Once upon a time, Mogadishu produced the Union of Islamic Courts (UIC)—a legal innovation so “brilliant” it collapsed faster than a mud hut in the Gu rainy season. Like all great Somali experiments in governance, the UIC was born out of high ideals, khat-fueled debates, and an unshakable faith in recycling old warlords under new titles. Its unintended consequence? The birth of a rebellious teenager called Al-Shabab, who took the family name but never came back for family dinners.

Who is the Mother of Al-Shabab?

The question is not whether Al-Shabab came from the UIC womb—it is whether Mogadishu’s political class still pays child support. If UIC was the mother, then Damul-Jadid was surely the doting uncle, always sneaking the child candy and ideological bedtime stories. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, then a middle-class academic entrepreneur turned militia sponsor, stood shoulder to shoulder with the Al-Shabab maternity ward, making sure the baby was born strong enough to one day terrorize the entire Somali state.

But let us not forget the SIMAD College Tragedy of 2006. Instead of graduation gowns, bright-eyed students were handed rusty rifles and packed into trucks for the Baydhaba front line—Somalia’s version of a compulsory internship. The Ethiopian army and the TFG gave them their performance evaluation in the form of heavy artillery, and like every unpaid intern, they were discarded and unaccounted for. The crime was never registered, and accountability was sent to the same graveyard as the missing students.

The President’s Amnesia

Fast forward to today, and President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud parades around Villa Somalia as if history began only after his second term swearing-in ceremony. He speaks of “fighting Al-Shabab” with a straight face, while skeptics whisper: “But weren’t you their classmate, neighbor, and at one point, tactical ally?” The irony is thicker than Mogadishu dust: the very man who once outsourced young blood to Al-Shabab’s apprenticeship program now claims to be Somalia’s top anti-terrorist general.

The President’s speeches against Al-Shabab are like a father publicly condemning truancy while secretly buying his delinquent son new sneakers. Everyone claps politely, but the street remembers who funded the bus rides to Baydhaba. Until Hassan Sheikh produces receipts for those lost SIMAD students, his anti-terror campaign remains less about eradicating Al-Shabab and more about editing Wikipedia pages.

A Country That Forgets Too Easily

Somalia’s tragedy is not merely Al-Shabab’s existence, but the collective amnesia that allows perpetrators to rebrand as saviors. Warlords become ministers, extremists become reformists, and sponsors of student militias become “His Excellency.” Meanwhile, the bodies of the unaccounted still echo in the silence of Baydhaba fields.

Perhaps the biggest unintended consequence of the UIC was not just Al-Shabab, but also the normalization of Somali political recycling. Yesterday’s rebel is today’s president, today’s president is tomorrow’s exile, and tomorrow’s exile will return as a peace negotiator sponsored by the UN. And the cycle spins on—slicker than a khat dealer’s tongue.

The Burden of Proof

Until President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud can answer for the Baydhaba students, until he can acknowledge Damul-Jadid’s role in Al-Shabab’s teenage years, and until Mogadishu stops pretending history began last week, every anti-terror campaign out of Villa Somalia will remain suspect.

As for the rest of us, we are left to watch this tragicomedy unfold—another episode in Somalia’s long-running soap opera: “UIC: The Mother That Ate Her Children.”

Once upon a time, American sanctions were supposed to be the magic wand of empire. You point, you punish, and a foreign government trembles into submission. Cuba? Starved. Iraq? Crippled. Iran? Crushed. That was the Washington fantasy. But the 21st century is not the 1990s—and now the magic wand has snapped in the sorcerer’s hand.

Take Venezuela: America’s sanctions were meant to suffocate the oil state into regime change. Instead, the patient didn’t die—it found a Chinese doctor with endless pockets and a taste for oil. Beijing swooped in, oil-for-loans in hand, bypassing the almighty dollar and wiring life support into Caracas. Result? Venezuela may be limping, but it is still standing. China got the energy it craved. And the U.S. got nothing—except the bitter taste of sanctions blowing back like a shotgun fired backwards.

