As the war continued, many Yemeni families many became destitute… The situation of some of them has reached absolute poverty of the lack of job opportunities. There are families who have been displaced by a war that they have nothing to do with.
Baseem (a pseudonym), a 9-year-old child who lived in a family that poverty has reduced to starvation, witnessed the deteriorating condition of his father, who suffered a heart attack 15 months ago due to the dire situation, and anguish over his lost house in Haradh, which Ansar Allah (Houthi) group turned into Military barracks, after his displacement.
Beside his parents, Baseem has two sisters, one is a year younger and the other three years younger. So, circumstances dictated that he should be the sole provider for his family, even though his skinny body cannot bear hard work, and the force of need besieges him from every side, but his self-esteem prevented him from going to beg people.
Baseem did not stop, but went every morning to merchant shops in Aslam market in Hajjah governorate, to seek work, even for a wage of five hundred riyals a day, to feed his family. On a hard day, Baseem saw his friend Saleem, who had just returned from the battlefront, and sat next to him.
Saleem told him about how he is getting 30,000 riyals (about 50 dollars) a month, in exchange for combat services for Ansar Allah (Houthi) group. As the evening came ideas began to intrigue Baseem, to convince him that what his friend is doing is the easy way to combat the poverty of his family.
On the morning of February 18, 2017, Baseem left his family’s home to see his friend Saleem and inform him of his plan to join the battlefront. “We will go together after two days,” Saleem responded.
Baseem began preparing to travel without informing any of his family about his intention to become a fighter. He didn’t inform them since he was worried about his father’s health and knew his mother would reject the idea. So he turned to a story-making tactic. He informed his family that a friend in Sana’a had offered him work at a restaurant and that he had decided to travel.
Baseem traveled to Haradh with a friend to the battleground. For a while, there was no news of him. After two months, he sent money to his family to persuade them that he was fine.
His mother, who had been tormented by his absence, was relieved,but she got worried again after there was no news from him once more. When his father’s condition worsened, Baseem came back to reassure them, but for only one night.
That night Baseem got a phone call, during which he fumbled, then looked into his parents’ eyes which were still shedding tears of joy at seeing him. Baseem leaned down to kiss his father’s head and his mother’s feet.
“ I’m sorry but I am forced to leave for a little while,” he told them, “but I will be back soon.”
His mother cried. Her tears dropped on her cheeks. So did his sick father, who no longer believed the lie that he was working in a restaurant because his sunburned skin and exhausted appearance indicated that he was not doing a normal job. They had asked him why did he return to them in this form, despite the cold Sana’a weather?
“I work in a hot area outside the city,” he told them, but they were reluctant to be convinced.
News of their son stopped again. Then five days later a visitor came knocking on the door. The mother opened the door, to see on her doorstep armed men who appeared to be affiliated to the Ansar Allah (Houthi) armed group.
“Are you the mother of Abu Fida?” One of them asked her.
“Abu Fida? Who is Abu Fida?” confused, she replied, “I don’t have a son by that name; my son’s name is Baseem.”
“And where is your son, Baseem?” the gunman asked her again. She replied that he was in Sana’a, working in a friend’s restaurant.
Thus, she closed their way; they did not find a way to tell her that “Abu Al-Fida” is the nickname given to her son Baseem after he joined the war fronts.
“He was a daring and brave hero,” one of them said.
“What daring, what brave, and what hero?” The mother interrupted, “my son is a child. He works in a restaurant. You are wrong brothers”.
“No, mom and sister,” one of them replied to her, laughing, a yellow, forced laugh, “your son Baseem is a mujahid and a hero.”
The mother’s color changed, her skin turned pale, and her tongue slurred. Her husband, Bassem’s father, came out and listened to what was being said. He understood some of what was going on.
“Was my son killed?” he asked.
“What are you saying!?” The mother hollered in panic, refusing to believe, trying to silence him, “Shut up, are you crazy?!”
“As long as they are here, as long as they came here, it only means one thing: Baseem is gone,” the father concluded as if he was talking to himself, not responding to his wife.
The mother’s voice cracked and her color turned yellow, as she tried to read in the faces of the arrivers something else, something other than what her husband was thinking, but she did not find anything else.
“He is not dead.. Abu al-Fida won and rose up,” said one of the gunmen.
“What are you talking about!?” The mother asked, grabbing the wraps of the gunman’s dress, and clinging to it,“ Where is my son Baseem? Who are you?”
“Praise God, my sister,” the gunman followed, “Baseem was chosen by Allah. He was exclusively elected by God, alone without anyone else. Baseem is a martyr, and you know the rank of martyrdom…”
Before he could complete his sermon, the mother dropped like a mattress on the ground. She collapsed, unconscious, trembling, and muttering the name of her child, “Baseem, Baseem, Baseem…”
“They killed my son Baseem.”
