Ùأ٠اÙدÙÙØ© Ùا تستطÙع تأ٠Ù٠اÙطرÙات بدÙ٠تعاÙÙÙÙ for the state cannot secure the roads without your cooperation
(from the letter of an imam to bayt Ḥaydar)
In retrospect, and if one looks at the trajectory of his life, our protagonist MujÄhid Ḥaydar seems very much the product of a specific environment and time, both of which left their mark on his being, and traces of this upbringing â the good and the bad â remained visible in him for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, approaching him from the point of view of his origins and the experiences of his childhood was fraught with difficulties. In our lengthy conversations, spanning a period of ten years, I noted that he would seldom recall, out of unwillingness or inability, the time of his childhood and adolescence. With a few exceptions that stood out rather monolithically, he seemed to have no memories of that time, or did not consider them relevant, or was unwilling to share them. The years these memories deal with, after all, were many decades back, and when we tried to dig them up in the end they yielded no more than a few disconnected ruins: Memories of the village and his parental home, the introduction into tribal culture by his family, the episodes of early displacement, and the ever recurring narrative of peril and suffering, coupled with a sense of superiority and defiant pride. For generations, these âtranscriptsâ (the term coined by Scott) seemed to be handed down by his family and shaped his world view from his earliest youth. The time of his childhood thus appears obscure in several respects: In terms of memory, that time yielded no more than fragments; in terms of upbringing, he was introduced into the lives of adults early on and tried to emulate them. And it was obscure in a physical sense as well, since he spent several years of this short period of his life in captivity as a government hostage, then with a foster family in al-Jawf, hidden away from his original home.
Indeed, MujÄhidâs childhood was filled with unusual times. Reconstructing the political framework of the 1970s and early 1980s means revisiting a time of
The antagonism between these two influential families stood out among the countless petty feuds in highland Yemen, and President á¹¢Äliḥ, whose governing style relied on the exploitation of crises and conflicts among his opponents and rivals, tried to use this potential enmity between the families to secure his grip on power. The period of MujÄhidâs childhood covered in this chapter thus witnesses the evolution of the proto-form of á¹¢Äliḥâs style of governance, as the president began to play with growing mastery his double game of manipulation and coercion in an effort to outmanoeuvre and checkmate his foes (an approach that ultimately accelerated his fall). The tenacious blood feud between bayt Ḥaydar and bayt al-Aḥmar, whose trajectory is the subject of subsequent chapters of this book, became, in part, a consequence of this policy.
1 The Topography of Power
Once you pass KhaywÄn and cross Jabal Aswad ridge, the vastness really begins. In Sanaa and southern Ê¿AmrÄn you often find yourself moving through landscapes bearing signs of domestication: sprawling settlements, bustling street
In SufyÄn, lengthy spaces lie between one village and the next. The architecture changes from stone to mud. Small settlements cluster on windswept rocks, or hide in the hollows of the valleys, punctuated with Acacia and Ê¿ilb trees. Agriculture is sporadic and largely limited to the cultivation of dhurra and qÄt. Before the advent of artificial irrigation in the 1970s, crops were irregular, and the lean years were very lean indeed and left no margin for thrift.1 In SufyÄn, one sees more flocks of sheep and black goats than further south. The area is rich in wildlife. In the highlands are rabbits, foxes, mountain wolves, and the rock hyrax (wabr). The jagged twin peaks of SufyÄnâs signature mountain Jabal MaflÅ«q are said to be populated by the ibex, and herds of gazelles live in its shadows. Hunters still chase the Arabian leopard (nimr), and among the peasants of the enormous wastelands, the legend of SufyÄnâs mythical lion (asad al-Ê¿Amashiyya) lives on.
Against the more fertile and greener parts of Ê¿AmrÄn province, SufyÄn lies roughly in the form of a large sickle. To the far north-west, the tip of the sickle touches the mountains of Ḥajja province. To the north, SufyÄnâs barren rockscape al-Ê¿Amashiyya extends towards the southern rim of the á¹¢aÊ¿da basin. To the east, the Baraá¹ plateau towers above SufyÄnâs steppe landscape of SawÄdÄn. To the south-east, SufyÄn descends towards the depression of al-Jawf. The southern tip of the sickle reaches as far as Sanaa governorate. In terms of size, SufyÄn makes up one third of Ê¿AmrÄn province.2 It is the largest territory of a northern tribe, apart from the largely uninhabited desert realm of the DhÅ« Ḥusayn in al-Jawf, with whom the SufyÄn share common, albeit remote, Bedouin roots.3 In
Carsten Niebuhrâs seventeenth-century map of Yemen depicts SufyÄn and al-Ê¿Amashiyya â AmerschÄ«a desertum in his map â as an empty space beyond the northern end of Yemen: a large blank spot both separating and connecting central highland Yemen with the á¹¢aÊ¿da area, the primordial cell and spiritual centre of Zaydism and the Zaydi imams, and still further north, Ê¿AsÄ«r and ḤijÄz in Saudi Arabia. Since time immemorial, the main transit route between these power centres runs through SufyÄn. The road leading via SufyÄn from Sanaa to á¹¢aÊ¿da is the southernmost section of the Yemeni Highland Pilgrim Route, the main corridor connecting Yemen with Ê¿AsÄ«r and ḤijÄz; it has been travelled by pilgrims, merchants, conquerors, and armies since pre-Islamic times. Whereas the network of small roads, paths, and trails criss-crossing the Yemeni highlands always offered many alternatives and options for detours, the Yemeni Highland Pilgrim Route retained its singular importance as the main direct link connecting Sanaa with ḤijÄz.4
Rulers have been unanimous in their appraisal of SufyÄnâs strategic location and this road. In Islamic Yemen, SufyÄn was the main corridor for the Zaydi imams trying to extend their dominion beyond their ancestral home base of á¹¢aÊ¿da and to establish control over territories further south. During the 1960s civil war between royalists and republicans, which led to the deposition of the last Zaydi imam Muḥammad al-Badr ḤamÄ«d al-DÄ«n and the establishment of the Yemen Arab Republic (yar), SufyÄn remained hotly contested, when the royalists (financed by the Saudis and the British) waged a guerrilla campaign against the republicans, who fought alongside the Egyptian army.5 The royalistsâ most effective actions were aimed at disturbing the enemyâs lines of communication, and the Egyptian army, with its heavy gear and navigating almost without maps, was absolutely dependent on the road. SufyÄn remained
There are fortresses and retreats in highland Yemen, such as the famous mountain strongholds in ShahÄra and KawkabÄn, and the natural caves of QÄra and Maá¹ra. These symbols of resistance are located off the main routes and serving as refuges for the northern leaders in times of war.9 And there are places whose control essentially enables one to command entire areas and vital routes of transport: ManÄkha, for example, towers over the street from Sanaa to al-Ḥudayda, northern Yemenâs principal Red Sea port; the mountain pass NaqÄ«l al-Fará¸a is the gate to Maʾrib; and â most important â the massive fortress of Ḥajja overlooks large swathes of the highlands and the TihÄma coastal plain and commands the northernmost road connection which runs via Ê¿AmrÄn city from Sanaa to the Red Sea.
Likewise, SufyÄn is located at a crossroads. Situated between two power centres, it always played a key role in governing highland Yemen.10 This road,
SufyÄn is the name of both the territory and the tribe that dwells in it. The tribe of SufyÄn is divided into two moieties â á¹¢ubÄra and Ruhm â that further subdivide into a number of tribal segments. Each of these segments is headed by a shaykh: a chieftain or headman. The shaykh performs important tasks for the benefit of his community, among them, administering and representing its interests vis-Ã -vis other tribes and the government, and â most central â solving problems, mediating, and arbitrating in accordance with tribal customary law (Ê¿urf).11 The position of the shaykh is usually inherited in the wider lineage;
SufyÄn is one of the member tribes of the confederation of BakÄ«l, whose territories â together with those of its sister confederation of ḤÄshid and the KhawlÄn b. Ê¿Ämir confederation in western á¹¢aÊ¿da province â make up most of highland Yemen.16 Due to the central location and the shape of their territory, reminiscent of a vast sickle, the SufyÄn have longer external borders with other tribes of BakÄ«l, ḤÄshid, and KhawlÄn b. Ê¿Ämir than any other tribe. To
SufyÄnâs relations with the tribes on their outer borders are often uneasy. With many, the SufyÄn share a history of conflict, mostly over territorial claims and the location of their common borders. In the moral imagination of the tribes, territory and hence borders hold a special iconic importance, and any infringement of their territories and borders is considered an infringement of their collective tribal honour (sharaf), a value of supreme importance in the moral imagination of the tribes.17 SufyÄnâs eternal caution in regard to its vulnerable borders is almost proverbial. SufyÄnâs segments have a reputation of fragmenting easily; however, when one segment faces external aggression, the external threat brings a suspension of their internal disputes and the whole of SufyÄn rushes to its aid.18
SufyÄnâs most embattled borders are those to the west and south, where SufyÄn â itself a member tribe of BakÄ«l â shares borders with the tribes of ḤÄshid, with whom the BakÄ«l are embroiled in an ancient competition over influence and predominance in highland Yemen. The tribes of BakÄ«l regard the SufyÄn as their frontier tribe, the vanguard confronting the tribes of ḤÄshid. The territorial conflict between the SufyÄn of BakÄ«l and al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt of ḤÄshid over the course of their common boundary in WÄdÄ« Ḥabá¹Äʾ in the area of al-SuwÄd is one of the most virulent and embattled fault lines between BakÄ«l and ḤÄshid, in the course of which the SufyÄn and al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt came to oppose
To the SufyÄn al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt are a powerful adversary. For al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt are not any ḤÄshid tribe, but rather the home tribe of bayt al-Aḥmar, the senior shaykhly lineage of the larger ḤÄshid confederation and for centuries an immensely prominent and influential family.20 Starting from the territorial conflict in al-SuwÄd, and informed by the historical sensitivity between ḤÄshid and BakÄ«l, a rivalry over influence (nufÅ«dh) and predominance (sayá¹ara) evolved between the SufyÄn and al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt, both spearheaded by their senior shaykhs: Ibn al-Aḥmar of al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt, and Ibn Ḥaydar of SufyÄn, with each shaykh representing a tribe that considers the other its hereditary enemy, the opposite pole of an âiron antithesisâ (nuqÄ«á¸ayn ḥadÄ«dayn), to use MujÄhidâs expression. The source of this conflict was a territorial dispute in al-SuwÄd, yet over time further rivalries and jealousies became part of the original dispute, which was then translated into political rivalry and continually forced these two families into opposing political camps and positions. Initially dyadic, the situation became multiplex. While it was initially localized, it became a matter of broader concern. As time went by, the rivalries of one family against the other encompassed issues of territory, honour, politics, religion, and hegemony of such complexity that their revision, to paraphrase Dresch, âmight unravel ⦠disputes the length and breadth of tribal Yemen.â21
The republican heroes among the shaykhs â Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar, MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib, SinÄn AbÅ« Laḥūm â managed to parlay their surge of power into influential positions in the new yar government. The late 1960s and early 1970s witnessed Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmarâs stellar political ascent; he was transformed from the Saudisâ antagonist to one of their closest partners. In 1971 he attained further political significance by becoming president of the Consultative Council (Majlis al-ShÅ«rÄ), the yarâs new national legislative body dominated by tribal figures. Al-Aḥmar used the Consultative Council to assert his and his peersâ interests: preventing the expansion of government power into the tribal areas, securing the constant flow of state subsidies to the shaykhs, and implementing a pro-Saudi and anti-pdry foreign policy.27
Aḥmad Ḥaydar, embittered by the posture of events after the national reconciliation in 1970, retired to SufyÄn. In the early 1970s, in the ongoing competition between bayt Ḥaydar and bayt al-Aḥmar, the latter seemed to have surpassed the former. Indeed, for a time after the end of the civil war, bayt al-Aḥmar not only triumphed over bayt Ḥaydar, but also exerted extraordinary influence over the yarâs government. In 1974, Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar even forced President al-IryÄnÄ« to resign when the president tried to rein him in.28 But
2 In the Throes of State Building (1970s)
One day in 1974, a few months after President IbrÄhÄ«m al-ḤamdÄ« ascended to power, a car drove into the courtyard of the Ḥaydar house in the village of WÄsiá¹ al-á¸alÊ¿a near al-Mudarrij. The door opened, and through it emerged Aḥmad Ḥaydar, who welcomed his guest. The visitor was MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib, senior shaykh of KhÄrif of ḤÄshid, the neighbouring tribe to the south. Although they had led opposing sides in the civil war, Aḥmad Ḥaydar and MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib were close friends, and even the territorial dispute between the KhÄrif and a segment of the SufyÄn, to which MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs father had fallen victim, did not mar their mutual affection and esteem.29 Their friendship only came to an end four years later, in 1978, when MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib was wounded by a SufyÄnÄ« bullet in the battle at Jabal Aswad, and the erstwhile friendship between the two shaykhs was transformed into enmity. But during 1974, they did not foresee such tragic events, and there was no sign of hatred.
