For years, the business had been the family’s only source of income. She earned around 200,000 Somali shillings a day [about $7] that was enough to buy food, water, charcoal, and support her children.

But her savings suddenly became useless as bigger businessmen started to refuse to accept the notes.

“If someone owes me money and even the cash I have is rejected, I have no choice but to sit down helplessly. I took the money everywhere trying to exchange it, but nobody would accept it.”

More than four million Somali shillings stored in her cash box came from sales she made over the past two months. None of her suppliers will accept this cash.

The closure of her shop has forced two of her daughters out of school as she failed to pay their fees. The girls were studying health sciences at a private school inside Hilaac displacement camp, where she paid $40 a month for their education from her shop profits.

“The children have stopped attending private school now. I told them I have no money left to pay for their education. My business was my only source of income. The Somali shilling was what people in the camp used every day. Now the money is rejected and we are left stranded,” Habibo told Radio Ergo.

Habibo has been engaged in small business for nearly 10 years, since she fled insecurity in Qoryoley in Lower Shabelle region in 2021 and rebuilt her life in Mogadishu camps. She hoped her shop would eventually help her family escape displacement and poverty – but the currency collapse has shattered everything she worked for.

A similar situation faces Sokorey Osman Daud, another displaced mother living in Hilaac camp, whose grocery business also closed in May after customers stopped using Somali shillings.

Sokorey supports a family of 10, including her blind husband who depends entirely on her income for care and daily needs.

Her stock ran out and she couldn’t restock because traders rejected the Somali shillings she had saved as payment. She lived off $100 stored on her mobile phone account, but that money has now finished.

“The Somali shillings are still here in my house, but they are useless. I tried to exchange them in several places but nobody would take them,” she said.

“I built this business slowly with great hardship. I started in 2020 with just $50 earned from selling handmade brooms and baskets. By 2025, I had managed to improve my family’s life, but now we are back in an even worse situation.”

Sokorey said many displaced families in the camp did not understand or regularly use mobile money services such as EVC Plus, relying instead on paper Somali shilling notes for daily purchases.

More than seven million Somali shillings are lying unused in her home while her children struggle to find food. Sokorey and her family were displaced from Buulo Mareer in Lower Shabelle in 2019 after drought destroyed their two-hectare farm.

The impact of the Somali shilling crisis is not limited to shopkeepers. Money exchangers and labourers who depended on handling the currency are also losing livelihoods.

Suleyman Mohamed Mumin earned a living counting and exchanging Somali shillings for local money changers, but has been unable to provide food for his family of five since 11 April. He spends his days moving between relatives and friends asking for help.

“This crisis has hit us very hard. There is extreme hardship in my home. My children’s food is uncertain and I am surviving only on hope,” he said.

“I keep hoping the government will find a solution and bring the Somali shilling back into circulation because poor people depended on it. Without it, many families will collapse.”

Suleyman fears eviction from his family’s two-room house because he can no longer pay the $50 monthly rent. He used to earn 150,000 to 200,000 Somali shillings daily, enough to cover rent and food.

Banadir regional administration say efforts are ongoing to restore public confidence in the Somali shilling and reintroduce it into markets, although it is not clear when or how a solution will be reached.

The rejected 1,000 shilling note was the last widely circulating denomination of the Somali currency, whose use has steadily weakened over the past decade as mobile money transactions have taken over.

The post Small family savings evaporate overnight as Somali 1,000 shilling notes rejected by businesses appeared first on Radio Ergo - Somali Humanitarian News and Information.

Speaking to Radio Ergo from prison, Malyun described the emotional strain of knowing her children are living in hardship without her.

“My family has fallen apart. The children I left behind are not safe and could be harmed at any time. They were evicted from the house and are now staying with relatives. Is that not family destruction?” she said.

“When visitors come to see me, I ask them to take the prison food given to me and deliver it to my children. Sometimes I tell them I would rather the children eat it instead of me.”

Malyun is among scores of low income people whose livelihoods have failed, leading them to be sent to jail due to unpaid debts. Families often face ruin as a result.

In March, Malyun’s children, a girl and three boys, were evicted from the two rented rooms where they had been living and were sent home from school after unpaid fees accumulated.

