Aden, Yemen – Lying on the outskirts of Yemen’s interim capital, Aden, al-Basateen district starts where the paved roads end, stretching into narrow, sandy alleyways. It reveals a decades-old refugee story in which Arabic blends with Somali and the faces harbour memories of a different place, across the sea.
Residents know the area by several names, including “Yemen’s Mogadishu” and “the Somalis’ neighbourhood” – a reference to the demographic shift it has seen since the 1990s, when civil war in Somalia pushed thousands of families across the Gulf of Aden in search of safety.
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Today, local sources estimate the district’s population at more than 40,000, with people of Somali origin making up the majority. They live in harsh conditions where economic vulnerability overlaps with an unresolved legal status.
Some arrived as children holding the hands of relatives, while others were born in Aden and have known no other home. But they all share one thing in common: the refugee label stamped on their official documents.
Harsh living conditions
As dawn breaks, dozens of men gather at the entrances of the area’s main streets, waiting to be picked up to do a day’s work in construction or manual labour. Many depend on this fragile pattern of employment to put food on the table.
Residents say the lack of regular work has become the defining feature of life in al-Basateen, as extreme poverty spreads and humanitarian aid declines.
Ashour Hassan, a resident in his mid-30s, waiting at a main road junction for someone to hire him to wash a car, told Al Jazeera that he earns between 3,000 and 4,000 Yemeni rials a day (less than $3). That amount is not enough to cover the needs of his family, which lives in a single room in a neighbourhood lacking basic services, surrounded by dirt roads and piles of rubbish.
In a voice mixed with fatigue and despair, Ashour summed up life in al-Basateen: “We live day to day. If we find work, we eat. If we don’t, we wait without food until tomorrow.”
Families in al-Basateen typically rely on both men and women to be breadwinners.
Some women work cleaning homes, while others run small businesses, such as selling bread and traditional foods that blend Yemeni and Somali flavours, and which become especially popular during the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan.
Many children also find themselves pushed into work despite their age. One of the main jobs for children involves sifting through waste for materials they can sell, such as plastic or scrap metal, to help support their families.
Little sense of belonging
Poverty is clearly visible in al-Basateen’s architecture and appearance, with tightly packed homes, some made of metal sheets and consisting of only one or two rooms, separated by dirt roads covered in rubbish.
But that is not the only burden weighing on al-Basateen’s Somali residents. A deeper feeling of what many here call “suspended belonging” hangs over them, with the first generation of refugees still carrying memories of a distant homeland and speaking its language, while the second and third generations know only Aden and speak Arabic in the local dialect, with Somalia only known through family stories.
Fatima Jame embodies this paradox. A mother of four, she was born in Aden to Somali parents. She told Al Jazeera: “We know no country other than Yemen. We studied here and got married here, but we do not have Yemeni identity, and in front of the law, we are still refugees.”
Fatima lives with her family in a modest two-room home. Her husband works as a porter in one of the city’s markets, while she helps support the family by preparing and selling traditional foods. Even so, she says their combined income “barely covers rent and food” because of the high cost of living and few job opportunities.
A bleak reality
Conditions in Yemen were never the best for migrants and refugees, but they have significantly worsened since a civil war began in 2014 between the Iranian-backed Houthis and the central government in Sanaa, in Yemen’s north.
The violence from that war, along with declining aid and shrinking job opportunities have increased pressure on both host communities and refugees.
The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs says that funding for support programmes in Yemen in 2025 met only 25 percent of the country’s actual needs, directly affecting the lives of thousands of families. Residents of al-Basateen say the aid they used to receive has sharply declined, and in many cases has stopped altogether.
Youssef Mohammed, 53, says he was one of the first Somali arrivals to the district in the 1990s, and now supports a family of seven.
“[We] have not received any support from organisations for years,” Youssef said, adding that some families “chose to return to Somalia rather than stay and die of hunger here”.
He believes the crisis affects everyone in Yemen, “but [that] the refugee remains the weakest link.”
Despite the bleak picture, a few have managed to improve their material conditions through education or by opening small businesses that have helped stimulate the local economy. But they remain an exception, and the flow of refugees continues.
Yemen is the poorest country in the Arabian Peninsula, but is also the region’s only signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention, and therefore allows foreign arrivals to apply for asylum or refugee status. According to the United Nations refugee agency, Yemen hosted more than 61,000 asylum seekers and refugees as of July 2025, the vast majority from Somalia and Ethiopia.
Arrivals in recent years have typically travelled to Yemen via boats, with many planning to use Yemen as a transit point before moving on to richer countries like Saudi Arabia.
Hussein Adel is one of those recent arrivals. He is 30, but leans on a crutch on a street corner in al-Basateen.
Hussein arrived in Aden only a few months ago, having made the dangerous journey on a small boat carrying African migrants.
He told Al Jazeera that he fled death and hunger, only to find himself facing a harsher reality. Hussein shelters on the rooftop of a relative’s home and spends his days searching the city for occasional work. His leg injury, he said, was caused by Omani border guards who shot him while he was crossing into Yemen.
As evening falls, the noise in al-Basateen’s alleyways quiets down. Men lean against the walls of worn-out homes, and children chase a ball through narrow passages barely wide enough for their dreams.
On the surface, life looks normal – like any working-class neighbourhood in a city exhausted by crises. But here, in “Yemen’s Mogadishu”, there is an extra trauma – the sense of a lack of belonging, the memory of refugees fleeing danger and poverty at home, and a lack of stability that will not go away.