Mogadishu works to revive Somalia’s fading sacred heritage

by Sagal-Louise HaiderSaturday April 18, 2026

In Mogadishu’s historic Xamar Weyne district, Fakhr ad-Din Mosque endures as a medieval landmark with deep global roots — and mounting vulnerability.

A photograph released by the African Union-United Nations Information Support Team shows a view of the Mogadishu fishing harbor from the Aruba Hotel, Mogadishu, Somalia, Aug. 6, 2012. (Photo courtesy of Sagal-Louise Haider)

At the center of Somalia’s capital, Fakhr ad-Din Mosque sits almost in silence. Dating to no later than 1269, it is one of the country’s most important medieval monuments and among the best known in the region. Yet despite its prominence, it remains strikingly understudied. I first encountered it properly in 2023, when I chose the mosque as the main case study for my research on historical architecture in southern Somalia. After long negotiations with military patrols and the mosque’s imam, I was able to capture drone footage of the site and, with the help of the mosque’s elders, collect a tiny sample from its ancient wooden door. That work allowed me to examine the Gujarati marble mihrab and other distinctive features, many now obscured beneath layers of paint, but still bearing witness to centuries of exchange between the Horn of Africa and the wider world.

The south facade of Fakhr ad-Din, Mogadishu, Somalia, July 8, 2023. (Photo by Sagal-Louise Haider)

Those brief, delicate moments in the field underscored how fragile heritage work remains in Mogadishu. International efforts — many backed by Turkish entities — have begun restoring sites including the mosques of Arbaa Rukun and Abdul Aziz, but Fakhr ad-Din has yet to receive comparable attention. Its condition highlights why these monuments matter: their stones preserve evidence of trade, faith and resilience. Before civil war erupted in 1991, interest in Somali heritage was building steadily. The first International Congress of Somali Studies took place in 1980, UNESCO was active in the country around the same period, and Ahmed Dualeh Jama became the first Somali to earn a doctorate in archaeology in 1991. Conflict soon upended those gains, and much of the nation’s urban fabric was damaged or destroyed. As Mogadishu and the country continue to change quickly, there is a real danger that development and decay will erase the record of the past. Protecting these monuments — and the people who care for them — requires time, funding, security and sustained attention from scholars and the public alike.

Since the war, Somalia’s diaspora has grown and turned increasing attention to the country’s built heritage. I am part of that effort through Somali Architecture, a project that creates 3D models of well-known monuments in the region using field research and online resources, then shares them with wider audiences. By publishing our work online, presenting it through VR headsets and taking exhibitions across North America, Europe and Africa, we use architecture and migration as a lens to connect memory with the present. As those exhibitions reach Somali communities across borders, heritage becomes more than a record of what was lost; it becomes a living expression of a global community and identity.

The Cathedral of Mogadishu was designed by Antonio Vandone and largely built between 1925-1928, Mogadishu, Somalia. (Photo courtesy of Sagal-Louise Haider)

Even as digital reconstructions help revive these monuments in virtual form, the physical structures remain exposed. Years of war and recurring crises have weakened both preservation systems and the expertise needed to sustain them, but caring for the past remains essential as Somalia moves toward a new future.

The recent collapse of Mogadishu’s lighthouse, which killed multiple people, offered a stark reminder of the stakes. In other cases, repairs to historic buildings have been carried out in ways that disregard original materials and methods. Limited support has encouraged the use of cheap substitutes such as concrete, where local Somali traditions of coral stone and mortar would have been more appropriate. Some restorations have also overlooked historical context. Arbaa Rukun, for instance, was covered with Iznik-style tiles that radically altered its medieval interior.

There are similar uncertainties surrounding the remnants of Italian occupation. Some structures were repurposed by the Somali government after independence, while others — including the Catholic cathedral and the triumphal arch dedicated to Umberto II of Savoy — remain tied to histories that do not necessarily match local priorities. Some Mogadishu residents would rather see such landmarks demolished, while scholars including Iman Mohamed caution against “colonial amnesia.”

Whatever ultimately happens to these buildings, their histories must be documented before more is lost. Much of the available record has already vanished, and what remains is often locked away in colonial archives. Other memories survive only in the oral accounts passed down through generations of Italians and Somalis, beyond the reach of most researchers and the wider public. A stronger network of scholars is needed to recover and share that material in ways that can support Somalia as it confronts its heritage.

Claire Dillon’s recent discoveries about the cathedral, for example, are reshaping how scholars understand its design and intentions, bringing a medievalist perspective to a neo-medieval building. History like this can only be responsibly recorded and interpreted when people with different skills, viewpoints and resources work together.

These stories reveal architecture as both a vessel of memory and a tool of colonization and reclamation. With Türkiye investing heavily in Somali development, new historical findings and digital reconstructions are emerging at a critical moment, offering a fresh perspective on preservation efforts led by Somalis themselves. Coordinated international initiatives, with strong Somali participation from inside the country and across the diaspora, can help reconnect scattered narratives, rebuild damaged landmarks and restore continuity after decades of conflict and displacement.

Still, the future remains uncertain. Saving these buildings and recovering Mogadishu’s disappearing past will take more than documentation. It will require a shared commitment to understanding why the past matters, and to protecting it for the sake of the present.

The work of Somali Architecture and other Somali-led initiatives shows that preservation is not an afterthought but a necessary step in shaping the future of the country and its diaspora. The fate of Mogadishu’s heritage will depend on partnerships that respect local knowledge, elevate Somali voices and present the city in terms of its present and future promise, not only its losses. To preserve these monuments is, in the end, to decide what Somalia chooses to carry forward.