Why we need to collect and archive Somali history

Somali archivists and historians on online spaces like X, YouTube and TIkTok are waging a quiet but profound war against the erasure of vital elements of our history and culture. Without their efforts—and without our urgent support—we risk seeing our stories slip silently into oblivion. 

Not long ago, while rummaging through my family papers in search of my birth certificate, I stumbled upon an extraordinary collection: a bundle of letters from the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF). Among them were letters of support, recognising the plight of refugees from the Ogaden region and urging readers to rally behind my father as he prepared for a journey to study at Al-Azhar University in Cairo. 

The WSLF’s assistance went far beyond words on a page. His path to Cairo, and his studies there, would almost certainly have been delayed—perhaps derailed entirely—by the grinding gears of bureaucracy. The Egyptian education ministry and Al-Azhar University did not recognise his Ethiopian schooling. Ethiopia was not an Arab state, and despite his extensive background in Arabic and Islamic studies, he had no way to prove his academic credentials. The WSLF intervened, reclassifying his credentials in collaboration with Somali authorities. After a brief period of testing in Mogadishu, he was re-credited, granted a visa, and allowed to travel to begin his education in Egypt. 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

What struck me most about these documents was not only their historical significance, but also the instinct I felt to share them—and the fact that I immediately knew with whom: Abdimalik Ali Warsame, a researcher and archivist focused on military history, foreign intervention, and Islamic political movements in the Horn of Africa, is the founder of the archive website somalihistoryarchive.com. 

Warsame’s work has long resonated with me, particularly his threads on the WSLF and the Ogaden region that I, and many others, call home. His work extends far beyond mere “content creation”. He is a custodian of memory—part of a wider movement of archivists building a parallel archive, one that belongs not to states or institutions, but to us, the people. An archive that operates beyond controlled narratives, shattered institutions, and the locked cabinets of colonial museums. 

Warsame recalls being first drawn to archiving upon realising how few Somalis were engaged in this vital work, nearly five years ago. He describes the destruction of Somalia’s national archives during the civil war as nothing less than a “bibliocaust”. 

Wealthy nations like the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom spend hundreds of millions—if not billions—on preservation. They catalogue everything from Indigenous artefacts to 1970s kitchen appliances, train tickets, land deeds, family portraits, and even cereal boxes. Nothing is deemed too trivial, as anything may one day shed light on the past. These states build cold vaults and digital clouds, staffed by trained archivists and supported by generous state funding. 

The work of independent archivists like him is not optional; it is essential. If we do not reclaim our story, others will write it for us—often behind paywalls and in institutions that lock our history out of our reach. 

Somalia, like many other states, does not enjoy such luxury. Decades of war, neglect, and institutional collapse have left vast swathes of our memory vulnerable to what Warsame calls “disappearing into oblivion.” His words are not poetic exaggeration—they are sober truth. The work of independent archivists like him is not optional; it is essential. If we do not reclaim our story, others will write it for us—often behind paywalls and in institutions that lock our history out of our reach.  

To accurately grasp the stakes, I spoke with Dr Safia Aidid, an interdisciplinary historian of modern Africa and assistant professor at the University of Toronto. Her reflections echoed Warsame’s sense of urgency. She told me that preservation is especially important in the face of the deterioration, loss, and looting of Somalia’s archives and artefacts. For her, taking matters into our own hands is not only important, but also “essential, given the near absence of conventional institutional structures for collecting and preserving history in the Somali territories”. On this point, I could not agree more. 

When history isn’t preserved, it isn’t simply forgotten—it is erased. Erasure is not always the by-product of conquest or censorship. It sometimes arrives through neglect: documents left undigitised, stories never written down, records left to rot in storage rooms. In Somalia, where conflict and displacement have ruptured the chain of memory between generations, this danger is magnified. 

