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From schoolboy to soldier: A life shaped by conflict
Yusuf Ali, now 34, was 14 when he first picked up a gun in Mogadishu's brutal street battles. Two decades later, the scars of Somalia's civil war remain raw-both on the city's landscape and in the minds of those who fought as children.
The rise of political Islam and foreign intervention
In 2006, the Union of Islamic Courts (UIC) seized control of Somalia, offering a rare period of stability after years of clan warfare following the 1991 collapse of President Siad Barre's regime. The UIC's military youth wing, al-Shabab-meaning "The Lads"-emerged as a formidable force, marking the first significant foothold of political Islam in Africa since the 9/11 attacks.
Washington viewed the UIC with suspicion, alleging ties to al-Qaeda. Within months, Ethiopia invaded Somalia with U.S. drone support, aiming to dismantle the courts. The intervention, deeply unpopular among Somalis, sparked fierce resistance. Al-Shabab and allied groups, including the Muqawama ("Resistance"), mobilized to repel the foreign forces.
A childhood lost to urban warfare
Ali grew up in Huriwaa, a impoverished district in northern Mogadishu. His father had been killed in the 1993 "Battle of Mogadishu," a clash between Somali fighters and U.S. troops. But it was the Ethiopian invasion that shattered his adolescence.
"At night, I'd hear a buzzing sound-drones surveilling our neighborhood," Ali told the BBC. By spring 2007, shelling intensified, targeting areas suspected of harboring insurgents. One night, a barrage struck a neighbor's home. "Our house shook. Then I heard screams," he recalled. Under torchlight, he saw the body of a girl his age, lifeless amid the rubble.
The family fled to Elasha Biyaha, a district swelling with displaced Somalis. But many young men, including Ali, were drawn back to fight. Mosque sermons framed the conflict as a holy war against "Gaalo"-a derogatory term for non-Muslims. At 16, Ali joined the Muqawama, training in hit-and-run tactics.
"Street by street, we fired on Ethiopian soldiers and the Somali troops with them. Sometimes the dead were boys my age. But the fighting was relentless-kill or be killed."
Yusuf Ali
From battlefield to exile and back
By 2009, Mogadishu lay in ruins. Ethiopia withdrew under international pressure over alleged war crimes, leaving behind fractured militant groups. Ali, disillusioned, fled to South Africa, where he lived with an uncle for five years. But xenophobic attacks targeting foreign-owned shops forced his return to a city in transition.
Mogadishu was rebuilding-new roads, streetlights, a functional airport-but politically fractured. Al-Shabab, now a hardened militant group, controlled vast territories, enforcing strict Islamic law. Assassinations and spies permeated the capital. "No one trusted anyone," Ali said. "Your neighbor could be an informant."
The invisible wounds of war
Today, Ali is married with a four-year-old son, but the past haunts him. "I recognize houses I fired from. Do the families living there now know the bloodstains on their walls?" He has never received counseling, nor have most former child soldiers he knows-many of whom struggle with addiction.
Ilyas Adam, a human rights consultant, describes a "silent crisis" of untreated trauma. "Violence is normalized, so people don't recognize their own suffering. Cultural stigma around mental health worsens the problem."
A 2021 WHO report found Somalia's mental health services nearly nonexistent, with just 82 professionals nationwide. Meanwhile, armed groups continue recruiting children-over 2,800 cases were documented by the UN between 2021 and 2024, primarily by al-Shabab.
A cycle of violence with no end in sight
Huriwaa, where Ali now lives, remains a no-go zone for officials and aid workers. The local mosque, site of a 2008 Ethiopian raid that abducted 41 children, stands as a grim reminder of the past. "The fighting never stopped," Ali said. "More countries than ever have troops here, but Somalis keep suffering."
This week, clashes erupted in Mogadishu over delayed elections, underscoring the country's fragile state. For Ali, prayer offers the only solace. "In Somalia, we don't talk about our pain. We pray and keep it inside."
