The Squall

I was living in Jijiga when the war reached us in the summer of 1977. Our town had always felt like the edge of the world—dusty streets, small markets, and the constant hum of the desert winds. Most of the people here were ethnic Somalis, tied to the land, to clans, and to a history older than borders. Yet, we were part of Ethiopia, a country that had been unraveling quietly and then violently in the years following the overthrow of Haile Selassie.

Rumors had always circulated—Somalia’s desire for a “Greater Somalia,” the WSLF skirmishes in the Ogaden, and the long-standing border conflicts. We had seen clashes in 1964 and heard about guerrilla raids throughout the early 1970s. But nothing prepared us for the sight of the Somali National Army crossing into our lands. They came with a confidence that was terrifying and almost mesmerizing. I later learned they numbered around 35,000 well-trained troops, armed with Soviet tanks—T-54s and T-55s—armored personnel carriers, heavy artillery, and MiG-17 and MiG-21 fighter jets. The infantry carried AK-47s and other Soviet-supplied weapons. Their mechanized units rolled like moving mountains, and their discipline was evident even from a distance.

Supporting them were paramilitary and irregular forces, swelling their numbers to nearly 60,000. The WSLF fighters were already familiar with the terrain and acted as guides and local auxiliaries. Clan militias joined the fight, offering manpower, intelligence, and local knowledge, while smaller irregulars were used for guerrilla operations, sabotage, and holding captured towns. Though brave, these irregulars were not as disciplined as the Somali National Army. In open battles, they struggled against organized Ethiopian and, later, Cuban forces.

The invasion was not a sudden outbreak of violence—it was an escalation of decades-long tension. Even before Somali independence in 1960, Somali nationalists had laid claim to Ogaden. Cross-border raids, the WSLF insurgency, and the Ethiopian army’s own weaknesses created a precarious balance. After Haile Selassie’s fall, the Derg had purged officers, reshaped the army, and struggled to maintain control over a fracturing nation. Rebellions in Eritrea, Tigray, and Oromia, combined with internal chaos, left Ethiopia exposed.

I remember the first nights of bombardment. MiG fighters shrieked overhead, and artillery fire shook the ground beneath our feet. Civilians fled in every direction. Families carried what little they could, often children on their backs, livestock tethered to carts, and bundles of grain and blankets. Daily life vanished overnight. Markets emptied, schools closed, and the only sound that filled the streets was the distant thunder of war. Medical facilities were overwhelmed immediately. Somali mobile field hospitals were present, but Ethiopian clinics and local aid struggled to handle the injured. Supplies—food, water, medicine—were scarce. Villagers improvised, caring for the wounded with what little was at hand, often under the threat of renewed shelling.

The Somali forces advanced rapidly, taking about 90% of the Ogaden within three months. Towns like Gode, Dire Dawa, and Jijiga fell. Only a few strongholds like Harar held out. Their supply lines, though stretched across the desert, kept the army moving—but this very overextension would become their undoing. Fuel, ammunition, and food struggled to travel hundreds of kilometers from Mogadishu, and once Ethiopia began to reorganize with Cuban and Soviet help, these lines became dangerous and untenable.

Somalia had relied heavily on Soviet support before and during the invasion—tanks, artillery, aircraft, advisors, and technical training. Arab states provided limited assistance, and Cuba initially had advisors in Somalia. But once the invasion began, the Soviets and Cubans realigned with Ethiopia, leaving Somalia isolated. Washington was cautious; U.S. aid was minimal, and Arab states could not replace Soviet support.

Ethiopia, initially outmatched, began a painful but determined recovery. Its army in the Ogaden numbered 30,000–40,000, poorly trained and scattered after Derg purges. Equipment was mostly outdated—M-47 tanks and F-5 fighter jets from Haile Selassie’s era. Local militias and civilian volunteers supplemented the army, forming defensive lines and protecting villages. But the turning point came with international intervention. The Soviets airlifted tanks, MiG-21s, MiG-23s, bombers, heavy artillery, and surface-to-air missile systems. Cuba sent 15,000–18,000 combat troops, many seasoned veterans of Angola. East Germany, South Yemen, and other Warsaw Pact nations provided advisors and training. Under this support, Ethiopian forces were reorganized and retrained, gradually regaining initiative.

By late 1977, Somali forces were overextended. The irregular militias, numbering about 25,000, could provide local intelligence and harass Ethiopian units, but they were no match for disciplined conventional troops. Supply shortages, the loss of Soviet support, and the overwhelming intervention of Cuban and Soviet forces tipped the scales. Ethiopia launched counter-offensives, retaking towns and pushing Somalia back. By March 1978, the Ogaden was fully recaptured, and Somalia’s ambitions were shattered.

Life during the war was not just about soldiers and battles. Civilians endured hunger, fear, and the chaos of displacement. Every journey to fetch water, every attempt to tend fields, was shadowed by the threat of air raids or artillery. Families improvised shelters, cared for the wounded with minimal supplies, and tried to preserve a semblance of daily life amidst the destruction. Medical support was often improvised, with civilian volunteers and local healers working alongside exhausted Ethiopian doctors, tending to burns, gunshot wounds, and the casualties of desert conditions. Supply lines were lifelines for both armies and civilians, determining who survived and who perished.

Even as the fighting ended, its echoes remained. Houses were destroyed, crops burned, and families scattered. Children remembered the roar of MiGs more vividly than the lessons in school. Communities carried scars that were not just physical—memories of fear, loss, and displacement lingered long after the soldiers left. And so the war continued—not on the battlefields, but in hearts and minds. Some wounds cut deeper than flesh. Some wars never truly end.

The Ogaden War was more than a clash over territory. It was an intersection of ambition, ethnic nationalism, and Cold War geopolitics. Somalia’s initial victories, fueled by Soviet support and the zeal of paramilitaries, gave way to defeat due to overreach, dependence on shifting alliances, and Ethiopia’s consolidation with international backing. Ethiopia, fractured and weakened, leveraged foreign aid, reorganized its army, and emerged victorious, reclaiming the Ogaden and asserting its sovereignty. But for those of us living in Jijiga, the war’s story was written not only in maps and military reports, but in the silent suffering, the rebuilt homes, and the memories we carried, long after the last shots were fired.

The battle ended with Ethiopian victory, but the war continued — not on battlefields, but in memories that refused to let go. Because some wounds cut deeper than flesh. And some wars never end" Could you rewrite it

This is a story of the war. I was living in Jijiga when the war reached us in the summer of 1977. Our town had always felt like the edge of the world—dusty streets, small markets, and the constant hum of the desert winds. Most of the people here were ethnic Somalis, tied to the land, to clans, and to a history older than borders. Yet, we were part of Ethiopia, a country that had been unraveling quietly and then violently in the years following the overthrow of Haile Selassie.