Ancient to Modern: Exploring Mogadishu's Resilient Historical Landmarks

Before diving into Mogadishu's historical wonders, let me be transparent about preparation—this isn't a destination for novice travelers. My journey required months of planning, connecting with local contacts, and arranging proper security measures.

As a woman traveling to a conservative Muslim country, I packed accordingly: loose-fitting, modest clothing that covered shoulders and knees, along with several lightweight scarves for my head. My travel scarf proved invaluable—not just for modesty but also for discreetly carrying emergency cash.

Security arrangements are non-negotiable here. I hired a reputable local security company recommended by fellow journalists who had previously visited. This meant traveling with armed guards and in a convoy of vehicles—an uncomfortable reality but necessary precaution.

Language preparation was crucial as well. While English is spoken among some educated Somalis, learning basic Somali phrases showed respect. I also found my Portuguese helpful with older Somalis who had connections to Mozambique during the colonial era—an unexpected bridge between our cultures.

My visa required an invitation letter from a local organization, which I secured through a cultural preservation group I had previously worked with in East Africa. The bureaucratic process was lengthy but manageable with patience.

Permits for photography were another hurdle—I applied for these well in advance through the Ministry of Information and arranged additional on-site permissions for each historical location. My approach was always transparent: documenting these sites for cultural preservation rather than photojournalism.

My exploration began in Hamarweyne, the beating heart of Old Mogadishu, where narrow winding streets reveal the city's ancient soul. This district houses the magnificent Arba'a Rukun Mosque (Mosque of the Four Pillars), dating back to the 13th century when Arab and Persian traders established settlements along the Somali coast.

Approaching the mosque at sunrise—the best time to avoid both heat and crowds—I was struck by its elegant simplicity. Four central coral stone pillars support the structure, giving the mosque its name. My local guide, Hassan, explained that these pillars represent the four caliphs who succeeded Prophet Muhammad. As we removed our shoes to enter, the cool stone floor provided welcome relief from the already warming day.

Inside, intricate mihrab carvings showcase the sophisticated craftsmanship of medieval Somali artisans. The geometric patterns reminded me of similar designs I'd documented in Zanzibar and Lamu—evidence of the shared Swahili coastal culture that once stretched from Somalia to Mozambique.

What fascinated me most was learning how the mosque survived centuries of conflict. Hassan pointed out places where bullet holes had been carefully repaired following the civil war, coral stone matched precisely to preserve historical integrity. This meticulous restoration work was completed by a local initiative of craftsmen determined to maintain traditional building techniques.

Wandering through the surrounding Hamarweyne district afterward, I discovered crumbling merchant houses with ornate wooden doors—silent witnesses to Mogadishu's former prominence as a trading hub. Many featured the distinctive carved door frames that once signified a wealthy merchant's home. My compact camera proved perfect for documenting these architectural details while remaining discreet in the narrow streets.

The ancient stone walls throughout this quarter tell stories of Portuguese attempts to control the city in the 16th century, Ottoman influence, and the resilience of Somali culture through it all. Each stone seemed to whisper histories of prosperity, invasion, resistance, and endurance.

Standing in stark contrast to the ancient mosques is the haunting shell of Mogadishu's Catholic Cathedral. Built in 1928 during Italian colonial rule, this once-magnificent Roman Catholic cathedral now stands as a poignant reminder of Somalia's complex colonial history and subsequent conflicts.

My approach to the cathedral required additional security clearance, as the structure remains partially damaged from the civil war. What struck me immediately was the scale—designed in Italian Gothic Revival style, the cathedral once dominated the skyline with twin towers reaching toward heaven. Today, those towers stand partially collapsed, yet the building's bones reveal its former grandeur.

Inside, sunlight streams through missing sections of the roof, creating ethereal light patterns across the floor where pews once stood. Nature has begun reclaiming spaces—small trees and vines emerging from cracks in the walls. I was reminded of similar scenes I'd photographed in abandoned colonial structures in Brazil's interior, where my grandmother once took me as a child.

"A beleza nas ruínas," I whispered—beauty in ruins—a phrase my Portuguese grandfather often used.

My guide explained that the cathedral operated until 1989, serving Mogadishu's Italian expatriate community and Somali Christians. The building survived the initial civil war but was heavily damaged in subsequent conflicts. Today, it stands in a curious limbo—too historically significant to demolish but without funds for proper restoration.

Documenting the cathedral required sensitivity. I used my travel tripod for long-exposure shots that captured the play of light through the damaged structure. The compact design proved invaluable as we navigated the uneven terrain and narrow passages.

What makes this site particularly significant is how it represents the layered history of Mogadishu—Islamic foundations overlaid with European colonialism, now existing in a predominantly Muslim society again. Several older Somalis I spoke with remembered the cathedral in its full glory, speaking with a complex mixture of colonial resentment and architectural appreciation. This duality of perspective is something I've encountered repeatedly in my documentation of historical sites with complicated pasts.

Making my way through downtown Mogadishu, I encountered the Arch of Umberto I—another remnant of Italian colonization that has become an unexpected symbol of Somali resilience. Built in 1934 to commemorate Italian King Umberto I, the white stone arch stands at a busy intersection that once marked the boundary between the Italian quarter and the Somali neighborhoods.

