By Ali H. Warsame

As we left our homes in Mogadishu , we didn’t take anything with us, expecting to return shortly after the dust settles. However, it took much longer than we anticipated. My mother, who never attended school but deeply understood the value of education, made the journey back and returned with all our certificates. She didn’t take anything else. Later, we learned that our house had been ransacked—nothing was left inside. One item that was particularly dear to me was a book I had worked on for almost four years, translating every new word in the Qur’an into pure Somali. To this day, I miss the effort I put into that project.

One day, I dared to venture into the KM4 area. As I passed in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I was stunned to see official documents and unused passports scattered across the street. The entire ministry had been ransacked and emptied. Other government institutions had suffered the same fate—looted and abandoned. I even saw someone holding a monitor of a desktop computer, which was taken from the Somali National University. I felt pain and horror and realized, for the first time, that we were heading to anarchy and a lack of governance. With my educational background in management and business administration, I have always understood the importance of effective governance, no matter how weak it is, and the consequences of its absence.

Without an effective government, the delivery of essential services becomes impossible. At the time, the government was responsible for all basic services, including education, healthcare, and utilities. People were supposed to fight the regime and protect the country, but that was not the case. Public properties were either looted or completely destroyed. The country was heading to uncharted territory, and no one would have predicted the outcome.

As the situation took a dramatic turn, it became common to inquire about one’s clan and sub-clan. My expectation at that time was just a change of the guard at Villa Somalia, with people resorting to clan warfare and ethnic cleansing.

As the saying goes, “Anyone who marries my mother becomes my uncle”—and in the same way, for me, anyone who takes office at Villa Somalia becomes my president. This reflects a unique social dynamic where roles and relationships are shaped more by circumstance than convention. However, it has never crossed my mind that I would one day find myself trapped in the complexities of my clan. Throughout my life, there has always been a family member either incarcerated or evading the authorities, creating an atmosphere of tension and uncertainty. Now, I am confronted with a new reality—one that is difficult for me to comprehend and even contemplate.

Unfortunately, many innocent people were senselessly killed, particularly civil servants, business people, and prominent figures, solely because of their clan affiliation. This made it clear to us that a full-scale civil war was inevitable. After a thorough discussion, my brother Jama and I reached an agreement. One of us would go to Galkayo ahead of time to make arrangements for resettlement, while the other would stay with the rest of the family, including my mother and maternal grandfather, to join my brother in Galkacyo later.

I was sent to the northeastern region of the country, which is now known as Puntland, a place I hardly knew, except for the city of Galkayo. This is where I completed my primary school after returning from Hargeisa. We have been in Mogadishu for the rest of our time and have fully settled, considering ourselves as ciyaalka-xaafadda. Starting over in a new place without the necessary infrastructure was not an easy option. However, due to our precarious security situation, no one was safe, and Mogadishu was becoming uninhabitable and a no-go zone.

Convoys of trucks were heading north and northwest toward what is now known as Somaliland, and along the way, I reunited with several close friends. In the old Mogadishu, no one knew—or needed to know—each other’s clan. We identified by neighborhoods instead, calling ourselves ciyaal Hawlwadaag, Hodan, or Waberi. My friends invited me to join their convoy of Northerners, traveling together until we reached the border of the Somali region (Ogaden). Given the country’s volatility and the growing threat of clan-based targeting, joining them felt like the safest and most sensible option. We departed from Afgoye on January 17, 1991—the very night the Gulf War began to expel Iraq from Kuwait. It marked the start of my uncertain journey to Galkayo, in the Mudug region.

We travelled through Ferfer, avoiding Beledweyne, which was the site of the worst atrocities against innocent and unarmed civilians at that time. We then continued to the Somali region via Mustahil, and then Qallafe to Godey in the Godey region. As we were leaving the Ferfer area, our convoy was stopped by a group of local United Somali Congress sub-clan members. They asked if there were any Darood members among us, to which the head of the convoy replied no. They then detained us and demanded to know our sub-sub-clans one by one.

