Fiction: The displaced beneath the earth

"When were you settled here?" Ahmed asked Farah, his neighbor of many years.

"I was brought here in 1992, during the Eight-Month War," Farah replied.

"And you?" Farah, curious, turned the question back to Ahmed.

"I arrived in early January 1991."

"Were there people already living here back then?"

"I'm not sure if anyone was here before me. I was thrown into this place suddenly, terrified. Because of that, my eyes didn’t register any structures around me."

"How did you end up here? Did you run out of options, or did you choose to stay?"

"It’s a long story. For as long as I lived, I had been a resident of the Kaambo-Amxaaro neighborhood. That’s where I was born and raised. Then, one Sunday, war broke out in the city. It was December 30, 1990. We were told that fierce fighting had erupted between a faction called the USC and the Somali government. My heart was filled with conflicting emotions.

"On one hand, I felt a strange sense of relief—after all, the ruling regime had been in power for far too long. In the beginning, it was welcomed, even praised, for bringing stability and progress. But in its later years, its harm far outweighed its benefits. Year after year, its grip tightened, leaving devastation and displacement in its wake. Of course, the government alone was not to blame. There were also rebel factions, some backed by Ethiopia, often organized along clan lines. It’s still debated whether they chose tribalism or were forced into it. Some believe both factors played a role.

"Back to my story—yes, I wanted change. I longed for it.

"But then, as the gunfire echoed through Mogadishu, fear overtook me. My mind recalled the civil war in Liberia, which I had been following on the news. I had seen the horror: people fleeing in terror, entire neighborhoods consumed by fire, former friends turning on each other with machetes. Corpses rotting in the streets, scavenged by stray dogs. Those were the images I had seen in newspapers and on television. Now, I feared the same fate awaited us.

"My initial hope was swiftly crushed. My fear proved right. Within two days, chaos had engulfed everything. The city fractured. Families were torn apart. Weapons flooded into civilian hands. It was no longer about government versus rebels—it became neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend. In an instant, my identity transformed. I was no longer just Somali. I became my clan. The enemy I once thought was distant—across borders, in Ethiopia—was suddenly the person who had sat beside me in school, my childhood friend, my next-door neighbor.

"And so, I had no choice but to flee. I left behind those I knew and sought refuge among strangers. I grabbed my passport, a few certificates, and some photographs—memories of a life that now seemed like another world. Among them was a picture of Weris, the woman I loved, the one I had promised to marry. I carefully placed it in the hidden compartment of my bag, padding it with a small, sturdy cardboard piece to protect it.

"My plan was simple: reach the airport. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could find a way onto one of the departing planes. I had a visa for Italy—stamped just two months ago when I returned from Bologna, where I was pursuing a PhD in Tropical Crop Diseases. My return ticket was tucked away in my pocket, along with a small sum of money—enough to buy my freedom if necessary.

"As I made my way past the old Xalane School, where I had once trained under the National Service Program, my thoughts wandered. The Indian Ocean stretched before me, its waves rolling in endless pursuit of the shore. I watched them, hypnotized—were they clashing in battle, or were they racing to embrace the land? Were they lovers, running to reunite?

"The moment was shattered by an unexpected message. It came from above. There was no appeal, no room for negotiation. I was told I was being taken to my ‘true home.’

"It wasn’t the home I had known. Not the house of my childhood, not the university halls of Bologna. It was a shelter built not far from the school I had once studied in. And I had no choice but to accept it.

"I had thought this would be my final resting place—the place where I would wait for the reckoning of the afterlife, away from the horrors of war. But I was wrong. I was not the only one here. I was among the displaced beneath the earth. If you have heard of ‘Internally Displaced Persons,’ then know this—there are those of us who are not just displaced, but who live beneath the earth itself.

"Never did I imagine that anyone would covet even this tiny shelter buried under the ground. But I had no warning, no way of knowing. I was now part of the forgotten ones—the people who vanish beneath the surface while the world moves on above."

Farah, preparing to share his own story of how he, too, had become one of the displaced beneath the earth, was interrupted. A truck, meant to relocate them once more, pulled up nearby. Calling out loudly, he turned to Ahmed with a faint smile. “My friend, we will meet again—at the new camp for the displaced beneath the earth. I have your number. Let’s stay in touch.”

And with that, he climbed aboard, joining yet another journey into the unknown.