It had been some time since anyone had needed him, and MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs request for his services seemed to Aḥmad Ḥaydar an auspicious sign. The day of MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs visit coincided with another joyful event: a child was born, and his pleasure at the birth of his fifth son and the visit of his friend was so intense that Aḥmad Ḥaydar resolved to interrupt the series of his sonsâ first names, all of which began with the signature letter ḥ of bayt Ḥaydar (Ḥaydar, ḤÄmis, ḤamÄ«d, Ḥasan) and name the newborn after his revered guest: MujÄhid.
The reason for MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs visit was a little delicate. The stalemate between the government and the shaykhs in Sanaa, spearheaded by Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar, had recently led to President al-IryÄnÄ«âs resignation, and in his place IbrÄhÄ«m al-ḤamdÄ«, the scion of a learned, respected tribal lineage from Ê¿IyÄl Surayḥ, a member tribe of BakÄ«l, had come to power on 13 June 1974.
At the time of MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs visit to Aḥmad Ḥaydar, al-ḤamdÄ« had already begun to implement his agenda: He had suspended the Republican Council and the constitution and was now moving to remove the tribal heads from the government. In October 1974, SinÄn AbÅ« Laḥūm had been dismissed as governor of al-Ḥudayda. And that was just the beginning: in June 1975, a few months after visiting Aḥmad Ḥaydar, al-ḤamdÄ« also dismissed MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib from his post as deputy commander-in-chief of the armed forces. In October 1975, al-ḤamdÄ« suspended the Consultative Council, thereby also excluding Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar from the government.32 To break the influence of the shaykhs in the army, al-ḤamdÄ« established the Ê¿AmÄliqa (âGiantsâ) Brigade, commanded by his brother, as a strong force free from tribal influence and loyal only to himself.33 Al-ḤamdÄ« was charismatic and extremely popular with the people; increased rainfalls, an influx of money from abroad, and
Al-ḤamdÄ«âs agenda deeply unsettled and antagonized the government shaykhs: those luminaries among the republican shaykhs who had been instrumental in overthrowing the last imam, who had secured important posts and sinecures in Sanaa, and who were determined to defend their new power by any means necessary. The shaykhs in Sanaa felt that it was high time to take countermeasures, and MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib had come to SufyÄn to sound out Aḥmad Ḥaydarâs position, in a conversation from friend to friend, from shaykh to shaykh, to explore the possibility of mobilizing him and the SufyÄn against al-ḤamdÄ«. Because after all, he argued, what was at stake was the future of all the tribes in Yemen.
Yet at the end of the day, AbÅ« ShawÄribâs plan did not work out. Al-ḤamdÄ«âs Corrective Movement had aroused hopes and produced a widespread sense of a new beginning among those who were not part of the government in Sanaa. Like many other former royalist shaykhs, Aḥmad Ḥaydar had felt side-lined and neglected by the yarâs government. He and many other BakÄ«l shaykhs resented what they perceived as an undue surge of ḤÄshid power, and regarded the Corrective Movement as an opportunity to turn things around and radically alter the new balance of power in the yar. Indeed they watched with no small amount of satisfaction when al-ḤamdÄ« took a clear stance against Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar, who at that time had begun to proclaim himself âparamount shaykh of Yemen,â and claim seniority (outrageously they believed) over all other shaykhs and tribes, including those of BakÄ«l. Instead, al-ḤamdÄ« relied on AmÄ«n AbÅ« RÄs, minister of state and scion of an ancient and respected shaykhly lineage from al-Jawf and likewise a hero of the revolution, who was at that time recognized as a senior shaykh of BakÄ«l.34 Al-ḤamdÄ«âs anti-ḤÄshid and anti-Saudi policy and his rapprochement with South Yemen helped to bring BakÄ«l support behind his regime, for the BakÄ«l saw an opportunity to break the political hegemony of the ḤÄshid and set right the perceived imbalance of power.
In political terms, MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄribâs visit to Aḥmad Ḥaydar yielded no results, and when the time came to say goodbye, he returned to Sanaa without a promise of support. In the months that followed, the conflict between al-ḤamdÄ« and Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar became acute. Al-Aḥmar withdrew with his followers from Sanaa to Khamir in al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt, and á¹¢aÊ¿da city became another
Yet three months later, immediately before a visit to Aden to further advance unification with the Marxist pdry, al-ḤamdÄ« and his brother were murdered in mysterious circumstances.37 Shortly thereafter AmÄ«n AbÅ« RÄs, senior shaykh of BakÄ«l and close confidant of al-ḤamdÄ«, fell victim to poison. Al-ḤamdÄ«âs successor, Aḥmad al-GhashmÄ«, turned the tide again by strengthening the position of the ḤÄshid shaykhs and the Saudis and removing al-ḤamdÄ« loyalists from their posts.38 Unrest broke out again, this time in southern Yemen and along the border between the shaá¹rayn. In the northern highlands, al-ḤamdÄ«âs followers, infuriated by his murder, formed the â13 June Movement,â named after al-ḤamdÄ«âs âCorrective Movement of 13 June 1974,â to avenge his death and topple the regime of his assassins.39 Again, the front ran along Jabal Aswad, which marks the border between SufyÄn and al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt. The historical sensitivity between ḤÄshid and BakÄ«l sprang up with alarming intensity and galvanized tribes to mobilize; a âgeneral war between ḤÄshid and BakÄ«lâ was looming.40 Thousands of warriors gathered on each side, and more kept coming. When fighting broke out, Aḥmad Ḥaydar and MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib faced each other as war leaders. After a few days, MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib was wounded in the chest by a SufyÄnÄ« bullet. The crisis at Jabal Aswad could be defused through mediation, but the friendship between Aḥmad Ḥaydar and MujÄhid AbÅ« ShawÄrib was beyond repair.
Shortly thereafter, al-GhashmÄ« also met a violent death, and Ê¿AlÄ« Ê¿AbdallÄh á¹¢Äliḥ, a military officer from SanḥÄn (a minor ḤÄshid tribe), came to power. As a commander of TaÊ¿iz military district, at the time of the crisis at Jabal Aswad he had been instrumental in driving Ê¿AbdallÄh Ê¿Abd al-Ê¿AlÄ«m, the figurehead of
Only four months after taking office, pro-ḤamdÄ« Nasirites attempted a coup to overthrow á¹¢Äliḥâs still shaky regime.42 With great difficulty, á¹¢Äliḥ put down the coup, which helped him to establish control and tighten the reins of government. His victory, however narrow, enabled him to strengthen security, arrest and execute a large number of opponents, and consolidate his regime.43 His opponents watched with alarm when á¹¢Äliḥ, now firmly installed at the helm, strengthened the position of the ḤÄshid, drew closer to the Saudis, and refused any dialogue with Aden.44 The result was another crisis: in 1979 a new border war broke out with its southern sister state, bringing to light the internal weaknesses of the yar, which was shattered by infighting.45 In both crises, Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar rushed to á¹¢Äliḥâs side, rallied the ḤÄshid tribes â over whom he wielded enormous influence at that time â and helped á¹¢Äliḥ survive the ordeals of his early tenure.46
3 Somatic SufyÄn (1974â1980)
Our villages consist of large houses, most of them built of mud (á¹Ä«n).48 Our old house [in WÄsiá¹ al-á¸alÊ¿a] is made of stone; it is a tall, square bastion, centuries old and now partially ruined at the top. The house has no windows, only on the upper floors there are a few small ventilation openings and embrasures. Inside, the house has an ingenious opening, through which one can watch from the top floor who is knocking on the entrance door. This opening runs inside the wall, so that the residents of the house can see from the top floor who is standing in front of the entrance, without being exposed to anyone inside or outside the house, because the outer wall is one meter wide. In another of our old houses, no one other than its residents can open the massive entrance door; it has a wooden lock that can only be opened with a complicated mechanism involving inserting the fingers of the hand in a certain position, which is known only to two people of the house. In our village, there is also a cistern (birka) with a surface of four square meters and a depth of three meters, which our forebears chiselled deep into the rock in ancient times. There is also a mosque and a water well, and many of the passageways (mumarrÄt) in the village run below the surface of the ground, like trenches. They are still in use.