And Venezuela is no isolated mishap. Russia was supposed to collapse under sanctions after Ukraine. Remember the predictions of a “ruble in rubble”? Instead, the ruble wobbled, then stabilized; Moscow rerouted oil and gas eastward, strengthening its axis with China, India, and the so-called “Global South.” The sanctions hurt Europe far more than Russia—German factories paying triple for energy, while Moscow laughed its way into yuan settlements and BRICS expansion.

Everywhere Washington swings the sanctions hammer, cracks appear not in its enemies but in its own global dominance. Iran found new partners in Beijing; Africa, long treated as a sanctions playground, now courts Russian and Chinese investment without Washington’s permission slip. The “rules-based order” has become a punchline, a club where the U.S. writes the rules and everyone else stops showing up.

The deeper truth is this: sanctions were supposed to keep the unipolar moment alive, but instead they have accelerated its funeral. By weaponizing the dollar, America forced the world to search for alternatives—and alternatives they have found. Yuan-denominated oil, BRICS currency talks, barter systems, parallel banking networks: the architecture of a multipolar order is being built brick by brick, financed ironically by the failures of American policy.

So yes, Washington still loves to preach about “sanctioning rogue states.” But the rogues are adapting, and the empire is eroding. What was meant as punishment has become an apprenticeship in resilience for America’s rivals. While the U.S. ties itself in knots of overreach, Beijing and Moscow stroll into the gaps with oil contracts, infrastructure deals, and no sermons attached.

The end result? The sanctions regime is no longer a weapon of power—it is the obituary notice of U.S. hegemony. Washington wanted to crush Venezuela, Russia, Iran, and beyond. Instead, it taught them how to survive without it. That is not strategy—it’s suicide by arrogance.

In the gilded salons of Garowe, where the curtains are heavier than the policy papers, the Puntland administration has discovered a new form of governance: sitting still, looking serious, and ensuring that not a single note is ever written down.

Look carefully at the photo. Not a pen. Not a notebook. Not even the humble biro stolen from a hotel reception desk. Instead, the honorable gentlemen and ladies of Puntland State sit like wax statues in a Somali Madame Tussauds, staring ahead as though waiting for Allah Himself to record the minutes.

The governorate of Puntland has apparently abolished the primitive practice of “note-taking” in favor of a new model called Memory Governance™. The theory is simple: if you remember the meeting later, it was important; if you forget, it probably wasn’t.

But here lies the tragicomedy: the man in the blue suit with the tie patterned like Mogadishu pavements nods sagely, while the one in the red tie leans back as if calculating how much of his stomach tax revenue could cover. Yet no one dares break the sacred silence by pulling out a notebook. For in Puntland, the first person to take notes becomes the secretary, and nobody wants that cursed job.

Even the women on the other side of the room, draped in colorful hijabs, sit calmly, clutching their handbags like they might contain the lost archives of Puntland State—hidden there since 1998. If only one brave soul would unzip and pull out a pen!

In the middle, His Excellency sits between the Somali flag and the Puntland flag, two cloth witnesses to this administrative theatre, presiding over what might be the most unrecorded meeting in Somali political history. Generations from now, scholars will debate what was said here—because nobody wrote it down.

Until then, Puntland continues to govern through the oral tradition of nodding heads and folded hands, while the minutes of every meeting evaporate.

“All the Lies Fit to Print”
WDM Special Edition: The Decline of the American Empire

EMPIRE ROTS IN PUBLIC

Washington once strutted as “Leader of the Free World.”
Now it’s a bankrupt landlord, shaking down its own tenants.

“America First means Allies Last.” — Donald Trump, Tariff Messiah

NATO — WORLD’S MOST EXPENSIVE CLOWN SHOW

Macron: “Brain Dead.”

Freirich Merz: “Do we still have tanks?”

Stamer: “I’ll be Churchill once my AI speechwriter finishes the draft.”

NATO WhatsApp group leaks:

POLAND: “RUSSIA IS COMING!!”

FRANCE: “I’m leaving this chat.”

USA: “PAY 5% OR DIE.

