“Xamar was a different world”: Shirin Ramzanali on exile, memory and writing

Born in Mogadishu in 1953 to a Somali mother and Pakistani father, Shirin Ramzanali Fazel is a distinguished novelist and poet whose life and work beautifully reflect the complexities of a transnational existence. Growing up in Somalia under Italian administration, Fazel’s early education immersed her in Italian culture—a foundation that would profoundly shape her literary journey. 

Her move to Novara, Italy, in 1971 was initially a stark contrast to the clear skies of Mogadishu: a “disaster”, as she described it. Yet Italy became her base as her family’s life unfolded across multiple countries, including Zambia, the United States, Kenya, Saudi Arabia, and Tunisia. 

Shirin’s groundbreaking autobiographical novel Lontano da Mogadiscio (1994), translated as Far from Mogadishu in 2016, marked a pivotal moment in Italian literature. As one of the first postcolonial texts written in Italian, it not only illuminated Italy’s colonial past but also shed crucial light on the lives of migrants in the country. Scholar Simone Brioni noted its “fundamental role in decolonising the Italian imaginary”, offering a rare Black perspective on life in northern Italy before widespread African immigration. The book’s enduring relevance is evident in its multiple reprints. 

Author Nuruddin Farah argues that the book serves as an excellent example of how Somalis in the diaspora—particularly Shirin—have ignited a global debate on the international media’s failure to report on Somalia’s collapse. He highlights how the media historically overlooked and neglected to document key events, including those of 1993 and the “Restore Hope” operation in Somalia. Farah also considers Shirin as the first person to write about the Somali civil war through a distinctly Somali lens. 

Since her debut, Shirin has continued to explore themes of identity, race, and the aftermath of colonialism. Her second novel, Nuvole sull’equatore. Gli italiani dimenticati. Una storia (2010), later translated as Clouds over the Equator. The Forgotten Italians (2017), delves into these issues through the story of a girl with Somali and Italian heritage. Upon moving to Birmingham, UK, in 2010, Fazel began writing in English, joining groups such as Writers Without Borders and contributing to academic projects focused on transnational languages. 

Her first English poetry collection, Wings (2017), explores themes of ‘Diaspora’, ‘Caught in the Middle’ (reflecting on the idea of home), and ‘Migrants’, offering poignant reflections on the migrant condition. This collection was later translated into Italian by Shirin herself. Her contributions also extend to documentary film, appearing in Memories of Mogadishu (2018), which gathers personal stories from the Somali diaspora. 

Shirin’s poem Mare Nostrum even inspired a musical composition, Silentium Nostrum, by French composer Elizabeth Bossero in 2018. More recently, her collaborative work Scrivere di Islam. Raccontare la diaspora (2020), translated as Islam and Me: Narrating a Diaspora (2023), critically examines what it means to be a Muslim woman in Italy and the UK. Her latest poetry collection, I Suckled Sweetness – Poems, was released in 2020. 

In this interview for Geeska, Shirin reflects on her fond memories of Mogadishu, the traumatic fall of the Somali state, the diaspora and its impact on the lives of millions of Somalis, and what prompted her to write her book. 

Yusuf Absuge: First and foremost, what compelled you to write your book, Far from Mogadishu, especially after being away from Somalia for such a long time? 

Shirin Ramzanali Fazel: In 1991, when the civil war erupted in Somalia, I simply couldn't believe what the media was reporting—all that devastation and conflict. Even the people living in Mogadishu at the time expected the fighting to last no more than two weeks before everything returned to normal. But the war escalated, and the destruction of the country just wouldn’t stop. Despite Italy being a colonial power with deep ties and much knowledge of Somalia, it made little effort to provide a comprehensive, accurate, and multifaceted account of what was happening in Mogadishu and Somalia as a whole. International media and writers only disseminated that image of ruin and suffering, completely erasing the Somalia known for peace, coexistence, and goodness. 

For me, it was incredibly difficult—unbearable even—for my mind to accept that my city was being portrayed solely through this negative lens of war, reduced to examples of displacement, looting, rape, and killings. The city I left behind had a completely different face; it was a place where people loved and respected each other, living together in peace. So, since I wasn’t a politician and lacked the power to stop what was happening in my country, I decided to pour my grief onto paper. I picked up my pen to recount the beautiful memories and experiences of the country. That’s how this book was born. 