Next to the old house is the new house of the Ḥaydar family, built in the 1970s. This house is also meant for protection, not ornament, as defence and utility take priority over aesthetics, convenience, and appearance. The new house consists of two parts: a mud building is directly attached to a stone building of almost the same size, making for a striking break in style. In front of the house is a spacious courtyard about 250 square meters, and the whole complex is surrounded by a massive wall. The wall, about 2.5 metres high, is reinforced by circular flanking towers (ḥuṣūn) of mud (á¹Ä«n), each about 6 metres high, on the outside corners. The towersâ defensive platforms are protected by parapets with a number of embrasures in their walls. From the defensive platforms and embrasures, the sections of the wall between them can be swept from the side by ranged weapons. The parapets feature special arched window openings that only open downwards, so the area surrounding the wall, gate, and towers can be monitored and defended without the defender being exposed to enemy fire.
All the trees you see are Ê¿ulÅ«b sidr trees, many of them more than 100 years old.49 The honey that comes from these trees is very pure and has therapeutic properties. People from Ḥaá¸ramawt and Shabwa come and harvest our Ê¿ilb trees with their bees. And then they sell it under the name Ê¿asl Ê¿uá¹£aymÄ«, honey from al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt, albeit it is from us, Ê¿asl sufyÄnÄ«.
After WÄsiá¹ al-á¸alÊ¿a comes Ê¿Uá¸Älim. And after Ê¿Uá¸Älim comes al-Mudarrij, and after al-Mudarrij comes Muqarram, and after this al-Ḥashara, and after this Darb Zayd. All of them are little turreted settlements with small agricultural areas that belong to us and our tribal segment, the DhÅ« Aḥmad of Ruhm of SufyÄn. And after this comes al-Ê¿Amashiyya, which belongs to a number of tribal segments: our segment, the DhÅ« Ḥasan, and the DhÅ« á¹¢umaym of SufyÄn. Ê¿AmÄ«sh [al-Ê¿Amashiyya] is our shared property, and all these segments are free to graze their flocks on it.50
My familyâs estate is large: A square kilometre at our ancestral home in WÄsiá¹ al-á¸alÊ¿a. A thousand libna51 elsewhere. And a strip of five kilometres in length and a quarter-kilometre in width extending from ḤibÄsha to Jabal al-MaflÅ«q. A thousand libna in al-Jawf. A thousand libna in Darb Zayd. Our share (naṣībnÄ) of al-Ê¿Amashiyya has never been determined because we do not divide al-Ê¿Amashiyya among the tribes [of SufyÄn].
Our estate is vast, even if there is little arable land because most of it is arid and rocky. And the wars did not allow us to carry out real agricultural work. This is SufyÄn: semi-desert and rocks and wÄdÄ«s (valleys).
The roof of the Ḥaydar familyâs house in WÄsiá¹ al-á¸alÊ¿a commands a superb view of the road and, beyond it, across SufyÄnâs scrub-covered and rock-bound hills that lay low against the ceiling of sky: this is the bleak, austere grandeur of al-Ê¿Amashiyya. As far as the eye can reach, the landscape is undulating, ochre, arid, dusty. To the north-east rises the dark shadow of Jabal MaflÅ«q, SufyÄnâs signature mountain with its broken core. On a clear day, distant mountain ranges appear on the horizon: the mountains of á¹¢aÊ¿da to the north, the Baraá¹ plateau to the east, al-AhnÅ«m and the ShahÄra massif to the south-west.
Our house is full of large chests packed with old papers (awrÄq qadÄ«ma) left behind by our fathers and forefathers, [papers] that concern our family, our history, our relations, and our territories.⦠Some of the old papers are contained in casings made of silver. I remember that one day I opened one of those silver casings and found in it orders and correspondences (aḥkÄm wa-murÄsalÄt) between the Imam [of that time] and one of my ancestors, all of them bearing the Imamâs seals: large seals, and small ones that looked like the imprint of a signet ring, all in crimson colour. I remember the words of the Imam, who demanded, in one of these letters, one of my grandfathersâ obedience and wrote that he would complain to Our Lord [God] about my ancestor if he did not control the situation in SufyÄn and ensure the safety of the transit of commercial caravans. In another letter the Imam wrote to one of my ancestors, âThe state cannot secure the roads if you do not cooperate with us in controlling your tribes and provide security and stability. For the sake of brotherhood and peace we call upon you to get the situation in SufyÄn under control.â
The situation in SufyÄn, so it seemed, was always tense. Bayt Ḥaydar was surrounded by unrest. The conflict between SufyÄn and al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt for the disputed lands in WÄdÄ« Ḥabá¹Äʾ and many other border conflicts dragged on.
The tribal system is a holistic system (niáºÄm mutakÄmil) governing in our areas. I am not diligent and I do not know how all this knowledge came into my head, but I inherited it from the memory of my father and forefathers. I was always with my father and his counsellors and participated in their meetings with the tribesmen, and benefited from what I heard and saw. My father, may God rest his soul, was illiterate. But he knew tribal law and precedence (Ê¿urf wa-silf) and dispensed justice among the people and solved their problems. Most tribesmen know the tribal customs and traditions and guide themselves in their issues according to them. They do not need a shaykh except for the big issues. Only when there is a person, a family, or a tribal segment who violate the tribal customs and open the door to evil, the tribe needs the shaykh to issue a verdict in their name and set things right.
My father had an exceptional command of firÄsa [i.e., insight into human nature on the basis of bodily features].54 He could tell by appearance and speech if someone was a good person, or a brave person, or a bad person, or a liar, or an imposter, or a coward who only pretended to be heroic: he knew them and time always proved the veracity of his opinion.
My father and his counsellors explained everything to me. And after my fatherâs death, his counsellors assisted me and continued to advise me whenever I needed it. Most of them have died now, may God have mercy on them. And I appointed new counsellors to replace them. [These were] experienced and outspoken people who told me the truth to my face, regardless of whether it would incite my wrath. [They were] people whom I trusted utterly and completely, for sincerity is the most precious of all boon [blessings]. Some I appointed on the basis of the soundness of their opinions. Others I chose for their superior leadership qualities, or their military experience.
My father was very fond of me, may God rest his soul. I was one of his favourites, even though I was neither the best looking nor the brightest among his sons. Our sages say that the father is the most honest in determining who of his sons takes after him and who does not. This is the intuition of paternity.
MujÄhid watched his father with the eyes of an infant, and his father studied him with the experienced eyes of the adult and senior shaykh. And with his unusual insight into human nature, he recognized early on that there was something special in MujÄhid, something unbridled, wilful, and headstrong, a character driven by constant, competitive zeal. The âḤaydar blood,â people used to say in SufyÄn, aware that âḤaydarâ is one of the many names for âlion,â here it denotes the animalâs characteristic bravery. MujÄhid had a touch of it, and his eldest brother, Ḥaydar, more than a touch (which took him to an early grave). His father was well aware that this touch of Ḥaydar blood was needed to navigate the tribe of SufyÄn through these restive times, and to prevail as the shaykh of this vast, embattled land. For at this critical juncture in the history of Yemen, marked by tectonic shifts in the countryâs balance of power, there must be no compromise with enemies, no diluted solutions and concessions, no half-measures, no signs of weakness. The SufyÄn would not cede one inch of ground to al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt in al-SuwÄd. They would defend and maintain their rights and struggle to assert their place in the framework of the new state. And for that purpose they would continue to block the road at the narrow gap of al-Mudarrij whenever it pleased them. They would not yield.
4
MujÄhid was still a child when he became the object of a bargain. At the age of six, the world of politics was thrust into his life, it seized on his body and rendered him a pawn in the evolving struggle between his father and the á¹¢Äliḥ regime. He became a hostage in the way described by Mauss, for his role as hostage was like being held as surety for a pledge.57
In 1980, á¹¢Äliḥ stepped up his campaign against the ndf, the militant Aden-sponsored leftist movement that had become the rallying point of those dissatisfied with the status quo in Yemen, those who sought to overthrow his regime. The major arena of this struggle was the âcentral areasâ in Lower Yemen near the border between yar and pdry; hence the campaign against the ndf was called the âWar of the Central Areasâ (ḥarb al-ManÄá¹iq al-Wusá¹Ä).58 But the ndf also wielded influence in the north, especially among the supporters of the late President al-ḤamdÄ«, who at that point helped to swell the ndfâs ranks. The ndf united most movements opposing the á¹¢Äliḥ regime and further enlarged its base of support by including many of those BakÄ«l tribes that had sympathized with al-ḤamdÄ« and after his demise joined the 13 June Movement. The War of the Central Areas left the country embroiled in strife and rebellion and shook the á¹¢Äliḥ regime to the core.
In order to fight the ndf in Lower Yemen, á¹¢Äliḥâs major strategic dilemma involved establishing calm in the north.59 Dislodging the ndf guerrillas in the central areas required redeploying units stationed near Sanaa to the south, which left the capital vulnerable to another coup attempt by his adversaries in the military and by hostile highland tribes. á¹¢Äliḥâs memories of the tribal mobilizations of the late 1970s were still fresh. The SufyÄn, in particular, remained a perpetual menace, for they seemed to seize upon every opportunity to rise up in arms. á¹¢Äliḥ knew if he withdrew his troops from Sanaa and southern Ê¿AmrÄn, the capital lay open to any incursion from the north, and the SufyÄn would not hesitate to stab him in the back. He was fully cognizant of the fact that at the first sign of regime distraction, the SufyÄn and their likes would be on their way, ready to enjoy his overthrow.
