by Murad Abdo
ADEN, Yemen, Nov. 17 (Xinhua) -- In a cramped schoolroom perched above the stony hills of Al-Dhalea in Yemen's southern highlands, principal Khaled Al Humaidi watched the children file in. They moved quietly, brushing past worn desks polished by the hands of countless students. Their faces carried the stubborn brightness children often hold even as the world around them unravels.
Al Humaidi, who has spent more than two decades in education, said he had never seen a harder time.
"We teach with almost nothing," he said. "But as long as the students come, we cannot give up."
He said his school is among the "lucky ones." Its walls still stand, while thousands of others do not. UNICEF estimated that across Yemen, where war has raged for more than a decade, more than 2,900 schools have been destroyed, damaged, or taken over for military use. Tens of thousands of children now study in tents, in straw huts, under trees, or beside piles of rubble that serve both as playgrounds and as reminders of what has been lost.
The economic collapse that followed the conflict cut teachers' salaries to a pittance, sometimes no more than 30 or 50 U.S. dollars a month, and left classrooms broken or bare. Many teachers, unable to feed their families, have walked away from the profession. Yet many others continue to stay.
Through remarkable tenacity, Yemen's battered education system has not entirely broken. Across the country are people who keep nudging education forward, not to the standard children deserve, but as far as scarce, splintered resources allow.
In Al-Dhalea, community activist Nabil al-Murshidi said many teachers in the province have shown incredible resolve. "Some arrive having skipped breakfast, yet they are the first to show up," he said. "They take attendance, start their lessons, and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Their commitment outshines the crisis around them."
In the rural reaches of southern Yemen, that devotion has sparked quiet acts of solidarity. Teachers who travel from distant villages and can no longer afford the trip sleep in their classrooms during the week. Local families take turns cooking for them and pooling small sums to cover basic needs.
"These teachers leave their own families so our children do not lose their future," said community elder Saleh Mohsen. "When we share our food or spare a little money, it is our way of saying we stand with them and that education must continue."
For many parents, support for teachers has become a necessity rather than an act of charity. "If we do not help them, who will?" asked a father named Ali Taha. "The war has taken so much from us. We cannot let it take our children's future too."
Even such solidarity cannot hide the deep marks on students' learning. The damage begins early and follows them as they grow, widening the gap between basic education and universities. Many complete secondary school without firm skills after enduring overcrowded classes and schedules repeatedly broken by conflict. In colleges, teachers spend more time filling gaps than advancing lessons.
"We see the effects clearly when they arrive at the universities," said Abdullah Mahmoud, a professor at a college in Al-Dhalea. "Some cannot write a full, correct sentence in English because their foundation is so weak. We end up teaching them things they should have mastered years ago."
Universities across Yemen face many of the same hardships as schools. Limited resources, low and delayed salaries, and the departure of experienced faculty have hollowed out departments and forced some specializations to close.
"University salaries once supported a family," Mahmoud said. "Now they barely cover basic needs. That is why so many lecturers have left, and the burden on those who remain has grown heavier."
In Aden, Abyan, and Lahj, professors receive only 100 to 200 dollars when salaries are paid at all, sometimes after months of waiting. Before 2014, they earned more than 1,000 dollars.
Yet Mahmoud still sees quiet determination. Even in the hardest moments, some institutions hold small gatherings, from poetry readings to brief messages urging students to hold on to their aspirations. These gestures are modest but steady, like lanterns in a long, dark corridor.
"They know they are behind, but they do not give up," Mahmoud said of his students. "Many stay after class, practice on their own, and keep pushing forward. Their effort gives us hope." ■