As Malyun’s husband had died, she was the sole provider for her children.

Malyun is among 63 people imprisoned in Galkayo over unpaid debts, according to local community figures. Most were sole breadwinners for families now facing worsening poverty.

Her eldest daughter, aged 11, had been attending fifth grade. Her eight-year-old son who had just started first grade also dropped out when Malyun failed to pay the $10 a month fees for her children.

“At the beginning of every month, I paid the school fees. But after I was jailed and the money stopped coming, the school told them either bring the fees or leave,” she said.

Her children have been left in the hands of relatives, who are also caring for Malyun’s elderly and dependent mother suffering from mental illness.

Malyun earned a living selling goat meat from a small table in Galkayo market that used to generate $5 to $10 a day. Her earnings covered rent, food, school expenses, and medicine for her mother and children.

Over time, however, her debts accumulated as she bought more and more goats on credit from traders, whilst at the same time her customers were struggling and unable to pay her for the meat they were buying on credit.

“Every three days I had to slaughter another goat because that was how we survived. Nobody was helping me. I had to buy milk and diapers for my mother, milk for the children, food, and school expenses. Everything depended on me. That is how I fell into debt,” Malyun explained.

The traders who supplied her livestock eventually took the case to court, where she was sentenced to prison until she can repay.

Under the system used in Galkayo, people jailed over debt can receive visits from relatives or community members willing to help settle what they owe. But Malyun says she has not found anyone able to free her or rescue her children from their worsening conditions.

Similar hardship is facing the family of Issa Abdilkadir Abdulle, another prisoner being held over unpaid compensation linked to an accidental injury case.

Issa, a displaced labourer and father of eight, was ordered to pay compensation equivalent to $2,100 after a man was injured last year by a handcart he was operating.

Unable to raise the money or provide the three camels required as compensation, he has remained in prison while his family struggles in a Galkayo internal displacement camp.

“I was the only one working. My wife calls me crying and says there is no milk for the baby. She asks if I have managed to find help anywhere. But I tell her I have nothing because I am the one imprisoned,” Issa told Radio Ergo.

For the first two months after his arrest, Issa’s family survived on food bought on credit from a small shop in the camp. But shopkeepers eventually stopped extending further debt after the unpaid amount reached $250.

“We became unwanted because of the debt,” he said. “If you take goods today, they expect payment tomorrow. When they don’t receive it, they refuse to give you more.”

The family now survives on occasional cooked meals or small food donations from neighbours.

The chairperson of the Galkayo Women’s Association, Maymun Alinoor Gayfane, said local women’s groups had mobilised community contributions to help free some women imprisoned over debt.

Three women were released in February and March after the association paid debts of $25,000, $6,000, and $3,000 respectively.

“We selected women who were extremely poor and had no assets or support. We focused on vulnerable people who truly needed help,” Maymun told Radio Ergo.

She added that many of the imprisoned debtors were victims of worsening economic hardship, inflation, and the collapse of small businesses that poor families rely on for survival.

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Nunow Mustaf Ibrahim, 35, his wife and two children have been depending on relatives for food since his shop was among those burnt in a fire on 28 December last year. He estimated his losses at $12,000.

“We have nothing now except what relatives and neighbours bring us. Our lives depended on that shop, and it burned down. We had no savings and no other source of income. Everyone is facing hardship,” he said.

Nunow’s shop, which sold food items and household goods, was in the cramped market inside Kabaso IDP camp. The fire destroyed at least 50 small businesses owned by IDPs like Nunow, who had built his business over several years starting by selling small household items door-to-door before opening a shop.

Nunow used to make an average daily income of $6 that covered food and powdered milk for the two children under the age of five. Currently, his relatives can only provide them with two kilograms of rice and one litre of cooking oil every two days that they carefully ration.

“I had to borrow money just to buy milk powder. We are suffering deeply compared to when the shop existed,” said Nunow. “Yesterday I was a shop owner supporting my family. Today I’m standing with nothing, watched by the community. Three families depended on that shop of mine, it was our only source of income.”

A few months before the fire, the food aid they used to get from the UN’s World Food Programme, which included 20 kilograms each of flour, rice, and maize, stopped due to funding cuts.

