LESSONS FROM CHILDHOOD IN THE HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN SOMALIA: A PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE

[Deeq A.]

Somali Secondary School students going to the rural areas for the literacy campaign during 1970s.

I participated in the Somali Studies International Association (SSIA) conference held in Mogadishu from December 15 to 18, 2024. The conference was hosted by Somali National University and the Federal Ministry of Education and Higher Education. During the event, I received a copy of the new book titled “Macallinkeen Allow Kaal,” authored by Dr. Abdinur Sheikh Mohamed, who is the former Minister of Education in Somalia.

This timely and well-written book has revitalized my understanding of the history of education in Somalia, a journey I experienced as part of the living generation during the country’s educational revolution and literacy campaign. It has inspired me to reflect once more on my own educational journey, tracing the path that has shaped my life from Quranic school to the present day.

A rare sight caught my attention when a plane took off from the airstrip in the Jiriban district, Mudug region of central Somalia. At the moment, I did not fully grasp the significance of that local flight. Later, I learned that my sick father, who had served as the first judge of the primary court in the district, was on board. He had been flown to Mogadishu for further treatment and was admitted to Digfer Hospital, which at that time was the state-of-the-art medical facility in the new republic.

Unfortunately, he did not survive for long and passed away sometime in 1968. The hospital was constructed in the 1960th by Italian engineers. The name originates from the Italian construction company DigFer (Degola and Ferretti), which was later altered to Digfer or Digfeer. It played a significant historical role in Somalia’s capital.

His death was announced on Radio Mogadishu. My mother and older brother rushed to the village to confirm the news, as we were living outside the village at that time. Being too young to grasp the situation, I remained unaware of the gravity of what had happened. Before his death, my father made a will stating that my two younger brothers and I, the sons of Asha Haji Mohamoud, would be taken care of by our older brother, Isak Haji Warsame. At that time, Isak was studying in Egypt, where he was training to become a senior judge, following in our father’s footsteps. He was in his final year at the prestigious University of Cairo and had planned to surprise our father by graduating at the top of his class. However, his sudden death dashed that hope.

Upon his return to the country, he was appointed as the head of the Appeal Court in the North Western region, settling in Hargeisa. Once he got settled into his new role, he took three of us to Hargeisa, where I was enrolled in the Quranic school at Beerta-xorriyadda. This marked the beginning of my education, which was expected to last two years. During this time, we would learn not only the Quran but also Arabic and basic arithmetic. At that time, Somali was an unwritten language, and Arabic served as the medium of instruction for the first four years of primary school. My teacher, Sh. Hussein, was very fond of me because my brother was generous with him, paying more than the basic school fee.

As a result, Sh. Hussein took special care to help me learn the Quran quickly and to achieve basic proficiency in Arabic. I quickly mastered reading and writing every Arabic phrase although I didn’t fully understand their meaning.

My older brother, Isak, has taken on full responsibility for our family, and without his commitment to this role, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I am forever grateful for his generosity and dedication in filling the void left by our father, often at his own expense and comfort. During my childhood, I didn’t feel the absence of my father and it was only later, during my adolescence, that I began to notice my friends with their fathers hand-in-hand at public gatherings and in marketplaces. Without our father’s wishes and Isak’s unwavering support, we wouldn’t have survived for long.

After completing the standard two years at the Quranic school, I was enrolled at Sh. Bashir Primary School sometime in 1972. My brother and my teacher, Sh. Hussein were both present on the enrollment day. We gathered in a circle in the main open area of the school, and one by one, we were called to the examination room accompanied by two policemen. Upon entering the room, I noticed three examiners present. I was asked to read a surah from the Quran and write down several Arabic words. After completing these tasks, I was pleased to learn that I had passed the entry exam. It was truly my day. I was soon furnished with a new dress and some books. The curriculum was based on the Arabic language and we started with a book called “ Nahnu-naqra’u”. I was very good at reading Arabic and even understood basic sentences.

In those days, Hargeisa, the country’s second-largest city, was a vibrant metropolitan hub with bustling commercial areas, public facilities, playgrounds, basic social services, and the best weather year-round. One aspect that stood out was that my brother Isak was not fond of chewing Qat (Khat). After finishing his daily work at the court, he would head home instead of participating in the local social scene. He was also well-known for his integrity, which was a refreshing quality among local civil servants at that time. This strong moral character can be attributed to his upbringing in the household of a grand sheikh, jurist, and public servant—truly a case of “like father, like son.”

My brother Isak, a fluent Arabic speaker, used to take me to the cultural centre of the United Arab Republic of Egypt in Hargeisa. They showcased black-and-white Arabic-speaking Egyptian movies every Wednesday or Thursday. Although I couldn’t fully understand the dialogue, I enjoyed following the stories. He also used to bring home several Arabic newspapers that he used to receive regularly which in turn I would read after him even though I rarely understood or grasped the content.

Soon after, we received the news that the Somali language would be introduced into the education system as our medium of instruction. The proposed Latin alphabet was new and strange to us. A Land Rover station wagon equipped with powerful speakers, owned by the Ministry of Information, would drive around the city broadcasting the newly developed alphabet. We would run after the vehicle, repeating the same letters: B, T, J, X, and so on, joining in a kind of fanfare that featured a well-known song:

“Waa Illaah mahadiyee,
Ii keen abwaanka,
Aan ka barano,
Af-Soomaaliyeed,
B, T, J, X, KH …..”

“Praise be to God,
Bring us the poet,
So we can learn,
The Somali language,
B, T, J, X, KH …..”

The youth in the city started to chase after the car which was continuously broadcasting the same letters of the alphabet, day and night. As a result, we quickly memorized the letters, even before they were officially taught in school. The excitement of learning to write the Somali language using the Latin alphabet became the norm. Consequently, new textbooks for primary schools were developed and distributed during the 1972-1973 academic year.

In March 1974, a literacy campaign was launched to promote reading and writing in rural areas. This time, we approached the challenge of rural illiteracy with great intensity, making it essential to eliminate it in these communities. Young students, like myself, were given a year off from school to allow older students to fully engage in the campaign.

Before the campaign began, only 5% of the population could read and write. However, after the mass literacy campaign—both urban and rural—over 60% of people became literate in their native language. Although we enjoyed our time away from school, we did not understand the significant impact of this mass campaign. The education was made free and accessible. At that time, Somalia was seen as a promising land and that was not far from reality.

That history of education in Somalia has had a lasting impact on me. Ever since I attended my first class in Sh. Bashir Primary School, I have struggled to overcome the consequences of the systemic destruction of the country’s educational system, which was carried out by those who were supposed to protect it. Somalia has not only lost its educational institutions, ranging from primary schools to tertiary education but also the rich history of education that spanned over 100 years, including the periods before independence. It is crucial for the younger generation to be properly informed about this trajectory so that they can understand its costs and consequences, and avoid repeating the painful chapters of our history.

The book “Macallinkeen Allow Kaal” by Dr. Abdinur Sh. Mohamed provides a timely historical perspective on that period. It serves as a reminder of the successful initiatives such as the mass education campaign, the focus on literacy, and the provision of free education for all. It also highlights the challenges and mistakes following the civil war and the re-establishment of the third republic, offering insights to prevent repeating those mistakes.

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