What fascinated me was how this colonial monument has been reclaimed and reinterpreted by local residents. No longer a symbol of foreign domination, Somalis have incorporated it into their own narrative of survival. The arch bears visible scars from decades of conflict—bullet holes and shrapnel damage that locals point to as evidence of their city's endurance.

"We keep it standing not to honor colonizers, but to remind ourselves what we have overcome," explained my guide Asha, a young woman studying archaeology at Mogadishu University.

Nearby stands the National Museum of Somalia, which reopened in 2020 after being looted and damaged during the civil war. The modest building houses a growing collection of artifacts being slowly recovered and returned to Somalia from international collections. The museum staff—mostly young Somalis passionate about reclaiming their heritage—spoke with enthusiasm about ongoing efforts to document traditional crafts and practices.

I was particularly moved by an exhibition of traditional Somali weaving techniques, where elderly artisans demonstrated methods dating back centuries. Having documented similar preservation efforts in South America, I immediately recognized the universal challenge: younger generations are less interested in learning these time-intensive traditional crafts.

The museum curator allowed me to use my audio recorder to capture interviews with these artisans, creating an audio archive of their knowledge. The recorder's discreet size and excellent sound quality made it ideal for this sensitive documentation work without intimidating the elderly craftspeople.

What struck me most about both the arch and museum was the determination to preserve cultural memory despite enormous obstacles. In a city that has seen so much destruction, these efforts to maintain historical continuity feel both brave and essential.

No exploration of Mogadishu would be complete without visiting its maritime landmarks. As someone who has documented coastal traditions across multiple continents, I was eager to explore the city's connection to the sea that has defined its history for millennia.

The Mogadishu Lighthouse, constructed during the Italian colonial period in the 1930s, stands as a sentinel over the ancient harbor. Reaching the structure required careful planning—the coastal area still sees occasional security incidents. My security team arranged our visit during morning hours when the area is generally calmer.

Climbing the lighthouse's spiral staircase rewarded me with a panoramic view that instantly contextualized Mogadishu's historical significance. From this vantage point, I could see how the natural harbor made this location ideal for the trading post that would eventually grow into Somalia's capital. The turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean stretched endlessly eastward, the same waters that carried Arab, Persian, Portuguese, and Italian vessels to these shores over centuries.

"Our ancestors could identify ships by their sails while they were still dots on the horizon," explained Ibrahim, an elderly former fisherman who accompanied us. "They knew whether to prepare for trade or for defense."

Below the lighthouse lies the ancient harbor area where archaeological evidence suggests maritime trade dating back to at least the 9th century. Chinese porcelain fragments, Roman glass, and Persian pottery have all been discovered here—testament to Mogadishu's role in the Indian Ocean trade networks long before European colonization.

What particularly caught my attention were the traditional Somali fishing dhows still operating alongside modern vessels. These wooden boats with triangular sails follow designs virtually unchanged for centuries. I spent an hour photographing fishermen returning with their morning catch, using techniques passed down through generations.

The connection between water sports and cultural preservation has always fascinated me. Here in Mogadishu, I witnessed young men practicing traditional swimming techniques that incorporate elements of both recreation and practical fishing skills. These swimming styles—using minimal movement to conserve energy while covering distance—evolved specifically for the conditions of this coastline.

As we walked along the old harbor walls, Ibrahim pointed out ancient mooring stones with grooves worn by centuries of ropes. Such humble artifacts often tell the most authentic stories of a place's history—the daily, practical elements that sustained life rather than the monumental structures built to impress.

My final days in Mogadishu were spent exploring one of the city's most ambitious historical preservation projects—the restoration of the Shanghai Old City district. This neighborhood, named for its once-bustling commercial activity reminiscent of Shanghai, represents Mogadishu's architectural heritage from the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

The restoration project began in 2018 as part of broader efforts to revitalize the city. Walking through streets where scaffolding embraces century-old buildings, I witnessed the delicate balance between preservation and modernization. Craftsmen were carefully restoring traditional coral stone facades while incorporating necessary modern infrastructure—a challenge I've documented in historic districts from Salvador da Bahia to Zanzibar.

What makes this project remarkable is its community-based approach. Rather than displacing residents, the initiative involves them as stakeholders. I spoke with Fadumo, a third-generation resident whose family home is being restored as part of the project.

"My grandmother's cooking techniques will be demonstrated in the very kitchen where she taught me," she explained proudly. "Visitors will learn our traditional methods of fermenting camel milk and preparing spiced rice dishes."

This integration of intangible cultural heritage—food preparation, crafts, oral traditions—alongside physical restoration represents best practices in preservation. As someone who grew up learning fermentation techniques from my own grandmother, this resonated deeply with me.

The project faces numerous challenges, from funding shortages to security concerns. Yet the determination of local preservationists remains unshaken. I was particularly impressed by a workshop where young apprentices learn traditional construction techniques using coral stone, limestone mortar, and mangrove wood beams—ensuring these skills aren't lost to time.

My documentation of the restoration process benefited from my portable light which allowed me to properly illuminate the intricate details of restoration work in progress within dimly lit historic interiors. Its adjustable color temperature proved essential for capturing the true colors and textures of the coral stone work.

Perhaps most moving was a community memory project running alongside the physical restoration. Elders' oral histories are being recorded, transcribed, and incorporated into the neighborhood's exhibition spaces—ensuring that the stories behind the stones aren't forgotten. This holistic approach to preservation acknowledges that buildings alone don't constitute heritage; the human stories they contain are equally precious.