GAZA GENOCIDE — MADE IN USA

Hospitals bombed, children starved, rubble funded by Washington.
Trump calls it “support for Israel’s right to defend itself.”
nods. Ursula von der Leyen cries in Tel Aviv (on cue).

“Rules-Based Order means we make the rules, and you follow the orders.” — State Department, off the record

UKRAINE — BLOOD ATM FOR NATO

Weapons delivered on layaway. Europe pays, Ukraine bleeds, America profits.
Macron sends speeches, Britain sends PowerPoint, Germany sends… condolences.

DOLLAR DYING, ELVIS STYLE

The dollar still sings, but bloated and sweating in Vegas.
BRICS plan funeral playlist.

“Don’t worry, the dollar will last forever.” — Treasury official, moments before converting savings to gold

IMF + WORLD BANK = USELESS PRIESTS OF DEBT

Africa yawns, Latin America walks away, Asia borrows from China.
The sermons continue, but the pews are empty.

SIDEBAR: EUROPE — AMERICA’S NERVOUS COLONY

Macron dreams “strategic autonomy” every night. Wakes up in NATO’s bed every morning.

Freirich transforms Germany into an economic hospice.

Keir Stamer still thinks the UK is an empire. No one told him it’s a food bank.

PAX AMERICANA → POX AMERICANA

Rome had gladiators. Spain had conquistadors. Britain had gunboats.
America? Tariffs on Canada. Bombs on Gaza. Lectures no one listens to.

The Empire’s obituary writes itself:
Not a glorious collapse — a tragicomedy, live-streamed.

Library archives

July 1944

A new international monetary system was forged by delegates from forty-four nations in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, in July 1944. Delegates to the conference agreed to establish the International Monetary Fund and what became the World Bank Group. The system of currency convertibility that emerged from Bretton Woods lasted until 1971.

U.N. Monetary Conference  (Photo: Associated Press; Photographer: Abe Fox)

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by Sandra Kollen Ghizoni

The United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference was held in July 1944 at the Mount Washington Hotel in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, where delegates from forty-four nations created a new international monetary system known as the Bretton Woods system. These countries saw the opportunity for a new international system after World War II that would draw on the lessons of the previous gold standards and the experience of the Great Depression and provide for postwar reconstruction. It was an unprecedented cooperative effort for nations that had been setting up barriers between their economies for more than a decade.

They sought to create a system that would not only avoid the rigidity of previous international monetary systems, but would also address the lack of cooperation among the countries on those systems. The classic gold standard had been abandoned after World War I. In the interwar period, governments not only undertook competitive devaluations but also set up restrictive trade policies that worsened the Great Depression.

Those at Bretton Woods envisioned an international monetary system that would ensure exchange rate stability, prevent competitive devaluations, and promote economic growth. Although all participants agreed on the goals of the new system, plans to implement them differed. To reach a collective agreement was an enormous international undertaking. Preparation began more than two years before the conference, and financial experts held countless bilateral and multilateral meetings to arrive at a common approach. While the principal responsibility for international economic policy lies with the Treasury Department in the United States, the Federal Reserve participated by offering advice and counsel on the new system.¹ The primary designers of the new system were John Maynard Keynes, adviser to the British Treasury, and Harry Dexter White, the chief international economist at the Treasury Department.

Keynes, one of the most influential economists of the time (and arguably still today), called for the creation of a large institution with the resources and authority to step in when imbalances occur. This approach was consistent with his belief that public institutions should be able to intervene in times of crises. The Keynes plan envisioned a global central bank called the Clearing Union. This bank would issue a new international currency, the “bancor,” which would be used to settle international imbalances. Keynes proposed raising funds of $26 million for the Clearing Union. Each country would receive a limited line of credit that would prevent it from running a balance of payments deficit, but each country would also be discouraged from running surpluses by having to remit excess bancor to the Clearing Union. The plan reflected Keynes’s concerns about the global postwar economy. He assumed the United States would experience another depression, causing other countries to run a balance-of-payments deficit and forcing them to choose between domestic stability and exchange rate stability.

