Undocumented Ethiopian immigrants are dealing with vigilante violence

Mohamed stood behind a dusty white car, laughing as he twirled a reddish towel with carefree flair. Around him, a few boys—four or five, kept darting in and teasing him, then cracking up into giggles. This is not an unusual scene. Near the intersection of Dabba I maray in Jigjiga Yar neighborhood, scenes like this play out every day: young men in clusters, waiting for a shout, a wave, a quick job to break the lull. 

But as we drew closer, the sound thinned. Shoulders straightened, eyes glanced toward us, and the laughter turned quiet. You could feel it—the wariness of kids who’ve learned to read strangers before letting their guard down. After a round of greetings, it was only Mohamed who broke the hesitation. He stepped forward, towel still dangling. There was something about him—confident and open—that made him harder to ignore.

Mohamed is Ethiopian, an undocumented immigrant who has called Hargeisa home for nine years. When we asked about the exact moment he arrived, his memory blurred. “I was very young,” he said, squinting his eyes as if trying to catch a slippery detail.

Like many of the undocumented Oromo immigrants, Mohamed works as a Baalashle, the local name for shoe-shine boys. His days begin at sunrise and end when the streets are empty: even strokes against leather, folded 1000-Somaliland-shilling notes pressed into his palm, shadows of passersby who seldom meet his gaze.

His Somali was broken, words stitched together, but his tone carried a dignity that refused pity. That dignity, though, is harder to hold now

And yet, when he spoke about his work, Mohamed smiled. Not apologetic, but proud. “I make enough to feed myself,” he told us. His Somali was broken, words stitched together, but his tone carried a dignity that refused pity. That dignity, though, is harder to hold now.

In recent weeks, Hargeisa has been shaken by a string of assaults on undocumented Oromo immigrants. Viral videos show mobs of young men with sticks, patrolling the city, hunting for those whose very presence they deemed foreign. “We are looking for any Oromo” they demanded, mocking and menacing.

In one clip that went viral, one can see an immigrant sprinting after being assaulted, his body tilting with terror, and down chased by a vigilante group. In another clip, an undocumented immigrant forced to the ground, insults spat at him between strikes. Off-screen, voices jeered, savoring his humiliation. On the clip one could hear the voices behind the camera “You send the money where?” one voice sneers. “Leave these neighborhoods tonight,” another growls, filled with venom.

For Mohamed, watching these scenes was like glimpsing a storm he always feared. “I haven’t seen such attacks before,” he said quietly, his brightness gone. Almost as if to reassure himself, he added: “Personally, I do some tactics to avoid such circumstances.” When we asked what he meant, he answered quickly: “I pretend to be a Somali kid.”

The trigger behind this last hostility came in June, when Ethiopian content creator Mue Max visited Hargeisa. In a Facebook post, he described the city as “a place of heroes, scholars, and Oromo intellectuals.”

Four weeks later the post went viral, and almost overnight, vigilante groups began targeting immigrants. And though their primary target were Undocumented Oromo migrants, many other documented refugees and asylum seekers from different ethnic backgrounds were not spared.

Max’s words were interpreted as a political statement— a proof, in some eyes, of a malicious attempt by Oromo immigrants.

Max later released a clarifying video. “The reason I went to Hargeisa was because I was working on the history of Bakhri Sapalo,” he explained, referencing the Oromo scholar and linguist. “I wanted to visit his burial site and share that experience with my community. I never spoke about Somaliland and never said it belongs to the Oromo.”

“The solution can never be for citizens to take the law into their own hands. This matter should be left to the authorities.”

Somaliland authorities also tried to calm the situation. President Abdurahman Abdillahi Irro said: “Ethiopians come here (as Ethiopian), and it is prohibited to single out any particular group,” referring to the Oromo community. The commander of the Somaliland Police Forces, Abdirahman Abdillahi Hassan, reiterated the message: “The safety of every foreigner is the responsibility of the government. We warn the public and the youth not to take the law into their own hands.”

Local residents we spoke with expressed concern about the undocumented Oromo immigrants. “In recent years, the Oromos have become a burden,” said Abdirisaq Abdi of Hargeisa. “They’ve contributed to unemployment, the deterioration of cities, and instability in major towns.” However, Abdi condemned the vigilante groups and their violence: “The solution can never be for citizens to take the law into their own hands. This matter should be left to the authorities.”

To see how the community was coping, we sat down with two undocumented immigrants: Ahmed and Anas.

Ahmed, 19, tall and lanky, arrived in Hargeisa nine months ago through the border town of Wajaale. “One morning, my mother suddenly told me we would be heading to Hargeisa,” he recalled. Unlike many undocumented immigrants, Ahmed speaks flawless Somali—you could mistake him for a native. “I grew up in Jigjiga, surrounded by Somali kids,” he explained with a shy smile.

Anas’s journey was harsher. He has crossed into Somaliland twice—both times on foot, trekking across the rugged Ethiopia–Somaliland border. His first attempt ended when police caught him and deported him. Determined, he tried again two months later. “We were walking for days to arrive here,” he said.

Unlike Ahmed, Anas struggles with Somali. He can manage a few words, enough to get by. Still, he found small jobs around the city. “I was told I could work in Hargeisa and make a lot of money,” he said, before breaking into a boyish laugh. “And maybe I could buy a phone.”

That dream has already unraveled. Not long ago, Anas was assaulted on his way home. “While I was walking, a group of young men attacked me,” he recounted. “They beat me with sticks and took the little I had earned that day.”

Young men like Mohamed, Ahmed, and Anas often carve out a living by cleaning shoes, washing cars, or doing other odd jobs that earn them just enough to get by. But these jobs, while vital for survival, offer no promise of permanent residence or legal permits, leaving them in a constant state of uncertainty—always at risk of deportation. Their lives remain perched on unstable ground, just one knock at the door or a sudden snatch from the street away from being uprooted.

Mohamed still remembers the night when uncertainty turned into reality. “One night I came home only to learn that my brother had been deported,” he recalled. When we asked what had happened to his brother, Mohamed explained that he returned the very next day. “He called us and asked if we could send him money.” Without hesitation, Mohamed contributed. “I sent the money I had earned that very day,” he said, describing how he covered his brother’s return fare.

“There are also Ethiopians with passports and work permits, and some are here as refugees or asylum seekers”

Why are so many undocumented Ethiopian immigrants often deported and fail to secure a work permit? We posed this question to lawyer and human rights advocate Guleid Ahmed Dafac. “Many Ethiopians cross the border without passports and enter Somaliland irregularly. Without proper documents, they cannot obtain visas or work permits,” he explained. “Some use Somaliland as a transit point to Puntland, hoping eventually to reach Yemen. Those with passports often find it easier to secure documentation.” He added, “There are also Ethiopians with passports and work permits, and some are here as refugees or asylum seekers.”

We asked Mohamed, Ahmed and Anas about the challenges of obtaining work permits or legal documents—papers that could let them work without fear of deportation or violence.

“We don’t have any legal documents,” Mohamed said, his voice flat, as if repeating a fact, he’s long stopped hoping to change. Ahmed’s answer was even more certain: “No chance.”

For Mohamed, that absence doesn’t feel like a burden on the locals—at least that’s what he tells himself. He throws himself into work, tirelessly, asking for nothing more than to be left in peace. Anas, on the other hand, lives with the gnawing certainty that deportation is not a matter of If but When.

For all of them, the threat of assault only sharpens the edges of an already risky existence, adding another layer of fear on top of homelessness, the constant risk of deportation, and the daily struggle to make ends meet in a city that never fully accepts them without legal papers—documents many know they will never obtain.