Nunow has not been able to find any casual labour jobs despite looking constantly. He says limited opportunities and reduced household incomes across Dollow have made work nearly impossible to secure.

The impact of the Kabaso market fire has been widespread. According to camp authorities, each destroyed business employed two to three workers, who lost their jobs overnight. The market also provided food scraps and small donations to extremely vulnerable people, who relied on the traders for their daily survival.

Muqtar Isaq Abdi, another trader affected by the fire, lost goods worth an estimated $11,000. He supports a family of 19.

His shop provided three meals a day to four extended relatives. Since it burned down, his children now struggle to eat even once a day. He says the crisis has pushed them into conditions worse than those they faced when they were displaced from their village by drought.

“Before, I worked in farming. Later, I invested everything into this business so the entire family depended on it. My mother and nephews also relied on the shop’s income,” he said.

They are getting occasional credit from local traders but Muqtar fears that will dry up as his debts mount.

Muqtar opened the shop in mid-2024 using savings from farm labour and borrowed money. His journey to rebuilding his family’s life had been long and painful – in 2016, drought killed their 28 camels and 150 goats, forcing them to migrate to Dollow.

“I struggled for years to rebuild, and now everything has burned. I ask God for help first, and anyone who can support us. When everything you own is destroyed, you need support,” he appealed.

While many traders are unable to recover, a few are attempting to rebuild. Hodan Mohamed Hassan reopened part of her clothing shop using borrowed money to repair sections damaged by the fire.

However, she says she can’t afford to restock wholesale clothing and is visiting warehouses in Dollow seeking additional credit.

“I used to open my shop every morning and work independently,” Hodan said. “Then everything burned and nothing was compensated. We built the shop on debt, and now I need a new supply of goods to sell that we can’t afford.”

Despite her efforts, she has been unable to secure further loans over the past two weeks. Her family of 10 is living in severe hardship, cooking once every 24 hours.

“There are children here who cannot endure hunger,” she said.

Most of the traders affected by the fire had previously lost their livelihoods, either livestock or farming or a combination, to repeated cycles of drought.

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Since the agreement was finally made in August 2025, after many meetings between the warring sides, families like that of Fadumo Aabi Ahmed, 33, a mother of six, have begun rebuilding their lives again.

Fadumo reopened her small restaurant in Hananbure that shut down during the conflict. She earns $5-7 in daily income that allows her to make an independent, dignified living.

“I collected money from relatives, and with that money I opened the business. With God’s grace, it worked for me. It is enough for my family. I send my children to school and Koranic classes. When I was displaced and living in the camp, even one meal was difficult for me, but now I cook three meals a day,” Fadumo told Radio Ergo.

When conflict broke out in 2020, she first moved with her livestock to the outskirts of Hananbure to stay with relatives. As insecurity and also drought worsened, she migrated again in 2022 with her children to an internal displacement camp in Dhusamareb. Camp living conditions were extremely poor and worsened in 2025 when humanitarian assistance stopped.

She had to abandon her last 30 goats – the drought survivors – and her shop and restaurant worth $6,000, including all the goods in stock, when she fled Hananbure.

“We were pastoralists before. Drought wiped out our livestock, and then conflict destroyed our homes. Widespread hunger followed and people scattered. We fled to camps in Dhusamareb. When we arrived there, it was difficult. We stayed three years in the camps,” she said. “Displacement confused us, and we faced severe hardship and deprivation.”

Fadumo, who is divorced and raising her children alone, plans to repair the metal-sheet house she owns in Hananbure that was damaged during the fighting. She estimates the repairs will cost about $250, which she is saving from her daily earnings.

She has enrolled three of her children in school, paying $30 monthly fees. She says this was a long-held dream that had seemed impossible while the family was displaced.

She credits her quick recovery to the reopening of trade routes after the resolution of the conflict, and that her business now serves customers from all sides. She plans to expand her restaurant and is also trying to put money aside in case conflict returns.

Hananbure, which links several surrounding villages, is a crossroads for trade. Farhiyo Hassan Artan returned and reopened her women’s clothing shop in December, using $500 borrowed from a relative.

