Those who lose gold can find it in the gold market. Those who are parted from a loved one may forget them within a year. But those who lose a homeland—where can they find it?^[1]

More than 184,000 people have been displaced in Yemen since early August, most of them since the beginning of September. In a single week, between September 27 and October 3, the International Organization for Migration recorded 21,798 displaced people, followed by another 6,474 on October 4 alone. Taiz has been the center of the crisis, accounting for more than 60 percent of new displacement, followed by Lahj and Aden, according to September figures. The numbers have undoubtedly increased amid the ongoing warfare. More than 3,700 Yemeni refugees reached Djibouti over the three weeks til October 6.

Yet none of these numbers, none of the reports circulating, will tell you what it takes for a mother to walk twenty kilometers (12.4 miles) barefoot, carrying her child. They cannot describe what it means to leave your sick mother behind the lines of fire. They will not tell you the stories of mothers who have just given birth, or those who went into labor while fleeing, amid bursts of gunfire, the roar of drones, and the terror of rough, dark roads. The stories of individuals and families fleeing homes in chaos, some for the second or even third time in the course of this decade, are harrowing and speak of the inexcusable humanitarian toll of this war.

Exodus from Taiz

On September 3, the Houthis launched a large-scale ground offensive targeting government positions in the Taiz districts of Al-Wazayah, Mawzaa, Maqbanah, and Jabal Habashi. The objective was to capture the elevated areas overlooking Bab al-Mandab in preparation to cut off the historic port city of Al-Makha. Fighting also took place in parallel in southern Hudaydah, specifically in Hays and Al-Khawkhah districts, and intensified around Jabal Dobas in Hays. The port city of Al-Makha had been under attack for weeks, targeted by missiles, drones, and explosive-laden boats since August 9.

Mustafa al-Mashwali,^[2] an activist and first secretary of the Socialist Party in Al-Wazayah, Taiz, recounts how the district’s residents fled the fighting. Entire families left with only the clothes they were wearing, abandoning everything they owned. Those unable to afford transport walked dozens of kilometers. Finding a ride that day was difficult, not only because vehicle owners were demanding exorbitant fares—up to 500 Saudi riyals (US$133), according to Mustafa, a sum most families could not afford—but also because every available mode of transport was already full.

“We saw a barefoot mother carrying her daughter, who was about two years old, inconsolably crying. She was crying and praying against the takeover of the Houthis,” recounted Mustafa. “She had walked nearly 20 kilometers through shelling and fighting. I swear, the sight made us cry. She had left everything, even her sheep. I cannot describe the scene to you.”

“I counted three women who gave birth while fleeing, under trees and out in the open,” he continued. “They came from Mawzaa. Two were in Al-Qahfah Al-Hamra camp in Al-Shamayatayn, and one was in Al-Khiyami in Al-Ma’afer.” Those districts in Taiz later became sites of intense fighting. The fate of those women, and thousands of others, is unknown. For Mustafa, as for thousands of others, displacement is a personal tragedy. He and his family were displaced too. First, his maternal aunts fled Mawzaa for Al-Wazayah. Then everyone fled. “The women I drove in my car cried the whole way. They cried because they had been driven from their homes, and they cried for the young men who would die in this war,” Mustafa said.

Journeys Through Chaos

In Al-Makha, another exodus was about to take place. The port city fell on September 10. Unlike rural areas of Taiz, where families knew the Houthis were coming, uncertainty and confusion prevailed in Al-Makha, with many unaware that the city had fallen to the Houthis. One witness, a local journalist,^[3] said that before people understood what was happening, they saw officers moving their families out of the city. The shelling had reached the port. He could see fire and movements he could not make sense of. He knew something was happening, but he was not sure what. Thousands of others were in the same position. Another media professional from the area^[4] said he received a call on the night of September 9 from a friend, who insisted that he leave immediately with his family: the situation was dangerous. “I did not think about anything. I put my children and family in the car and drove off. I was lucky to have a car,” he adds.

Witnesses described the road from Al-Makha to Aden as ‘Hell’. “It was literally Judgment Day,” he said. Displaced people mingled with retreating forces, streaming along the routes toward Aden and Lahj.

Many displaced people reiterated the same thing. They understand they are lucky, and are grateful. From a distance, their circumstances might hardly seem fortunate, but they measure their luck against what they have witnessed, what they have endured, and what others have endured. That realization shapes how they respond to others. Someone who has bread feels they have a great deal compared with someone who has none, and tries to share it—so as not to diminish themselves in their own eyes, or lose that “luck” as punishment for their selfishness. This helps explain the solidarity and humanitarian response within communities documented throughout the war, particularly during the latest fighting.

“I was lucky. I found a bus at a relatively high fare, but it was cheap compared with what happened once the city’s fall was announced. The driver did not know there was a mass exodus. I saw a retreating military convoy stretching a hundred kilometers south, as far as Dhubab,” said the media professional.^[5] “Entire families crowded alongside it, some on motorcycles—a man driving with all his children behind him.”

