Nestled in the rugged highlands of northern Yemen, Amran is a city where ancient traditions collide with modern challenges. While the world often focuses on Yemen’s political instability and humanitarian crises, the cultural resilience of places like Amran offers a glimpse into a heritage that refuses to fade. From its towering mud-brick architecture to the vibrant souks buzzing with life, Amran is a testament to Yemen’s enduring spirit.
Amran’s skyline is dominated by centuries-old mud-brick towers, a hallmark of Yemeni vernacular architecture. These structures, some dating back to the Himyarite era, are more than just buildings—they’re symbols of adaptation. In a region plagued by conflict and climate change, the use of local materials like qadad (a traditional waterproofing plaster) reflects a sustainable ethos that modern cities could learn from.
Yet, these architectural marvels are under threat. Airstrikes and neglect have eroded many of Amran’s historic sites, mirroring the broader destruction of Yemen’s cultural heritage. Organizations like UNESCO have sounded alarms, but global attention remains fixated on the war’s geopolitical dimensions rather than its cultural casualties.
In Amran’s bustling markets, the aroma of saltah—a hearty stew made with fenugreek and meat—fills the air. Food here is more than sustenance; it’s a act of defiance. Despite blockades and food shortages, locals preserve recipes passed down through generations. The communal jiran (clay oven) where families bake malooga (flatbread) becomes a site of solidarity in times of scarcity.
But even these traditions are shifting. The war has disrupted supply chains, forcing substitutions—like using barley instead of wheat—that alter centuries-old dishes. Some see this as innovation; others, as erosion.
Amran’s cultural pulse beats strongest in its poetry and music. The mawwal, a traditional lament, captures the sorrow of displacement while celebrating endurance. Young artists now blend these ancient forms with hip-hop, creating protest art that resonates globally. Tracks like "Amran’s Cry" by local rapper Al-Mutar go viral, amplifying Yemen’s plight beyond Arabic-speaking audiences.
Yet, conservative factions view such fusions as threats. The Taliban’s recent crackdown on music in Afghanistan has sent ripples of fear through Yemen’s artistic communities. Many wonder: could Amran’s creative freedom be next?
While the world debates oil pipelines, Amran’s farmers face a drier reality. Rain-fed agriculture, once reliable, now fails as droughts intensify. The ancient aflaj (irrigation systems) that sustained terraced fields for millennia are crumbling. Some families migrate to cities; others turn to qat farming, a cash crop that exacerbates water shortages.
Ironically, Yemen’s carbon footprint is negligible. Yet its people bear the brunt of global inaction. At COP28, Yemeni activists pleaded for climate reparations—a demand drowned out by louder voices.
Amran’s nights are punctuated by the hum of drones—a reminder of distant powers deciding local fates. The U.S.-backed Saudi coalition’s airstrikes have spared neither weddings nor historic sites. Meanwhile, Houthi authorities impose their own strictures, curtailing women’s movement under the guise of "protection."
Caught between foreign intervention and domestic repression, Amran’s youth articulate their frustration through graffiti. A mural near the old city reads: "Our blood is not your bargaining chip."
Amran’s culture now lives in exile. In Dearborn, Michigan, cafes serve saltah alongside burgers, while poets recite verse in hybrid Arabic-English. This diaspora sustains traditions but also transforms them. A new generation asks: What does it mean to be Yemeni when home is a memory?
Back in Amran, those who remain face a paradox. Their culture is both a shield against erasure and a casualty of wars they didn’t start. As one elder told me: "We are like the qamariya (stained-glass windows)—broken, but still refracting light."
In Amran’s conservative fabric, women’s voices are often muted—but not silent. Secret schools teach girls coding alongside Quranic studies. Entrepreneurs like Fatima Al-Amrani defy norms by running a spice business online. "The war took our streets," she says, "but the internet gave us a world."
Still, progress is fragile. A 2023 law granting women the right to travel without male guardians sparked backlash. Many fear a Taliban-style regression if international attention wanes.
Qat chewing is Amran’s double-edged sword. This stimulant leaf fuels afternoon majlis (gatherings) where politics and gossip intertwine. Yet it drains household budgets and water reserves. Efforts to curb its use falter amid unemployment—for many, qat trade is the only livelihood left.
Amran’s fate hinges on forces beyond its control: ceasefire talks in Riyadh, climate policies in Berlin, even TikTok trends that could viralize its heritage. But walk its alleys, and you’ll hear whispers of an older truth—that culture isn’t just preserved in museums. It lives in the hands kneading dough at dawn, in the defiant strum of an oud between bombings.
Perhaps that’s Amran’s lesson to the world: Resilience isn’t spectacle. It’s the quiet act of baking bread while the sky falls.