She fled in 2020 to Olol in Galgadud. Her family endured extreme hardship during displacement, but she can now meet their basic needs, making at least $5 a day from the shop, which supports her seven children.

“My life is now good. I have returned to Hananbure. My life depends on the small shop where I sell cooked food and clothes. I have revived my business. Hananbure is good now, there is peace, and we hope for even better,” Farhiyo said.

She recalls that during displacement, they were short of food and water and often slept under trees that offered little protection from the sun or wind, especially after drought stripped them of leaves. She cooked irregular meals, relying on occasional help from residents of Olol, who took pity on her children.

Farhiyo says her former shop and $500 worth of goods was looted at night by armed men she could not identify. Their two-room house was also destroyed, along with all household belongings.

Today, she lives in a small, corrugated iron room, paying $20 rent for the house and $25 for the shop.

Despite her losses, Farhiyo says returning home has brought her relief and hope. She believes that with lasting peace, she can rebuild everything she lost.

She is also a single mother and suffered constant anxiety about her children’s future. She has re-enrolled three of her children in school after their education was interrupted.

“I take my children to school and Koranic classes by myself. I have no one else to help me. I work for my children alone,” she said. “My children were uneducated, lagging behind others while we were displaced, but today, they are back in school. God has returned us to our former life.”

The peace agreement involved the efforts of elders, religious leaders, intellectuals, and youth activists.

Hassan Ali Dhagacaleen, one of the youth involved in the reconciliation process, told Radio Ergo that the agreement included bringing to justice anyone who disrupts security, settling blood compensation cases, and ensuring shared access to grazing land.

“I was among those personally affected by the conflict. My father was killed. I was wounded when armed men stopped our vehicle on the road. My aunt, uncle, and brother were also injured, and our vehicle was burned. Despite this, I am among the youth working for peace and development. I call on Muslim brothers to support those affected by the conflict and to stand with them,” he stated.

Inter-clan conflicts have increased in central Somalia, and elsewhere in Somalia, in the last couple of years, although residents of Hananbure believe this peace deal shows that reconciliation is always possible.

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After being robbed of seven mobile phones on the road in June 2022, he had been unable to repay the $590 he owed the suppliers of his small-scale phone business. The suppliers took him to court in Afgoye, which ruled in their favour and sent Abdifatah to jail until the debt was paid.

Hundreds of people fall foul of civil law in Somalia, where individuals take people to court over unpaid debts – some of them very small – or compensation claims. Detention may be ordered by the court until the debt is cleared, so that some spend years in prison despite not being convicted of criminal offences.

Luckily for Abdifatah, a young Mogadishu resident, Abdullahi Mohamed Ali, paid off his debt to secure his release from prison.

Abdullahi says many of those jailed are not criminals but victims of poverty, insecurity, and informal credit systems that leave vulnerable small traders exposed. He presents the cases online to raise money from well-wishers.

“Some of the most shocking stories I encountered were those of mothers, whose only working son was imprisoned, leaving her unable to secure his release or make a living,” Abdullahi told Radio Ergo.

“There are many painful stories I’ve come across. There are many others still imprisoned with no money to secure their freedom.

I started this initiative in 2024. So far, I’ve raised and spent about $15,000 from members of the Somali community. I present the cases to them saying we can help someone who’s been imprisoned by contributing to restore their freedom because that person can’t pay their debt.”

Those who have been assisted in this way are in Mogadishu and Lower Shabelle.

Now back in Afgoye, Abdifatah is attempting to rebuild his business doing mobile phone repair work, which is poorly paid and sometimes earns him a mere $3 a day.

The family rents a one-room iron sheet house that he can’t pay for. His wife took up cleaning jobs, but had to beg from neighbours for food whilst her husband was in prison.

“Today the house rent is being demanded from me. The landlord came to the house, and I owe two months’ rent. The electricity has been cut off,” he said. “I swear today I have nowhere to turn – I am completely stuck.”

Abdifatah prioritised his children’s education and since his release from prison has enrolled his two eldest children in school, committing to a $14 monthly fee – but he has already fallen behind and owes the Koranic teacher $7.

Meanwhile, Abdullahi Maslah Idris spent five years in prison for failing to pay compensation to another man whom he had unintentionally injured in a workplace accident. Afgoye district court ordered Abdullahi to pay $1,000 in compensation to the other man, whose teeth had been broken. However, his poor family could not raise the money so he went to jail.

