Golweyn, Lower Shabelle – Somalia
Decades away, but still rooted in Somalia—Fadumo Omar Hussein invested in its soil to spark change, create jobs, and rebuild futures.
After years in the United States, she used her life savings—millions of her own dollars—to build Munghie Farm, a major agricultural project in Lower Shabelle region, southern Somalia’s fertile heartland.
Her goal was simple just to create jobs, restore dignity through food security and employment in a country long battered by hunger and economic collapse.
Golweyn, located 120 kilometers from Mogadishu, became the base of her dream. The farm stretched wide with banana fields.
Munghie Farm quickly rose to become one of the largest banana suppliers, distributing fresh produce to Mogadishu, creating a reliable food supply chain.
Fadumo prioritized hiring workers from low-income families—people who had few options but abundant will. Her farm became a place of hope, not just harvest.
She reinvested in irrigation systems, equipment, and training. Everything was designed not just to grow crops, but to grow lives for those often excluded from opportunities.
But in 2017, everything changed. Without warning or legal notice, African Union peacekeepers under AMISOM seized half of her farmland, converting it into a heavily fortified military base.
They dug trenches across banana fields, installed barriers, and established checkpoints—completely disrupting the farm’s operations.
They seize harvests, destroy crops, fire live rounds and mortars, intimidate workers, block deliveries, and leave bananas to rot in trucks or under the sun.
No rent was paid. No consent was asked. What Fadumo had built with patience and love was taken through power and silence, wrapped in the banner of peacekeeping.
Fadumo began what would become an eight-year battle, seeking the return of her land and compensation.
She wrote letters, submitted formal complaints, and reached out to the UNSOS, African Union and United Nations representatives in Somalia.
Each letter, plea, and request was ignored. Despite her professionalism and persistence, no response came. Not one acknowledgment. Not one promise to investigate. Just complete institutional silence.
“This land means everything to us—it’s hope for a better today and tomorrow. We need it for production to contribute to the country’s growth,” Fadumo said.
Munghie Farm meant jobs, daily meals, and stability for hundreds of people. Now, half of it is guarded by foreign troops, empty and lifeless.
“We harvest bananas, but soldiers sometimes warn us to stay away due to incoming helicopters. They also fire at us and launch mortars on the field,” said the workers.
She says UNSOS played a key role in deploying troops on her land without consent, discussion, or compensation.
Legal experts say taking over civilian land breaks international law. Peacekeepers are supposed to protect people, not take their property.
Fadumo’s case is rare—she refuses to stay silent. She’s gathered photos and videos showing the damage troops caused to her farmland as evidence.
Firm staff were once arrested for putting up a protest board on the highway to Mogadishu, calling for the troops’ withdrawal.
She has also appealed to the Somali government, but it’s unclear what makes it difficult to challenge the AU forces.
While she was seeking justice, the mission changed names—from AMISOM to ATMIS, and then to AUSSOM earlier this year.
Her case reflects a bigger problem—civilians caught between powerful institutions that often act with impunity in places already struggling with law and governance.
What makes Fadumo’s story especially heartbreaking is that she wanted to be part of the solution—but instead became a victim of those meant to help.
Still, she fights. Every week, she writes or calls someone new—hoping one day, someone in the AU or UN will recognize what has been done to her.
Human rights groups are taking notice, and legal teams are exploring ways to hold those responsible accountable.
Fadumo says she still manages what’s left of Munghie Farm, believing she can help build a better future and fight food insecurity in Somalia.
Yet her belief in justice hasn’t faded. “They took half my land. But they haven’t taken my voice. And I won’t let them silence me,” she says firmly.
Somali diaspora communities are beginning to rally behind her. Social media campaigns have been launched to honor her bravery and sacrifice.
The goal is also to draw international attention to her case—pressuring the AU and UN to publicly respond, investigate the occupation, and provide restitution.
Her story raises urgent questions: If this can happen to someone like Fadumo—wealthy, connected, determined—what hope is there for ordinary Somali citizens in similar situations?
As the world continues to praise peacekeeping missions, Fadumo reminds us that real peace doesn’t come from soldiers in trenches, but from justice, dignity, and fairness.
She didn’t ask for conflict—she offered opportunity. She didn’t build for war—she planted hope. And now, all she asks is that someone finally listens.
