The air was tense in Mogadishu as the Somali Journalists Syndicate (SJS) delivered a stern rebuke against a recent act that silenced one of their own. Journalist Bahjo Abdullahi Salad, known for her unyielding dedication to unveiling truths, became the center of a brewing storm after her recent reportage on public health hazards in the bustling Wardhiigley district. It was Saturday, March 15, 2025, when agents of the Somali National Intelligence and Security Agency (NISA) descended upon her sanctuary—a place once of solace, now a site of controversy.

Bahjo’s report shed much-needed light on the unsanitary conditions plaguing Wardhiigley, particularly the discarded rubbish and leftover food that posed alarming health risks to its residents. “Clear your rubbish,” she urged government officials in her video that echoed far beyond Mogadishu’s borders. Prominent figures, including Somali Prime Minister Hamza Abdi Barre, graced the event she covered—a PR effort amidst escalating safety concerns—a coup turned sour through Bahjo’s candid camera lens. Her exposé, however, was not to be overlooked.

In an abrupt twist, Bahjo found herself in the clutches of NISA, taken to Wardhiigley police station—her reportage seemingly a culpable offense. She endured four hours of rigorous interrogation. It was not until her fellow journalists, galvanized by their shared plight for press freedom, rallied for her release that she was freed. But the damage—at least to the veneer of freedom—was glaring.

Bahjo’s ordeal is emblematic of a larger, troubling trend threatening the essence of journalism in Somalia. Not long before her detention, Somalia’s Minister of Information, Daud Aweys, pronounced a restrictive edict on the media landscape, cautioning against disclosing security lapses. His words still resonate: It is strictly prohibited to broadcast or publish statements that might incite unrest or threaten national security. One can’t help but ponder—should a government dictate such stringent edicts?

The gravity of the situation drew international attention. On March 4, the U.S. Embassy issued a security alert. Their message was clear: threats loomed imminent, casting a shadow over Mogadishu’s skies. Movement of diplomatic personnel came to a halt—an ominous silence echoing in every corner of diplomatic corridors.

Not a fortnight prior, the U.S. stance was reiterated from Nairobi, cautioning against using Mogadishu’s airport—a move that reverberated through the airline industry, prompting abrupt suspensions of direct flights. This sequence of events drew not only inconvenient travel plans but a narrative that Somalis and global onlookers could not ignore.

Despite these foreboding warnings, the local authority’s response—to crush dissent or critique—felt startlingly inverse to the ideal of openness. Banadir Regional Police Commissioner, known colloquially as Moalim Mahdi, fueled fears of consequence for audacious reporting with threats of incarceration in darkness—a stark realm for those who dared speak.

The aftermath is unsettling; residents remain devoid of critical security updates. Al-Shabaab’s lurking presence, menacingly close in the Shabelle regions, keeps the populace on edge. Ironically, it is the withholding of information that instills greater fear than the threats themselves.

The SJS and its Secretary-General, Abdalle Mumin, echoed the sentiment of many: Silencing journalists and imposing restrictions only leaves citizens in fear and despair, he stated, urging authorities to uphold the sanctity of press freedom. His words resonate like a call to action: in the face of adversity, there remains an inextinguishable thirst for the truth.