The crisis in Yemen has entered its 10th month, with few signs that President Ali Abdullah Saleh is willing to step down despite a transition deal offered by the Gulf Cooperation Council and the United Nations. As Yemen slips from political paralysis towards outright anarchy, its people press on with their daily lives. Among them is Mohammed Al Qadhi, who has reported for The National in Yemen since 2008. Born in 1974 in the district of Shara'ab Al Salam in Taiz province, Al Qadhi was awarded a doctorate in English literature from Sanaa University in 2007. He, his wife, Haifa, and their four children live in Sanaa. The following are excerpts from his journal.
It's September and I'm hunkered down with my wife, Haifa, and four young children in the basement of our single-family villa in Nahda. Once a virtue for its proximity to the centre of the capital, the location of our home is now a liability. We're one kilometre away from the headquarters of the First Armoured Division, which defected from the army and is now a regular target of artillery volleys. We're also one kilometre away from the Sufan district, where pro- and anti-government forces frequently fight.
My family is terrified by the latest shelling, which shakes the house.
As I write this, my daughter Aseel asks, "what is that noise?". I keep telling her that it is fireworks being shot off to celebrate at a wedding. But even though she's only 7-years-old, she doesn't believe me.
"You're lying to me," she says. "Let's travel to another place where there's no gunfire."
It saddens me that such a young child, let alone my child, is faced with gunfire, violence and killing. She should be thinking about what other 7-year-old girls think about in safer, saner countries.
Since the uprising began here in January, we have been subjected to artillery explosions, random street violence and power outages, as well as food and fuel shortages. We have been unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of normal family life.
Nothing has been normal since January.
January and February
After the uprising in Tunisia, protests start at the gates of nearby Sanaa University. Demonstrators are demanding the resignation of President Ali Abdullah Saleh. He blames the protests on "suspicious foreign agendas".
Like many Yemenis and other Arabs, though, my wife and I are excited. We're thrilled that what kept our eyes glued to the television broadcasts from Tunisia and Egypt may now be happening here in Yemen, which is way overdue for political reform.
As more and more people join the protests, the security forces respond with more and more force. Haifa is nervous whenever I go to report on the demonstrations, which I do most days.
Protesters are harassed and driven off by either the police or the government thugs known as Balatijah. Agents of the secret police, Mukhabarat, accost me and other reporters, demanding to know our names and for whom we work.
At a February 18 protest, a policeman in plainclothes threatens me and a colleague with his baton when we try to escape into the safety of an alley. We convince him that we're not protesters and that we're heading home. Another reporter isn't so lucky: the Balatijah beat him badly. On February 20, despite the violence and threats, the protesters establish a permanent camp in front of the university.
March and April
On March 18, when the protesters try to erect more tents and expand their camp away from the university's front gates, all hell breaks loose. Government snipers kill 53 protesters. Haifa is shocked at the sight of the dead bodies on television and begins to weep. Our comfortable life in Sanaa ends today.
We are now scared to send our daughters, Maha, 10, and Aseel to school. It is just too dangerous. They run the risk of getting caught between the protesters and government security forces. Although I feel safe enough to continue doing my work, Haifa and the children are basically locked indoors. Three days after the massacre, General Ali Mohsen Al Ahmar, the president's long-time confidant, defects from the government side and takes the First Armoured Division with him. They take up positions around the protest camp to protect the demonstrators
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It's September and I'm hunkered down with my wife, Haifa, and four young children in the basement of our single-family villa in Nahda. Once a virtue for its proximity to the centre of the capital, the location of our home is now a liability. We're one kilometre away from the headquarters of the First Armoured Division, which defected from the army and is now a regular target of artillery volleys. We're also one kilometre away from the Sufan district, where pro- and anti-government forces frequently fight.
My family is terrified by the latest shelling, which shakes the house.
As I write this, my daughter Aseel asks, "what is that noise?". I keep telling her that it is fireworks being shot off to celebrate at a wedding. But even though she's only 7-years-old, she doesn't believe me.
"You're lying to me," she says. "Let's travel to another place where there's no gunfire."
It saddens me that such a young child, let alone my child, is faced with gunfire, violence and killing. She should be thinking about what other 7-year-old girls think about in safer, saner countries.
Since the uprising began here in January, we have been subjected to artillery explosions, random street violence and power outages, as well as food and fuel shortages. We have been unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of normal family life.
Nothing has been normal since January.
January and February
After the uprising in Tunisia, protests start at the gates of nearby Sanaa University. Demonstrators are demanding the resignation of President Ali Abdullah Saleh. He blames the protests on "suspicious foreign agendas".
Like many Yemenis and other Arabs, though, my wife and I are excited. We're thrilled that what kept our eyes glued to the television broadcasts from Tunisia and Egypt may now be happening here in Yemen, which is way overdue for political reform.
As more and more people join the protests, the security forces respond with more and more force. Haifa is nervous whenever I go to report on the demonstrations, which I do most days.
Protesters are harassed and driven off by either the police or the government thugs known as Balatijah. Agents of the secret police, Mukhabarat, accost me and other reporters, demanding to know our names and for whom we work.
At a February 18 protest, a policeman in plainclothes threatens me and a colleague with his baton when we try to escape into the safety of an alley. We convince him that we're not protesters and that we're heading home. Another reporter isn't so lucky: the Balatijah beat him badly. On February 20, despite the violence and threats, the protesters establish a permanent camp in front of the university.
March and April
On March 18, when the protesters try to erect more tents and expand their camp away from the university's front gates, all hell breaks loose. Government snipers kill 53 protesters. Haifa is shocked at the sight of the dead bodies on television and begins to weep. Our comfortable life in Sanaa ends today.
We are now scared to send our daughters, Maha, 10, and Aseel to school. It is just too dangerous. They run the risk of getting caught between the protesters and government security forces. Although I feel safe enough to continue doing my work, Haifa and the children are basically locked indoors. Three days after the massacre, General Ali Mohsen Al Ahmar, the president's long-time confidant, defects from the government side and takes the First Armoured Division with him. They take up positions around the protest camp to protect the demonstrators
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