However, their attention seemed focused on two small Toyota cars, known as Abdi-Bile, which were then civilian vehicles but commonly used in the civil war. These cars were often equipped with armoured machine guns and used to transport troops as well. They suddenly opened fire on us and pulled the two Abdi-Bile to the side. They fatally shot one of their own and injured two passengers, then fled with the two cars. The fear had taken its toll on everyone, and we looked like ghosts.

Once we left the area and reached Qallafe, which straddles the Shabelle River, we felt safe and secure for the first time since departing from Afgoye. It was the first time we had bathed in almost ten days, cleaned our clothes, and slept well. After three days of rest and recuperation, we continued on our way to Godey. I left the convoy at Qabri-Dahar and proceeded to Adado in the Galgudud region on my way to Galkayo.

After spending a week in Adado, I travelled to Galkayo, crossing an unsafe area spanning around 130 km. It took me at least one month to reach Galkayo from Mogadishu, arriving exactly on 14 February 1991. I was completely devastated, bewildered, and penniless. I was still worried about the rest of my family who remained in Mogadishu, where daily atrocities, revenge killings, rape, and looting were commonplace.

During that time, the only available communication channel was the Racal radio, which was used by the army and required both parties to make an appointment in advance in order to communicate. There was no privacy, and even strangers would eavesdrop on every conversation. I struggled to adapt to the situation in Galkayo because of the lack of opportunities and the fear of the civil war spreading to the city.

During that time, Galkayo was the dividing line between the USC and SSDF, and it was likely to become a battleground between the two. During my brief stay in Galkayo, I attended a public meeting where Gen. Mohamed Abshir Muse was nominated as the head (Imam) of SSDF, which was equivalent to the Chairmanship.

General Mohamed was an active member of the Manifesto Group. He believed that the situation would worsen before improving, and eventually, Somalis would unite and save the republic. In contrast, I was convinced that the country was headed towards full-blown civil war and prolonged anarchy. My first responsibility was to ensure the safe return of my family and then work towards their resettlement.

On an early March morning in 1991, I set out for the port of Bosaso in search of better opportunities. I arrived in Bosaso on March 13, 1991, and immediately felt drawn to the vibrant city and its bustling commercial centre. That marked the end of my 2000-mile journey, which started from Mogadishu, went through Afgoye to Ferfer, Qallafe, Godey, Qabri-dahare, Adado, and Galkayo, and eventually reached Bosaso. Whatever happened next will be another story at a later time.

The essence of this story is not just about the chronological history of the civil war in Somalia, but also serves as a clear warning against regressing. Thankfully, Somalia has overcome many critical moments in the last thirty years. Since 2000, we have witnessed increased stability, governance, and the rebuilding of vital governing institutions necessary for the country’s survival. Returning to that dark history is not only unwise but also a dangerous option. The Somali people should resolutely choose to say no to that route, and contemporary Somali politicians, at all levels, must actively steer clear of any actions that could drag us back to those troubling times.

Somali politicians must craft a unified national strategy to address the country’s pressing challenges, rather than simply uniting in opposition to the sitting government. This shift in approach is crucial to avoid repeating the mistakes of the Manifesto Group in the 1990s. Mere opposition to whoever is in power is no longer a viable path to national unity. The prevailing narrative—that all factions must rally against the incumbent regime, whoever it may be—needs to change. Sustainable progress requires collaboration, vision, and a shared commitment to the nation’s future.

The commonly used phrase of “returning to 1991” should be eliminated from political slogans and replaced with a focus on building consensus among Somalis to collectively oppose the wrongdoings of the regime. The current political rhetoric of intimidation, vengeance and isolation is not helpful for any side.

Ali Haji Warsame, MA, MBA, CPA
Executive Director – Hiil Institute
Former Puntland Minister of Education
Email: ali.warsame@hiilinstitute.org

Read part I: A Journey of Two Thousand Miles: Lessons from Somalia’s Civil War Part