Speaking for the Voiceless

Dr . Abdurahman Baadiyow

I am a mother, over eighty years old, living in Mogadishu. The house they demolished was not merely a building; it was the home where I was born, where I grew up, where I lived, and where I carried the memories of my entire life. Every wall held a memory. Every corner belonged to a chapter of my life. It was my home, my history, my identity, and my refuge. I have all the documents proving that it belongs to me. Yet one night, at midnight, they knocked on my door. Imagine an elderly woman, alone and vulnerable, facing such a moment in the darkness of night, with nothing but her weakness and the documents in her hands. They told me, “ You must vacate this house. ” I asked them, “ Why ? This is my home. I was born here. I have all the documents proving that it belongs to me .” But my words fell on deaf ears, and my documents were treated as though they meant nothing. Even my age, my vulnerability, and the fact that I was an elderly woman offered me no protection. I refused to leave the home that had sheltered me for a lifetime. Then came the threat: “ If you insist, we will demolish it .” And they did.

They demolished the house where I was born, the place that had carried the memories of an entire lifetime. Perhaps they saw only walls and a piece of land. They did not see what I saw. They did not see my childhood, my memories, my tears, my joys, and the years of my life contained within those walls. They did not understand that when you destroy an elderly woman’s home, you do not simply destroy a building; you tear away a piece of her life, her memory, her security, and her dignity.

But the tragedy did not end with the destruction of my home. What came next was even more painful. I was told that if I wanted my land after destruction back, I would have to buy it again. I asked, “ How much ?” They answered, “ Fifteen thousand dollars .” Fifteen thousand dollars, for the land of my destroyed home where I was born, the home I say is already mine, and for which I possess documents proving my ownership. Think about the cruelty of that moment: an elderly woman being told to buy back what she believes she already owns. Imagine what that does to the heart of an eighty-year-old mother. I had already lost my home, and now I was being told that I needed money to reclaim it. So I ask myself: Where do I go? Should I go to the courts? But where are the courts? To whom can I complain? Who will listen to me? Who will protect me? I am over eighty years old. I am sick. I am alone. I have neither the strength, nor the influence, nor the money to confront those who possess power. I have nothing but my documents and my voice. Yet even my documents could not protect me, and even my voice seemed to have nowhere to go.