Issue No. 950

In Act III, Scene I of William Shakespeare's tragedy Coriolanus, the tribune Sicinius addresses the gathered representatives and, rejecting the disdain the titular character displays towards plebeians, defends them, stating, "What is the city but the people?" Capturing the struggle between the elite and the masses of ancient Rome, the line has remained politically resonant for centuries--emphasising that a city, democracy, and state rely on the people, not just their leader. Or perhaps, not just its buildings. It is a lesson missed by Villa Somalia, though, with the twilight weeks of President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud's term in office — at least, constitutionally — dominated by the government's twin campaigns in the capital: land clearances and the militarisation of Mogadishu.

With the president's term expiring on 15 May, and with no agreement on elections forthcoming, the mass displacement of civilians from public land has stepped up another notch. Over the past two years, the pattern has become familiar, with bulldozers and armoured pick-ups manned by federal soldiers arriving without warning, expelling hundreds of impoverished people onto the streets. In the latest bout, displacements have centred on the Kahda, Dayniile, and Hodan districts, but across the city, dozens of public landmarks and informal settlements have been razed for a quick buck for government allies. Former hospitals, military sites, schools, and most controversially, the School Polizia cemetery in June 2024, have been taken over. And the scale of the displacement—with well over 150,000 people uprooted—is the most significant in the capital in over 15 years, when African Union forces battled Al-Shabaab to dislodge the jihadists from Mogadishu over several months. With few places to go, many are inevitably ending up in the sprawling displacement camps on the edge of the city, joining the peri-urban underclass.

Increasingly accompanying the forced displacements have been clashes as well, with multiple days of sporadic gunfights reported in Dayniile last week. In one recent video shared on X, protesters can be seen hurling stones at heavily armed soldiers, with armoured technicals and bulldozers advancing behind them—just one of many examples of the militarised response to outcry by impoverished residents. And tragically, in several instances, civilians have died in the process. Some residents have been able to fight back, though, and in a notable incident last August, violence erupted after the president declined to pay a customary tithe for requisitioning property from an MP of his same sub-sub-clan, who mobilised his own forces. Though the Hawiye opposition has attempted to capitalise on the discontent, deploying their supporters to spur on successive protests, it has come at a high cost as well, with PM Hassan Ali Khaire's bodyguard killed by police last year.

But for the proponents of 'Mogadishu Rising', the narrative that the capital's glittering skyscrapers and property boom reflect a broader positive trajectory of the country, these people are inconveniences at best; collateral in the 'development' of the state. But more often than not, it is Somalia's most disenfranchised communities—such as the Somali Bantu—that have suffered at the hands of the overweening government, which has established a reputation for widespread graft. Khat, fish, livestock, public land—no resource has been left unturned and unexploited by the coterie of wealthy businessmen and politicians at the heart of Villa Somalia's patrimonial networks. For these networks, if the federal government cannot force a term extension through, though having 'written' it into the Provisional Constitution, it matters little; vast sums have been made.

Not all of the government's usual defenders have rallied to Villa Somalia's side this time, however, with the chair of the Ulema Council of the Salafist Al-I'tisaam movement, Sheikh Bashir Salad, criticising the government's apathy towards complaints from displaced families. Even Sheikh Ali Wajis—another pro-government hard-line cleric who has repeatedly called for violence against those who defy Villa Somalia—has recently condemned the evictions. Perhaps the preference for land sales for those tied to Damul Jadiid—the president's Muslim Brotherhood-affiliated clique—has grated with the Salafists, or simply reflects its broader unpopularity.

As yet more buildings are pulled down across the city, the federal government is simultaneously accelerating its consolidation over the capital's security architecture. For months, the Ministry of Defence has sought to purge the Somali National Army (SNA) of soldiers and officers perceived as 'disloyal', introducing biometric registration as a cover alongside rhetoric of professionalisation. In recent weeks, hundreds of soldiers stationed in Mogadishu have been replaced with new troops drawn from the Hawiye/Abgaal/Wa'eysle and the Darood/Ogaadeen/Reer Abdulle—the president and the prime minister's sub-clans, respectively. On the flipside, several Hawiye/Abgaal/Harti/Agoonyar commanders have been replaced, and among those removed are individuals who participated in Badbaado Qaran in April 2021, when Hawiye opposition and militias nearly overran Villa Somalia in the wake of Mohamed Abdullahi Farmaajo's own attempts to unilaterally extend his term. But at the 66th anniversary of the formation of the SNA—with Turkish-supplied jets, tanks, and helicopters on display—it was hard not to harken back to the days of Siyaad Barre, when Soviet equipment saw Somalia's army balloon. Then, too, his clansmen were elevated to positions of power, but it could not prevent the state's inevitable decay and implosion.

At the same time, Villa Somalia routinely hits out against the deployments of opposition-aligned militia in Mogadishu, repeatedly insisting that all non-government forces within the capital must disarm or face prosecution. The highly militarised nature of Mogadishu's core, with armed guards at every business and estate, remains a potent threat to the government's hold on the city, with their loyalty remaining tied to their clans. Villa Somalia understands this—as does Al-Shabaab, which has taken care to produce propaganda and outreach centred on land rights. Last September, a graduation speech by Ali Dheere—the jihadist's spokesperson—asserted that the militants would target those displacing civilians with "serious measures", and that his forces would not permit Villa Somalia to seize land. Hailing from the Murosade, Dheere's message carried particular weight, as his Hawiye sub-clan has been particularly affected by displacement in Dayniile and elsewhere. As ever, the jihadists are attentive to clan, keen to exploit the resentments across the country.

But with the end of Hassan Sheikh's four-year term almost upon Mogadishu, the city is gearing up for another showdown between the opposition and the government. Ex-President Sheikh Sherif Sheikh Ahmed, who hails from the Abgaal/Harti, as well as others such as parliamentarians Mohamed 'Jacfar' and Abdirahman Abdishakur, former PM Hassan Ali Khaire, and the recent defector from the Justice and Solidarity Party (JSP), Abdirahman Odoowa, all have varying levels of support for mobilising forces within their respective Hawiye sub-clans. A meeting of Hawiye politicians and businessmen, separate from the Council for the Future of Somalia (CFS), gathered earlier this month in Nairobi, similarly voicing displeasure at the president's monopolistic agenda. Though at several moments of mounting pressure, interventions from senior Hawiye elders have staved off larger demonstrations, there is an understanding amongst much of the opposition that Villa Somalia will only return to the negotiating table through a show of force.

The government's proliferating checkpoints and co-opting of the security architecture may not be enough to prevent such a display. The multitude of grievances against the government runs deep, and the 15 May expiration of Hassan Sheikh's term coincides with Somali Youth League Day, which celebrates the country's first political party and independence. And with fury mounting again over the renewed displacements, little is required for broader protests and instability to erupt, even if it is not precisely on 15 May. As in Coriolanus, an elite that abandons its people may find that it cannot so easily command them, and that the city, once estranged from its citizens, becomes far harder to govern than to rebuild.