(ERGO) – Life in North Western State of Somalia’s Awdal region has never been easy, and Jama Mohamed Hassan can tell you all about it. His eyes are weary, a reflection of the tribulations his family of 17 is enduring. Their grocery business in Ruqi—a lifeline for years—recently came to a standstill. Customers who once brought vitality to his store now only leave unpaid debts, totaling a staggering $6,000 over the last 10 months.
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Jama’s story is not just his own. Forty other shopkeepers in the region have shuttered their doors in recent months. What’s rippling through Awdal is more than financial; it’s deeply personal, affecting livelihoods and futures alike. “The farms are empty. Our lives are in chaos,” Jama shared soberly, echoing a sentiment that’s become all too common.
Imagine living a life where obtaining even a single meal is a daily struggle. Jama’s family now experiences this harsh reality, forced to purchase food on credit from stores outside their settlement. With only one meal a day, he confesses, “We used to struggle to get food two out of three times a day. But now, there is just despair.”
The collapse of local agriculture—the beating heart of this community’s economy—has reverberated throughout. Schooling, once a beacon of hope, is another casualty. For Jama, it meant four of his children had to abandon their education, as their high school closed due to unpaid fees. What can a future hold when education is a casualty of mere survival?
It’s not simply about lacking money; it’s about the erosion of an entire way of life. Farmers like Abdinasir Abdillahi Abdi, who owes $3,000 for food and essential fuel, are tethered to the same crisis. His efforts to irrigate his failing crops with motor-pumped water met a sad end: barren fields. Abdinasir narrates, “We used to manage the farm, reaping yields every four or three months. But that was before the safety net—our reliable exchange of credit and produce—tore apart.”
Now clad in the dusty clothes of a gold mine laborer, Abdinasir earns what he can, sending bits of hope home to his family of nine. He, like many others, dreams of a time when rain will again grace the land. Can these dreams ever be fulfilled, or will they remain lingering shadows of what was?
As we delve deeper, it’s clear that every closed shop tells a story. Take Abdisalan Mohamed Adan, for instance, who closed his doors and watches as his family of eight wonders where their next meal might come from. Until recently, Abdisalan made a modest living, about $5-$7 a day. Now, he finds solace and sustenance in divided family meals.
The local administration in Ruqi grapples with the overwhelming issue of unyielding skies and desolate fields. Solutions seem as scarce as the rains themselves, with crop failures and empty shelves sparking dislocation and seeding despair.
In the profound words of Jama, etched with survival and resignation, “We’ve been here for eight years. I don’t know what will come next. But I know we will stand as long as we can.” These are the cries of a community that awaits change—perhaps, a sign that challenges can carve strength. Are we listening to their stories?
Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International–Monitoring.
