At Somalia’s National Theater, poets rebuild culture through verse

In Mogadishu’s National Theater—a place once shattered by violence—the soft rise of a poem now competes with memories of a suicide bombing. On an otherwise quiet morning, veteran poet Hassan Barre stands at the podium, determined that his country be remembered for more than its decades of conflict. His recital, centred on citizenship and collective responsibility, acts as a steady reminder that poetry in Somalia has always been an anchor in turbulent times.

Poetry becomes Somalia’s quiet resistance amid years of conflict

Barre, now seventy, cuts a solemn yet unwavering figure. Before him, the cavernous hall sits largely empty. It is a space etched into the national memory, inaugurated in 1967, then abandoned during the civil war, reopened in 2012, and later scarred again when a bomber detonated explosives during an official speech. Yet, even in a city ringed with checkpoints and guarded corridors, the poets persist, gathering in suits that have outlasted regimes, hardships and shifting political allegiances.

Somalia has long been known as “a nation of poets,” and the title is no exaggeration. Poetry is not merely a cultural pastime; it is a shared language of identity, passed down in oral recitation from pastoral communities to the diaspora. Even today, poems are performed at weddings, played on local radio stations, and used by elders to teach ethics, behaviour and social cohesion. The tradition once flourished during the rule of Siad Barre—an era marked by authoritarianism but also a state-supported arts scene where storytellers enjoyed status and privileges.

But after his fall in 1991, clan-based militias tore the country apart, and the cultural institutions that once nourished artistic communities fell into disrepair. The National Theater, shuttered for over two decades, became symbolic not only of the conflict but also of what had been lost—archives, programmes, rehearsal spaces, and the ease with which artists moved around the capital. The emergence of al-Shabab, alongside political fragmentation and economic uncertainty, further eroded these cultural foundations.

Despite this, the poets who gather at the theatre remain committed to continuity. “During Siad Barre’s time, we were treated like kings,” Hassan Barre recalls. Some artists received housing, stipends, or opportunities to travel. Now, with the federal government devoting much of its budget to security, cultural funding is limited. Still, the country’s culture minister describes poets as central to “cultural vitality, individual well-being and peaceful coexistence,” noting that there are long-term plans to expand support.

The resilience of these artists is partly rooted in their sense of duty. Many see poetry as a moral force—one that should guide society toward peace and unity. Hirsi Dhuuh Mohamed, who heads the Somali Council of Poets, says the organisation now has around four hundred members, including many living abroad. He reflects that while the late 1990s were “the worst,” when Mogadishu was carved into competing fiefdoms, poets still advocated for reconciliation. What unites them today, he says, is an unshakeable stand for peace. Their work avoids partisanship; instead, it emphasises security, community integration and good governance.

Nearby, young dancers rehearse a folk performance that celebrates traditional values like cultivation and stewardship of land. Their presence, alongside the ageing poets whispering to one another, offers a rare tableau of generational exchange—one that feels increasingly precious. Among them sits one woman poet, a reminder that although the field remains male-dominated, women have always contributed significantly to Somalia’s oral heritage.

Another key figure in this revival is Maki Haji Banaadir, the theatre’s deputy director. Known simply as Maki, he is a well-loved cultural personality whose sardonic wit is matched by his dedication to keeping the institution functional. In 2003, he and several poets travelled across Somalia promoting reconciliation. Such a journey would be impossible now; the federal government still struggles to exert control outside Mogadishu, and semi-autonomous regions continue to advocate for self-determination. Yet Maki remains committed, even composing songs reflecting everyday realities—like the decline of the Somali shilling in an increasingly dollarised economy.

When asked whether they are cultivating the next generation, he offers a quiet reassurance: “We are working day and night.” And although the National Theater may not yet resemble the bustling cultural centre it once was, its gatherings embody something essential—an insistence on remembering, creating and nurturing, even when circumstances are far from ideal.

In a country where conflict has repeatedly threatened to erase history, Somalia’s poets remain guardians of memory. Their verses, shared in dimly lit halls and broadcast over ageing radios, keep alive a tradition that has shaped Somali identity for centuries. Against the noise of violence, their words continue to insist on hope.

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