White’s plan for a new institution was one of more limited powers and resources. It reflected the concerns that much of the financial resources of the Clearing Union envisioned by Keynes would be used to buy American goods, resulting in the United States holding the majority of bancor. White proposed a new monetary institution called the Stabilization Fund. Rather than issue a new currency, it would be funded with a finite pool of national currencies and gold of $5 million that would effectively limit the supply of reserve credit.

The plan adopted at Bretton Woods resembled the White plan with some concessions in response to Keynes’s concerns. A clause was added in case a country ran a balance of payments surplus and its currency became scarce in world trade. The fund could ration that currency and authorize limited imports from the surplus country. In addition, the total resources for the fund were raised from $5 million to $8.5 million.

The Mount Washington Hotel, White Mts., N.H. (Photo: Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Collection, LC-D4-19762)

The 730 delegates at Bretton Woods agreed to establish two new institutions. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) would monitor exchange rates and lend reserve currencies to nations with balance-of-payments deficits. The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, now known as the World Bank Group, was responsible for providing financial assistance for the reconstruction after World War II and the economic development of less developed countries.

The IMF came into formal existence in December 1945, when its first twenty-nine member countries signed its Articles of Agreement. The countries agreed to keep their currencies fixed but adjustable (within a 1 percent band) to the dollar, and the dollar was fixed to gold at $35 an ounce. To this day, when a country joins the IMF, it receives a quota based on its relative position in the world economy, which determines how much it contributes to the fund.

In 1958, the Bretton Woods system became fully functional as currencies became convertible. Countries settled international balances in dollars, and US dollars were convertible to gold at a fixed exchange rate of $35 an ounce. The United States had the responsibility of keeping the price of gold fixed and had to adjust the supply of dollars to maintain confidence in future gold convertibility. The Bretton Woods system was in place until persistent US balance-of-payments deficits led to foreign-held dollars exceeding the US gold stock, implying that the United States could not fulfill its obligation to redeem dollars for gold at the official price. In 1971, President Richard Nixon ended the dollar’s convertibility to gold.

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Endnotes

• ¹ Some of the documents from those meetings have been compiled by FRASER and the Center for Financial Stability.

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Bibliography

Bernstein, Edward. “Reflections on Bretton Woods.” In The International Monetary System: Forty Years After Bretton Woods, 15-20. Boston: Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, May 1984.

Bordo, Michael D. “Gold Standard.” In The Concise Encyclopedia of Economics. Library of Economics and Liberty. Article published 2008.

Bordo, Michael, Owen Humpage, and Anna J. Schwartz, “U.S. Intervention during the Bretton Wood Era: 1962-1973,” Working Paper 11-08, Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio, April 2011.

Eichengreen, Barry. Exorbitant Privilege: The Rise and Fall of the Dollar and the Future of the International Monetary System. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011.

Kenen, Peter. “Bretton Woods System.” In The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics, Second Edition, edited by Steven N. Durlauf and Lawrence E. Blume. Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.

Meltzer, Allan H. “U.S. Policy in the Bretton Woods Era.” Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis Review 73, no. 3 (May/June 1991): 54-83. doi: https://doi.org/10.20955/r.73.53-83. Available on FRASER

Patinkin, Don. “Keynes, John Maynard (1883-1946).” In The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics, Second Edition, edited by Steven N. Durlauf and Lawrence E. Blume. Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.

Professor Abdiwahaab Sheikh Abdisamad has once again proven that there are professors, and then there are performers masquerading as professors. When Puntland’s gallant forces were sweating blood in the rugged caves of the Cal Miskaad Mountains to flush out ISIS militants, the professor sat comfortably on TV panels dismissing the battle as nothing more than “Deni’s propaganda.”

This is not just ignorance—it is a crime against truth. To belittle the frontline soldiers who face suicide bombers and landmines, who bury comrades in the unforgiving mountains, is to spit on their graves. Puntland is not inventing ISIS; the bullets, the casualties, and the martyrs are real. But in the professor’s world, reality is negotiable—especially when it comes wrapped in clan prejudice and political cynicism.

