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Houthis Acknowledge Recruiting 18,000 Child Soldiers in Yemen

In this July 27, 2018, photo, children sit at a camp for displaced persons where they took shelter, in Marib, Yemen (AP Photo/Nariman El-Mofty)
In this July 27, 2018, photo, children sit at a camp for displaced persons where they took shelter, in Marib, Yemen (AP Photo/Nariman El-Mofty)
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Houthis Acknowledge Recruiting 18,000 Child Soldiers in Yemen

In this July 27, 2018, photo, children sit at a camp for displaced persons where they took shelter, in Marib, Yemen (AP Photo/Nariman El-Mofty)
In this July 27, 2018, photo, children sit at a camp for displaced persons where they took shelter, in Marib, Yemen (AP Photo/Nariman El-Mofty)

The Houthi militias have inducted 18,000 child soldiers into their rebel army since the beginning of Yemen’s war in 2014, a senior Houthi military official acknowledged to The Associated Press.

The insurgent spoke on condition of anonymity due to the sensitivity of the information, said the AP on Wednesday.

That figure is higher than any number previously reported. The United Nations was able to verify 2,721 children recruited to fight for all sides in the conflict, the large majority for the Houthis, but officials say that count is likely low, because many families will not speak about the issue out of fear of reprisals from militiamen.

The number etched on the bracelet around Mohammed's wrist gave the 13-year-old soldier comfort as missiles fired from enemy warplanes shook the earth beneath him.

For two years Mohammed fought with the Houthis against the Saudi-led Coalition for the Support of Legitimacy in Yemen. He says he tortured and killed people and didn't care whether he lived or died.

But if he died, the bracelet would guarantee his body made it home.

"When I become a martyr, they enter my number in the computer, retrieve my picture and my name, then print them with the name 'Martyr' underneath," Mohammed said. It would be pasted to the lid of his coffin for return to his family.

Mohammed was among 18 former child soldiers interviewed by The Associated Press who described the Houthis' unrelenting efficiency when it comes to the recruitment, deployment and even battlefield deaths of boys as young as 10.

In the capital Sanaa, recruiters go door to door telling parents they must either turn over their sons or pay money for the war effort, according to residents.

The AP interviewed the 18 former child soldiers at displacement camps and a counseling center in the city of Marib. They had come to Marib after slipping away from rebel forces or being captured by coalition units.

Because of their ages and because some of them acknowledge committing acts of brutality, the AP is only using their first names. Some children gave themselves a nom du guerre after they joined the fighting. One 10-year-old boy, for example, called himself Abu Nasr, Arabic for "Father of Victory."

A 13-year-old boy named Saleh told the AP that Houthi militiamen stormed his family's home in the northern district of Bani Matar on a Saturday morning and demanded he and his father come with them to the front lines. He said his father told them, "Not me and my son" and then tried to pull his rifle on them. "They dragged him away," the boy recalled. "I heard the bullets, then my father collapsing dead."

Saleh said the militiamen took him with them and forced him to do sentry duty at a checkpoint 12 hours a day.

International relief agencies working on child protection programs in northern Yemen are not allowed to discuss the use of child soldiers, out of fear their agencies will be barred from delivering aid to Houthi-controled territories, according to four aid workers who spoke on the condition of anonymity. "This is a taboo," one said.

The Houthis say officially that they don't recruit children and send away those who try to enlist.

Some of the children told the AP they joined the rebels willingly, mainly because of promises of money or the chance to carry a weapon. But others described being forced into the service of the Houthis — abducted from schools or homes or coerced into joining in exchange for a family member's release from detention.

More than 6,000 children have died or been maimed in Yemen since the beginning of the war, UNICEF reported in October. But the U.N. agency has not been able to determine how many of those minors were combatants and the Houthi-run Defense Ministry does not release its records for casualties.

A former teacher from the city of Dhamar said that at least 14 pupils from his school were recruited and then died in battle. Their pictures were placed on empty classroom seats in 2016 during the Week of the Martyr, which the Houthis celebrate each year in February. Most of them were fifth and sixth graders, he said. An education official from Dhamar confirmed his account. The two spoke on condition of anonymity because of fear of retribution.

The teacher said some of the dead children's parents were Houthi leaders who willingly sent their sons to the front lines. "It's painful because this is a child and they are all my children because I was their teacher," he said. "They were taken from the school and returned in coffins."