He was the sole breadwinner for his household, supporting his mother and seven younger siblings doing car-washing jobs earning between $5 and $15 a day.

His imprisonment plunged the family into deep hardship, forcing them to rely on relatives for help.

“While I was in prison, the things that worried me most and hurt me deeply were my mother, my younger siblings, their lives, and what would become of them. I kept telling myself that one day God would take me out. Thank god, today I am free. Thanks to the man who secured my release! Now I want to create work for myself, I am trying to restart the work I used to do,” he said.

In prison, however, Abdullahi developed a serious leg infection that prevents him from doing hard physical labour. He recently tried to take up construction work, but lifting cement blocks caused his wound to rupture.

According to Abdullahi, there is much more that needs to be done to support such unfortunate victims of the justice system. He says he plans to expand his initiative by raising funds to free more detainees and support them with livelihood opportunities they need to help them rebuild their lives with dignity.

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Two brothers, Ali Isaaq Ali, 40, and Mohamed Isaaq Ali, 35, both suffering from mental illnesses, are in the care of their 70-year-old mother, Adey Sagar Samow, who can’t cope.

Ali has been confined in an isolated shelter, separated from his mother and brother, after repeated violent outbursts that endangered their lives.

“The reason he’s locked up is that he tries to kill me. He can’t stand to see me or his brother. One night he attacked us, thinking his brother was someone else. If God hadn’t protected me, I’d be dead by now,” Adey told Radio Ergo’s local reporter.

Ali has never received any medical attention and his mother, who says she has no money for medical treatment, is too frail to manage him at home. She decided the only option was to isolate him, leaving him tied up under a crude shelter that provides little protection for the weather.

She wishes her sons could recover, she says, but the lack of support has left her in deep sorrow.

Before falling ill, Ali supported his wife, three children, and his elderly mother working as a porter with his handcart. However, his wife left out of fear after his mental condition worsened nine years ago.

Since then, he has been mostly left tied to a tree.

Mohamed, his younger brother, stays mostly indoors, chewing scraps of leftover khat that he collects from the market.

He, too, has never received treatment. He was once a hardworking man who earned a living transporting firewood, but after falling ill seven years ago, his wife left him with their two children.

Their mother’s hardship deepened after both sons became ill. The family depends on UN World Food Programme food rations known locally as bamba chakula, currently 24 kilos of rice, four kilos of maize, and eight litres of oil, that are distributed every two months in the camps.

Adey says the supplies last only two weeks, forcing her to beg for food from neighbours.

“We used to live on the food rations, but they’ve reduced it and giving us the cash. Now I go to the market and beg. Someone gives me 20 shillings, another 50. What else can I do? I’m old and can’t fetch firewood. I live only by God’s mercy.”

Adey’s family fled Basra village in Salagle district, Middle Juba, in 2011 after severe drought destroyed their 10-hectare farm and livelihood.

Meanwhile, 22-year-old Isse Abdullahi Abdi wanders barefoot and shirtless around Hagadera market, visibly weak from exhaustion and malnutrition.

His father, Abdullahi Abdi Hussein, says he took Isse to the mental health unit at Hagadera hospital, but the medication provided brought no improvement. He believes his son’s illness worsened due to neglect after his mother left when he was still young.

“The kids harass him. I work all day and return home in the evening. If I lock him inside, he won’t have food. Kids break the lock, and he ends up walking around naked while they mock him. That’s how he lives,” Abdullahi said.

Isse only comes home at night to sleep.

“He loved his mother deeply. Even when we were together, he trusted her more than anyone. When we separated, he began to change. Now he calls her name every night, saying ‘mother, mother.’ Even when I bring him food, he refuses it and says, give it to my mother.”

Abdullahi earns about 10,000 Kenyan shillings ($77) a month transporting water in the camp using a donkey cart. He brought the family to Dadaab from Kismayo in 2011 due to insecurity in Somalia and his son’s worsening condition.

According to Dr Hassan Aafi Malim, a general practitioner at Hagadera Hospital and private Aafi Clinic, mental illnesses among youth have risen in the camps over the past three years. He links the rise to poverty and widespread drug abuse.

