Somali activist Sadia Moalim Ali was detained after using TikTok and Facebook to speak about forced evictions, soaring fuel prices and nepotism. Photograph: Handout
“Why don’t you just drive your tuk-tuk and do your work?” the judge asked after court officials played videos from my social media accounts. I had used TikTok and Facebook to discuss problems affecting people in Somalia, including forced evictions in the capital, Mogadishu, high fuel prices and nepotism within government.
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I had also spoken about applying for jobs in hospitals and government departments, where I was told on three separate occasions that I would have to provide a sexual favour in exchange for work.
In Somalia, women are denied the right to participate fully in society or express themselves. They are not treated with respect. Women who speak out risk violence and, in some cases, disappearance.
Two days before my court appearance, two police officers abducted me and forced me into a vehicle. At the police station, they slapped me and repeatedly struck my head against a wall. I was denied access to a lawyer, and no formal charges were brought against me.
The judge ordered that I remain in custody while the authorities investigated. I was taken to Mogadishu Central prison, where about 120 women occupied the female wing, including roughly 30 in my cell. Built during the colonial era, the prison had never been renovated. There were no windows or lights, the smell was unbearable and the only toilet had no door, leaving us without privacy.
My first night was terrifying. I was held alongside members of [jihadist militant group] al-Shabaab, who spoke about killings, explosions and attacks on prominent people. I was too frightened to sleep.
Breakfast consisted of tea and a single slice of stale bread. About three hours later, we were given half a plate of rice. Guards demanded bribes if we wanted to go outside for sunlight.
Many of the women were depressed and suffering from health problems. I developed skin conditions, lost a significant amount of weight and stopped having periods.
As the days passed, I began to hear the other prisoners’ stories. One woman had been jailed while pregnant. Her former husband was suspected of being an al-Shabaab member, and their joint bank account had been found to contain irregular payments.
With help from the other women, she gave birth to her daughter inside their cell. The child is now 18 months old. I was heartbroken: the baby had committed no crime and deserved a better life.
Whenever I saw them, I thought of my own daughter, whom I was breastfeeding when I was taken. Two girls, aged 13 and 17, were also imprisoned with me. Other women had been jailed over debt or unpaid fines. Many had never seen a lawyer and had received prison sentences lasting years without understanding what offence they were alleged to have committed.
I realised that many of the women had been denied an education and exploited. I began teaching some of them to read and write.
I managed to obtain a phone in prison and contacted a local radio station. I agreed to an interview because I believed publicity could protect me and alert people to what was happening.
An hour after the interview was broadcast, a group of men came to my cell and took me to a room used for torture and punishment. The prison commander stripped me, removing my headscarf and dress, and beat me. With my hands tied behind my back, I was ordered to crawl on my chest while water was thrown over me. CCTV cameras were installed in the room.
I then spoke to the media again, this time to the Guardian. I wanted to make clear that I would not retreat and that the abuse would not silence me. Even if I was tortured, I would continue to stand up and speak out.
After the interview was published, I was threatened with rape. Prison authorities said they would film the assault and release the recording.
Three men forced me to the floor and removed my headscarf before sexually assaulting me. The attack was recorded on a mobile phone.
I eventually gained access to a lawyer. After a month in prison, I attended the first of three court hearings. Prosecutors presented the Guardian article about my torture and accused me of spreading anti-government propaganda. I understood then that the report had struck a nerve.
On 25 June, I was convicted of insulting government institutions and sentenced to three years in prison. It felt like being shot in the head. I was shaking and my vision became blurred.
My lawyer appealed. Knowing that people were campaigning for my release also gave me hope. On 12 August, the Banadir [region] court of appeal overturned both my conviction and three-year sentence, and I was released that day.
When I was reunited with my daughter, she did not recognise me. The punishment she endured was, in many ways, worse than what had happened to me.
Threats continued, and I was pressured to stop speaking publicly. Members of al-Shabaab had watched how my case unfolded and wanted me to join them. Fearing for my safety, I left the country.
I am now recovering from what happened. I want mental health support because I still experience flashbacks to my time in prison. I am also writing a book about my experiences.
Through my social media channels, I continue to advocate for some of the women I met in prison. They are invisible to much of the world, and I want to help secure their freedom.
As told to Sarah Johnson
Sadia Moalim Ali is a rickshaw driver and social activist