It is an understatement to say that á¹¢Äliḥâs vexation with the SufyÄn intensified in 1979 when the asphalt road connecting Sanaa and á¹¢aÊ¿da was completed. The completion of the construction work reduced travel time of the 245 km journey between the two cities from ten to four hours and meant that
At the time of my childhood, SufyÄn was a frightening and terrifying place. The nights, in particular, were full of terrors. It was a remote area, and in al-Ê¿Amashiyya most areas close to the road were devoid of settlements and people. And this is why brigands came from other provinces and looted travellers at night and the travellers believed that we, the SufyÄn, were behind it. This really damaged our reputation. And then we heard that during the nights there were cases of killing, looting, and robbery of travellers in al-Ê¿Amashiyya, and it turned out that it was á¹¢Äliḥâs men who did this in order to use it against us, because it is our territory, and the state insisted that every shaykh was responsible for what happened in it
[his territory]. Whereas in our opinion the opposite was true: the state was responsible for providing security, not the citizens. My father sent out night patrols with orders to mount a watch on the road, and indeed they managed to apprehend bandits and handed them over to the authorities. Yet then we learnt that after a few days the authorities always set them free. One night, our tribesmen caught a band of brigands, and their leaders turned out to be the personal bodyguard and the personal driver of the military commander in al-Ḥarf. We detained them until the next day, then we handed them over to the commander, in front of the people. He ordered that they be fettered by their feet to military vehicles, and they were dragged to death in order to cover up the scandal, lest it expose the manipulations of the regime.62
The SufyÄn strongly suspected that the regimeâs machinations were behind the deterioration of the security situation along the road, but they could not prove it. If indeed á¹¢Äliḥ had sent the brigands to loot and kill â and the SufyÄn had no doubt that he had â he had taken care to see that they came under cover of night, without uniforms, in the guise of common brigands. And each further incident on the road nurtured prevalent preconceptions of the grim and troublesome character of the SufyÄn.
The regimeâs strategy was aimed at provoking Aḥmad Ḥaydar where he was most sensitive: his honour. As we saw when discussing tribal territories and borders, notions of honour, liability, and guaranty are moral values of paramount importance among the tribes. What happens within the territory of a tribe affects the honour of the tribe, for the tribe is seen responsible for what happens in its territory and the roads traversing it. Armed confrontations arising from political disputes were one thing; the other were criminal activities and highway banditry. In tribal law, roadblocks and the disruption of traffic are not expressly permitted, but are tolerated as means of control (á¸abá¹). Highway banditry (ḥirÄba), however, involving killing, injury, or robbery, is punishable according to both state and tribal law.63 Therefore, when blocking a road, a tribe will always avoid causing any damage to people or their property, lest it transgress the line between control (á¸abá¹) and banditry (ḥirÄba). Whichever way one looked at it, the SufyÄn were responsible for the safety of travellers
By pushing the situation into chaos, the regime worked towards the criminalization of the SufyÄn and the creation of (in Foucaultâs expression) a âdelinquent group.â65 At the same time, á¹¢Äliḥ also came forward with a solution: In order to prove his honesty, he demanded the provision of hostages from Aḥmad Ḥaydar, thereby utilizing one of the central (and most effective) instruments of restraint applied by the imams to rein in the tribes and enforce their obedience.66 In the days of the Zaydi Imams, hostages were usually the sons of shaykhs: young boys between the ages of five and fifteen, who were taken from their families and held hostage in order to guarantee their fathersâ good behaviour. In SufyÄn, the memory of this practice was still fresh: before 1962, Aḥmad Ḥaydar and his brothers had been hostages of the Imam and had alternated with each other in this status. Since 1962, hostage-taking was no longer an official instrument of state power and coercion; however it was not illegal.67
When the imams took hostages, they took them from every important family, so that no one was spared and no one suspected preferential
treatment among the shaykhs. In the á¹¢Äliḥ era, the hostage-taking was selective, and went under a different name. In the era of the imams they were called âhostages of obedienceâ (rahÄʾin al-á¹ÄÊ¿a). In the á¹¢Äliḥ era, they were called âsecurity hostagesâ (rahÄʾin al-amÄn), for giving hostages was a means to acquit a shaykh of security charges or any sort of sedition. In practice, at night á¹¢Äliḥ would send men to SufyÄn to cause havoc and rob and loot merchants and travellers on the road. The following day, the armed forces would descend on SufyÄn and say: âThose [shaykhs] who are innocent [of these crimes] give a son as hostage as proof of their honour,â and the shaykhs would give their sons as hostages to prove their honesty, and [to prove] that they were not involved in highway banditry. These were á¹¢Äliḥâs devious approaches. Sometimes he would also send workers on the pretext of digging artesian wells for drinking water, or for any further construction work on the road, and ask the shaykh to hand over one of his sons as a security hostage, allegedly in order to protect the workers from any harm. The important point was that á¹¢Äliḥ took hostages, under whatever name. It was the same system as under the Imams, just under a different name. It was only abandoned with Yemeni unity [in 1990].
The Qishla in al-Ḥarf was a veritable fortress with prison cells, command and administration headquarters, a mosque, grain stores, dormitories for
the soldiers and bedrooms for the military commanders. And there was a place for locking shackles around the ankles and wrists of the prisoners and removing them before their release. Lice, fleas, and other insects ate us at night. My father, may God have mercy on him, gave the prison guard a car in exchange for attending to me and sewing my clothes when they were torn and protecting me from the cold of the nights, for in the winter mornings we sometimes woke to the taste of snow in the air. And the prison ward did these tasks for me. But sometimes he would lock me up in a cell at daylight. For he was in the habit of chaining the inmates in the morning and removing the heavy chains at noon in exchange for 50 riyals, which each captive had to give him so that he could buy qÄt with it.
The prisoners were not allowed to buy water, food, or [fulfil] any other need they had from Qishlaâs grocery store, so they asked me to buy this secretly for them. I started running small errands for them without charging a fee. By doing so, I deprived the prison guard of a part of his livelihood without him even knowing it. I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced. The discovery roused the man to a fury and he seized a baton to strike me and beat me badly. It was a special sort of baton that was called a prison club. I stood his blows without shedding a tear, and my endurance made him even more furious. After he was done, he locked me in a cell. At night, when I was sitting down on a bundle of hay while trying to overcome the shock and the pain which the violent blow occasioned, he came to me, in sudden compunction and fear from my father. He sat down with me and asked me not to tell my father about the incident.
I wrote a letter from prison to my beloved mother. The fellow prisoners laughed at me when they saw me addressing the letter to âmy honoured motherâ (ḥaá¸arat ummÄ«). They asked, âWhy donât you send the letter to your honoured father?â I love my mother and respect her intensely, and I had never written a letter before. Even my handwriting looked clumsy and crooked like the furrow of a plough in the soil. Since my father was in conflict with the regime, he only came to visit me once or twice and was always accompanied by a large number of warriors from our tribe. After a year and a half in captivity, my father understood that it was a bargain whose goal was to enforce his obedience, rather than acquit our tribe of the accusation of highway brigandage. He instructed me to escape from the Qishla and run away on a specific day and specific hour after the evening prayer. At that time he would have about a thousand warriors ready to attack the fort, in case the soldiers chased me after I jumped from the wall.
I waited until dinner, which I used to take together with the commander and the officers and some of the soldiers, after the evening prayer. During dinner, I told the soldiers that I had to take a leak and left the room, but bad luck would have it that my leave did not escape the commanderâs practised eye. He thought it suspicious, and sent a soldier after me. I was a child and did not notice. The soldier called out for me to stop before I jumped off the wall, then he caught me by my arm and the collar of my jacket, dragged me back, and maintained his tenacious grip until I gave up. After this I was forbidden to have dinner with the commander and the officers. They would not let me sit with them, nor eat with them any more.
Indeed that night a group of our tribesmen had crawled in stealth beneath the wall I was supposed to jump off, with others waiting in the dark in the vicinity of the Qishla, like shadows. After midnight, when they did not see me, they withdrew, for it would have been useless for them to wait for me any longer. They returned to my father and told him, âMujÄhid did not jump off the wall.â
One week later, my father sent my younger brother Fayá¹£al to take my place as a hostage and effect my release. At home, he asked me what had happened, and I related to him that the soldier had seized me and prevented my escape. One month later, after it had transpired that my father was getting ready to free his children by force of arms, á¹¢Äliḥ also released my brother Fayá¹£al.
The [internal] war in SufyÄn, nourished by al-Aḥmar and á¹¢Äliḥ, lasted some years and was fought with all sorts of weapons. In these years, there was random shooting, day and night, between the villages; in the centres of the villages, the effects of this are still visible. My father was very keen on our schooling, yet concerned that stray bullets might harm us on our way to school. He resolved to send us to al-Jawf, where we were placed in the care of his close friend Shaykh Ibn NusÊ¿a [of DhÅ« Ḥusayn of Dahm] and enrolled in school in SaraḥÄt al-MatÅ«n. Later, we also established marriage relations (muá¹£Ähira) between us and [the family of] Ibn NusÊ¿a when I married one of his daughters. The customs and traditions of the people in al-Jawf are good: the young people are free to choose their spouses, and the couple lives in the house of the wifeâs family if they wish.70 And my brother Fayá¹£al and I went to visit our family in SufyÄn every one or two months.
5 The Black and the White
After á¹¢Äliḥ had overcome (or survived) the early challenges of his tenure, the scales that had been vacillating for so long, tipped slowly and steadily in his direction. In spite of his humble origin and obscure antecedents, he rose to a position beyond reproach and became the lynchpin of a state that was tailored to him and that he shaped almost at will.
