Radiyo Muqdisho: echoes of a collective memory

Last summer, when I returned home to Mogadishu to visit my family, I had the opportunity to dive into the Radiyo Muqdisho archives. It was a welcome chance to glimpse my country’s past through recordings currently stored in a heavily government-controlled area near Villa Somalia. Unfortunately, access to the archives is usually restricted, both due to the securitised location and the need to preserve the tapes from further deterioration. I was initially granted entry for one day. However, that single visit quickly turned into many, and I spent my days listening to radio segments on a range of topics. While one show lauded the independence celebrations of 1960, others played love songs, recited poetry, or shared updates on the progress of liberation movements in southern Africa.

Radiyo Muqdisho was inaugurated in 1951 during the Trust Territory of Somaliland period. Broadcasts were conducted in Somali, Italian, English, and later also in Arabic and Amharic. Its establishment during the trusteeship era did not prevent presenters from using the national platform as a site of resistance, as reporters and singers alike pushed back against the presence of imperialism. Announcers did not shy away from reiterating the illegality of Italian rule, and they would frequently call out the United Nations’ role as a flawed intermediary. In its heyday, the station played an important role in Somali public life. It now houses hundreds of thousands of reel-to-reel magnetic tape recordings, only a fraction of which have been digitised, with the vast majority still awaiting much-needed preservation. This is especially vital, as the archive stands as one of the last repositories of cultural and sociopolitical memory in post-civil war Somalia.

After war erupted in the late 1980s, Somalis witnessed divisions not only along geographical and political lines, but also in terms of memory. Archives were dispersed. Libraries were lost to armed clashes. Public manuscripts in Af-Soomaali dating back decades were damaged or looted. Personal collections containing cassette tapes and photographs—including those belonging to myself and my family—disappeared, never to be recovered. Yet remnants of what survived, or was plundered, can still be found in the former epicentre of colonialism: Rome.

I therefore cherish the fact that I was able to study Somalia’s rich past not only through materials that survived in New York and London via the prism of empire, but also by conducting archival research at home in the Radiyo Muqdisho archives, which was revived after a lengthy closure. Although I consider oral histories a valuable method for documenting the past in my research, there was something fascinating about discovering fading tapes that express both song and silence—narrations that stretch beyond the Indian Ocean and were once alive with the sounds of an imagined yet real sense of unity.

Living in exile has created a yearning for home, but it is not defined by an idealised recollection of Somalia.

It was difficult not to fall into the trap of nostalgia when listening to the artists my mother played for us growing up, including Axmed Naaji and bands like Dur-Dur Band, or when hearing political speeches from the post-independence era that my father told us about. This feeling was heightened by the fact that my research in Mogadishu was a family effort. My father would often accompany me and go through the catalogue while I searched the numerous shelves for tape after tape. We shared a sense of return to the past but also felt genuine gratitude that some sound archives have remained intact. Living in exile has created a yearning for home, but it is not defined by an idealised recollection of Somalia.

Today, a small group of young people under the supervision of lead archivists sit in stuffy rooms digitising up to three dozen tapes a day. The conditions are not conducive to the preservation of tapes, yet they do not diminish the determination of the archivists to do all they can to maximise digitisation efforts. Those committed to protecting our collective histories have ensured that Radiyo Muqdisho once again functions as an instrument of public life, as broadcasts continue to report on everyday events on a transnational level.

It must be noted that digitisation efforts are financially supported by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (Unesco) as part of a global heritage and media development project. The involvement of the United Nations is intriguing, given the former relationship between the radio station and the United Nations Operation in Somalia II (UNOSOM II) in 1993, which resulted in heightened discord between Somali political factions and the UN. Nevertheless, the backing of international actors raises a series of important questions. For instance: what are the power dynamics that shape the process of preservation? Who gains access to Somalia’s historical records? And ultimately, who stands to benefit the most?

I have encountered difficulties accessing some archives on the continent, even after being officially granted entry. For example, in Kampala, I was not considered a legitimate researcher as an African and was denied access to the Uganda National Records Centre and Archives.

