by Ali Ahmed
ADEN, Yemen, Oct. 29 (Xinhua) -- I once imagined myself in a doctor's white coat. Poverty and war put a rifle in my hands instead.
My name is Ali Ahmed. I am 16 years old. Since June 2026, I have been a soldier in a Yemeni pro-government force.
My first monthly salary -- 265 U.S. dollars -- seemed to prove that I had made the right decision.
As the eldest of seven children, I felt useful for the first time in a long while. I sent money home to cover my father's medical bills and help feed my younger siblings.
My mother was relieved, but frightened, too. She understood before I did that the salary came at a price. I knew how to pull a trigger, but little about fighting a war.
About a month after enlisting, I was sent to the front in Hays district, Hodeidah governorate. One night, Houthi fighters surrounded our position, and gunfire tore through the darkness. I could barely see where the shooting was coming from. I aimed at the flashes and fired in panic.
My hands shook. My legs shook. My heart felt as though it were trying to escape my chest.
Two young men from southern Yemen, like me, were killed that night.
I could not stop picturing my mother. For the first time, I truly understood that I might return home not as a son, but as a body.
The war soon taught me another lesson. Four of my friends were killed in a drone strike, and we had to gather what remained of them.
Until then, danger had meant noise: gunfire, explosions, and shouting. After that day, I learned to fear silence, too. Death can arrive without warning.
The life at home I had once hated became the life I longed for. I would gladly have spent all day delivering orders on my motorbike under the scorching sun, earning almost nothing, if it meant coming home alive.
The war followed me into my sleep. Even on quiet nights, I lay waiting for something to happen. Eventually, I saw a doctor because I could no longer sleep properly. The medication helped me sleep, but it could not give me back the peace I had known before the war.
I also began to see the war differently.
Before enlisting, I had never met a Houthi fighter. Then I saw Houthi prisoners. Some were young; others looked exhausted or frightened. But they looked familiar. They looked Yemeni.
I could not help wondering: Did they have sick fathers, too? Younger brothers waiting for food? Had they once imagined another future, as I had?
When you see the other side from a few steps away rather than across a battlefield, war stops looking as simple as it once did.
If the fighting ended tomorrow, I could sit with a Houthi fighter and drink tea. Without rifles between us, we might discover how much our families had in common, and how little we had known about the people we feared.
At the front, we talked more about home than politics. We talked about mothers, wives, children, and food. Sometimes, we asked one another for a final favor: if we were killed, find a way to break the news gently to our mothers.
I do not know when the fighting will end. But I know what I want if I ever make it home for good.
I want to sit with my family by the sea, with a plate of white rice and fish and a glass of red tea. Nothing more. Just all of us, together and safe.
Editor's note: Ali Ahmed is from Yemen's southern port city of Aden. He joined the Giants Brigades in 2026.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Xinhua News Agency.