In the vacuum left by broken institutions, decentralised efforts have emerged to do what states cannot. Several interesting platforms have gained a respectable following. On TikTok, somali.archived.history stores and publishes interesting clips from 20th- and 21st-century Somali history, featuring everything from Mohammed Haji Egal’s 1969 visit to the White House to a clip of a race in which Abdi Bile, a Somali World Championships gold medalist, took part in Zurich in 1987. Taariikh Archive and Socialist Somalia — a YouTube channel and Substack newsletter respectively — focus more on the period during which Siad Barre’s military regime ruled the country, publishing clips in the case of Taariikh Archive, and documents and other stories via the Socialist Somalia newsletter. In other cases across Somali platforms, there are several high-profile interviews on various news channels with people who were witnesses — and, in some cases, protagonists — in key episodes of Somali history. But these are mostly smaller-scale and localised efforts and don’t address the broader danger of erasure.  

Picture a global network: someone in London scanning documents for someone in Toronto; someone in Mogadishu digitising papers that have sat locked in cabinets for decades. The possibilities are endless—but they depend on coordination, trust, and shared purpose. 

Dr Aidid describes it as “a spirit of democratising archival practices in addition to making these materials publicly accessible.” Somali archivists and historians are painstakingly piecing together our collective record—connecting timelines, contextualising events, uploading testimonies, and linking newspaper clippings to oral histories. They are rebuilding a Somali narrative for us, on our terms. Supporting them is not a matter of charity; it is a matter of survival. Pooling our resources is not our best option—it is our only one. 

The potential is immense. Picture a global network: someone in London scanning documents for someone in Toronto; someone in Mogadishu digitising papers that have sat locked in cabinets for decades. The possibilities are endless—but they depend on coordination, trust, and shared purpose. Dr Aidid suggests that coordinated efforts could also attract resources and funding through universities or even UN bodies. Collaboration between informal archivists and formal institutions doesn’t have to be a contradiction; it could be a continuum—a safety net for memories being reclaimed. 

Warsame believes members of the diaspora, in particular, carry a responsibility to use our resources and access—and he is right. Many of the most valuable Somali documents now sit in Western university libraries, especially in the United States and the United Kingdom. With even modest collaboration, progress could be swift. Imagine a small but coordinated network of diaspora Somalis committing a few hours to scan and share these materials. As Dr Aidid notes, “a smartphone camera and a scanning app are all you need.” 

But here, a word of caution. Social media is fragile ground. Posts can be shadowbanned, accounts deleted, and threads buried. Algorithms shift. Censorship arrives subtly, then suddenly. We have already witnessed how quickly the tone and policies of platforms like X can change. As Dr Aidid warns: “All it takes is for a website to go down or a folder to disappear to lose valuable materials.”  

Our parents’ and grandparents’ memories are still with us, but so many remain undocumented. Our stories are scattered across continents, across languages, and across the fragmented pathways of exile. If we do not capture them now, we may never retrieve them. 

This is why Somali archivists—and all who care about memory—must safeguard their work. Do not entrust it wholly to tech corporations. Mirror your posts. Host your threads, essays, and archives on your own websites. Back everything up to hard drives and independent servers. Share with peers you trust. Use the platforms, but do not be owned by them. 

We are living through a critical era for action. Our parents’ and grandparents’ memories are still with us, but so many remain undocumented. Our stories are scattered across continents, across languages, and across the fragmented pathways of exile. If we do not capture them now, we may never retrieve them. 

The responsibility to preserve Somali memory does not belong to one person—or even one generation—it belongs to all of us. Whether you are scanning your grandfather’s letters, backing up a friend’s recordings, or simply asking your parents questions you’ve never asked before, you are doing the work. 

Great efforts were made by those before us to uphold our culture and history in the face of upheaval, fragmentation, and displacement. It is now our responsibility to preserve, strengthen, and carry it forward—particularly in the digital realm. 

We must ensure that future generations inherit a record of who we were, not what others said we were. 

In Warsame’s words: “Somalis who care deeply about preserving our history should not hold their breath and wait for institutions or governments to take the lead. We have the tools, the access, and the collective ability to reclaim ownership of our past if we are willing to make the effort to do so”.