He himself was forced to leave his children and family behind, having previously fled Hudaydah in 2018. “I used to visit my mother every Friday. Now two weeks have passed without my seeing her. What if something happens to her? My children will also have to stop going to school now. When I said goodbye to my youngest son, he was clinging to me. I promised him we would have tea together again soon. He had already lost his mother. It is hard, so hard, for us to go back.”^[6]

On the Lahj coast, those fleeing Al-Makha met people fleeing rural Taiz. The media professional arrived at eight in the morning, after spending the entire night on the road. He described a vast crush of cars, military pickups, and civilian vehicles. Along the way, he saw a shell strike a Toyota truck loaded with civilians. He says he had no choice but to keep going.

Displacement routes converged in Ras al-Arah district in Lahj. Mustafa saw streams of vehicles heading there and stopping. Dozens of women had been loaded into open vehicles and goods trucks, packed tightly together. “They were crying. Every woman I saw was crying.” Mustafa describes seeing a vehicle turn off the busy road onto an unpaved route. As it veered away, a woman was thrown from it, amid the screams and terror of the other women around her. He described women and children crowded together at Ras al-Arah under the scorching sun, surrounded by retreating armed vehicles after hours on the road. There were no toilets and no shade. “I saw a mother begging people for water for her child, who was crying from thirst. There was nowhere to buy water. Even if there had been, they could not have afforded it. They had nothing.”

Mariam al-Harish,^[7] a community activist from Aden, said everyone she met who had arrived from the coast told her they had been ordered to evacuate within an hour. People rushed out, taking nothing but the clothes they were wearing.

Photographs shared with me by people on the ground in Yemen capture harrowing details of exodus and displacement: copper cooking utensils, washed and left to dry on low shrubs; blankets spread over other belongings or laid out for small children huddled carefully together; a five-year-old girl trying to gather her younger siblings around her, all of them barefoot; a malnourished father looking blankly at his children, who are only partly clothed in a barren landscape; families sitting on the ground in a beautiful mountain mist, among what appear to be acacia trees, as children crane their necks to look up at the photographer.

I wonder what goes through people’s minds when the moment to leave arrives. Who thinks it through, and who decides? What do they agree to take, and what do they leave behind?

Awaiting Humanitarian Support, Yemenis Mobilize Help

So far, the response from humanitarian organizations falls short of what is needed. The UN relief coordinator released US$9 million in emergency funding, and the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) allocated US$2 million. Yet UNHCR’s operations in Yemen are only 18 percent funded this year, while the overall Yemen Humanitarian Response Plan is just 20 percent funded. The government is coordinating with agencies through the Ministry of Planning and the Executive Unit for Internally Displaced Persons. But interviewees say the families they met have not been contacted yet.

As always, on the ground, Yemenis mobilize. Adeni community activist Mariam al-Harish, who has long led community initiatives, took the lead. Mariam and other volunteers from her area began with what they could provide: simple food and tea. They distributed their first meals in the village of Qaru to displaced families sheltering in the shells of unfinished buildings, including children and pregnant women. “I watched vehicles loaded with families in Bir Ahmed, in Aden. They had no idea where to go,” she said. “I called the Executive Unit for Internally Displaced Persons and was told there were some ‘disputes’ with the local authorities. So I called the local authorities. They promised a camp for displaced people—just tents, without any other assistance.”

In Taiz, dozens of families are now cramming into single houses. “They called us and told us about a family of sixteen from Al-Wazayah. They had first fled to Ras al-Arah, but the area where they sought refuge was shelled. Then they moved again to Al-Ma’afer. They arrived after midnight and stayed in the street. It was raining. All 16 were sitting on the ground, and they did not even have enough money for breakfast. People in the market came together and called others. They raised enough to pay for a night in a nearby guesthouse.”^[8]

The media professional from Al Makha says he is still staying with friends, and that his hosts are sheltering more than one family. “Rents are extremely high. The important thing now is how to get our children back into school so they do not lose the school year.”

“Organizations are responding, but community initiatives are the first line of protection,” Mariam said. “I met a woman who had arrived with her family just half an hour earlier. I gave her some simple meals for her family, but she took out her carton of juice and handed it back to me. ‘Give it to someone else,’ she said. ‘What we have is enough. Others need it more than we do. My eyes filled with tears.”^[9]

Editor’s note: Interviews were conducted between October 2 and 6 with four sources: two activists (one from Taiz and one from Aden); and a journalist and a media professional from Hudaydah. The journalist and media professional were forced to relocate from Hudaydah to Al-Makha and subsequently to Aden. To protect their safety, the journalists have requested full anonymity due to ongoing threats and intimidation by Houthi forces.

This feature is part of a series of publications produced by the Sana’a Center and funded by the government of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. The series explores issues within economic, political, and environmental themes, aiming to inform discussion and policymaking related to Yemen that foster sustainable peace.