As a Somali scholar based in Europe, these concerns are far from abstract. I have encountered difficulties accessing some archives on the continent, even after being officially granted entry. For example, in Kampala, I was not considered a legitimate researcher as an African and was denied access to the Uganda National Records Centre and Archives. At the George Padmore Research Library on African Affairs in Accra, I was asked whose assistant I was—presuming I was collecting data on behalf of a Westerner, rather than conducting research in my own right. In Harare, I was repeatedly required to present my credentials to prove that I am who I say I am. Needless to say, such barriers are not limited to the African continent; Africans encounter them internationally as well.

Shortly after my return from home, I received enquiries from a handful of scholars seeking to know how they too might gain access to the Radiyo Muqdisho archives—some known to me, others not. At first, these requests appeared reasonable. But as time passed, I felt a growing discomfort. It soon became clear that my unease stemmed from the fact that many of these individuals had shown little to no previous interest in Somali Studies or engagement with Somali histories, cultures, or traditions. It became evident that the Western researchers in question viewed what, for me, was a deeply personal and moving experience as an opportunistic avenue to advance their careers—without the necessary reflection on their own positionality.

I have witnessed this pattern repeatedly: the sudden ‘discovery’ of Somalia by researchers with no prior ties to the region, who nonetheless exploit it to secure funding and position themselves as the next so-called expert on Somali territories. The tired yet persistent tropes resurface in these conversations, as I am asked whether it is possible to work in the Mogadishu archives without fear of violence. Perhaps, they suggest, I might encounter a pirate or be inconvenienced by the aftermath of the failed state. Strangely, it never seems to occur to the newly minted Somalia specialist that I am not their native informant.

My forthcoming work on the Somali Youth League and the Pan-African advocacy of Somali diplomats has been “borrowed” twice, to my knowledge, and yet I continued to be collegial throughout most of my PhD by answering questions on these topics in good faith.

My forthcoming work on the Somali Youth League and the Pan-African advocacy of Somali diplomats has been “borrowed” twice, to my knowledge, and yet I continued to be collegial throughout most of my PhD by answering questions on these topics in good faith. I do not believe in gatekeeping practices. Knowledge should be accessible, and collaborations should be encouraged. However, I also firmly believe in the principle of accountability. Repackaging the intellectual labour of Africans without credit is rampant in academia, and it allows those who exploit others to thrive.

This practice is further compounded by framing African histories as untold, hidden, and endangered. This narrative is often appealing to funding bodies eager to embark on the noble journey of ‘saving’ the legacies of those who belong to the Global Majority. Never mind the initiative and agency of those who have long safeguarded these materials or documented their histories. This tension is evident in the case of the Radiyo Muqdisho Archives and some of its external backers, as well as in other archives across Africa.

I do not believe in gatekeeping practices. Knowledge should be accessible, and collaborations should be encouraged. However, I also firmly believe in the principle of accountability.

For example, I find the case of the Centro Studi Somali at the University Roma Tre peculiar. The centre holds extensive documents on Somalia, and on its website, it claims to have materials that no longer exist in Somalia. The centre prides itself on what it refers to as ‘collaborations’ and ‘donations’ that continue to make Somali history accessible—but accessible to whom?

With this logic, predicated on the uneven politics of access, a researcher from Mogadishu must travel to Rome to obtain materials on their own country’s past. If the guardianship of African libraries remains in the European hemisphere despite claims of serving African memories, then there is no true reckoning.

Asymmetrical power relations permeate the curation of Somali history, and articulating our country’s rich soundscape without giving Somali voices a central place would simply replicate the very erasure that the Radiyo Muqdisho Archives aims to challenge. If history were hoarded by those to whom it belongs, Western institutions would be in turmoil. But when preservation becomes synonymous with extraction, there is a deafening silence. As the archivists in Mogadishu tirelessly move forward with digitisation, one must ask: at the end of the day, which voices will matter most, and which ones will be drowned out?