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On the outskirts of Aden, where paved roads slowly turn into sandy paths, lies al-Basateen district — a neighbourhood many people call “Yemen’s Mogadishu.” The name reflects the large Somali community that has lived here for decades. Since the early 1990s, when civil war broke out in Somalia, thousands of families crossed the Gulf of Aden seeking safety. Many settled in this area, and today local sources estimate that more than 40,000 people live here, most of them of Somali origin.
Al-Basateen tells a long story of displacement. Some residents arrived as children, holding tightly to their parents’ hands as they escaped violence. Others were born in Aden and have never seen Somalia. Despite this, many still carry the official label of “refugee” on their documents. That label shapes their daily lives, limiting opportunities and leaving them in a kind of legal and social limbo.
Life in al-Basateen is marked by poverty and uncertainty. At sunrise, groups of men gather along the main roads, hoping someone will hire them for construction work, cleaning, or other manual jobs. Work is not guaranteed. Many depend on short-term, daily labour just to afford basic meals.
Ashour Hassan, a father in his mid-30s, stands by the roadside waiting for small jobs like washing cars. On a good day, he earns between 3,000 and 4,000 Yemeni rials — less than three US dollars. It is barely enough to feed his family, who share a single room in a neighbourhood lacking clean roads and basic services. For him and many others, survival depends on finding work each day. If there is no work, there is often no food.
Women also play a major role in supporting their families. Some clean houses in other parts of the city, while others sell homemade bread and traditional dishes that mix Somali and Yemeni flavours. During Ramadan, these small food businesses become especially important sources of income. Even children sometimes feel pressured to help. Some collect plastic and scrap metal from rubbish piles to sell for a few coins.
The poverty of al-Basateen is visible everywhere. Homes are tightly packed together, many built from metal sheets or simple materials. Narrow dirt roads are often lined with garbage. But beyond the physical hardship, there is a deeper emotional struggle — a feeling many residents describe as not fully belonging anywhere.
The first generation still remembers Somalia clearly. They speak Somali and recall the homes they left behind. But the younger generations speak Arabic in the local Aden dialect and feel more connected to Yemen, even though they do not have Yemeni nationality.
Fatima Jame, a mother of four born in Aden to Somali parents, says Yemen is the only country she knows. She studied there, married there, and is raising her children there. Yet legally, she remains a refugee. Her husband works as a porter in a city market, and she prepares and sells traditional food to help cover expenses. Even combined, their income barely meets rent and food costs as prices continue to rise.
Conditions in Yemen have worsened since the civil war that began in 2014 between the Iran-backed Houthis and the government in Sanaa. The conflict has damaged the economy and reduced job opportunities for everyone, including refugees. According to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, humanitarian funding in 2025 covered only about a quarter of the country’s needs. Many residents say aid that once helped them survive has either decreased sharply or stopped completely.
Youssef Mohammed, who arrived in the 1990s and now supports seven family members, says they have not received support from aid organisations for years. Some families, he adds, have chosen to return to Somalia despite ongoing hardships there because they could no longer survive in Yemen.
Yemen remains the poorest country in the Arabian Peninsula, yet it is also the only country in the region that signed the 1951 Refugee Convention, allowing people to apply for asylum. As of mid-2025, more than 61,000 asylum seekers and refugees were registered in the country, most from Somalia and Ethiopia.
New arrivals continue to come. Hussein Adel, 30, recently made the dangerous boat journey to Aden. Injured and using a crutch, he now sleeps on a relative’s rooftop while searching for work. He fled hunger and violence, hoping for safety, but found himself facing fresh struggles.
As night falls in al-Basateen, children play football in narrow alleyways while men sit quietly outside worn-down homes. On the surface, it looks like any other struggling working-class neighbourhood. But beneath that appearance lies a deeper pain — the lasting uncertainty of displacement, the memory of escape, and the ongoing search for stability and belonging.