During this phase â the 1980s â á¹¢Äliḥ worked to include a broad array of stakeholders in his system in order to rule on as broad a basis as possible; indeed throughout his life, in a recurring pattern, phases of open conflict were followed by phases of co-optation by his erstwhile foes, whom he brought into the fold of his regime. A national charter (mÄ«thÄq waá¹anÄ«) was drafted, and the so-called General Peopleâs Congress (gpc) was convened in 1982. This umbrella organization, which sought to represent a multitude of political and tribal interests, became á¹¢Äliḥâs main basis of support.71 Since the yar constitution did not permit political parties, the gpc served to ensure the broadest possible involvement of influential people under the banner of supporting á¹¢Äliḥ. In doing so, á¹¢Äliḥ was perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the times, for he joined the exclusive group of Arab rulers who created around themselves systems of centralized personal rule, and were soon identified as authoritarian and quasi-monarchical.72
Phillips likened the á¹¢Äliḥ system to a âseries of concentric circles.â74 At the centre of this system was á¹¢Äliḥ. In the innermost circle were his close relatives (sons, nephews, half-brothers, cousins, in-laws), as well as, in a layer slightly further out, the elite of the SanḥÄn tribe. The members of this inner echelon, consisting of perhaps fifty people, filled the countryâs most sensitive military and security positions in the five military regions. á¹¢Äliḥâs relative, General Ê¿AlÄ« Muḥsin al-Aḥmar75 (generally seen as á¹¢Äliḥâs foster brother), was in charge of the strategically and politically most significant North-Western Military Region and commanded the First Armoured Division (al-Firqa al-AwlÄ MadarraÊ¿), commonly referred to as the Firqa. A widely feared instrument of political and economic coercion, this very limited group served as the âbaseline guaranteeâ76 against any challenge to á¹¢Äliḥâs power.77
Beyond these favoured circles were á¹¢Äliḥâs political enemies, tribes of dubious loyalty, and the masses, all of whom benefited little or not at all from his government. á¹¢Äliḥâs chosen method of dealing with those groups that were able to resist and challenge his rule was a policy of divide and rule â in Arabic idÄrat al-á¹£irÄÊ¿ (conflict administration) â that aimed at keeping them divided and distracted. In governing Yemen, á¹¢Äliḥâs real feat consisted of pitting his enemies and rivals against each other. Conflict administration, by which he encouraged rivalries and discord, ensured that existing concentrations of power were broken up, and smaller groups were prevented from uniting
Domestically, the BakÄ«l in particular became a target of this policy, for a great many of them resented what they perceived as a surge of ḤÄshid favouritism after 1978. á¹¢Äliḥ considered them dangerous because, in terms of numbers and territory, the BakÄ«l were the largest confederation of the highlands and the northern steppe, far larger than the ḤÄshid. United they would be able to paralyse any government. The BakÄ«l tribes of sizeable faraway areas of northern Ê¿AmrÄn, eastern á¹¢aÊ¿da, and al-Jawf, in particular, were known as unbridled and difficult to control. Given their mobility and ever recurring raids, these tribes were dreaded, particularly by city dwellers, and peasants in Lower Yemen.85 Because of their transnational mobility and ongoing raids (they frequently crossed the Yemeni-Saudi border), the Saudis also considered them dangerous. The Saudis also preferred to strengthen Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar and the tribes of ḤÄshid, because their territories were located in the vicinity of Sanaa, far from Saudi territory and the vulnerable Yemeni-Saudi border, and therefore they were not seen as a threat.86
Since á¹¢Äliḥ assumed power, he and Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar considered the tribes of BakÄ«l their enemies and worked towards dispersing them by igniting the fires of war and feuds among them. Did you know that since 1978, when á¹¢Äliḥ came to power, weapons of all kinds â light, medium, and heavy â became readily available in the tribal markets in Yemen, like potatoes or tomatoes in the markets in other countries? They were imported by the state and in the name of the ministry of defence, and then distributed [to local markets] by arms merchants who were á¹¢Äliḥâs business partners. This happened with the aim of tearing apart the tribes of BakÄ«l, lest they unite and take power from him. Because the tribes of BakÄ«l with their sheer numbers, geographical location, and ferocity would easily be able to take power from any ruler by force of arms or through the ballot box. This was the goal behind overstocking the markets with arms. The state imported the weapons, then these weapons landed in the markets for the tribes, and then they used them to fight each other, after the regime had planted the seeds of hatred, revenge, killing, and wars among them. á¹¢Äliḥ produced some minor problems among other tribes, too, so that the tribes of BakÄ«l would not suspect that they were the main target of these criminal schemes. á¹¢Äliḥ never worked to implement stability, law and order, and the tribes continued to cause chaos; there was no discipline, no justice, no development, no rights; the aim of creating internal chaos among the tribes was meant to ensure their fragmentation. á¹¢Äliḥ always worked to weaken and divide the tribes of BakÄ«l, and after some years he and al-Aḥmar installed NÄjÄ« l-ShÄyif as senior shaykh of BakÄ«l.87
The fomenting of internal conflict among those who were considered potential threats certainly resembles what Bauman called âliquid modernityâ: those at the top create as much chaos as possible for those lower down, so that they may rule more easily.88 Indeed the massive distribution of weapons to the tribes became a cheap bribe, neither moral nor prudent. In the mid-2000s,
The yarâs legitimacy problem, especially that of the á¹¢Äliḥ government, became apparent early on. In the early 1980s, there was no ideological consensus in the yar, no social contract; any legitimacy rested primarily on a sense of âYemeni nationalismâ and opposition to the pdry.89 In the late 1980s Ê¿Abd al-SalÄm still considered the concept of mawÄá¹ina (citizenship) underdeveloped.90 Ideological and political programs remained weak and unclear, and the regime was unable (or unwilling) to unify its citizens by fostering structural development, infrastructure, and institution building, all of which would have strengthened its legitimacy. Rather, the regime rested on patrimonial elite rule, headed by á¹¢Äliḥ himself. In this very respect, the regime resembled the ḤamÄ«d al-DÄ«n state of the early twentieth century. Many believed that the change to the system that took place in the 1960s did not constitute a genuine revolution, but simply a change in government carried out by a small group of people.
In this system, bayt Ḥaydar and bayt al-Aḥmar represented opposing role models, antipodes, like the obverse and reverse of a coin. Political fortunes and his own superior abilities gave Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar a prominent role in Yemeni politics, which he played in a masterly fashion. On the national stage, as president of the majlis al-shÅ«rÄ (consultative council), al-Aḥmar was as powerful as a shaykh could be, at least beyond the inner echelon of power, which was reserved for á¹¢Äliḥ and his family. Even if Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar never belonged to this innermost circle, he saw to it that he and his family were well endowed with another form of power, namely wealth from government subsidies, the business activities of his sons (notably ḤamÄ«d), and lucrative patronage relationships with the Saudis.91 In tribal terms, the radiance and influence of this ambitious man had its heyday in the 1960s and 1970s, when he oversaw a seemingly endless series of tribal mobilizations that helped to tip the scales in the nationâs formative struggles: in the 1960s civil war, in the eras of al-ḤamdÄ« and al-GhashmÄ«, during the Nasirite coup attempt in 1978, the border war in 1979, and the War of the Central Areas in the early 1980s.
In the late 1970s, Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar began to capitalize on the activities of Sunni Islamists, both Salafis and Muslim Brothers, because the difference between them is political rather than intellectual, and people very easily switch from one side to the other. My father agitated the tribe of SufyÄn against them, and no one in SufyÄn accepted Sunni Islamism,
because it was the ideology of our enemy, Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar. My father rejected Islamism because he suspected that it would engender a weakening of tribal relations. He was concerned that under the banner of religion, Islamism would entice our tribes away [from us] and transform them into subordinates of al-Aḥmar. My father prevented the spread of Islamism in our area and among our tribe because of this enmity [with bayt al-Aḥmar] and not because of religious intolerance (taʿṣṣub madhhabÄ«). Until today, we are the only tribe among which hardly any trace of Salafism or the Muslim Brotherhood can be found. We are Zaydis. We do not like Sunni Islamists and their fanaticism and their lies. We seek refuge in God from them.
My fatherâs opposition [to the regime] was coupled with a contempt that allowed no compromise. Many shaykhs succumbed to the regime in exchange for personal benefits, which had nothing to do with the interests of their tribes. The tribes of BakÄ«l loathed those shaykhs who followed á¹¢Äliḥ and al-Aḥmar. This is evident from the fact that those shaykhs who became wealthy were stigmatized (maḥrÅ«q) by the tribes, because their wealth was proof that they had become á¹¢Äliḥâs creatures. And there were shaykhs who did not submit to the reigning mendacity, and hence were persecuted by the regime. My father was one of these shaykhs. He had an honourable fighting history (tÄrÄ«kh niá¸ÄlÄ« sharÄ«f) and a flawless reputation that had nothing to do with succumbing to á¹¢Äliḥ in exchange for the accumulation of wealth.
And because of this position the tribes of BakÄ«l honour us, because we did not succumb to á¹¢Äliḥ and al-Aḥmar in exchange for money and personal gains and benefits that had nothing to do with the interests of our tribe. We resisted and rose against them, and in times of conflict our tribe always stood by our side. Many shaykhs submitted to á¹¢Äliḥ and moved to Sanaa to serve him, far from the home areas of their tribes. These shaykhs are stigmatized (maḥrÅ«q) among their tribes. But we, thanks be to God, are still at the core of our tribe. We are bayt Ḥaydar, we are pure white, we did not yield, neither to á¹¢Äliḥ nor to al-Aḥmar, albeit this cost us many wars and martyrs.
From the vantage point of the BakÄ«l, Aḥmad Ḥaydarâs consistent political opposition and his refusal to enter into a patronage relationship with the regime in Sanaa strengthened his reputation among the tribes. Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmarâs cooperation with the increasingly corrupt and kleptocratic á¹¢Äliḥ regime and the rapacious trading activities of his sons, in contrast, damaged or potentially âblackenedâ their tribal reputation. This contrast was felt throughout their careers; each family symbolized antagonistic outlooks and divergent role models in navigating the yarâs political environment. Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar embodied the new times: the shaykh politician, the shaykh entrepreneur, the city shaykh, the government shaykh whose national importance and influence went far beyond the confines of his original tribe. By contrast, Aḥmad Ḥaydar
We lived a life of bitterness (nakd) and [suffered from] political wars in a tribal guise that consumed all our energy and time and did not leave us room for anything else. We were unable to invest in agriculture, because the wars did not allow us to do real agricultural work. Our men were warriors more than they were farmers, so it was impossible for them to attain prosperity or to bring a semblance of well-being to SufyÄn. Even about the issue of our own history we know almost nothing, even though our house is full of large chests packed with old documents and papers. We were better off in the 1970s than in the 1980s, and the 1980s were better than the 1990s, and in this direction things continued to move with the progress of days and years, always from bad to worse because of these evil politics (siyasiyyat al-Ê¿ayn) that insulted a dear and ancient people (shaÊ¿b Ê¿azÄ«z Ê¿arÄ«q).
