by Murad Abdo
ADEN, Yemen, July 29 (Xinhua) -- In most parts of the world, a fan is an ordinary household appliance. In Yemen's southern port city of Aden, however, it has become a clock, a lifeline, and a reason to stay awake.
I am writing these lines in darkness, amid the city's most punishing summer in years.
Sweat drips from my forehead onto the keyboard. The air inside the room feels heavy, almost solid. Hours into the blackout, the fan sits motionless, like a monument to vanished comfort.
Outside, the city waits.
Aden has always been hot, with summer temperatures often climbing above 40 degrees Celsius. But heat feels different when homes are plunged into darkness and relief arrives only in short intervals.
These days, the city's default greeting has changed. Not "How are you?" Not "Where are you going?" But "Is the electricity back?"
With a single "yes," Aden springs into action.
Students rush to download lectures and complete assignments. Mothers scramble to wash clothes and fill water containers. Children cling to electric fans, enjoying a brief escape from the heat.
For two fleeting hours, the city breathes.
Then, silence returns. Laptop screens glow no more. Washing machines stop mid-cycle. Water pumps fall silent. Blades hang limp. Across the city, families settle back into the dark and heat.
One evening in Aden's Crater district, I found 62-year-old Hassan Al-Shaiby sitting in a narrow alley, escaping the stifling air inside his house.
A blue fan stood in front of him on two concrete blocks. When the power returned, it hummed softly. When the power cut out, silence returned.
"The fan and I have become friends," he told me with a smile.
Around him, the city had moved outdoors. Neighbors carried plastic chairs into the alley. Children chased each other through the darkness. Mothers became silhouettes in doorways. Families had abandoned their rooms to the heat, surrendering the night to the street.
Later that evening, as the power returned, I stepped into a modest apartment. A 4-year-old boy, red heat rashes visible on his neck and arms, bolted for the standing fan.
He stood silently in front of the fan, eyes closed and arms outstretched, as if trying to absorb every second of the cool air before it vanished again.
"Sometimes I think he waits for the fan more than he waits for me," his mother said. "When the electricity returns, he drops everything and stands in front of it. It's the happiest moment of his day."
The image stayed with me. Elsewhere, childhood summers may smell of salt and sunscreen; in Aden, many are marked by sweat, dust, and the hum of generators.
For adults, the consequences run deeper. One evening, I visited my friend Ahmed Qadhy, who manages the emergency department at a hospital in the city.
"The department is full almost every day," Qadhy said, apparently exhausted.
Doctors are treating more patients for heatstroke, dehydration, and complications linked to chronic illnesses, he told me, adding that most are elderly, their bodies struggling against the scorching temperatures and the lack of electricity.
In neighborhoods across the city, cases of residents collapsing during the hottest hours of the day have become increasingly common.
"What worries me most are the elderly and those living with chronic illnesses," Qadhy said. "For them, this heat is not just uncomfortable. It can be dangerous."
In Aden, every summer brings new promises of improvement. Yet many residents say the results have fallen short of expectations. As another sweltering season unfolds, their frustration is palpable.
So, too, is the city's determination to keep moving: the shopkeeper lifting his gate after a sleepless night, the mother preparing meals in a sweltering kitchen, the elderly man carrying his chair outside, and the child smiling at a turning fan.
Again and again, I see people adjusting, enduring, and carrying on. Not because conditions are easy, but because life leaves them little choice. Perhaps this is what resilience looks like in Aden.
Shortly before dawn, a faint breeze finally drifted through my neighborhood. The streets grew quieter. Some returned indoors, while others lingered outside, reluctant to leave the cooler air.
Then, without warning, the power came back.
Lights flickered on. Cries rang from alley to alley: "The electricity is back!" Within moments, fans across the city began turning again.
For a brief moment, Aden exhaled. With that breath came the one luxury its exhausted residents could no longer afford to waste: relief. ■
