Coastal troubles have hit and displaced hundreds as many have remained haunted in silence of the Mudug coastline which have silenced vibrant voices of fishermen and families who are now drowned out by shifting sands.
This month, a massive sand dune swept over the coastal villages of Kulub and Dhinowda in central Somalia, forcing residents to flee their homes.
What many are calling an “act of nature” is, in fact, deeply rooted in a long history of ecological neglect, climate change, and forgotten coastal resilience.
Kulub and Dhinowda have stood for generations as beacons of Somali coastal life — communities built on fishing, trade, and an intimate understanding of their environment.
Oral histories speak of ancient village elders predicting the tides and knowing when the dunes would move.
But even they couldn’t have foreseen the scale and ferocity of the latest sandstorm.
The invasion of the dune didn’t happen overnight. It’s been creeping — slowly, relentlessly — over the past decades.
Deforestation of protective coastal shrubs, unchecked grazing by livestock, and the region's growing dryness have stripped the land of its natural armor.
The sand, with no roots to hold it back, moved freely. What we witnessed in Kulub and Dhinowda is not just a natural disaster.
It’s a warning — one that’s been building since colonial boundaries cut through ecosystems, and since post-independence governments underfunded environmental protections.
Climate change has only added fuel to this sandy fire. Rising temperatures and prolonged droughts — both now routine in Somalia — have made the once-stable coastal ecosystem volatile.
Combine that with inconsistent governance in the region, and you have a textbook case of disaster vulnerability.
The people of Mudug, largely pastoralists and fisherfolk, are being outpaced by a climate that no longer follows familiar rules.
But this isn’t the first time Somali communities have been swallowed by sand. In the 1970s, similar incidents occurred in the Galmudug region, though with less devastating consequences.
What’s different now is the scale and the frequency. The sand is moving faster than ever, and the safety nets — traditional knowledge, vegetation, and government support — are thinner than ever.
Now displaced, the people of Kulub and Dhinowda are left to seek refuge elsewhere, their homes buried, their memories quite literally erased by nature’s creeping hand.
This disaster raises urgent questions: Will other villages meet the same fate? Can a nation already battling hunger and conflict afford another front line in its struggle?ú
Somalia’s coast is not just a stretch of sand and sea. It is heritage, sustenance, and life.
And if we don’t act — not just in Somalia but across vulnerable coastal regions — then these buried villages may be just the beginning of a global story we’ll wish we’d rewritten sooner.