We have seen with an all too clear eye the fragility of everything, the premature deaths, and the sufferings that arise from them. My great-grandfather Ḥaydar and my grandfather QÄʾid were both martyred in al-Jawf, the former in WÄdÄ« l-SarÄ«ra and the latter in KharÄb al-MarÄshÄ« after he killed seven of his assailants; this is a long story that I will relate later at greater length. I saw the Imamsâ condolence letters among the papers
in our house. Shaykhdom then went to his eldest son, my uncle Ê¿AbdallÄh. When Ê¿AbdallÄh died, [his brother] Ḥaydar became shaykh. And when Ḥaydar died, his brother Aḥmad (my father) became shaykh, because my father was the youngest of the brothers. And later, in 1987, after my three elder brothers and my father were killed, I became the shaykh. And for me, too, fate had few pleasant prospects, for I would escape death and doom only because I decided twice, at the end of bitter struggles, to go into exile. The [members of] bayt Ḥaydar did not enjoy the pleasures of parenthood and childhood, nor the pleasures of being an uncle or an aunt, a brother or a sister. Because of their haste to die, none of them was granted the bliss of a quiet family life. Our people became accustomed to expecting these things [i.e., premature deaths] every day, especially in the era of á¹¢Äliḥ, may God curse him, because of the many wars and revenge issues. They live in a state of permanent grief. For example, my mother first saw the killing of her brother and her nephew. Then her father and her second brother were killed, then her son ḤÄmis my [full] brother was killed, and then her husband â my father â was killed.96 All our women are in this situation and some endure even more than that.
á¹¢Äliḥ, being a cunning and wily observer and actor, understood the situation fairly well, yet he would never work to establish stability and peace, just as he never attempted to reconcile these two prominent families whose conflict had the proven potential to destabilize highland Yemen. On the contrary, he closely monitored and often encouraged the further evolution of their enmity. These two families possessed a singular importance for his plans. Bayt Ḥaydar and bayt al-Aḥmar were as different as day and night, role models of two utterly divergent political outlooks and visions of tribal leadership, and yet they were bound together by shared borders, a common history, a tribal background, and rancorous competition. The day would come, á¹¢Äliḥ supposed, when the antagonism between them would be of use to him, and when he would be able to turn their rivalry to good account. Until then, he remained in the background, administering and orchestrating their conflict without exposing himself in person, pulling the strings and entangling them as he pleased, and playing the most attractive of all games: the great game of politics.
In the history of Yemen, the arid plateaux of the northern highlands were ravaged by famine from time to time. On his journey through Arḥab in the 1960s, Serjeant (1987) observed signs of a local custom, according to which people suffering from famine (i.e., when they saw that escape from death was impossible) would lock the doors of their houses from the inside and remain there until they died. This was considered an âhonourable death.â
Ê¿AmrÄn province at present covers 2,734 square kilometres.
Since the beginning of the Common Era, many tribes of BakÄ«l, especially those in al-Jawf and its environs, have been frequently subjected to penetration by Arab Bedouin tribes from further north, see Robin 1991. Their geographic location near the desert distinguishes the tribes of BakÄ«l from those of ḤÄshid and has historically led to the BakÄ«lâs partial âbedouinization,â see Caskel 1966: vol. 2: 47.
On the history and significance of this road, see al-Thenayian 1996. The road is also known as the âRoad of the Elephantâ (darb al-fÄ«l) after the unsuccessful military campaign of Abraha, the Abyssinian viceroy in Yemen, in ca. 570 CE, who took with him a number of war elephants on this road, see Beeston 1960.
Dresch 1989: 244â245. On the 1960s civil war, as seen from different vantage points, see al-ShahÄrÄ« 1966; OâBallance 1971; JuzaylÄn 1977; al-ḤadÄ«dÄ« 1984; ZabÄrah 1984; BÄdÄ«b 1990; Muá¹ahhar 1990; al-MuqrimÄ« 1991; Aḥmad 1992; Dresch 2000: 89â199; Witty 2001; and Orkaby 2017. The personal memoirs of Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar (2008: 79â200) and SinÄn AbÅ« Laḥūm 2004: vol. 2: 21â358 are also rich testimonies to the civil war.
Al-ḤadÄ«dÄ« 1984: 83â85.
Brandt 2013: 123.
These descriptions were used by local sources during the research for my article on âSufyÄnâs Hybrid Warâ (2013) and my book (2017a) on the role of the highland tribes in Yemenâs ḤūthÄ« conflict.
QÄra and Maá¹ra are cavernous areas in á¹¢aÊ¿da province; QÄra was a royalist headquarters in the 1960s civil war; and Maá¹ra served as a refuge for ḤūthÄ« leaders during the á¹¢aÊ¿da wars of 2004â10, see Brandt 2017a: 185â186. On the historical importance of ShahÄra and KawkabÄn, see Wilson 1982 and Wilson 1989: 206 and 289.
See also discussions by Dostal (1968â69: 247) and Gingrich (1993) on the relationship between large state centres and local cultures in the Middle East. Both emphasize the importance of the specific location of a local group or tribe in the overall context of power and space. Gingrich (1993: 263â267) shows that a situation similar to that in SufyÄn also exists in WÄʾilah, an area in north-eastern Yemen near NajrÄn, where the homonymous tribe controls the main road that connects NajrÄn with á¹¢aÊ¿da and thus controls the main trade and smuggling routes between Yemen and Saudi Arabia. The WÄʾilahâs power was particularly evident during the so-called âWÄʾilah roadblockâ (qaá¹ÄÊ¿ WÄʾilah), which resulted in a series of battles and almost led to civil war, see also Dresch 1989: 381. Whereas the WÄʾilah tribe plays a key role in transnational trade and smuggling, the position of the SufyÄn is significant for governing highland Yemen.
The role of shaykhs in the tribal societies of Yemen is well documented, both by Yemeni scholars and foreign anthropologists. See for example AbÅ« GhÄnim 1985: 191â230; Dresch 1984a; 1989: 97â106; al-Ê¿AlÄ«mÄ« 1988: 77â82; Gingrich 1989: 105â136; al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 104â115; Weir 2007: 95â120; and Brandt 2014a. The term shaykh can denote a tribal rank or a position of religious leadership, as expressed in the terms shaykh al-qabÄ«la (tribal leader) and shaykh al-dÄ«n (Islamic scholar). Sometimes a shaykhâs close agnates are also referred to as shaykh. The legal situation in Yemen is characterized by the coexistence of three legal systems: customary law (Ê¿urf), Islamic law (sharÄ«Ê¿a), and state law. In highland Yemen, Ê¿urf and sharÄ«Ê¿a are in many, but not all ways, complementary. The importance of Ê¿urf is mainly due to the fact that it contains detailed provisions regarding issues of local concern, such as agriculture, trade, animal husbandry, markets, grazing and water rights, on which sharÄ«Ê¿a law is unspecific or silent, see al-Ê¿AlÄ«mÄ« 1988; Gingrich 1989: 117â123; Dresch 2006; Weir 2007: 145â146; and á¹¢ayyÄd 2014. As a result of the codification process from the 1970s onwards, today Yemeni state law incorporates elements from sharÄ«Ê¿a and Ê¿urf, excerpts from Egyptian and other Arab laws, and international principles, see al-Zwaini 2012.
On different concepts and approaches to the hierarchization and ranking of shaykhs among the confederations of BakÄ«l, ḤÄshid, and KhawlÄn b. Ê¿Ämir, see Brandt 2014a: 98â105.
The term bayt (house) refers to a household or extended family and is used in conjunction with the name of one of its membersâ common forebears. In the case of bayt Ḥaydar, the name Ḥaydar pertains to a long-deceased ancestor. On the usage of the term bayt in highland Yemen, see Weir 2007: 78 and Varisco 2017: 233â234, 237.
Bayt Ḥubaysh is equally prominent in highland Yemen; members of the Ḥubaysh lineage are frequently mentioned in ZabÄrahâs works on the history of Yemen (1941, 1958), see Dresch 1989: 202â204, 207, 210â211.
The longevity of shaykhly lineages and the principle of dynastic succession are reflected in references to eponymous ancestors through the use of the affix ibn or bin (b. = son of). Upon inauguration, each newly elected office holder of a long-standing shaykhly lineage receives this affix â e.g., Ibn Ḥaydar, Ibn Ḥubaysh, Ibn al-Aḥmar, etc. â that identifies him as the agnate of the historical founder of the particular shaykhly lineage. The title remains his âterm of addressâ and âterm of referenceâ throughout his tenure, and under this common name, all shaykhs of the same lineage operate and have done so in some cases for over a thousand years. Thus, the official names of the shaykhs from long-standing shaykhly lineages is a genealogical designation that declares the agnatic legitimacy of its bearer; see Gingrich 1989: 134.
The tribes of highland Yemen (and elsewhere) organize themselves into confederations: associations of independent tribes of a putative common descent that occasionally act together outwardly, but retain their sovereignty. In Arabic, there is no equivalent to the term âconfederation,â Yemenis just refer to âthe tribes of BakÄ«lâ (qabÄʾil BakÄ«l).
The maintenance and defence of honour (sharaf) holds a special place in the moral value system of the tribes. A tribesmanâs honour can be impugned by attacks on any constituent element of his self, with women and landholdings (ará¸) considered the most important. Thus, the protected space on which tribal honour depends is often identified with physical space and territory. Disgrace (Ê¿ayb) infringes honour, and according to the code of tribalism any infringement of honour requires amends. The honour of an individual tribesman is simultaneously part of the tribeâs collective honour and therefore can be (though is not always) defended by the entire tribal solidary group, driven by the imperative of Ê¿aá¹£abiyya (i.e., âclannishnessâ or âcohesive drive against outsidersâ); see Levanoni 2016. On the concept of tribal honour see, for example, Serjeant 1977: 227â228; Adra 1982: 142â144, 185â186; Caton 1987: 90â93; Caton 1990: 161â165; Dresch 1989: 38â70; Gingrich 2001; Gingrich 2002: 148â152; and Weir 2007: 49â51.
On these obligations of common assistance among the SufyÄn, see Dresch 1989: 127â128, 259â261, 350â352.
