layla was ready too. She was helping our daughter, Rouh, ‘Soul’ in English, prepare her musical instruments so I could drop her off at the Institute of Music on my way. Rouh also dances the ballet at the National Theater for Dance and Performing Arts, which was established the year after the last Sana’a revolution.

What does it mean to go to the post office and be greeted by a mindless robot instead of a girl with a soft Sana’ani accent? What does it mean when Uncle Saleh, the traffic officer whose melodious voice we had grown accustomed to hearing as he hummed during his rounds, is replaced by a soulless lump of metal?

Outside, it was raining. That’s what Sana’a looks like every August. I got into the car, Layla took the passenger seat beside me, and Rouh sat in the back. As usual, while driving through the streets of Sana’a, I couldn’t stop complaining about the cursed invasion of this beautiful city by these wretched robots, which we now come across on every street. But Rouh saw things differently. She, too, had grown tired of my constant panic over robots. You see, she is a child of her time—she had never known what it meant to have your life stolen from you.

Today, she plays music, sings, dances, loves, shouts, and chooses what to eat, drink, and wear. She can move and travel freely. She expresses her opinion and speaks her mind freely. She does not know what it means to be deprived of any of these things—because Layla and I never imposed such restrictions on her. We never tried to take away her right to choose, her right to live. She also hadn’t lived through the pre-revolution era, when so much of this was forbidden, when life itself was forbidden by those in power. She couldn’t understand my fear of robots or my anxiety that they might take our lives away.

Rouh was born five years after the Sana’a revolution. She is twenty now. As for her mother Layla, who lived through that lifeless time with me, she understood my frustration and constant worry—because she, too, was among those who fought to reclaim even these simplest features of life.

We arrived at the Sana’a Institute of Music. Rouh got out, said goodbye, and Layla and I continued our date, starting with breakfast in Old Sana’a. We had agreed to relive our very first date, so we had traditional kebab for breakfast before walking to Al-Sabeen Park—the place where I had picked our first orange rose on the day we first met.

But this time, I picked twenty-six roses. And this time, Layla was not the shy, fearful girl she had been that day. There were no watchful eyes, no one lurking behind our every step.

We walked until noon, and for lunch, we had the same meal as our first one together—grilled fish and Sayadieh, a dish perfectly suited for a rainy day like this.

In the afternoon, I took Layla to Balqis Cinema, which had remained closed throughout the pre-revolution era. At the time, the people in power had defaced its walls with green graffiti, warning of the dangers of cinema and its threat to the morals of society. They had turned it into an abandoned place where the homeless relieved themselves, until the last Sana’a revolution came, restoring and reopening it. And here I am today, sitting with my wife in the front rows, watching a film about two lovers who had lived their love story during the time before the revolution.

As much as the film’s story spoke of love, it also carried pain. When it ended, just before sunset, Layla leaned on my shoulder, gripping my hand tightly, moved by the poetic yet heartbreaking story. Her hand remained clasped on mine as we left the cinema, picked up our daughter and headed home.

My daughter Rouh was born five years after the Sana’a revolution. She is twenty now. As for her mother Layla, who lived through that lifeless time with me, she understood my frustration and constant worry—because she, too, was among those who fought to reclaim even these simplest features of life.

At nine in the evening, Rouh came out of her room to join us. That night, I set aside my usual writing routine. It was a day worth preserving. Rouh asked me to tell her about the last Sana’a revolution and what the city had been like before it. Perhaps she was still lingering on the questions from our brief conversation in the car earlier.

So, I told her about the darkness of that time, about how those in power had sunk their teeth into our lives, forbidding us from life and living freely, and how we had resisted them. She interrupted me, asking, "Did we take up arms and wage war against them?"

She didn’t yet understand that the group feared things other than weapons. Our way of resistance was what terrified them most—by singing, screaming freely in their faces until their heads felt like they would explode from the very songs they had spent their entire lives banning and criminalizing.

When our conversation ended, Rouh returned to her room and began playing Revolution of Sana’a, a music piece on her old Yemeni oud, the Qanbus. Layla and I sat on the couch in the living room, listening to her soft melodies before it was interrupted by the sound of rain falling outside.

At that moment, I turned to Layla, took her hand, and quickly pulled her outside. And there, in the street, with the melody of the Revolution of Sana’a drifting from Rouh’s room, we danced in the rain. Layla swayed gently to my movements.

In the middle of the dance, I pulled her close by the waist, held her against me, and whispered in her ear, "Imagine, my love, you and me, dancing in the streets of Sana’a, in the rain. What if this had been before the revolution?"

Layla pursed her lips, recalling the terror of that time, and said, "We would have been killed."

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