Naguib al-Saadi, a Yemeni human rights activist who founded a Saudi-funded counseling center in Marib for child warriors, said "the real problem with Houthi recruitment of the children will be felt in 10 years — when a generation that has been brainwashed with hatred and enmity toward the West comes of age."

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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).

The road from Beirut to Damascus is now lined with unfamiliar scenes. In just a few days, everything has changed for those traveling to the Syrian capital by land from Lebanon. Once an economic lifeline for Damascus, the route bustled with visitors—Syrians and Lebanese alike—and large trucks carried goods from Beirut’s port to Syria, a necessity brought on by international sanctions that have forced the country to rely on this corridor.

The journey to Damascus via Lebanon begins at the Masnaa border crossing, which, during the early days of Syria’s upheaval, saw unprecedented traffic heading into Syria. While outbound traffic has returned to normal—or even declined—inbound activity has surged again. Hundreds of Syrian families line up at the border, hoping for “humanitarian exceptions” to enter Lebanon. However, the influx has clogged the route for everyone, even those eligible for entry. For days, the road was virtually impassable until Lebanese authorities intervened to reopen it. Still, complaints from Syrians about alleged abuses at the border prompted General Security chief Major General Elias al-Baysari to launch an investigation into these violations, followed by measures to reduce the number of entries to just a few hundred.

Some Syrians leave after being denied entry, only for others to arrive, clinging to the hope that Lebanon might eventually open its doors. Entry is now restricted to those with valid residency, travelers transiting through Beirut’s airport, or individuals with official documentation.

Families wait in cars, with children and women inside while men gather around fires outside. Ayman, a man in his fifties from rural Damascus, anxiously waits for permission to cross after being denied entry by the checkpoint. He mentions receiving a promise that his case will be reviewed. “We are in danger. I won’t take my children back to die,” he says, refusing to elaborate on the exact threat. Determined, he vows to remain in the deserted zone indefinitely if necessary.

Despite no reports of targeted violence against former regime supporters or religious minorities—especially Shiites—fear remains pervasive. Bilal, a Syrian from the predominantly Shiite town of Zahraa near Aleppo, recounts how a relative was killed and claims that his name is on a wanted list. “I’ll never go back,” he says firmly.

The scene repeats itself just past the first opposition-held checkpoint, opposite the abandoned Syrian passport office. Crossing is straightforward and no longer requires ID for Lebanese citizens, unlike in the past. A friendly greeting and a wave from the armed guards suffice, often accompanied by a smile and “Welcome!” This is a stark contrast to the past, when multiple military checkpoints, infamous for soliciting bribes in the form of bread, cigarettes, or cash, made travel cumbersome.

Now, entering and exiting Syria via land is remarkably easy—no paperwork, no questions, and no inspections.

Near a victory arch along the road, adorned with images of deposed Syrian President Bashar al-Assad and his late father Hafez, stands a young man. His old car is parked nearby, with his wife and three children—all under ten years old—waiting inside. Hesitantly, he approaches a Lebanese traveler, asking whether he can enter Lebanon without the “yellow card” once issued by Syrian authorities for outgoing vehicles. Syrian border guards had turned him away, warning that Lebanese authorities might confiscate his car.

The man, from the Shiite-majority village of Foua near Idlib, is determined to reach Lebanon. “I’ve arranged for work with someone there, and I need to leave as soon as possible,” he explains nervously. Though he insists no one has harmed him, his unease is evident as he prepares to leave.

The Assads’ towering portraits remain intact, likely due to their height, while those at ground level have been torn down or trampled. Military checkpoints have been vandalized or destroyed.

Abandoned vehicles litter the roadside, some still smoldering, while others have been stripped of all valuables—tires, parts, and accessories. Military vehicles, tanks, and armored carriers, some still loaded with ammunition, lie deserted along the route from the border to Damascus. These remnants tell the story of a collapsed regime and an uncertain future.

Scattered among the wreckage are vehicles destroyed by Israeli missile strikes targeting Syrian air defense systems, including anti-aircraft launchers mounted on military trucks.

The stretch of abandoned military hardware extends from the Syrian border to the outskirts of Damascus. These vehicles were once meant to defend the capital but now lie powerless, deserted by soldiers who left their uniforms discarded along the roadside as they fled. The old Syrian flag lies tattered and forgotten in multiple locations, untouched—neither reclaimed nor mourned.