Every morning in Sana’a, Qaid Mohsen sets out on a journey—15 kilometers on foot, a box of homemade sweets balanced on his shoulder, and the quiet determination of a man who refuses to give up. His story is not only one of survival but of quiet resilience in a city marked by war and hardship.
At first glance, Qaid might be mistaken for an old man. But up close, it's clear—he's only 45. War has a way of aging people in Yemen, etching worry and exhaustion into young faces. Despite his youthful age, Qaid carries the weight of a lifetime on his shoulders.
A father of eleven, Qaid sells a traditional sweet called "Tromba," a delicacy from Taiz, which he now offers on the streets of Sana’a. "I chose Tromba because it's hard to find in stores here," he says. Scarcity, he explains, fuels demand. He walks miles every day, driven by the need to support his family and keep a roof over their heads.
The Search for a Life
In 1990, political tensions between Yemen and the Gulf led to the expulsion of Yemeni workers, including Qaid, who had been working in Saudi Arabia. He returned home, married, and began a relentless search for stable work. His journey took him from construction sites to vegetable stalls, finally settling in Sana’a after the Houthi militia seized the capital in 2014.
"I used to run a vegetable cart in Al-Jahmaliya, Taiz," he recalls. "When the war broke out, I moved to Sana’a. My cousin taught me how to make and sell Tromba. That was 11 years ago."
Before the war, life was more predictable. Shops had regular customers, and government employees could buy now and pay later. But in Houthi-controlled areas, salaries haven’t been paid in nearly eight years. In other regions, inflation and instability crush small businesses.
The Endless Struggle
Qaid lives in the Shamlan neighborhood, in a modest home rented a decade ago. Once affordable, his rent has now risen to 35,000 Yemeni Riyals—about 65 US dollars. "If I miss even one day of work, my family won’t have a place to stay," he says. "Landlords don’t wait."
His daily income barely covers rent and the cost of ingredients. Yet, when he has extra sweets, he shares them with neighbors. He makes Tromba from flour, salt, water, and eggs, frying the dough in oil before soaking it in syrup. He never eats it—he has diabetes and can’t afford regular medication, so walking serves as his substitute treatment.
His day starts at 6:30 AM. He walks through Sana’a, stopping near a private university to sell. By 3:00 PM, he's back home, preparing the next batch. Being mobile not only saves him from informal militia fees but also allows him to meet a wider group of customers.
Poverty Consuming the Family
Qaid’s challenges extend beyond the streets. Of his eleven children, only two attend school. The others work to help the family survive. His wife, unable to afford birth control that works, has had repeated pregnancies. A tubal ligation could end the cycle, but it’s out of reach financially.
Their eldest son, Mohamed, lost his job at an embroidery factory and now sells French fries near their home, hoping one day to leave Yemen. "We dream, like everyone else," Qaid says, "but for now, we walk and work."
In a city torn by conflict, Qaid is one of the countless silent heroes whose perseverance breathes life into Sana’a’s weary streets.