YA: In your book, you chronicle the golden age of life in Xamar [Mogadishu], which embodied a rich civilisation and diverse social tapestry, bringing together various peoples: Somalis, Arabs, and Europeans. Could you tell us more about that life in Xamar? 

SRF: At that time, Mogadishu was a city where many diverse ethnic groups lived together: Somalis, Arabs, Yemenis, Italians, Indians, Pakistanis, and even a small number of Jews. We never distinguished ourselves by clan or sub-clan. Our “clan” was based on neighbourhood; people identified themselves by the different areas they lived in. These neighbourhoods took the place of clans, and we’d refer to ourselves as “people of Shangani”, “people of Bilajo”, “people of Bondhere”, “people of Ansaloti”, “people of Xamar Weyne”. Somali and Italian languages were used interchangeably; everything was normal, and mutual respect prevailed. Elders were given special consideration and reverence; everyone treated them like their own parents. Neighbours shared everything, inviting each other to weddings, funerals, and other events. There was no hatred, no discrimination, no exclusion—it was a different world. 

Islam wasn’t merely a spoken word or a mere outward appearance; our mothers wore their garays (a loose Somali dress) and garabsaar (shawl). Islam was based on mutual aid, respect, compassion, caring for one another, and love. I vividly remember that life, and I would love for Somalia to return to that state. 

YA: Somalia collapsed in 1991. What was it like to receive those harrowing and tragic reports of destruction, displacement, looting, rape, and devastating civil war coming from your country? How did it impact your psyche, emotions, and way of thinking? 

SRF: The news I received about the conflict in the country became an opportunity for me to learn about and recognise the hypocrisy and duplicity practised by Western nations. European governments offered no aid or assistance to the people and communities besieged by the country’s conflict. Those who fled the fighting were dying in the seas, and they were subjected to harsh conditions just to gain asylum—they were marginalised, and their stories about Somalia’s destruction were not welcomed. It was clear that the West would have acted differently if Somalia had been of European origin or a European member state. This served as proof that the values of democracy and humanity that Western nations claimed to uphold were merely relative, serving only themselves and their supporters. 

YA: Your book connects various countries and cultures where you’ve lived at different times. Do you believe that an “expatriate” like yourself always lives in a “middle ground”, never fully integrating into the new country of asylum while also being detached from their homeland? How would you define the psychological and social state of expatriation? 

SRF: The main reason for this state is the belief that, deep down, one will return to their country once the conflict ends. But the reality is often different; people hoping to return often end up staying in the country of asylum for ten to fifty years. The second factor behind this “in-between” state is being perceived—or perceiving oneself—as not truly belonging to the host country, and defined only by superficial traits like skin colour or hijab, without considering the new identities and residency status one holds in that new country. 

The third issue is that the social customs and traditions a person brings from their original culture often cannot be practised in the new countries, especially concerning child-rearing. It becomes difficult for parents to maintain a good, peaceful relationship with their children, or even to properly admonish them when they make mistakes. This ultimately leads to family breakdowns and maladjustment within exiled communities. 

Although no one knows an individual better than they know themselves, it is important for a person, once they mature, to understand and recognise their true identity and to question their origins or the people they come from. For me, the solution is for individuals to embrace and live alongside the people and the new country they have moved to, taking what is good from it and leaving behind what is bad. This can be a solution to prevent the disorientation that affects most people. 

YA: You’ve often talked about how women are the glue which holds families, friends, cultural memories and different generations together. Based on the stories in your book, can you tell us more about the role women play in connecting the past, present and future? 

SRF: I have witnessed firsthand how women—and specifically mothers—played a central role in supporting Somali families in exile, including raising a generation that faced many difficulties in the diaspora, preserving their mother tongue, culture, and faith. And this alone is an indisputable example of the significant role of women in the community. In a nutshell, mothers are bearers of culture. I can even say that they are the embodiment of all that culture is, and personally, it is because of my mother that I’m firmly rooted in my Somali identity. 

YA: In many parts of your book, you depict sorrow, fear, and hopelessness. If you were to write another book today, would there be new light or optimism you'd include, or do you still believe that painful situation persists?  

SRF: Yes, I have a lot of hope for Somalia’s situation, and I expressed it in a subsequent book called The Scent of Uunsi: Between Somalia and Italy. In it, I discussed all my hopes and the positive changes happening in Somalia. Therefore, I don’t believe Somalia will ever return to the suffering it endured. I believe the destruction is over, and Somalia will only move forward—it will never go back.