During his expedition to Arḥab, Glaser (1884: 170) learned about a territorial conflict between SufyÄn and ḤÄshid in WÄdÄ« KhaywÄn in the early 1880s; this led the ḤÄshid to cause a âhorrific carnageâ among the SufyÄn. In his 1884 travel diary Glaser further specifies these events; he writes about a massive raid, âden die ḤÄshid-Araber vor zirka 6 Wochen ins Gebiet der SufyÄn gemacht haben, wo sie fürchterlich hausten. Wie mir seinerzeit in Ê¿AmrÄn der Shaykh Ê¿AlÄ« Muthenna al-QudaymÄ«, der bei jenem Araberzug eine Art Feldherrenrolle spielte, erzählte, hätten sie 3 oder 4 Dörfer den Flammen preisgegeben mitsamt den Einwohnern, Männern, Greisen, Weibern und Kindern. Dieses wird mir nunmehr auch von der angegriffenen Seite (den BakÄ«l) bestätigt. Alle BakÄ«lstämme haben infolge dessen ihre schwebenden Feindseligkeiten eingestellt, um dem Appelle der SufyÄn, gemeinsam die ḤÄshid anzugreifen, Folge leisten zu könnenâ (see Dostal 1993: 55). Local sources from among the SufyÄn told me that the conflict between al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt and SufyÄn was also tried in court sometime during the imamic period (fÄ« waqt al-imÄm), and that a decision was issued in favour of the SufyÄn, however, it was not implemented on the ground due to the lack of ḤÄshid cooperation.
Dresch 1989: 204â207.
Dresch 1995: 48.
Al-Aḥmar 2008: 47â48. The Constitutional Revolution of 1948, led by Ê¿AbdallÄh al-WazÄ«r, sought to reform the autocratic imamate and led to the assassination of Imam YaḥyÄ á¸¤amÄ«d al-DÄ«n. It collapsed when YaḥyÄâs heir, crown prince Aḥmad, recaptured Sanaa with the help of northern tribes, see Stookey 1978: 213â223; al-WazÄ«r 2003; and al-MasÊ¿Å«dÄ« 2006: 328â372. For the personal account of these events by al-Wazirâs daughter, see Bruck 2018.
Al-Aḥmar 2008: 71â72. On Imam Aḥmadâs orders, Ḥusayn b. NÄá¹£ir al-Aḥmar and his son Ḥamid (Ê¿AbdallÄhâs brother) were beheaded at Ḥajja.
Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar claims in his memoirs (2008: 93), that the ḤÄshid so dominated the republican side that many equated the revolution with the ḤÄshid tribe.
Dresch (1984b: 170) observed that âduring the late 1970s, when the National Democratic Front was [a] major feature of Yemeni affairs, those tribes which in the main expressed sympathy with the Front, and whose members declared themselves Nasserist or socialist, were precisely the tribes which a few years before had been thought staunchly royalist.â
The BayḥÄn massacre of 1972 was a northern political intrigue that led to the murder of 65 members of formerly leading royalist shaykhly families in a tent on pdry territory; most of them were from the KhawlÄn al-ṬiyÄl tribe. Among those murdered was the royalist figurehead NÄjÄ« l-GhÄdir. The massacre triggered the eruption of the 1972 border war between the yar and pdry; see Brandt 2019.
Koszinowski 1978: 65; Peterson 1982: 105.
Al-IryÄnÄ« tried to prevent the shaykhs from plundering state funds. SinÄn AbÅ« Laḥūm wrote in his memoirs that in 1974 Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar sent a letter to al-IryÄnÄ« threatening to attack Sanaa if he did not offer his resignation, see AbÅ« Laḥūm 2004: vol. 2: 470. On the dominance of the shaykhs in national politics in the era of al-IryÄnÄ«, see also Koszinowski 1978; Peterson 1982: 173â175; al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 148â159; JallÅ«l 1999: 47â52; and al-Ê¿AynÄ« 2000: 149â214.
This happened in imamic times, before the 1962 revolution. On the KhÄrif version of this territorial dispute and YaḥyÄ AbÅ« ShawÄribâs assassination, see al-Salami and Hoots 2003: 228â230.
See al-BaradÅ«nÄ« 1983: 521â533.
Al-ḤamdÄ« remains much revered among the Yemeni people, although it is doubtful whether his Corrective Movement would have been successful. The al-ḤamdÄ« era is well documented, see e.g., Koszinowski 1978: 75â77; al-BaradÅ«nÄ« 1983: 521â533; al-ShahÄrÄ« 1983; Burrowes 1987: 57â85; al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 164â179; JallÅ«l 1999: 52â60; al-Ê¿AynÄ« 2000: 281â316; Dresch 2000: 124â130; Blumi 2018: 124â134; áºÄfir 2020; and NuÊ¿mÄn 2022. For a collection of al-ḤamdÄ«âs speeches, see WizÄrat al-IÊ¿lÄm wa-l-ThaqÄfa (n.d.). On Local Development Associations (ldas), see Peterson 1982: 154â156; and Carapico 1998: 108â134.
Koszinowski 1978: 71â73.
Koszinowski 1978: 74; Peterson 1982: 116.
Until his assassination in May 1978, AmÄ«n AbÅ« RÄs was the yarâs ânear-perpetual minister of stateâ; see Peterson 1982: 110.
Some shaykhs from the á¹¢aÊ¿da area, particularly the SaḥÄr tribe, played prominent roles on the republican side in the 1960s civil war (Brandt 2017a: 39â61). These shaykhs also suspected that their new national influence would be diminished by al-ḤamdÄ«âs reforms.
AbÅ« Laḥūm (2004: vol. 3: 175) refers to a 1977 letter by Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar complaining about Aḥmad Ḥaydarâs roadblocks in SufyÄn.
On al-ḤamdÄ«âs assassination on 11 October 1977, see Rondot 1978; and Mermier 2017.
Al-GhashmÄ«âs brother was a shaykh of the HamdÄn Sanaa tribe (ḤÄshid).
On the 13 June Movement, see Burrowes 1987: 95â96, 99â100; and áºÄfir 2020.
Dresch 1989: 365â366.
Dresch 2000: 147â148.
The Nasirist coup attempt of October 1978 was backed by Libya, see Peterson 1982: 124â125; Burrowes and Schmitz 2018: 339.
After the Nasirist coup, repression became particularly severe. In the wake of the coup the total number of executions exceeded one hundred, and over 7,000 people were arrested, see Halliday 1985: 4; Gueyras and Shehadi 1979: 22.
Koszinowski 1980: 176.
In the border war of 1978â79, yar forces performed dismally, and pdry and ndf forces were able to penetrate deeply into yar territory. TaÊ¿iz and Ibb almost fell to the pdry. Embarrassed by the failures of the yar forces, many tribes defected to the ndf side, see Peterson 1982: 125; and Burrowes 1987: 95â96.
See al-Aḥmar 2008: 237â238. During the 1979 war, á¹¢Äliḥ wrote a letter to al-Aḥmar, demanding the mobilization of all tribesmen to ward off the southern attack at the yarâs border. The letter is reproduced in al-Aḥmarâs memoirs (2008: annex 48).
On the ndf, see Lackner 1985: 85â98; Gueyras and Shehadi 1979: 22; Koszinowski 1980: 187â191; Burrowes 1987: 99â107; Dresch 2000: 151â156; AbÅ« Laḥūm 2004: vol. 3: passim; and Brehony 2011: 109â115, 140â143.
Until the mid-1980s, the dominant building technique employed throughout the entire northern and north-east plateaux region was zabur: walls are erected by superimposing hand-shaped layers of compacted earth (á¹Ä«n), see Varanda 1982: 90â91; and Gingrich and Heiss 1986: 91, 114.
The evergreen Ê¿ilb (pl.Ê¿ulÅ«b) or sidr tree (Ziziphus spina-christi) is also known as Christâs Thorn, Jujube, or Nabkh tree.
Both Islamic law and customary law distinguish between two basic categories of land and its resources: private land owned and used exclusively by a specific group(s) or individual(s), and collective territory and its natural resources. The usage of the latter is regulated according to contractual shareholding, see Varisco 1982: 230â235; Dresch 1989: 336â342; and Weir 2007: 17â19.
The exact dimension of the surface unit libna could not be determined. The size of the libna (also pronounced lubna) differs across Yemen, even in the same governorate. In Sanaa one libna is equivalent to 114.49 square meters, but it may be of different size in SufyÄn (Daniel Varisco, personal communication, April 2022). Glaser gives the dimensions of one libna as 100 square dhirÄÊ¿Ät (one dhiraÊ¿ = the length from the elbow to the outstretched fingertips), see Dostal 1993: 33.
In this system of learning based on observation, emulation, everyday practice, and âon-siteâ formation of a person, teachers embodied knowledge, they did not only convey it through books or texts. This process of learning through embodiment, defined by perceptual experience and the mode of presence and engagement in the world, shows certain similarities with Marchandâs concept of âapprenticeship,â in which the acquisition of knowledge among artisans extends to other domains, including emotional, sensorial, spatial, and somatic representations, see Marchand 2008.
Qabyala (tribalness) is a purely Yemeni term and not synonymous with qabaliyya, which is frequently used to refer to tribalism in the Middle East. The concept of qabyala synthesizes the multiple local understandings of tribalism as a moral, social, political, legal, and aesthetic system, see Adra 1982; Adra 1988; Adra 2021; and Caton 1990: 25â49.
FirÄsa translates as âphysiognomy.â
On the roles and responsibilities of aÊ¿yÄn (sg. Ê¿ayn), see AbÅ« GhÄnim 1985: 228â230; and Weir 2007: 68.
On tribal leadership as a cooperative and collective enterprise and the roles and responsibilities of the counsellors of a shaykh, see al-Ê¿AlÄ«mÄ« 1988: 80; Gingrich 1989: 128â129; and Weir 2007: 68â69, 79.
Mauss 1990: 59.
On the War of the Central Areas, see Lackner 1985: 85â98; and al-ṬawÄ«l 2009: 170â190.
