Fankeenna filmfest: Nine nights of cinema in Hargeisa

On the evening of 12 September, the final night of the Fankeenna Film Festival, the courtyard outside the old stone house in Alaamada glowed golden beneath strings of lights. The smell of popcorn and shaah mingled with the heat of projector bulbs warming up. Students, artists, office workers—everyone art had drawn out—leaned against the low walls, swapping notes on the films they had just watched.

Stepping through the arched doorway, I felt I’d entered a hive of layered creativity. The gallery walls were alive: a bold acrylic of the Mad Mullah locked eyes with one of Najax Harun’s characters across the room. Sheima Mead’s sketches caught the gaze with their simplicity, while Ayan Said’s installation—blending paint with a piece of traditional Subeeciyad fabric on the wall outside—sent viewers into silent contemplation.

It was as if the house itself were breathing art. Here, cinema wasn’t an isolated craft but part of a larger weave: painting, music, photography, and poetry stitched together in the same fabric.

Around me were people whose lives might never otherwise have intersected. Buluush, a coffee trader who travels the world, volunteered by brewing her “intoxicating” blends for the team, often serving them with short introductions to the specific beans. Ahmed Kaafi, a cinema enthusiast and screenwriter, moved tirelessly through the screenings, capturing crisp black-and-white stills of everyone. Meanwhile, Mohamed Buuh, writer and editor, dashed about offering help, pausing now and then to debate the plot of the latest film.

For nine days, the second edition of the Fankeenna Filmfest transformed this corner of the city into an avenue of moving images. From more than a thousand submissions spanning Africa, Europe, the Gulf, and the Somali territories, just forty films made the cut. Each carried its own voice—stories of justice, memory, and the fragile negotiations between what is and what could be.

I slipped into my seat just as the opening frame of The Martyr flickered to life. Ahmed Abdullahi’s short film took its time, pulling us into the world of a teenager slowly caught in the pull of extremist rhetoric. It wasn’t a story that shouted, but one that settled heavily in the chest. When the final scene faded, the room stayed utterly silent—everyone holding their breath. Then the lights came up, and volunteers moved down the aisles, placing voting slips in our hands.

Here, the audience is not merely an audience. We are co-conspirators, asked to weigh story against craft, impact against emotion, and mark our choices with stars. Often, those stars ignite arguments that stretch long, tea cooling between sips while voices rise and soften.

This participatory rhythm grew out of Fankeenna’s wider mission. The name itself means “Our Art”—and that’s exactly how it began. In 2020, a handful of young creatives in Hargeisa grew tired of waiting for someone else to give them a platform. So they built one themselves.

They rented a space and carved it open: a gallery, a studio, a library, and most importantly a courtyard with a stage for conversations and events. Writers, filmmakers, photographers, painters, musicians, actors—all began orbiting the same hub. It wasn’t polished, but it was theirs, and it pulsed with possibility.

The film festival stands as Fankeenna’s boldest step. It didn’t just bring art and storytelling into Hargeisa’s young creative scene—it gave the city a chance to reclaim its rightful place in the global world of art.

Shaah iyo Shaxan, their tea-and-art dialogue series, has welcomed everyone from visiting actors and musicians to local painters and authors, offering audiences the chance to ask questions and learn from seasoned practitioners.

Workshops became central to Fankeenna’s practice. The first, in 2022, focused on photography. Earlier sessions on narrative structure with visual artist Nadine Stijns and curator Amal Alhaag were held in the same courtyard. Last April, Katherine Bauer led a workshop on photogram photography, followed by a filmmaking lab with director-producer Khadar Aidarus, whose Earth Has Ears was also screened at the festival.

Weekends brought “Open Mic” sessions for comedians, poets, and singers. Networking nights invited screenwriters, painters, authors, rappers, and content creators to meet sound engineers, curators, publishers, and videographers over tea.

Still, the film festival stands as Fankeenna’s boldest step yet. It didn’t just bring art and storytelling into Hargeisa’s young creative scene—it gave the city a chance to reclaim its rightful place in the global world of art.

In a region where cinema is still finding its voice, and where few institutions address themes like human rights, health, or press freedom, Fankeenna built a platform almost from scratch. No government grants, no corporate sponsors—just the grit of volunteers.

This year, Somali women filmmakers were also at the forefront, with Asma Kabadhe and Mawahib Ismail premiering powerful new works that show how female voices are reshaping the growing Somali art scene.

When the winners were about to be announced, I bought a cup of coffee from One-9—the café that had warmed us all week with its brews—before finding my seat among the crowd. The air buzzed with expectation, a mix of nerves and celebration, as the audience settled in.

In art, as in any other election, people choose what resonates with them, and this film clearly struck a chord with the audience.

The winners were selected by a panel of four distinguished figures in Somali and East African cinema: filmmaker Abdulkadir Ahmed Said, filmmaker Samia Osman, visual artist and NUMBI Arts founder Kinsi Abdulle, and filmmaker and producer Noah Leanti. Watching remotely, they chose the best films based on set criteria.

First place went to SIASAR by Afghan filmmaker Mahmoud Sharifi Asl, a searing reflection on the right to education, particularly for women. Second place went to ALAZAR by Ethiopian director Beza Hailu Lemma, tracing the pursuit of a better life. Third place went to 1420 by Saudi director Arwa Salem, confronting the meaning of freedom itself.

The Audience Choice Award went to Born a Celebrity, a 13-minute Palestinian short by Luay Awwad that follows Kamel, a 25-year-old man seeking personal freedom and privacy in his close-knit community. In art, as in any other election, people choose what resonates with them, and this film clearly struck a chord with the audience.

The closing moments featured a live performance by Abdisamad, also known as Qunyar-So'od. His rhythmic drumming, played deftly with his fingers, set the oud player dancing and the courtyard alive with energy.

The festival ended in a spirit of celebration, with people lining up to take photos against the Fankeena Film Festival backdrop—an evening of art, music, and memory laced together.

As the crowd thinned and volunteers coiled cables, I lingered by the entrance of the house, beside a wall stamped with multicolored handprints, each one unique yet collective in its presence.

Walking home through the narrow, silent streets, I thought of Buluush planning her next destination, of Ahmed capturing the streets of Hargeisa, Burco, and even Dire Dawa, and of Buuh daydreaming his next character. I asked myself: where else could bring all of them together?

Fankeenna is delicate—held together by grit, not funding—but its light is persistent. For nine nights in September, Hargeisa dreamed in film, and we were lucky enough to stand inside that glow