DAWN - Seventeen years ago, I embarked on a journey as a journalist, driven by a desire to uncover the complexities of Yemen, my homeland, for an international audience. Over the years, I have witnessed the ebb and flow of Yemen's tumultuous history—uprisings, wars, humanitarian crises—and with each event, I have found myself grappling not just with the challenges of reporting on the country, but also with the glaring inconsistencies in how the world perceives Yemen.
Time and again, I have seen international narratives reduce my country to a chessboard for global powers, sidelining the intricacies of Yemen's internal struggles and the voices of its people. The lack of comprehensive and contextual reporting, the marginalization of Yemeni voices in favor of outside ones, and the unbalanced focus on external actors without equal attention to internal dynamics and accountability all contribute to misunderstanding and misinformation. Those narratives eventually shape policies, influence public opinion and ultimately determine whose suffering is deemed worthy of attention.
I was born into a Yemen that was already making global headlines—but never on its own terms. During the long, authoritarian rule of former President Ali Abdullah Saleh, international news was dominated by U.S. drone strikes targeting al-Qaida in Yemen, with little focus on or interest in the Yemeni civilians who were also killed in those strikes. The international media framed Yemen primarily as a battleground in the so-called war on terror, focusing solely on counterterrorism, with little or no accountability for those human rights violations.
Those drone strikes are associated perhaps most of all with Anwar al-Awlaki, the American-born cleric and jihadist who fled to Yemen and joined al-Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula and was killed in a targeted strike in 2011. As the first American citizen ever targeted and killed in a U.S. drone strike, his death set off a debate about the legality of the strikes—but one that still largely avoided non-American casualties. (Under President Barack Obama, who ordered the strike on Awlaki, the U.S. conducted nearly 200 drone strikes on Yemen, killing up to 100 Yemeni civilians, according to New America. The U.S. government has never provided figures on civilian casualties from drone strikes.)
When the popular uprising against Saleh came in 2011, I watched as people took to the streets across Yemen demanding change, only to see their peaceful democratic movement reduced to a story about Saleh himself. International reports painted him as a "witty, sharp, defiant leader," a characterization that did not just overshadow the voices of the many protesters, but distorted the narrative of Yemen's popular revolution. The framing was clear: one man's political survival was more compelling than an entire nation's call for democracy.
When the Houthi insurgency advanced out of Yemen's northern highlands and captured the capital, Sana'a, in 2014, driving out the government of Saleh's successor, Abdrabbuh Mansur Hadi, the pattern continued. Once the Saudi-led coalition intervened to try and oust the Houthis and restore Hadi to power, international media shifted its focus primarily to the coalition's airstrikes, which killed thousands of Yemeni civilians. But Yemenis were often portrayed solely as victims of foreign aggression. Meanwhile, domestic actors—from the Houthis themselves to Yemen's internationally recognized government to the separatist Southern Transitional Council and various other armed groups—were barely scrutinized, even though tens of thousands of civilians are estimated to have been killed in their civil war.
And then, when the Houthis began attacking ships in the Red Sea in 2023, which they portrayed as a campaign to defend Palestinians and force Israel to end its war in Gaza, the war in Yemen was no longer covered as a civil war. Now it was seen primarily through the lens of geopolitics and global security. The Houthis effectively took control of the Bab al-Mandab strait, a key maritime chokepoint at the mouth of the Red Sea, disrupting vital shipping routes in the Strait of Hormuz and the Suez Canal, with ramifications for global trade. However, most news coverage still only focused on the Houthis' strategic gains, with little attention to their abusive tactics toward their own people. Yemen's ongoing internal struggles—its fractured governance, its economic collapse, the daily suffering of its people—were pushed further into the background.
Through all these phases, the world's view of Yemen has been dictated by selective narratives—ones that elevate external interests, prominent figures or geopolitical conflicts, while ignoring the complexities of life within the country itself, its broader societal and political dynamics, and local Yemeni voices that could explain them. For too long, I have watched Yemenis struggle not only to survive their reality but to have it properly understood outside Yemen—and to have their voices heard.