And then comes the shadow of his own story. In 2022, when he was kidnapped in Nairobi under mysterious circumstances, the professor emerged from captivity in silence. Not a word about who kidnapped him, why, or under whose payroll the thugs operated. A man who cannot expose his own kidnappers is suddenly brave enough to expose Puntland’s anti-terror campaign as “propaganda.” How convenient. How hollow. How suspicious.

One wonders: Who bankrolls the professor’s tongue? For whose agenda is he sharpening his chalk of clan arithmetic? Because this is no longer academic critique—this is political mercenarism dressed in a professor’s gown. He lectures not from books, but from a script written elsewhere.

Somalis know this breed too well: the “television professors” who serve as court jesters for Mogadishu’s villa politics, who throw mud at those fighting real battles while they perform empty intellectual acrobatics for the cameras. Puntland bleeds, soldiers die, mothers mourn—but the professor prefers cheap soundbites over solidarity.

If truth had a conscience, Professor Abdiwahaab would be standing with those fighting ISIS, not mocking them. If integrity had a place in his dictionary, he would expose his kidnappers before lecturing Puntland about terrorism. Instead, he chooses the coward’s path: silence when his life is threatened, noise when brave men defend their land.

The Somali public deserves to ask: Is this man a professor of knowledge—or a professor of sabotage?

Somali politics is now reduced to stand-up comedy. Not the witty, clever sort of comedy—but the type that makes you choke on your shaah because you can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or book the next flight out of Aden Adde Airport.

In one corner, President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud plays the role of tribal comedian-in-chief. His latest “joke” to Prime Minister Hamse’s Ahmed Nur Uleex went like this:

“The bad guys of Hawiye kicked you Darood out of Mogadishu with Siyad Barre. Now let the good boys of Hawiye rule you.”

Cue nervous laughter.

If Somalia’s bloody civil war is now a punchline, then the man at Villa Somalia is the MC of a dark comedy club where no one asked to buy a ticket. Jokes about mass displacement, clan-driven purges, and the bones of Mogadishu’s rubble don’t usually get laughs—but in the world of clan-state politics, they count as presidential banter.

Meanwhile, former Interior Minister Abdikarim Hussein, with his trademark arrogance, took his turn at the mic to bash the Murursade clan. He expected applause for the insult. Instead, President Hassan Sheikh—this time channeling his inner tribal referee—jumped in to defend Murursade, reminding everyone that Murursade “played an important role when General Siyad Barre was being chased out of Mogadishu.”

Translation: Yes, they helped burn down the house, so they deserve a seat at the table while we argue over the ashes.

This is the political circus Somalia is trapped in: rulers exchanging clan jokes like it’s open mic night, where history’s bloodiest tragedies are reduced to inside jokes between political elites. Today’s insult is tomorrow’s defense, all depending on which faction needs stroking.

The tragedy? Somalia’s statecraft has become little more than clan-memory karaoke, where leaders sing old war ballads in new tones. The people starve, the roads rot, the soldiers block highways demanding unpaid salaries—but in Villa Somalia, the entertainment program continues.

If there is one lesson here, it’s that our politicians no longer govern—they perform. They juggle clan grievances, toss around tribal jokes, and pretend it’s leadership. And as long as the audience keeps clapping, the comedy club will never close.

The story of https://martisoorhotel.com/ in Garowe, Puntland State, is more than the tale of a business venture. It represents a journey of resilience, adaptation, and the slow but steady construction of professional standards in a context where modern service industries remain fragile and underdeveloped. The hotel’s history, as recounted by its owners, reveals not only the entrepreneurial spirit that drives local investment but also the immense difficulties of operating in an environment with scarce skilled labor, poor infrastructure, and minimal institutional support. In many ways, Martisoor Hotel is a symbol of the struggle to establish quality-driven businesses in Somalia’s emerging economy.

