When the Country You Love Kills You

I do not know where to begin these lines. Maybe this is more an attempt to find closure for myself than a social media post. I was not even sure whether I should share it here. Usually, I only share good news, successful projects, and small achievements, like everybody else, I suppose. But Wesam was part of this world too. He was an achiever, a dreamer, a successful person, and much more. So maybe this belongs here after all.

It is difficult to write about the loss of someone you loved, especially when the ending comes like this. My feelings are mixed between grief and anger. An immense anger at everything: the brutality of the killers, the vileness of whoever used them, and every limp hand in power while he was killed within their sight and hearing.

Kidnapped and Killed
Since I heard the news, I keep imagining Wesam’s final moments against my will, as if they were live scenes, with sound and image. The killers dragging him out of the car, shouting in his face and throwing curses at him. The sound of wind and dust under the heat of the sun.

I keep wondering what was said between him and his kidnappers. What did he say to them at first? I do not know whether his Arabic had improved, or whether it was still broken as he tried to speak to them. Did they laugh at his accent and mock him? I doubt the killers even knew who he was, or knew anything about what he had given to his country. I imagine them as nothing more than mercenaries carrying out an easy target from a list sent from somewhere. A terribly perfect target: a simple person with no bodyguards, no tribe, no party… and no government behind him.

What happened after they forced him into the car? Did he try to play along with them, hoping to gain time? Did he act with wisdom, or did a kind of courage kill him when he tried to resist? I do not imagine he was afraid. He was no coward. Cowards leave early, as many Yemeni officials already did. Whoever chose to stay and keep working for Yemen was not lacking in courage.

I imagine how the conversation ended: the sound of the bullet that put out the light in his eyes. I can still hear its echo buzzing inside my head.

Did they laugh after killing him? Did one of them blame the other, or was this simply the plan, in all its stupidity?

…

I met Wesam in the early days of the Small and Micro Enterprise Promotion Service SMEPS, when we were working on designing its visual identity. I liked him from the first meeting.

His Arabic was modest, and at first we communicated in English. “What brought you back to this ruin?” I used to wonder to myself every time I learned more about him. At the same time, I was moved by the nobility of the idea he carried: the son of a migrant family returning to a land he did not know much about, a land that had given him nothing, and to which he was connected only through stories. To arrive carrying love and goodness for others you do not know, and whose language you do not even speak well. That is an act of prophets.

Later, the agency grew. Its projects increased, and its impact stretched from the east of Yemen to the west, touching many sectors. Alongside all this impact, one of its most important achievements was that it became a place that formed capable people, men and women. Many who entered with modest abilities left as highly capable professionals. A small factory of competence, and the country itself was the beneficiary.

Wesam’s character was deeply captivating, and he always had so much to say. He could easily pull you in with him, until you started dreaming of a better Yemen. And what a sad dream that was.

Over time, a beautiful friendship formed between us. We met many times and talked a lot. I shared my dreams with him, both personal dreams and those related to Yemen. Later, I also shared my despair about the situation, and how I no longer saw any nearby horizon for survival. He was a close witness to much of what I went through in Yemen: hope and disappointment.

When Sana’a fell into the hands of the militia, we met one last time before I left. Many parts of that meeting still ring in my head. After that, we stayed in touch from a distance, and he shared his worries about the situation with me. He was hesitant about what should be done, but later told me he had made up his mind to stay. Yemen needed people like him more than ever, as he put it.

Poor Wesam thought that his work in development would protect him, since he was far from political affiliations. By the logic of ordinary human beings, he was not a target for anyone. In fact, it should have been the opposite: a dedicated worker who would keep the machine running until the last moment. But the logic of barbarism is different.

In 2024, the Houthis tried to kidnap him as part of a campaign targeting workers in humanitarian and development fields. He survived then, and was able to move to Aden. Once, after he moved, he told me that things would soon get better.

What “better” were you talking about, Wesam?

They tried to kill you, Wesam. You lived, and we are the ones who died.

I will miss you, Wesam. I will miss your voice, your smile, and your beautiful soul.

I will miss you as a friend and as a mentor.

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