Somalia’s Lower Shabelle conflict forces hundreds into desperate hardship near Afgoye

Out in the Open: Somalia’s Displaced Families Wait for Help That Isn’t Coming

At first light on the outskirts of Afgoye, the land looks deceptively generous—open sky, a stretch of scrubland, a hint of green beyond the road. Then you notice the mats laid directly on the earth, the improvised shelters of sticks and cloth, and children cupping their hands for sips of water measured out like medicine. This is where hundreds of families displaced by fighting in southern Somalia’s Lower Shabelle region have gathered, waiting for help that hasn’t arrived.

“We ran from the bullets, but the hunger followed us,” said 32-year-old mother of seven, Farhiya Mohamed Ali, who has been begging door-to-door for food since late July. Her family escaped Barire, the frontline town that has switched hands repeatedly in clashes between government forces and Al-Shabaab. In the scramble to flee, Farhiya left behind a five-hectare farm where she planted maize, beans, and vegetables. It was everything they had. “The farm was a lifetime,” she told me quietly. “Now we sleep in the open and pray.”

From Farms to a Field of Dust

Farhiya and her husband haven’t found even casual labor since arriving in Afgoye. The older children, one of them just nine, have learned to wait patiently beside a small pot, hoping a neighbor’s kindness stretches far enough for one shared meal. On the days when there is nothing, Farhiya takes a 40-minute walk to a private well. If the owners are home, she fills a single 10-liter jerrycan. If they’re not, she turns back empty-handed. Ten liters to sustain a family of nine for two days—far below the minimum humanitarian standard, which suggests roughly 15 liters per person per day.

There are other costs to this new life. “Two of my children stopped going to the madrasa because I can’t pay the six dollars,” she said, referring to the Koranic school fees. Her calculation is painfully common in Somalia—choosing between lessons and lunch, between today and tomorrow. Farhiya estimates the family lost around $400 in seeds, tools, and labor when their farm was shelled on July 10. A $100 loan now sits like a stone in her pocket.

At night, the family sleeps on the ground. They worry about thieves. Farhiya also worries about hyenas and snakes. The longer she talks, the more I recognize the cadence of everyday Somali resilience—the way hope is braided into hardship. “We fled from war,” she says, “and arrived to a burden too heavy to carry. Only God can see us through.”

Pregnant, Exhausted, and Still Moving

Not far away, 28-year-old Istahil Omar Abdi, six months pregnant, rested against a bundle of clothes that doubles as a pillow. She reached Afgoye on July 18. When their two huts in Barire were torn apart by shelling, she and her husband gathered their five children and walked for two days. “Our feet swelled,” she recalled. “The little ones could not walk. My husband carried three of them on his back.” There was no food for two days along the road, she said. When they finally arrived, the smallest of the children were feverish, their bellies distended. She suspects malaria but has no money for a clinic.

Before the fighting flared, Istahil’s family lived off their farm—beans in the rainy season, vegetables when they could afford seeds. “We had a balanced life,” she said, using the Somali phrase that implies modest comfort and dignity. In Afgoye, she has looked for cleaning work, but so have many others. “You need people to vouch for you,” she explained. “I know no one here.” Most days there is one meal, usually rice shared by a crowd.

Five Hundred Families, No Camp Space

The displaced have formed their own committee, a common practice in Somalia where communities often organize faster than authorities do. Ali Osman Abdi, the committee chairman, told me they counted more than 500 families arriving in Afgoye and the surrounding area in the past two months alone. “The existing IDP camps are full,” he said. “People are sleeping in the open. Locals shared what little they have—some mats, small amounts of food. It’s not enough.” He said they alerted local administrators but received no response.

“These people’s lives have been destroyed,” Ali said. “We are asking the government and aid agencies to stand with them: healthcare, food, water, shelter. The basics.”

A Corridor Haunted by History

Anyone who’s covered Somalia remembers the Afgoye corridor—once one of the world’s most crowded stretches of displacement, where tens of thousands fled the fighting and famine a decade ago. The road from Mogadishu to Afgoye has swung between open and dangerous over the years, mirroring the broader rhythm of a conflict that’s stubbornly cyclical. In Lower Shabelle, fertile land has long been both lifeline and target, with fields doubling as frontlines. When shells land, harvests vanish. When harvests vanish, whole communities move.

Somalia’s war with Al-Shabaab, now in its 17th year, has intensified in waves since 2022, as government troops and allied militia pressed offensives—backed by the African Union Transition Mission in Somalia (ATMIS)—and militants responded with counter-attacks. In this churn, civilians in districts like Barire are often caught in the middle. Reported gains in some areas don’t translate into predictable safety on the ground. And as ATMIS continues its gradual drawdown, aid workers warn of potential security vacuums that leave families like Farhiya’s exposed.

When Help Stalls

Somalia’s humanitarians talk in a language of numbers and thresholds. Around 4 million Somalis are already displaced within their own country. Millions more need assistance. Funding appeals remain significantly underfilled, even as climate shocks—drought followed by severe flooding—compound the harm of war. In this context, emergency response becomes triage.

Out here, triage looks like this: 10 liters of water every other day for nine people. Children who were studying yesterday and are idle today. Pregnant mothers walking through the night. Community generosity stretching to its limit, and then snapping.

Aid agencies say they can move quickly if access is guaranteed and resources exist: water trucking, latrines, plastic sheeting for shelter. Cash gives families choice. Mobile clinics catch malaria early and deliver prenatal care. Temporary learning spaces rekindle routine and keep children from falling further behind. And, in farming areas like Barire, seeds and tools after the shooting stops help people return home with dignity.

What Families Say They Need Now

• Clean water nearby—either trucked in or via safe, subsidized access to wells
• Basic shelter materials: tarpaulins, poles, and floor mats to get off the ground
• Immediate food assistance or cash to purchase staples
• Mobile health and nutrition teams to treat malaria, diarrhea, and severe malnutrition
• Protection at night to deter theft and wildlife, including lighting where possible
• Small grants to restart livelihoods once areas are secure

The Questions That Hang in the Heat

What does it mean to rebuild a life when the soil that sustained you becomes a battlefield? How long can a community shoulder the burden before generosity runs out? In a year when global crises compete for attention and funds, who hears a mother whisper, “Only God can see us through,” and decides to act?

Somalia has taught the world these lessons before—that response delayed becomes a crisis multiplied, and that people will endure almost anything if given a little stability and a fair chance. In Afgoye’s open field, under an unforgiving sun, families displaced from Barire are still waiting for that chance.

By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.