Ramadan in the time of Houthi

Ramadan, the month that Yemenis used to welcome with passion that filled their hearts, and with joy that was evident in the songs and rituals that were passed down through the generations, has today become another season of pain, a new chapter in the tragedy that has not ended. It is no longer a month of worship, but rather a season of looting, an open market for extortion in the name of “zakat.” The religious duty has turned into a pretext to steal from the poor before the rich, the citizen before the merchant, and the hungry before the full.

In the time of the Houthis, Ramadan is not a month of piety, but a season of humiliation. You do not fast because you want to, but because the war has robbed you of even the ability to buy a piece of bread. You do not pray because you have found peace, but because fear surrounds you from all sides. As for your nights, they are not for tranquility, but for speeches that creep into every home like toxic fumes, imposing themselves on your ears, your heart, and your mind, until you yourself become part of this darkness that surrounds you.

Being a Yemeni in Houthi areas means that your life, your consciousness, your livelihood, even your most basic rights are threatened by being left alone. You are there, just a creature in a herd, being led to lectures laced with hatred, forced to listen to a man who knows nothing but regurgitating illusions, a man who chews words as war chews the souls of Yemenis, a preacher who sits hidden in a cave, distributing false promises as his men distribute weapons to children, talking about justice while stealing food from the hungry, and bragging about morality while killing innocents in cold blood.

What kind of tragedy is this that makes an entire people live Ramadan as if it were a new round of plunder? How did the month that was once a month of mercy turn into a season of coercion, oppression, and sectarian mobilization? Ramadan in Houthi areas is not only a difficult month, but it is also a mirror that reveals everything ugly that this group has created, all the meanings it has distorted, and all the dreams that its dark project has crushed.

In the era of the Houthis, the dawn call to prayer is not heard as much as the sound of sermons laden with death, and the hands are not raised in supplication as much as the hands of the militia are raised to reap more lives. Ramadan is no longer the month of worship, but rather the month of a harsh test for the Yemeni: either he maintains his consciousness despite all this oppression, or he becomes, against his will, part of this darkness.

Ramadan was never a season of fear, but in Yemen, surrounded by darkness, it has become so. It used to be the month when hearts expanded and souls soared in the space of faith and reassurance, but today it has become a narrow alley, where the Yemeni is squeezed between endless hunger, inescapable speeches, and a system that feeds on what remains of his soul. The month is no longer a month of fasting with pure will, but rather a forced fast, not only from food, but from life itself, from joy, from reassurance, from the ability to be a human being not besieged by death.

In the Houthi era, Ramadan is not a month of piety, but rather an open market for looting, where “zakat” is transformed from a religious obligation into an axe to cut the last threads of life from the hands of the poor, where worship becomes another door to extortion, and where the remaining crumbs are snatched from people under the pretext of getting closer to God, as if God is pleased that the hungry be robbed of their bread so that the oppressor can enrich his coffers. In the Houthi cities, the hand of the poor is not extended towards God in supplication, but is shackled by taxes, levies, and an authority that sees in the Yemenis nothing but coffers to be looted, and backs to be burdened with more burdens.

As for the nights, which used to be filled with the sounds of mosques and the souls of worshippers, they have turned into another arena of oppression. You are not free to choose what you hear, but rather you are forced to have one voice as all that fills the air: sermons that seep into every house like smoke, without asking permission, without knocking on the door, but rather sneaking into your ears, imposing themselves as an inevitable fate. In the time of the Houthis, even silence is no longer an option, even closing your ears has become a crime, so either you listen, or you are classified as outside the flock, and outside the flock there is no life.

For Al Houthi, darkness is the master of the times. You have to listen to the speeches of the leader of the deviant group, distributing death to the people as he distributes his false promises to them. He preaches virtue while his army strips people of their most basic rights. He talks about justice while his militias loot the markets. He raises the slogan of the “satanic march” while he pursues every meaning of light. How ironic that the month of faith turns into a season for creating more darkness?

Ramadan, which used to be a month of tranquility, has become a bitter test for Yemenis: How do you preserve your soul in the midst of this hell? How do you remain human while your humanity is being taken away from you every day? How do you maintain your faith while the rituals of slavery are imposed on you every night? In Houthi Yemen, fasting is no longer obedience, but rather coercion; listening is no longer a choice, but rather a coercion; Ramadan is no longer a month of mercy, but rather another season to create more darkness.