Opinion-My Dream to Eat Local: For My Health and My Wallet

There are small moments in life that seem ordinary, yet leave an unforgettable mark on the heart. For me, this moment appears every morning, every evening, every time I sit at the table—whether in my home or in a restaurant—and place a plate before me. I stare at the food in silence, as if there is a long private conversation happening between us that no one else can hear.

I ask myself: Where did this come from? Who planted it? In what soil did it grow? What long journey did it take before reaching my mouth? And then the painful truth reveals itself: rice from overseas, flour from Asia, vegetables from farms that are not ours, oils from countries we know nothing about, fruits that have traveled thousands of kilometers, and canned milks, juices, and drinks that all come from foreign hands. In that moment, I feel my pocket bleeding silently, and the money I worked so hard to earn flowing into the economies of other nations—never into my own land, never into the hands of a single Somali farmer.

But the issue goes beyond money. Every bite I take makes me think about my health and the health of my children. Is this food I’m holding in my hand really worthy of entering our bodies? How long was it stored in cold rooms? How many hands touched it? How many additives and preservatives were pumped into it?

Sometimes I look at imported vegetables—they may look beautiful, but they have no scent, no taste, no life. And when I compare them to what our own land—our blessed land—can produce, I feel that we are missing something huge.

In a moment of reflection, I think of the millions of Somalis. Millions who work tirelessly day after day just to buy imported rice, imported sugar, imported oil, imported flour, imported vegetables and fruits. Millions who give the bread of their day to farmers and factories abroad, while their own land is capable—more than capable—of giving them healthier, cheaper, fresher food.

We all know this painful truth: Somalia is a country capable of feeding itself… but it does not feed itself. We have two rivers: Shabelle and Jubba. We have fertile lands that stretch across millions of hectares. We have sun and climate that allow three agricultural seasons a year.

We have multiple agricultural zones that can produce grains, fruits, vegetables, fodder, medicinal herbs, and industrial crops. Yet despite all this, our table depends on commercial ships—not Somali farmers.

And here my dream begins, a dream that is not only personal, but deeply national: My dream is to eat what my country produces—for my health and my wallet.

My dream is to see Somali rice one day, Somali vegetables, Somali fruits, Somali oil, Somali meat, Somali honey. A dream that my children eat food grown from their own land—not from containers that crossed the ocean.

My dream is for my monthly food bill to be cut in half because local food is cheaper. My dream is for my health and my family’s health to improve because local food is fresh, natural, full of aroma and flavor, with a short journey from soil to plate. My dream is to help—through every meal—revive my country’s economy, not someone else’s.

But to achieve this dream, I must ask a fundamental question: Why don’t we produce what we eat? The answer is not in the soil—the soil is fertile. Not in the climate—the climate is suitable. Not in the farmers—they know agriculture by instinct.The answer lies somewhere else: in the absence of policies, the absence of institutions, the absence of will.

We need a national vision that covers at least eight major agricultural sectors: grains, fruits, vegetables, medicinal herbs, industrial crops, fodder, high-value crops, and region-specific crops. We need research centers, a strong national institute, agricultural extension programs, improved seeds, modern irrigation, and organized markets. We need leadership that believes food security is not a luxury, but national security.

We have lost a great part of our health because of frozen, canned, and imported foods. We have lost a great part of our wealth because of the enormous import bill that drains billions in foreign currency. We have lost part of our dignity in food sovereignty when our meals began to depend not on Somali farmers, but on foreign ships and corporations.

I know very well that no country in the world—no matter how vast its land or abundant its resources—can produce every single food item it needs. But the problem in my country is different; we rely on imports for most of our essential and even secondary food items, despite the fact that we could produce a large portion of them locally if we truly invested in our land and our potential.

And yet… hope still exists.

I see hope in the banks of the Shabelle River waiting for major projects.