Somali women between memory, myth and merit

In Somali folklore, there is a story about a Queen named Araweello — a ruler who defied the patriarchal order long before feminism or human rights were ever spoken of. She was a woman who refused silence, a queen who waged her own war against injustice. Some men describe her as cruel; others say she was fair and visionary. What is certain is that she punished every man proven to have wronged a woman, for she could not bear the sight of oppression.

Legend says Araweello lost her husband early in life and, through that loss, came to understand the fragility of women’s existence in a world that valued them only through men. As her reign grew, so did her conviction that women were more capable of leading, for the endless wars and clan divisions had always been started and sustained by men.

The story of Araweello is more than a simple legend; it is a foundational myth in Somali culture that scholars have long debated. While her historical existence remains unproven, the narrative itself serves a critical cultural function, pointing toward a possible, earlier matriarchal or quasi-matriarchal system in the Horn of Africa before the deep entrenchment of modern patriarchy.

The most famous, often male-centered, versions of the story portray her as a ruthless ruler who sought to emasculate men — literally by cutting off their testicles, or symbolically by forcing them into women's tasks — to enforce a purely female government. This version is frequently interpreted by male elders and traditionalists as a cautionary tale against women's rule, a reductio ad absurdum of feminist power.

However, scholars, particularly Somali female academics and cultural historians like Dr. Ladan Affi and others, interpret Araweello differently. They argue that the stories of her cruelty are later additions or embellishments by patriarchal storytellers intended to diminish her power and rationalize the overthrow of her system. For these interpreters, Araweello represents the archetype of female political power and resistance to gendered violence. Her "cruelty" is seen as a necessary, brutal reaction to an existing, normalized male cruelty, making her a symbol of radical justice.

She is a powerful myth used to legitimize the fight for women's rights today. Her story is a memory of resistance passed down orally, a testament to the fact that women's leadership is not an alien concept to the Somali soul.

When I first heard this story from my grandmother, I didn’t realize that I was also hearing her own reflection, told through the shape of myth. Like Araweelo, my grandmother Hawa ruled no kingdom, yet she embodied the same resilience and defiance. She lost her father and her beloved uncle in senseless clan revenge killings. Orphaned and alone, she was taken in by another uncle whose wife turned her into a servant, forcing her to herd livestock and toil in the harsh sun.

But Hawa never accepted that fate. Quietly, she began collecting the goats that were gifted to her. When she had enough, she made her decision. As she tried to leave, the men of her clan — her uncle among them — stood in her way, threatening to kill her. She lifted a knife, waved it defiantly, and said she would strike down the first man who laid a finger on her. And then she walked away.

She arrived in the city of Beledweyne, where she began trading livestock and goods, slowly building her own independence. Later, when men sought to marry her, drawn to her sharp business mind and magnetic strength, she told them she would only accept a man who could defeat her in a wrestling match, right there in the middle of the street. None ever dared. It was her way of saying: a man who does not respect my strength will never deserve my heart.

During the civil war, after losing my grandfather and watching her sons scatter to safer lands, my grandmother turned her home into a shelter for women fleeing violence. Once, she even faced an armed young militiaman who came to kill a pregnant woman hiding in her house. She stood at the door and said, “You will have to shoot me first.” She never understood why women had to pay for wars started by men, or why silence was demanded of those who had already suffered enough.

From her, I learned that “women have no tribe” but each other, and that any Somali woman who dreams of changing her country must first understand the principle upon which Queen Araweelo built her empire: that the only real protection for women lies under women’s leadership.

But between myth and memory lies a deeper truth, starkly reflected in the nation's political data. The patriarchal order in Somali society was not born overnight.

Despite decades of advocacy, and constitutional and legal mandates, Somali women remain critically underrepresented in formal leadership positions.

This is not just an anecdote; it is a measurable, systemic failure:

For the past several election cycles, including the 2021/2022 Federal elections, a mandatory minimum 30% quota for women in both houses of Parliament has been in place. This quota is rarely, if ever, met. In the last Federal Parliament (which elects the President), women secured approximately 20% of the seats, falling significantly short of the mandated goal.

The numbers are even more dismal in the executive branch. Historically, women have held very few Cabinet positions and are almost completely absent from the highest echelons of the judiciary, the regional state assemblies, and the civil service directorates. At the ministerial level, women's representation often hovers in the single digits, with crucial portfolios being almost exclusively held by men.

Real political power in Somalia does not sit in Parliament or the Cabinet, it sits with the clan. And because women are barred from the clan councils and elder assemblies where all major decisions are made, every other political role becomes largely ceremonial.

Somalia consistently ranks among the lowest countries globally for female political participation, often far behind its neighbors. This glaring disparity is not due to a lack of educated or capable women, but a rigid system of clan-based power-sharing (4.5 formula) that favors men and reinforces traditional gender roles at the ballot box.

The irony cuts deeper: real political power in Somalia does not sit in Parliament or the Cabinet, it sits with the clan. And because women are barred from the clan councils and elder assemblies where all major decisions are made, every other political role becomes largely ceremonial. Quotas, elections, and titles change nothing when the true centers of authority remain male-only spaces.

This culture of authority reproduces submission generation after generation. Fear and compliance become communal traits. How can a generation of women who were raised to silence their voices at home ever raise it in parliament? How can a girl who has never been allowed to reject the injustice done to her stand against the injustices faced by other women in a political arena dominated by a self-serving male elite?

In our schools, gender inequality is taught long before politics. When a father falls ill, the daughter leaves school to care for him while her brother continues his education. When inheritance or marriage is discussed, only men are consulted. Girls are raised for service and sacrifice; boys, for privilege and entitlement.

Even much earlier than that, the state of being less human is instilled in infant baby’s minds through lullabies and stories that, again and again, portray women as incapable of leading their own lives without the supervision of a male figure, let alone leading a nation.

Within this system, fear becomes the most effective form of governance. Fear of shame, fear of sin, fear of disobedience. Religion is weaponized to justify control; the clan becomes a mechanism of silence. This is how child marriage becomes normalized, to the point that elders cry out in public media protesting a law that prohibits child marriage.

When I asked an elderly woman who lived through Somalia’s more united past why politics had become the domain of a few powerful men, she told me it is because those who rule today are men who only see themselves. “The new fascists” she called them “care neither for justice nor for the common good, only for personal gain.”

Her words struck me as painfully precise. The problem has never been women’s weakness, it is a system designed to reward sameness, silence, and domination.

Real reform must begin at home. To free women from fear is to free the nation from silence. When a girl dares to say no for the first time, the country speaks too. When she believes her voice is a right, not a favor, she takes the first step toward genuine leadership. There can be no clean politics in a land where oppression is taught at the dinner table, and no courageous generation born from one that punishes courage.

My grandmother Hawa left us no gold, but she left a legacy far richer: the belief that a woman who knows her worth cannot be defeated. Dignity, she taught me, is not inherited — it is earned through endurance. Leadership is not a title — it is a stance. Like Araweello in the legend, Hawa looked injustice in the eye and said no. Can we?