Reflections on October 21

For those who may not know, October 21, 1969, marks the day when Somalia’s military regime overthrew the country’s democratic government and established a dictatorship that ruled for over two decades. The new regime declared October 21st as the most important national day — celebrated every year as the “Revolution Day” — and turned it into a mandatory nationwide event.

When the 21st of October approached, there would always be a wave of activity and large-scale mobilization initiated by the revolutionary government — often starting at least a month in advance — to prepare for the celebration of the Revolution Day. Every person living within what was then called Somalia was ordered to come out and celebrate. It wasn’t a voluntary act of patriotism; it was compulsory. Anyone who failed to attend faced serious consequences — imprisonment, execution, or other punishments such as losing their job or being expelled from school.

At that time, we were young students living in Hargeisa. The Ministry of Education would mobilize school administrators and teachers to ensure that every school showed up on the 21st of October. If any school failed to appear, the school administration, teachers, and even the Ministry of Education officials in the region risked imprisonment — sometimes for years — dismissal from their positions, or other punishments. In some cases, they could even be accused of treason and executed.

Because of this, we used to leave our homes at 4:00 a.m., when it was still completely dark and the cold was unbearable. Yet, we were not allowed to wear anything over the school uniform — which had short sleeves — not even something underneath for warmth. So, the students who lived close to each other would gather and walk together through the dark streets. The meeting point was the military camp at Birjeex, in the open field between the barracks and the football stadium, which at the time was an empty area. We would walk there on foot and we had to cross the valley on foot to reach the assembly point, our teeth chattering from the cold.

At that site, we would undergo a preliminary drill or rehearsal. Each school would line up by class, form parade rows, and practice until the official ceremony started around 8:00 a.m. Anyone absent that day was permanently expelled from school — since there were no private schools back then, missing that day meant the end of one’s education. This fear is what forced parents to send their children, regardless of how they felt.

When the ceremony began, all the revolutionary leaders, army officers, and other government officials attended at the Garoonka Salaanta — the Parade Ground — located where Edna Hospital now stands. The military band would play music while citizens marched along the main road, saluting the leaders seated on the reviewing stand. Our parade route started at the football stadium, marching along the long road until we reached the parade ground, where we gave our salute before continuing without stopping.

After finishing the parade, we would turn back near the area known as Total — today’s Gorgor — crossing the bridge and dispersing gradually. By then, everyone was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. The first thing people did was rush to the nearest place where they could find water to drink. From the moment we left home until then, we were not allowed to eat or drink — it was all marching and formation from start to finish.

It was something forced upon us — imposed by the barrel of a gun. I remember soldiers in our neighborhood knocking on every door at dawn, forcing people out. In some cases, if anyone refused or wasn’t found, they were taken away and detained. Some families would lock their doors from the inside to make it seem as though they weren’t home, pretending to have gone to the celebrations. The authorities wanted the streets full — some people marching, others standing and clapping — all in the name of October 21.