He estimates that there are at least 500 people with serious disorders in need of help.

“Many people, men and women, use drugs such as hashish and khat. When used for a long time, they seriously damage the brain. The most harmful one we’re seeing now is khat,” he said.

Dr Hassan added that stigma and harsh treatment including being chained up and isolated worsened the conditions of those already with mental illness.

Mental health facilities in Dadaab provide outpatient services only and there are no facilities to handle in-patient care.

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He moved his large family into a shack – but still can’t meet the traffickers demand of $20,000 in ransom for his captive daughter, Anab, aged 21. The rest of the family are now struggling for meals.

“I am a troubled and struggling father,” Suldan told Radio Ergo.

“After I sold my house, I moved to a displacement settlement and built a makeshift hut where we now live. In town, I beg around for a dollar here and there to cover daily food.

My daughter was a school teacher earning $100 a month, and she used to support the children’s upkeep. She was a blessing to me. But since she was captured by human traffickers, that $100 income is gone. If she were still with me, my household would have survived somehow.”

Suldan tried other means to raise the ransom for his daughter, including spending a month searching for a loan. But even after taking the desperate step of selling his house, he is still weighed down by the demand for the outstanding $7,000 for her freedom.

The stress cost him his own job as a security guard, where he was earning $100 a month. For the last three months, he has not been able to work due to anxiety.

“I have turned to all my relatives but everyone says they have nothing. That is why I was forced to sell my house, worried sick about my daughter, who was being tortured and beaten,” he said, having received calls and videos from the captors.

The family’s life before was not easy, but at least they had a house without rent and also some support from their daughter before she migrated.

Suldan said five of his children were now out of school because he cannot afford the $25 monthly fees they used to pay.

Stories abound of families in Puntland sinking into poverty after selling their livelihood assets to rescue relatives held captive in North Africa and the Middle East.

Among them is Abdullahi Ali Samatar, whose family of 14 are now crowded into a small room that used to be a relative’s kitchen.

Abdullahi said he was forced to sell his three-room house for $10,000 in May to pay part of an $18,000 ransom for his son, 19-year-old Mohamed, being held in Libya. He sent the money to his son’s captors via wire transfer. He said his family now faced unprecedented hardship, unable even to afford fuel for cooking.

“We sleep on the floor of that small room we share with relatives. Sometimes we sleep outside, exposed to cold and wind. We used to live in our own house, but now life is miserable. We have no shelter, and food is scarce. This all came about after I sold my house to try to free my son from traffickers,” Abdullahi explained.

His family lived on his income from casual construction jobs that brought in $10–15 per day, which covered the family’s basic needs. However, he has no motivation to work now because of the stress around his son’s safety and the need to find another $8,000 in ransom.

“My son disappeared for 20 days and then I got a call telling me to send $18,000. I sold my house cheaply for $10,000, but I still owe $8,000. I am drowning in debt, and yet my son is still being held. I sold my house and now my family is in deep hardship. We have no shelter, no food, and our lives are in turmoil,” he told Radio Ergo.

Abdullahi said his main goal now was to secure his son’s release from traffickers’ captivity. He added that he hoped the Somali government would help return him home.

Six of his children, meanwhile, were expelled from their Koranic and primary schools at the end of July because he could not pay the $60 monthly fees.

Ransom payments for migrants are determined by deals and the duration of detention – the amount demanded increases the longer a person is held.

The chairman of the local anti-trafficking organisation Badbaado iyo Barwaaqo (Safety and Prosperity), Abdi Mohamed Ali, said their recent survey in Puntland showed a sharp rise in overseas migration.

He said they documented more than 100 families who had sold assets such as houses, businesses, and vehicles to pay ransoms. Some of these families were forced to move into displacement camps, where they seek aid from humanitarian agencies, often lacking enough food or proper shelter.

“We know of families today who cannot even afford tea, though just yesterday they were living well, with cars, houses, and businesses. All of that has disappeared, and their lives have collapsed. Our organisation is focusing on supporting these families now living in crisis, while also raising awareness among the wider community about this devastating problem,” he said.