The upgrading of the road started in imamic times in the early 1960s with Chinese support; it continued during the reign of al-ḤamdÄ«. See Burrowes 1987: 20â21, 46, 67, 71â74; and Lichtenthäler 2003: 76â77. In 1979, the construction work was completed, see Meyer 1986: 265. The two bridges at al-Mudarrij in SufyÄn were constructed by a Chinese construction company in the mid-1970s. On the political significance of roads for regime politics, especially the so-called âstabilization roads,â see the Sudan case study by Bachmann, Pendle, and Moro 2022.
Lichtenthäler (2003: 134) mentions that on this road escorts were essential, and that merchants travelled in armed convoys when they crossed SufyÄn, because the area was said to be plagued by robbers. Foreign ngos were virtually absent, and officials working for multilateral and bilateral donor organizations were not permitted by their organizations to travel on the road to á¹¢aÊ¿da.
Executing someone by publicly dragging them to death behind a vehicle was a practice that was still applied during the á¹¢aÊ¿da wars (2004â10) to deter people from joining the ḤūthÄ« movement, see Brandt 2017a: 158â159, 178, 282.
On highway banditry in Islamic law, see Wajis 1996; Bassiouni 1997: 279â280; and Asri and Ruslan 2020.
On the role of shaykhs as the main representatives of tribal honour, see Gingrich 2021: 102.
Foucault 1977: 266.
On the practice of hostage taking before the revolution, see al-MasÊ¿Å«dÄ« 2006: 121â129; al-Jabr 2008; Weir 2007: 273â275; and Peskes 2013. On the issue of hostageship in literature, see DammÄj 1984. The last imam released all hostages, a fact that contributed to the loss of the imamate.
Although strategic hostage-taking was abandoned in 1962, from a legal point of view hostage-taking remained legitimate after 1962: The first constitution of the republic of 1970 recognizes (in paragraph 42, b and d) hostage-taking as a legitimate personal status and emphasizes the hostagesâ entitlement to protection from violence and the right to humane treatment. Only in the revised constitution of 1990 is the issue of hostage-taking no longer mentioned, see Peskes 2013. Nevertheless, after 1990, the state continued to take hostages in some isolated cases of acute conflict. Interestingly, all of these documented cases in one way or the other involve the tribe of SufyÄn, see e.g., Niewöhner-Eberhard 1985: 8; and Brandt 2013: 129â130.
According to local sources, the Qishla in al-Ḥarf was built by the Ottomans. It was also called the âImamâs Fortressâ (qalÊ¿at al-imÄm) because the ḤamÄ«d al-DÄ«n continued to use it after the Ottomans left Yemen. Many sons of shaykhs have been held hostage in the Qishla, see Nashwan News 2021. In republican times the Qishla was expanded with newer buildings, and in 2015 it was severely damaged by the Saudi Air Force in the war against the ḤūthÄ«s.
The governorate of al-Jawf was established around 1980; therefore, it was the last region of tribal highland Yemen that was successively incorporated into the Yemeni state system. See Burrowes and Schmitz 2018: 265â266.
Here MujÄhid is referring to post-marital ambilocality (i.e., in which couples, upon marriage, choose to live with or near either spouseâs parents), which differs from the dominant model of post-marital patrilocality. Ambilocal practices can be found among many other groups in northernmost tribal Yemen (for a case from KhawlÄn b. Ê¿Ämir, see Brandt 2017a: 141â142) and beyond (e.g. al-Mahra, according to local evidence). Similar practices in al-Jawf are described by al-RuwayshÄn 1997: 160. Local sources often stress the strong position of tribal women in al-Jawf; see al-Dawsari 2014.
On the mÄ«thÄq waá¹anÄ«, see al-Ê¿AmrÄ« 2000. A multitude of Yemeni and foreign studies deals with á¹¢Äliḥ and his era, both before and after 1990, see e.g., Burrowes 1987: 94â117; JallÅ«l 1999: 66â73; al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 181â191; Dresch 2000: 151â168; al-Faraḥ 2002: 55â64; Phillips 2008; Phillips 2011a; Day 2012: 86â106; Hill 2017; Lackner 2017: 100â104; Lackner 2023: 40â74; Blumi 2018: 142â169; al-Ê¿AshmÄwÄ« 2019; and SalÄm n.d. Because of Yemenâs limited freedom of expression, but also admiration for á¹¢Äliḥ, most local accounts are positive. For a critical view of á¹¢Äliḥâs government, see al-Ê¿AbbÄsÄ«, who also mentions the political assassination of Aḥmad Ḥaydar in 1987 (al-Ê¿AbbÄsÄ« 1990: 103).
Among these Arab rulers were JamÄl Ê¿Abd al-NÄá¹£ir (Gamal Abdel Nasser), ḤabÄ«b BÅ«rqÄ«ba (Habib Bourgiba), HawwÄrÄ« BÅ«madyan (Houari Boumedienne), MuÊ¿amar al-QadhÄfÄ« (Muammar Qaddafi), and ḤÄfiẠal-Asad (Hafiz al-Asad), who used their growing powers to entrench themselves firmly in systems that were part republic and part monarchy, see Owen 2012. Owen divides these rulers into two groups: those presiding over states in which the central government was relatively strong, as in Tunisia, Syria, Egypt, and Algeria; and those whose relative weakness required a much more elaborate practice of accommodation, negotiation, and compromise with internal rivals and foes, such as Sudan, Libya, and Yemen.
Dresch 2000: 159.
Phillips 2011a: 87â104.
Despite their common surname, there was no family relationship between Ê¿AlÄ« Muḥsin al-Aḥmar from SanḥÄn and Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar from al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt. For this reason, people in Yemen refer to them as the âtwo houses of al-Aḥmarâ (baytayn al-Aḥmar).
Phillips 2008: 68.
On the evolution of northern Yemenâs âtribal-military-commercial complex,â see Seitz 2016.
Phillips 2011a: 87â104.
Al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 181.
Al-áºÄhirÄ« 1996: 181.
Dresch (1995: 41) argues that actually only the tribes of SanḥÄn (President á¹¢Äliḥâs home tribe) and HamdÄn Sanaa (former President al-GhashmÄ«âs home tribe) really benefited, and â to a lesser extent â KhÄrif and BanÄ« á¹¢uraym, who likewise managed to secure jobs for themselves in the army and civil service through the process of tawzÄ«f. Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmarâs home tribe, al-Ê¿Uá¹£aymÄt, on the other hand, benefited very little, and shortly after Yemeni unity in the early 1990s, half of them would have voted for the socialists, the nemesis of á¹¢Äliḥ and Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar.
Phillips 2011a. For a similar approach, see Wedeen 2008: 148â185.
Blumi 2018: 142â169.
Blumi 2018: 142.
In the works of Yemenâs tenth-century scholar and geographer al-Ḥasan al-HamdÄnÄ«, the tribes of WÄʾilah and Dahm embody courage and other timeless qualities that still represent the ideals of Yemenâs tribal societies: honour, strength, nobility, and the idea of the protection of the weak. Yet al-HamdÄnÄ« also describes them as indomitable avengers, see al-HamdÄnÄ« 1968: 194â195. On raiding, see the numerous mentions in al-Ê¿AmrÄ« 1986 and Dresch 2006.
Nevertheless, the border shaykhs were also included in Saudi (and Yemeni) patronage networks in order to stabilize the vulnerable Yemeni-Saudi border. See Brandt 2017a: 75â97; and Lenz-Ayoub 2021.
The investiture of NÄjÄ« l-ShÄyif of DhÅ« Ḥusayn of Dahm as senior shaykh of BakÄ«l in 1980 is a story in itself. Al-ShÄyif was pro-Saudi and closely cooperated with al-Aḥmar and á¹¢Äliḥ. He had little influence at the grassroots level of BakÄ«l, thus many suggest that his election served to keep the BakÄ«l weak and fragmented. On his investiture as senior shaykh of BakÄ«l in Biʾr al-MahÄshima in al-Jawf, see Dresch 1989: 370â372. In light of the ethnographic present of the 1970s and early 1980s, Dresch regarded al-ShÄyifâs investiture as a Saudi attempt âto pull together the disaffected BakÄ«l tribesâ (1989: 370). The further course of events, however, suggests rather the opposite.
Peterson 1982: 28â29, 68, 126â127.
Ê¿AbdallÄh al-Aḥmar never belonged to the inner circle of power, and after Yemeni unity in 1990 the political ambitions of Ḥusayn and ḤamÄ«d, two of Ê¿AbdallÄhâs more prominent sons, brought about a long-standing conflict with President á¹¢Äliḥ and his family, see Longley Alley 2008: 189â229.
Al-Aḥmar 2008: 242. On the Islamic Front, see a comprehensive view in al-ṬawÄ«l 2009. Further information can be found in Dresch 2000: 172â174; Halliday 1985; Burrowes 1987: 101â105, 106, 131; and Gause 1990: 138, 144, 147, 158. Salafi-Wahhabi beliefs were also introduced through Yemeni migrant workers returning from Saudi Arabia, see Weir 2007: 296â303. Other inroads were made via the education system, see Haykel 1999: 196; Weir 2007: 296; Bruck 1998: 150; and Bruck 2017: 253â265. The Islamists constituted a new political force friendly to the Saudis and hostile to the pdry and its supporters in the north.
Until the 1980s, bayt al-Aḥmar and the ḤÄshid tribe were affiliated to Zaydism. Although al-Aḥmar began to promote Sunnism for political reasons, privately he seemed to have remained a âZaydi at heart.â In 1985, he told Gabriele vom Bruck in an interview that he âpersonally continued to embrace the Zaydi madhhab [doctrine] which he considered to be âthe bestâ among all madhÄhib [doctrines],â see Bruck 2017: 282â283, 331 n. 78.
See Dresch 1987a; Dresch 2006: 155, 196, 235. On notions of black and white in customary law elsewhere, see Stewart 2003.
These ideals â that is, autonomy presupposing honour (sharaf) â were also observed by Shryock among the MurÄd tribe: âIf a tribesmanâs mastery over conflict is deemed a by-product of his wealth and coercive might, not his personal âcapacityâ or âefficacyâ (qudrah), his reputation as a shaykh will never be great,â see Shryock 1990: 168, 171. Something similar pertains to the AwlÄd Ê¿AlÄ« Bedouin in northern Egypt, where autonomy â that is, freedom from domination by or dependency on others â is the standard by which status is measured, see Abu Lughod 1986: 171.
Ḥasan and Ḥaydar were MujÄhidâs half brothers.