SUPPORT ETHIOPIA INSIGHT .wpedon-container .wpedon-select, .wpedon-container .wpedon-input { width: 200px; min-width: 200px; max-width: 200px; } Two memories collide in a city scarred by history yet embracing change.Once a dusty garrison town, Jigjiga—the capital of Ethiopia’s Somali Regional State—has transformed into a bustling city of paved streets, rising skylines, and a busy airport. For some, the city has shed its old nicknames and harsh reputation.For others, it remains inseparable from its scars: the Karamardha Pass, the surrounding military garrisons, and above all Jail Ogaden, a symbol of atrocity.Jigjiga today stands between two realities: a city remembered by its dust, or defined by its bloom.Folktale EchoesThis tension recalls a Somali folktale in which a single season carried two names. As the story goes, two neighboring herdsmen once lived through the same Gu’ season—the most important rainy season for Somali pastoralists—yet their experiences could not have been more different.For the first man, Gu’ was a blessing. His animals thrived on lush pastures, producing milk in abundance. The spilled sour milk filled his enclosure with a musky aroma. He remembered that season as Gadh Ciir—the Season of Sour Milk.For the second man, Gu’ was a curse. Floodwaters swept away his herd, leaving only carcasses behind. The stench of rotting entrails filled his enclosure. He remembered the same Gu’ as Galool Uus—the Season of Gut Contents.The two men, though they shared the same time and place, were forever estranged by their memories of that season. So it is with Jigjiga: divided by contrasting memories, the city must find a way to reconcile its two selves.Haunted PastThis dual memory is not confined to folklore. For locals, the memory of old Jigjiga is often framed by the haunting phrase: “Jigjigaay, Maydkaaga Sido”—Jigjiga, carry your corpses. For outsiders, the defining image was the Karamardha Pass, remembered for its role in the Battle of Jigjiga during the Ogaden War. Both remain enduring symbols of tragedy and loss.When I first arrived in Jigjiga in the early 1990s, the war’s aftermath was still painfully visible. Karamara was a restricted military zone, and trenches scarred the eastern plateau. Wrecked tanks and scattered shell casings still littered the landscape.The suffering of the Somalis at that time was embodied in one surviving old man who wandered the streets without a name, endlessly shouting: “WAY GAADHAY!”—It is now the time. His cry became his identity. To many, his words suggested recovery, a glimmer of hope that perhaps Jigjiga could rise anew as the capital of the Somali Region.Personal MemoryAs Jigjiga became the seat of the new administration, recovery remained distant. Another conflict was already brewing. The Ogaden National Liberation Front (ONLF) clashed with the EPRDF regime, sparking decades of violence. Its darkest abyss came under Abdi Mohamud Omar, known as Abdi Iley.Once again, Jigjiga became a symbol of atrocities. Most notorious was Jail Ogaden, where tens of thousands—including my relatives—were incarcerated, tortured, or killed. Its horrors reached beyond Ethiopia, cited in international reports and academic studies. Another site of terror was Jigjiga’s old micro-dam. Once a source of irrigation, it was turned into a place of water torture and mass graves.My personal memory of Jigjiga is framed by the words of Garaad Hassan Makhtal on the day Abdi Iley was appointed head of security. He said: “Reerkii Gablanka a haayow, gabadhi kuu dhalatay”—The cursed family has produced yet another bad predecessor.His words foretold the suffering of Somalis, who had endured past tyrants only to face even greater brutality. Garaad Hassan himself was later imprisoned in Jail Ogaden and died under torture.For me, his words bridge two wars in Jigjiga: the one into which I was born, and the one whose aftermath I lived through. I visited Jail Ogaden in the early 2000s before fleeing the country, where I met family and friends trapped inside.When I returned home in 2023, long after the prison had been shut down, I could still smell death in its compound. Its tiny cells bore names scrawled on the walls, many familiar: people who were killed, disappeared, or live today with trauma.As part of that scarred generation, I will always remember Jigjiga differently.Urban BloomToday, Jigjiga has changed dramatically. When scholar Tobias Hagmann returned in 2019, he found not the city he once knew but a transformed capital sprawling across the eastern plateau and the old garrison. Jail Ogaden is no longer a prison, and the Karamardha range is slated to host a modern resort.The city has modernized: its streets are paved and lit, restaurants bustle, diaspora families are returning, and the skyline features five-star hotels. Its vibrant economy is matched by cultural revival. Above all, Jigjiga is now celebrated as one of the most peaceful cities in Ethiopia.Yet the development is largely physical. Five-star hotels and gleaming resorts rise, but in the city center Jail Ogaden still stands, silent, unmarked, and invisible to many. For survivors, forgetting is impossible.Like the Gu’ season in the tale of the two herdsmen, Jigjiga reveals both a blessed and a cursed side: a city developing fast yet shadowed by unhealed history. My conversations with old friends bear witness to this divide. Some thrive in the new Jigjiga, while others remain haunted by the old. Both realities are valid, and geography seems to shape them.The TPLF’s atrocities fell unevenly across the Somali State. In ONLF strongholds of the east and south, nearly every cell of Jail Ogaden was filled with detainees from those areas. Even the jail itself carried their clan’s name.In contrast, people from the northwestern belt also suffered, but not on the same scale. These divisions still shape Jigjiga’s memory.Historical LessonsThe Somali State capital can rise from its ashes, but it does not have to rise apart from its past. The city can grow while carrying the history of its founders and fallen heroes, turning sites of pain into spaces of remembrance.Jigjiga could follow the example of Charlotte, a former railroad hub and slave-trade town that embraced its history through museums and legacy projects. Like Charlotte, Jigjiga can grow without erasing its scars.Jail Ogaden could be transformed into a museum. The old dam could carry the memory of those tortured and drowned in it. Karamarda could host not only a resort but also a memorial for fallen Somali heroes.If Jigjiga is to bloom fully, it must not bury its dust. Only by honoring both scars and progress can the city reconcile its two tales; it can then rise whole from its divided memory. .wpedon-container .wpedon-select, .wpedon-container .wpedon-input { width: 200px; min-width: 200px; max-width: 200px; } Query or correction? Email us window.addEventListener("sfsi_functions_loaded", function(){if (typeof sfsi_widget_set == "function") {sfsi_widget_set();}}); While this commentary contains the author’s opinions, Ethiopia Insight will correct factual errors.Main photo: A contrasting view of Jigjiga: On the left, Jigjiga Central Prison, historically known as Jail Ogaden; on the right, the modern glow of the city at night. (Source: Social Media [1][2])Published under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International licence. You may not use the material for commercial purposes.The post Two Herdsmen, Two Memories, One City: The Tale of Jigjiga appeared first on Ethiopia Insight.