Such a narrow view of Yemen perpetuates injustice by creating a hierarchy of suffering. The most attention, it seems, is given to those harmed by external actors, like the Saudi-led coalition, while abuses by Yemeni forces themselves, whether the Houthis or their various rivals, receive less coverage. This selective focus implies that Yemeni lives are only significant when their victimhood serves an external narrative, leaving countless civilians who suffer at the hands of local oppressors invisible. By ignoring or downplaying internal abuses, international coverage fails to hold armed groups in Yemen accountable and also indirectly empowers them, enabling their ongoing violations to continue unchallenged or under-reported.
Moreover, the way Yemen is analyzed internationally often fails to capture its full reality, reducing complex dynamics to simplistic narratives that do more harm than good. How often do international experts on Yemen engage with Yemeni scholars—citing their work, amplifying their voices or collaborating with them? Yemenis themselves recognize and deeply value the few that do; however this pervasive exclusion further marginalizes local perspectives and reinforces a distorted, outsider-driven understanding of Yemen.
I have worked with local media in Yemen, international media, local and international human rights organizations, and think tanks inside and outside the country. In every situation, there were obstacles in place against Yemeni voices. Beyond the language barriers—since I am not a native English speaker, I worked twice as hard to write and publish in English—the biggest problem I faced was the perception that I was not "objective." I was often told I could not quote Arabic media reports and could only cite English-language sources because English-speaking audiences might get "confused," even though Yemen's official language, of course, is Arabic. It explains why international outlets often reinforce their own narratives by quoting predominantly Western sources, rather than incorporating Yemeni perspectives.
There is also a tendency to dismiss Yemeni local media as somehow unreliable. While it is true that every country has both credible and non-credible media outlets, it is frustrating to see Yemeni media disregarded outright. There seems to be little effort to explore local Arabic-language media or collaborate with them (perhaps owing to language barriers and the lack of Arabic skills among Western journalists and editors). This exclusion does not just distort Yemen's story, it also marginalizes the very people who understand it best.
All the while, the lives of ordinary Yemenis go largely unnoticed, as if their stories are not worthy of attention unless they fit the contours of a global narrative. Some underreported local stories include those of civil workers, who once held the machinery of the state together but now live in a constant state of destitution, having gone without full salaries for years. Their struggle seems to fade into the background of a crisis that prioritizes more dramatic headlines. Millions of internally displaced people, forced to leave their homes in search of safety, face dire conditions that most cannot imagine. But their suffering goes largely unnoticed, a forgotten chapter in a larger, more complex tale. And then there is the corruption. Aid meant to help the most vulnerable has often been diverted, leaving those in desperate need without support. Successive crackdowns on journalists, United Nations staff, activists, lawyers, businessmen and others add another layer of oppression. The bombing of dissidents' homes, a tactic used to silence those who dare to speak out, terrorizes the population. These acts of violence are hardly mentioned by international media, as the focus shifts to more familiar narratives of war and politics.
Yemen's children bear the especially brutal weight of a war they did not choose. Forced into combat, they become soldiers before they are even old enough to dream of their future. Their innocence stolen, they are sent to fight in a war that promises nothing but pain. Their stories are often buried beneath the weight of political agendas. As the war drags on, education has become a casualty. Schools have been destroyed, and those that remain struggle to provide even the most basic education. The dropout rates climb higher, as children are pulled away from their classrooms to help their families survive. The dreams of a generation vanish, but the world hardly takes notice.
Yemen's most renowned poet, the late Abdullah al-Baradouni, has often captured Yemen's dynamic spirit in his poems. As he writes in his poem "Why I Am Silent About the Lament," "I am silent, not because I lack words, but because the words will not capture what is left behind." In the face of relentless suffering, Yemenis have chosen silence over despair. Yemen's resilience endures in unspoken acts of survival and resistance. Like al-Baradouni's refusal to lament, Yemen persists: "For how can I lament when grief has become the air I breathe?" If the world is to understand Yemen, it must listen to these quiet voices of resilience, who tell the true story of their country.
* This essay was first written for and published by DAWN here.