71 days between darkness and silence… the cry of the families of the enforced disappearances

Yemen

Yamanat

Abdul Wahab Qatran

My voice suffocates… and my brother and his son fade into darkness: the cry of an oppressed brother in a homeland that we no longer hear:

71 days… Since my brother Arif and his young son Abdul Salam were absent from my sight and our arms, since September 21, silence has become my companion and darkness is a wall that swallows up every step and cry.

During these last forty days, they have disappeared by force, without a trace, without news, without a single call to reassure a mother or comfort the heart of a young son who has not yet passed the dream stage. And I, the older brother, remain helpless in the face of a silence as heavy as the mountains, and I feel my conscience gripping my heart every night until dawn.

I am writing today because I can no longer stand the silence.

Because I feel that every word that is not written about my brother and his children, and thousands of other missing people, is a betrayal of humanity itself.

For 41 days they have been forcefully disappearing, and darkness has engulfed my brother Arif and his young son Abdul Salam, without a trace, without news, without even a touch that reassures a mother or silences a heart that is about to sink into darkness, and I am the judge whose word people took like a sword. I stand helpless like a lost child, knocking on the walls of the air, and only the echoes answer me.

I am Abdul Wahab Qatran… the man who writes to people and stands with every oppressed person, but today I am unable to protect a piece of my blood and flesh. I feel like I let them down. I feel smaller than my pain. And my conscience bites my heart every night until dawn.

I write… and no one reacts. I scream… and no one hears.

Perhaps because we belong to the regions of the “North”… a region to which belonging has become enough of an accusation to leave your brother to die in his cell and no one to move.

All solidarity in this country has become selective: regional, partisan, sectarian, and like closed roads, each road leading only to its people:

This is no ordinary silence.

It is a country that hides behind regionalism and party and sectarian leaders, distributing solidarity according to belonging and not according to law and justice.

When Dr. Hammoud Al-Aoudi was arrested – just two weeks ago – Sanaa was shaken, tribes rallied, statements poured in, journalists came out, parties issued one statement after another.

Half a month ago, Sheikh Al-Ahmar’s house in Sanaa hosted a tribal meeting to discuss “arrests” launched by the Houthis*

According to the Yemen Daily News website: 11/19/2025

The house of the late Sheikh Abdullah bin Hussein Al-Ahmar in Sanaa hosted an extended meeting attended by a number of sheikhs from the Bakil and Hashid tribes and notables from various Yemeni tribes, to discuss the issue of detainees held by the Houthi group.

Especially after the arrest of Dr. Hammoud Al-Aoudi, one of the pillars of political thought and sociology, and his companion, engineer Abdul Rahman Al-Alfi.

The participants issued a statement referring to the “national contributions of Al-Oudi and Al-Alfi, particularly their tireless efforts to achieve comprehensive national reconciliation and call for a just peace.”

According to the statement, following the meeting, Sheikh Himyar al-Ahmar sent a message to the authorities in Sanaa (the Houthi group), speaking on behalf of the tribes of Yemen in general and the Hashid tribe in particular.

Thanks to solidarity, statements and strong tribal pressure, Dr. Hamoud Al-Aoudi and engineer Abdul Rahman Al-Alfi were released.

Was it because they were old? maybe.

But the bitter truth: there were pressures behind them… and behind these pressures there were tribes, parties and influential people.

As for us, we are alone… strangers in our country, without a tribe that fills the space with shouting, or a party that fills social media with declaration after declaration.

Yes, we are… the sons of Hamedan and the sons of the north, so we are alone, strangers in our land, no one hears us, no one raises their voice over our pain and no one protects our broken hearts.

My brother Arif… this man who never knew fear. While behind bars in the solitary confinement cells of the Sanaa secret service prison a year and a half ago, he challenged the group’s top leaders and said in a sincere voice:

“Come out…man to man.”

His voice was a song, his courage a lesson to all who hid behind a weapon or a position.

And today? Today, their silence has become louder than all their voices. Today they swallow him and his son and thousands of other forcibly disappeared people, all silent behind the walls and whose names are just numbers in the archives of fear.

In this darkness, there are those who have been thrown behind bars for months, and there are those who have been behind bars for a year or two.

The journalist Majid Zayed, the lawyer Abdel Majeed Sabra, the poet Auras Al-Eryani, Majed Al-Saidi, Yahya Rashid Al-Maafa, Muhammad Sherian… Dozens of inhabitants of this country, hidden behind the sun, without voice, without rights, without knowing their fate.

My young nephew, Abdul Rahman Arif, 17 years old

Yesterday he wrote me a letter that broke my heart:

“Good evening

I thought my father would only be detained for two weeks and you would eliminate him with your status, your prestige and your words and publications that would influence them, but today it has been 55 days and they are hiding your brother, and you don’t know if he is okay or maybe he is dead.

Does anyone understand what it means for a young child to learn that their father may be dead or alive with no news?

Does anyone understand that this pain extends beyond the family to every heart that rejects injustice?

How do I explain to him that I only have the letter?

How do I explain to him that every time I scream, they swallow my voice as if they were swallowing air?

How can I tell him that the group that imprisoned me for six months through no fault of my own is capable of swallowing up my brother without even blinking?

I’m not asking for the impossible.

I ask for a simple truth:

To find out if my brother is alive or if he has become a new number in the graves of fear.

I ask for a visit, a call, a sentence: “He is fine”.

I ask people to remember that Arif was not just a man, but a courageous voice who once stood up and said to injustice, “Come…confront me man to man.” »

I ask people to remember that He never abandoned anyone in distress…and today I fear that I have abandoned Him.

If solidarity is divided by geography… so be it.

If the voice can only be heard if a party or a sheikh shouts it… so be it.

But I will write… and I will shout… and I will carry my pain in my hand and I will knock on every door.

Because silence is a betrayal, because powerlessness is another death, and because Arif and Abdel Salam deserve to be returned to the light.

This is not the cry of a judge…

Not just a brother’s cry…

It is the cry of a person who is on the verge of being broken, but refuses to be silent.

Raise your voice… Tomorrow we may not have another chance.

I am writing now to all of you: the people, the free, the conscientious, the asleep and the careless… You are alive today, but our hearts are under ashes.

I write because I have no other weapon than words.

I write because our silence makes oppression a habit, injustice a law and humanity a luxury granted to some but not to us.

I won’t let this problem go away.

I will not allow my brother and his son to be forgotten, and I will not allow all those who were victims of enforced disappearance to be forgotten.

I write to you knowing that the pain is deeper than any tone and the wait is crueler than any prison, but we will no longer be silent.

Our hearts will continue to cry out and our voices will lead the way to truth.

And Arif, Abdel Salam, and all those who hide behind the sun: We will not forget you, we will not abandon you, the silence will not be eternal.

Our voice will reach… Even though the night is long, even though the darkness deepens, a word will shine, a window will open, and we will be there to hold your hand again.

Yemen