By Eng Mohamed Ali Mirreh

It was a quiet afternoon in August 2024 when my phone buzzed with a simple WhatsApp notification—yet that vibration carried the weight of half a century. A group had been created under the name “1971 Class – Amoud Secondary,” and I had been added. The initiator was none other than Said Ali Muse, a former BBC Somali broadcaster and our classmate, joined by Abdiqani, another companion from those formative years. Their thoughtful gesture was more than a digital act—it was a spark that reignited memories buried deep in the sands of time.

As I opened the group, familiar names surfaced like long-lost treasures. Faces unseen for nearly fifty years were suddenly just a tap away. This was not merely a WhatsApp group—it was a living archive, a virtual alumni circle for two classes of Amoud Secondary School, one of the most prestigious institutions in northern Somalia. Alongside Sheikh Secondary School, Amoud had stood as a beacon of academic excellence, enrolling only the brightest minds from across the region. Both schools, built under British colonial rule, carried the rigor of the British educational system, shaping us into disciplined dreamers of a nation on the rise.

The reunion was more than a digital gathering—it was a portal to the past. We began calling each other, sharing stories, and reliving the golden days of our youth. Despite being scattered across North America, the Gulf States, and Somalia itself, the connection was instant, electric, and profoundly moving. We laughed at old jokes, marveled at the details some still remembered, and felt the warmth of a brotherhood that time had not erased. Said Muse, with his remarkable memory, became our living chronicle, recalling anecdotes that transported us back to dusty classrooms and youthful ambitions.

We were patriots then. We dreamed of becoming doctors, engineers, educators—not for personal glory, but to build a nation we believed in. Many of us fulfilled those dreams, yet the country we longed to serve has since unraveled.

In the 1970s, Somalia was a rising star in sub-Saharan Africa. It was a nation of promise, boasting self-sufficiency, light industries, free healthcare and education, and a rapidly declining illiteracy rate after the Somali language was officially written in 1971. By the mid-70s and 80s, thousands of educated men and women graduated from Somali universities, ready to serve. Somalia stood tall on the global stage, supporting liberation movements from Mozambique to Angola, even South Africa. It was a country so progressive that it trained female fighter pilots long before many developed nations dared to imagine such a thing.

But as our memories deepened, a somber reality emerged. Somalia is no longer the country we once knew. It is, in many senses, a paradise lost. Its natural wealth is plundered by foreign hands. Corruption has seeped into every corner of governance, with grotesque reports of officials desecrating graves for profit. The nation has fragmented along clannish lines, and the sense of unity—the Somaliness that once defined us—is fading into dust.

Our WhatsApp group, born out of a simple message, became a mirror reflecting both the beauty of our shared past and the tragedy of our present. It reminded us of who we were, what we stood for, and what we have lost. And while our memories remain vivid, our identities today are fractured, tied to enclaves rather than the Somalia we once dreamed of.

From these nostalgic reflections arises a haunting question: how could a nation blessed with every prerequisite for progress and development now stand at such a perilous crossroads? Somalia today faces the threat of losing not only its sovereignty but its very identity. What was once a proud, unified nation now risks being overtaken—its people divided, its resources exploited, its legacy forgotten. The chief culprit of this decline has been the politicized clannish system, a poison that has corroded the foundations of unity and progress.

Yet, as we continue to reconnect, perhaps we can also reignite the spirit that once made Somalia a beacon of promise. Perhaps, through remembrance, we can inspire today’s Somali youth to reclaim what was lost. For memory is not merely nostalgia—it is a weapon against despair. And if we can carry forward the flame of those golden days, Somalia may yet rise again.

Eng Mohamed Ali Mirreh
Email: m.mmirreh@gmail.com