If there is any certainty about Yemenis, it’s that we’re no strangers to conflict. Despite a civil war two decades ago and the ongoing assaults by the rebels known as, we pride ourselves on our resilience, even a sense of humor, when it comes to enduring what can feel like near-constant bombings and revolts.
But now, I fear, that steadfastness is being shaken. I know mine is.
Maybe it is the shrieks of terror from the children and mothers in my neighborhood whenever the Saudi Arabian warplanes pound the military bases and arms depots not far from our homes. Or the thought that I could lose my life in a massive fireball. But one thing is clear: This war feels different.
The Saudi more than a week ago, and I remember the initial salvos jolting me awake at 2:39 a.m. At first, I thought the ear-splitting explosion at a nearby air force base was thunder, but then I glanced at my cellphone. There were a dozen missed calls and messages, all screaming the same thing: is waging war on Yemen!
I’ve never really considered myself a war reporter. In my years working for The Washington Post, I’ve covered an uprising in 2011 that deposed Ali Abdullah Saleh, our longtime leader, as well as multiple attacks by al-Qaeda and the Houthi insurgents who have recently captured vast tracts of Yemen. In that time, I thought the fighting in my country could be contained.
Now I think that the conflict is becoming harder to manage, and it certainly is coming closer to home. It’s one thing to cover a terrorist attack or bombing. It’s entirely another when your evening routine consists of listening at home to fighter jets roaring overhead and antiaircraft fire thundering not so far away.
The Saudi attacks are in response to the offensive by the Houthis, who are viewed in Riyadh as proxies of Iran, Saudi Arabia’s rival. The attacks are happening in big cities such as Sanaa and Aden, where Houthis control military bases or other strategic sites, and elsewhere in the country.
The effects of the fighting are far-reaching.
Banks are refusing to distribute dollars, apparently because they fear a run on the currency. When I go to buy rice and wheat, the supermarket shelves are increasingly bare. One shop owner near my home in the capital, Sanaa, posted a sign at his shop the other day pleading for people to buy only what they need. With airports and seaports shut down and roads blocked by fighting, supplies are running low. Residents are hoarding food, raising concerns about price increases.
The other day, I saw my local pharmacist, Talal Mohammed Saeed, who mentioned a new concern for Yemenis. “We’re going to run out of food,” he told me.
Nowadays, it’s a two-hour wait just to get gas. Diesel also is vanishing, and my family and friends discuss whether there will be enough electricity to cook our meals or even keep running the pumps that draw well water for our city.
Increasingly, Sanaa is turning into a ghost town. The universities, once bustling with students, have closed. So, too, have many businesses. People are packing their belongings into their pickup trucks and sedans and driving to far-away villages, hoping to avoid the air raids that have turned the mountains surrounding Sanaa into fiery-orange volcanoes.
The evenings are what alarm me most. That’s when the bombings intensify.
With Sanaa increasingly deprived of electricity, the lack of lighting creates an eerie darkness that is punctuated by the flashes — and explosions that quickly follow — that briefly illuminate my home town.
I’m also increasingly away from my wife. I’ve moved her family into our home because of the air raids. To make room, I’ve been staying at my father’s house, which is across town. I think that the family is safer this way, but all I want is to be home with my wife.
I spend my evenings trying to sleep, but often I can’t. I think about how I’ll report on the following day’s events. Will the Houthis capture the southern port city of ? I then inevitably ponder my own mortality. Will my family be killed in the attacks? Will I wake in the morning?
Then, when the airstrikes taper off in the early-morning hours, I place my head on my pillow and fall asleep. I don’t know what the coming days hold for me or Yemen. But when I rise every morning, I pray for good news, an end to the fighting that threatens to tear my country apart.
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