Abdi added that their organisation provided counselling to families facing these challenges, as well as advocacy to help them secure support and assistance from aid agencies and donors to help them to recover their lives and stability.

The post Puntland parents sell family homes to free sons and daughters held captive by traffickers appeared first on Radio Ergo - Somali Humanitarian News and Information.

Armed men set fire to houses and property in the remote town of Adale on 31 July, intending to permanently remove the families from their homes. Fire destroyed 20 homes and businesses, and caused an exodus of families to a village further in the rural area.

Iid Nur Awale, a father of 13, lost his food shop and his home. He estimates his total losses to be worth around $10,000, and his family is now living under a tree. They have only been able to cook one meal a day with a small amount of food donated by others.

“We got food from what people collected for us when the fire was still fresh. We got sugar and flour from Wisil. Now, we’re looking for help from the public and the government,” he said.

Iid said his shop was the largest in the area and made a daily profit of at least $20. The disaster happened right after he had restocked his shop that he had run for eight years.

They just managed to escape with all the children and couldn’t save anything from the shop or house. He added that he tried to move his family to Wisil, 35 km away, but couldn’t afford the $30 transport fare.

Safiyo Hasan Jaama, a mother of nine, also lost her home and everything she owned. Her family, including her nine-month-old baby, is living under a tree, exposed to the daytime heat and cold nights.

She said she has to beg for food from other displaced people and can only get a kilo of food a day, which isn’t enough for her family.

“My home was burned down, which caused us to flee to the bush. I’m struggling with a lack of shelter and water, and my possessions were all burned there,” she said.

Safiyo said the fire destroyed the only asset her family had left, which was their home, as they had already lost 30 goats to a two-year-long drought.

She is now in debt for $240 for food she took on credit from local shops. She also owes $45 for water. She is worried that the shopkeepers will stop giving her credit.

Safiyo, 43, said this was the worst situation she had ever experienced. She is the sole provider for her family because her husband is elderly and unable to work.

The affected families have not received any aid from relief groups or government administrations since they were displaced on 31 July.

The governor of Adale, Abdullahi Salad, said he had sent appeals to the Galmudug administration and aid agencies, but there had been no response yet. He warned that the people would need aid within the next two weeks to avert further deterioration of their situation.

The governor added that the families had no way to recover from the disaster, especially since a similar incident happened two years ago when Al-Shabaab burned down Adale destroying much property and many assets.

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Halimo Mohamed Jama, a single mother with nine children, lost the small shop that supported the family on gambling sprees on the popular platform 1XBET.

She put all her shop’s inventory and money she took on credit into gambling, believing she would make a large profit after other women she knew had won money. At first, she had some small wins on the online betting site that tempted her to carry on – until a big loss wiped out everything she had.

“It ruined us – it finished all the capital I had. When my shop was doing well, some girls taught me to play and I got addicted. In the beginning, I put in half a dollar or one dollar and got a good amount of money back. I withdrew some and played again. Sometimes I won and sometimes I lost but, in the end, I lost everything – my shop is now ruined,” Halimo told Radio Ergo.

Since her husband died five years ago, she had borne all responsibility for the family. She started her business three years ago with a grant of $300 from various aid organisations. Now she can’t cover the children’s basic needs.

“I put the children to bed hungry last night, and this morning they had no breakfast. I have no lunch or dinner for them either. There is nothing in the house. When my shop was open, my children went to school and had three meals a day,” she said.

She is facing pressure to repay her total debt of $650 that includes money she lost gambling and amounts she took from a wholesaler in Galkayo for her shop.

“The wholesaler is demanding their money. Last night I was called and wanted to switch off my phone. People are looking for me everywhere in the city. We want our money, send the money to our mobile, if you don’t pay, we will have you arrested – that’s what they’re saying. I have nowhere to get the money,” she wept.

Fadumo Hassan Osman, a mother of 12, also fell into financial ruin because of 1XBET. She lost her vegetable stall that supported her family and struggle to cook even a meal a day.

Before she started gambling, she used to buy 25 kilograms each of flour, rice, and sugar, along with 10 litres of oil every month. She also set aside money to save.

