Hargeisa’s emerging art scene as a stage for dialogue 

It was 5 pm, and a friend and I were sitting on a patio in Jigjiga Yar—one of the fastest-growing neighbourhoods in Hargeisa—waiting for another friend who was running late. Our destination was Barkulan, a youth hub and one of the few in the city, to attend the premiere screening of Loollan, a short film written, directed, and produced by two young local filmmakers about a young man with a strong aspiration to become a musician but hindered by society’s stigma towards music and musicians, based on radical interpretations of religion. 
Even before we entered, the scene outside Barkulan spoke volumes. The crowd at the gate, buzzing with energy and anticipation, was unlike anything I’d seen in Hargeisa. Though we arrived early, the space quickly filled to capacity. The number of people standing soon matched those seated, and their rush to get inside felt almost desperate. It was as if everyone was fleeing an unseen threat. Listening to snippets of conversation, I learned that some attendees had been planning this visit for over a week, while others had travelled from the farthest corners of the city, already worrying about how they would get home afterward. 
 
Twenty minutes later, a young man in his early twenties welcomed the audience and announced that the lights would soon dim for the screening. When they did, a medium-sized screen lit up the room, and for the next several minutes, the film unfolded in an explosion of colour and sound. 
 
Though the film itself was remarkable in many ways, my attention was drawn more to the audience. They were fully engaged, not just with the film but with each other. This became even more evident during the post-screening feedback and Q&A session, where conversations about meaning, representation, and creativity filled the space. It wasn’t just the excitement on their faces or their willingness to engage; it was the sense of connection—a connection that transcended the usual barriers of clan, region, and background. 
 
In that moment, Barkulan became more than just a hub. It was a space for dialogue, one that many other spaces in the city fail to provide. While most conversations in Hargeisa’s cafés are weighed down by political and clannish FKD ruminations, the discussions here were personal, vibrant, and rooted in shared human experiences. 
 
The role of art as a medium for dialogue is not unique to Hargeisa or Somaliland. 
 
Across the world, art has proven its ability to bridge divides and foster understanding. In South Africa, for instance, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission used performances, songs, and storytelling to help communities confront the horrors of apartheid. “Art is the soul of resistance,” said Archbishop Desmond Tutu, emphasising how creative expression allowed people to articulate pain and imagine reconciliation. Similarly, in post-genocide Rwanda, the Ubumuntu Arts Festival brings artists together to perform pieces that explore forgiveness, memory, and healing. These events create spaces where individuals from different sides of the conflict can find common ground through shared emotions and experiences. 
 
Hargeisa’s own history offers a similar example. In 1994, during a civil conflict, poet Saado Abdi Amarre recited anti-war poems to armed fighters, moving some to lay down their weapons. Her words transcended collective aggression, forcing individuals to confront their humanity. This aligns with Chinua Achebe’s observation that “art is man’s constant effort to create for himself a different order of reality.” Saado’s poetry created a momentary alternative reality, where fighters could see themselves not as part of warring factions, but as human beings with shared vulnerabilities. 
 
Leaning back at the gate, animated by Najaax Harun’s rendition of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and watching the lively dialogue in Barkulan, I came to the realisation that, for art to truly foster dialogue, it must focus on the human condition rather than collective identities like clan or region. In Somalia, much of traditional art—particularly poetry—has been deeply tied to clan dynamics. While this has its place, it often reinforces alienation rather than connection. Art that centres on individual human experiences, however, has the potential to speak to everyone, regardless of background. 
 
It was in this context that I asked my friend Mohamed Buux, the editor of the Somali section of Geeska, if he considered K’naan—a Somali artist with a different clan and regional identity—“one of his own.” Without hesitation, he said yes, explaining that K’naan’s work transcends the sub-identities within Somali society. This highlighted the power of art to create connections that politics and social divisions often fail to achieve. 
 
The film we watched exemplified this. It told the story of a young man struggling to pursue his dream of becoming a musician in the face of societal opposition. The audience’s engagement during the feedback session—sharing personal insights and reflections—made it clear that relatability was key to its impact. By focusing on universal human struggles, the film created a space for dialogue that transcended the audience’s diverse backgrounds. 
 
Since the internal instability of Siad Barre’s regime in Somalia, which culminated in the civil war of 1991, Somalis across the region have been divided both politically and socially. This political division has fostered animosity among the people, each holding their own interpretation of history and their own narrative of which clan was the oppressor and which was the victim. While there were undisputed individual villains during this period, the framing of entire clans as either villains or victims became a central part of this collective alienation. 
 
This alienation, deeply rooted in clan identity, evolved into a dogma passed down from parents to children, resulting in a generation divided into three groups: those who rigidly adhere to their parents’ version of history, those who strive to understand events as they truly happened, and those who remain indifferent. The latter two groups often face alienation within their communities, as they lack the assertiveness—or perhaps the desire—to engage in the clan blame game. Instead, these individuals often seek refuge in art, longing for connections that are personal rather than defined by collective narratives. 
 
The potential for such spaces in Hargeisa to spark wider dialogue among Somali-speaking communities is immense. While there have been instances of Somalis from other regions participating in these events, meaningful and sustained dialogue across regional and clan divides remains limited. Expanding these platforms to include artists and thinkers from all Somali-speaking regions could foster the kind of connections that are currently missing. 
 
Art rooted in shared human experiences—suffering, hope, and fear—has the potential to serve as a powerful space for dialogue. In Hargeisa, the growing art scene and cultural spaces are already creating these opportunities on a local level. With time and broader inclusion, they could become a model for dialogue across the Somali-speaking world and beyond, proving that even in fragmented societies, art can unite where politics divides.