Jubbaland denounces forced evictions, alleged abuses in Somalia’s capital Mogadishu

Jubbaland’s stark warning over alleged abuses in Mogadishu exposes Somalia’s deeper struggle over land, law and power

In a sharply worded statement from Kismayo on Thursday, the Jubbaland administration accused security forces in Mogadishu of beating two parents and seizing their property by force—allegations that, if confirmed, would add to a long and painful ledger of evictions and abuses in Somalia’s crowded capital.

Jubbaland said the attack occurred on Wednesday and described it as “a tragic incident in which innocent Somali parents were beaten and had their property taken by force.” The regional government also charged that members of an opposition coalition known locally as the Salvation Forum, who had gone to visit the victims and provide medical care, came under fire in what Jubbaland called an “attempted assassination.” The statement demanded accountability for those who allegedly issued orders to use live ammunition and urged police commanders in the Banadir region—Mogadishu’s metropolitan authority—to protect, not harm, civilians.

As of publication, officials in Mogadishu had not issued a formal response to Jubbaland’s allegations. Details could not be independently verified, and the facts are likely to be contested, as so often happens in Somalia’s charged political environment. Still, the message out of Kismayo lands with force: in a country working to rebuild the rule of law, the line between public security and private coercion remains fragile and fiercely disputed.

Allegations that echo a familiar reality

The particulars of this case—an alleged land grab, violence against a family, and intimidation of perceived political rivals—resonate far beyond a single neighborhood in Mogadishu. Forced evictions have been a chronic crisis in the capital for years. Aid groups have long documented that tens of thousands of people, many of them internally displaced by conflict and climate shocks, are pushed from informal settlements each year. Families often arrive with little more than plastic sheeting and cooking pots, only to be told later that the ground beneath them belongs to someone else—sometimes a landlord, sometimes a militia, sometimes a businessman with political friends.

There is a grim rhythm to these operations. Bulldozers arrive at dawn. Doors are kicked in. A child’s schoolbook, a wedding photograph, a mother’s cooking fire—scattered in seconds. Authorities may frame such actions as clearing illegal structures or enforcing rightful ownership. But the law in Somalia is a patchwork: formal deeds are rare, land records are disputed, and power often settles what paperwork cannot.

Beyond a press release: the federal fault lines

Jubbaland’s intervention underlines a broader struggle inside Somalia’s federal system. The country’s regional states—Jubbaland in the south, Puntland State in the northeast, and others—have repeatedly clashed with the federal government in Mogadishu over security control, political appointments, revenue, and election rules. Accusations of heavy-handed policing in the capital are swiftly read through that lens: who controls the streets is often shorthand for who controls the state.

The reference to the “Salvation Forum” is telling. Opposition alliances in Somalia tend to coalesce under umbrella movements that adopt the language of reform or salvation. Their rallies, visits, or even humanitarian gestures can be treated as political tests of strength—especially in a country still battling the insurgency of al-Shabaab and where security forces are stretched thin. When Jubbaland claims Forum members were targeted while “trying to defuse tensions and deliver urgent humanitarian support,” it is also accusing national authorities of weaponizing security for political ends.

Somalia’s leaders have promised reforms to professionalize the police, harmonize judicial processes, and clarify land tenure. Yet the space between promise and protection remains wide. The question haunts not only policymakers but families wondering if the next knock on the door will be a police commander, a private guard, or a gunman paid to “resolve” a deed dispute.

Mogadishu’s pressure cooker

Mogadishu is a city under enormous strain. Its population has swelled as people flee droughts, floods, and fighting in the countryside. The pressure for housing has soared; so too have land values. In that mix, even a family plot—held in memory more than in paper—can become a flashpoint. As one camp leader told visiting aid workers in recent months, people are “displaced many times over”—first by war or hunger, then by eviction, and sometimes again by redevelopment projects that promise a more ordered city but leave the poorest scrambling for the next patch of ground.

Aid agencies and the UN have pushed for a more predictable eviction framework: advance notice, legal recourse, safe relocation. There has been progress on paper, and some municipalities have agreed to temporary moratoriums, especially during rainy seasons when tearing down shelters can be deadly. But enforcement depends on policing, and policing—like much else in Somalia—depends on politics. That is why Jubbaland’s call for accountability matters: it draws a straight line between the conduct of individual officers on a street in Mogadishu and the credibility of the state as a whole.

Why it matters now

Somalia’s security transition is entering a sensitive phase as African Union forces continue their drawdown and national units take on more responsibility. Every incident that looks like an abuse erodes public confidence and hands insurgents a narrative gift: that the state cannot protect you from the people with guns, even when they wear government uniforms. Conversely, transparent investigations and visible discipline can slowly build the trust a counterinsurgency requires.

There is also a practical calculation for leaders in Mogadishu and the regions: political rifts widen quickly when they appear to be fueled by fear. Today’s dispute may be about a family’s plot; tomorrow’s could be a standoff over electoral rules or revenue sharing. In a fragile federation, restraint is a strategic asset, not a sign of weakness.

What to watch next

• Will Banadir police or federal officials open a public inquiry into Wednesday’s incident and the alleged attack on opposition figures?
• Can national and regional leaders agree on a shared protocol for preventing forced evictions and for safeguarding humanitarian responders and political visitors?
• Will independent oversight bodies, religious leaders, or elders step in to mediate and verify what happened—restoring both property and dignity where they’ve been lost?

Somalia’s trajectory depends on the cumulative weight of small decisions: which order a commander gives at a tense moment, which complaint a prosecutor pursues, which neighbor chooses to look away or speak up. Jubbaland’s statement, forceful as it is, is also a plea—to put the constitution’s promises into practice. Land is about identity, inheritance, and home. The measure of the state is not in how it clears a street, but in how it protects those who live along it.

The families at the heart of this allegation will not care about federalism or institutional reform. They will care about whether they can sleep in their own rooms tonight and whether the knock on the door tomorrow will bring help—or harm. As Somalia navigates the long road from survival to stability, that is the test that counts.

By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.