“I am in a desperate situation. I have nothing to give them. I beg my neighbour for a kilo of rice or pasta. If I can’t find vegetables, we eat sugar with it,” she said. “Before I started gambling on 1XBET, our life was fine. I used to clear my vegetable supplies debt, and had money for the children and to buy food, so our life was good.”

Fadumo’s business made $5 or $6 a day. She was convinced that if she put more money into gambling, she would win back much more.

However, she ran up a debt of $750, all of which was spent on gambling. She regrets learning about 1XBET, which she says ruined her life.

“The person who taught me to gamble caused me to lose evreything. It took a lot of my money; I would bet on everything I saw. I have so much regret because I my money has been taken. They advertised 1XBET to me and told me I could get a lot of money from it, up to $1,000. And I thought to myself that I’d win,” she said.

Four of her children had to drop out of school as she couldn’t pay the $30 fees for May and June. She said the gambling and her losses have caused a lot of conflict within her family. Her elderly husband had warned her to stop gambling, but she never listened.

Abdinassir Abdullahi Ali, an economics lecturer at Galkayo university, said the number of women gambling has increased.

“1XBET has a financially ruinous effect. It is an addiction that forces people to put in all of their assets. When they bet with their family’s money, conflict arises in the home. The government should solve this social problem, in collaboration with telecommunication companies, to shut down the places where online gambling can be accessed,” he advised.

Abdinassir also called on religious and community leaders to stand up against gambling by conducting strong awareness campaigns and organising counselling for those involved in the bad habit.

Although the Federal Government and regional administrations have several times announced the prohibition of 1XBET online gambling site, it is still being used widely across Somalia.

The post Women in Galkayo IDP camps gamble away livelihoods and savings on online betting site appeared first on Radio Ergo - Somali Humanitarian News and Information.

Of these girls, 300 are now struggling as single mothers in 210 displacement camps on the outskirts of the city after their marriages ended in divorce, the organisation confirmed to Radio Ergo.

Batulo Ali Mohamed, now 20, told Radio Ergo that she did not choose her husband, but was given to a man she did not know by her parents. In 2023, when she was married, she was completing intermediate school and had high hopes for her education.

“There is no more education. Since I was married, I dropped out to stay at home, and I immediately had children. I couldn’t manage the household chores and the children at the same time. I was in the eighth grade when I left school. I was told that my education should end there. My parents gave me away – I didn’t choose it,” she said.

Batulo had planned to start university after secondary school to pursue a career in medicine. She wanted to provide free medical services to poor and displaced people, as she had lived among them and understood their situation.

She was divorced in April 2025 after two years of the marriage and is now raising two small children, aged one year and four months. Their father has refused to pay child support, forcing her to rely on cleaning jobs earning a couple of dollars that doesn’t cover the food and milk needs of her children.

“I have many challenges. I am raising children whose father and I have separated. There is no one to care for the children for me. In the morning, I cook a meal. But even getting one meal a day is difficult and a struggle,” she said.

Batulo lives in a small hut built for her in May by the camp chairman. It provides little protection from the sun or cold. She expressed despair over her difficult life and noted that her family were displaced people and had no money to help her.

Amino Ahmed Mohamed, 22, was married at the age of 17, while in the first year of secondary school. Her husband and parents told her that she could not continue school and must stay at home and take care of her family.

“I left my education because my father married me off when I was young. Then I had children and stayed at home. It was impossible for me to continue. The reason I was given away was that my parents agreed to the marriage because I’m a girl,” she said.

Amino is raising five children alone, two of whom are twins, and she is unable to provide them with consistent food. She supports them doing sewing work, making $2.5 to $4 a day. She was taught sewing by a woman in the camp.

She indicated that she is under pressure with debts of $270 for food, water, and clothes for the children.

“I am forced to beg people and say to the shop owners, brother I don’t have anything in my hands now, but I will bring the money later,” she said.

According to Qureysho Ali Mohamed, the chair of the women’s organisation that revealed the data about such young women and girls, most girls forced into marriage are between 15 and 20 years old. These forced marriages often end in divorce, creating challenges raising the children.

“I am sending a message to parents not to force their daughters into marriage,” she said.

Qureysho said some parents married off their young daughters for financial reasons, while others gave them away because they see it as a traditional custom.

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