by Murad Abdo
ADEN, Yemen, Jan. 5 (Xinhua) -- I was standing outside my home last month when a long line of military vehicles rumbled past, their fresh paint gleaming in the sun. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to imagine they were finally leaving Aden, a city long weighed down by a heavy military presence.
Before Yemen's conflict erupted in 2014, Aden lived with only a light security footprint. A handful of police stations kept order, their presence more reassuring than intrusive.
Today, military bases sit inside residential neighborhoods, and soldiers roam shopping centers carrying rifles as casually as shoppers carry their bags.
My illusion dissolved almost instantly. "They're heading east," a neighbor said, checking his phone.
The vehicles were not leaving. They were joining the fight launched by the pro-secession Southern Transitional Council (STC) against the very government they serve.
Although nominally part of the Presidential Leadership Council (PLC), the internationally recognized Yemeni government, the UAE-backed STC's relationship with the Saudi-backed PLC has long been shaky and often turbulent. The group has consistently sought to establish an independent state in southern Yemen.
By Dec. 9, seven days after launching an offensive across southern Yemen, the STC claimed control over all eight governorates of the former South Yemen, pushing Yemeni government forces back to their northern fringes.
Against this backdrop, rumors of separation spread through the streets. In Aden's central vegetable market, a vendor recognized me and fell silent for a moment. He knew my work. Then, leaning closer, he whispered, his voice edged with unease: "You definitely know what's coming."
Questions followed quickly: Would separation be declared? Would northerners be forced to leave? Was it already time to prepare for the worst?
Before I could answer, an older man from Aden joined the conversation. He listened quietly, then spoke with the calm authority of someone who had seen too much.
"Everyone argues about north and south," he said, "but the truth is simpler." He gestured toward the market. "People are sinking. Everywhere."
He was right. The deterioration is not confined to any one region. It is spreading -- north, south, east, and west. Resources are being looted, poverty is deepening, and despair has become a shared national experience. Political forces compete to satisfy external patrons while the people inside the country are reduced to background noise.
Nearly 15 years of reporting from Yemen's shifting front lines have taught me one lesson: What appears on the surface as a local conflict is, in reality, a layered struggle in which domestic actors operate within narrow margins set by their patrons. When those patrons disagree, their Yemeni proxies clash. When they reconcile, ceasefires and agreements suddenly become possible. The rhythm of the conflict is regional; Yemen merely absorbs the impact.
This dependence carries consequences far beyond the battlefield. In areas controlled by the internationally recognized government, authority has fractured into overlapping zones of influence. Different forces control different streets, ports, and institutions, each with limited reach and competing loyalties. No single authority can claim full responsibility, and no institution is strong enough to enforce its mandate nationwide. Governance becomes improvised. Accountability dissolves.
Even routine reporting feels like navigating a minefield blindfolded. I hesitate, draft, delete, and rewrite -- not for style, but for safety. Every sentence risks angering a faction, offending an armed group, or drawing the scrutiny of distant patrons. Journalism here is not about truth; it is about survival. Caution, here, is not professionalism. It is instinct.
Fragmented and resource-strapped, Yemeni factions resemble pieces on a wider regional chessboard -- moved, paused, or sacrificed according to interests that have little to do with Yemen itself. Local actors fight fiercely, but the rhythm of the war is set elsewhere.
"Everyone here knows the map can change overnight," Hussein Ahmed, a taxi driver near Khormaksar airport, told me as traffic crawled forward in the afternoon heat. "Front lines don't move because fighters win or lose. They move when someone elsewhere decides the moment has come." He paused, watching a military pickup pass. "We just live inside those decisions."
In a nearby neighborhood, Saleem Ban Ali, a shop owner, tightened the fuel line of his generator as it coughed back to life. "We don't care who rules anymore," he said flatly. "Just give us someone who can keep the lights on." ■
