The ghosts and ghouls of Halloween remind me of my haunted past in Mogadishu

It’s Halloween and Toronto’s streets are lined with ghostly figures, eerie ghouls and horrifying monsters. While these images are meant for fun, they stirred something much darker within me. They remind me of the images of my youth in Somalia where I witnessed real horrors that still haunt me — violence, death, and a war that seemed to have no end.
But this is not just a story about trauma, it’s also about the strength and resilience I gained from those experiences and the deep appreciation I have for the peace and safety my family now enjoys in Toronto.
I was born in Luuq, a small district in the Gedo region during one of the most tumultuous periods in the country’s history. The Islamist group Al-Ittahad Islami dominated much of the region. As a child, I witnessed public amputations and executions. Fear was ever-present after Ethiopian troops invaded the region in 1996. Violence became a daily reality. To protect me, my parents sent me to Mogadishu to live with my uncle. I was just 10 years old when I left my family behind, uncertain if I would ever return.
But Mogadishu, Somalia’s capital, was no haven from violence. Warlords ruled through their militias. The streets were lawless. I saw people killed, injured, or robbed every day. Daily gunfire was part of life.
Despite this, I was determined to pursue my education. Even as violence raged around me, I remained focused on my studies and I learned to navigate the dangers of Mogadishu, developing the resilience that would help me survive in such a hostile environment.
In February 2006, the people of Mogadishu, rallied behind the Islamic Courts Union (ICU), defeated the warlords and restore a fragile peace to the city. Markets reopened, people moved freely, and the violence subsided. While I didn’t support extremist ideologies, I was genuinely hopeful that this change could mark a turning point, allowing families to rebuild and children to grow up in a safer environment. For the first time in years, there was a sense that Mogadishu could rebuild itself. But this hope was short-lived.
Fearing the rise of Islamist power in the region, Ethiopian forces entered Mogadishu in late 2006 and once again the city descended into chaos. Al-Shabaab, a militant group with links to al-Qaeda, quickly became a dominant force. The people of Mogadishu, who had experienced years of war, were once again caught in the crossfire of a new and more brutal conflict.
During this tumultuous period, I began my studies in journalism at Mogadishu University. I had always believed in the power of storytelling, and I wanted to use journalism to shine a light on the realities of the conflict and the resilience of the Somali people. I found work at Hornafrik Radio, one of the largest independent radio stations in Mogadishu.
Al-Shabaab and other militant groups viewed independent media as a threat, and targeted journalists. Said Tahlil Ahmed, the director of Hornafrik Radio, was killed in February 2009. Over the next two years, Al-Shabaab escalated its attacks on journalists. The group closed the radio, looted its equipment, and killed several of my colleagues were targeted and killed outside of the office. Bombings were a daily occurrence, and the city was again gripped by fear. 
In 2018, al-Shabaab and ISIS started to record their brutal assassinations and publish the videos online and I made the difficult decision to leave Mogadishu and move to Toronto. I have been living here since then with my wife and two kids. It’s been over six years now, and I’m grateful for the stability and peace we have found in this new chapter of our lives.
Even though I left Mogadishu, my heart remains tied to the city. It is where I grew up, where I started my career, and where I learned the value of resilience and hope. I carry those lessons with me, as I walk the peaceful yet spooky streets of Toronto.