The Challenge of Building in a Fragile Context

When the owners of Martisoor Hotel embarked on their dream of building a premium hospitality establishment in Garowe, they were aware that the task ahead would not be easy. Construction itself posed enormous challenges. Skilled labor, the backbone of any quality building project, was either nonexistent locally or so limited that it was unreliable. This meant that much of the work either had to be carried out by non-native laborers, who came with their own sets of difficulties, or through costly imports of expertise from abroad. The frustration was not simply about availability; it was also about work ethic and quality standards, both of which were inconsistent at best.

The situation forced the owners into a series of hard choices. Should they continue to rely on external workers who were expensive and often disconnected from the cultural environment of Garowe? Or should they attempt to train a local workforce that lacked the initial skills and expertise but carried the promise of long-term sustainability? Both paths were fraught with risk, and the dilemma highlighted the deeper structural issues faced by business owners in Somalia’s post-conflict context.

Daily Struggles in Operation

Even after the hotel’s physical structure was completed, running it became another battlefront. On one evening early in the hotel’s operations, one of the owners, Mohamed Abdinur, expressed his frustration at a seemingly simple issue: the smell of food and smoke escaping the kitchen. What appeared minor to a customer was, in fact, emblematic of the systemic difficulties faced by the hotel. As Mohamed explained, “Everything in this country has to be imported. If an equipment breaks, we have to import from Dubai.” This dependence on external supply chains meant that the hotel was vulnerable to delays, high costs, and operational breakdowns at even the smallest mishap.

In the restaurant and kitchen, matters were even more complicated. Abdihodan, another owner of Martisoor, recalls vividly the early days when wastage of food items like fruits and vegetables was rampant. Local cooks, untrained in professional standards, lacked knowledge of hygiene, efficiency, and food safety. Cross-contamination was likely, as the same utensils were used for different raw foods. Hygiene protocols—so fundamental to hospitality—were not yet part of the local culinary culture. For customers, this translated into dissatisfaction, long waiting times, and inconsistent service, all of which threatened the reputation of a hotel aspiring to be “premium” in an unforgiving market.

The Turning Point: Asking the Right Questions

Faced with these frustrations, Abdihodan refused to surrender to circumstance. Instead, he began asking what he described as “hard questions.” Why were customers unhappy, and what could be done about it? How could waste be reduced when every kilogram of imported produce was precious? What would it take to introduce quality control measures that matched international hospitality standards? How could staff be motivated, trained, and organized so that efficiency became part of the daily rhythm of the hotel?

These questions became the foundation of Martisoor’s transformation. The decision to invest in training local workers was not only a business strategy but also a social contribution. By training local cooks, waiters, cleaners, and maintenance staff, the hotel slowly built a team capable of managing daily operations without constant reliance on foreign labor. In doing so, it planted the seeds of a local professional culture in hospitality—something previously absent in Garowe. Training was not only about skills but also about instilling discipline, hygiene, and respect for service quality.

From Struggle to Success

Years later, the story of Martisoor Hotel has taken a different turn. Sitting inside the hotel today, Abdihodan proudly notes that the earlier challenges have largely been resolved. The smoke in the kitchen no longer troubles customers; equipment is better managed; wastage has been significantly reduced; and food preparation meets the expectations of guests, both local and international. Trained workers now run the hotel with confidence, and customer satisfaction has become the norm rather than the exception.

The hotel’s success did not come from external aid or foreign expertise, but from the deliberate decision to nurture and invest in local talent. In a country where unemployment is high and youth often migrate abroad for opportunities, Martisoor Hotel has demonstrated that local capacity can be built, and that training can transform unskilled labor into professional service providers. This approach not only strengthened the business but also contributed to the wider economic and social fabric of Garowe.

A Symbol of Resilience and Local Development

The unique story of Martisoor Hotel is more than a tale of one business—it is a lesson in resilience and adaptability for the wider Somali private sector. It shows that quality service and professionalism are not imported commodities; they can be cultivated locally with patience, vision, and investment. The hotel’s journey from chaos to order, from dissatisfaction to customer loyalty, is an inspiring example for other entrepreneurs who may be discouraged by Somalia’s difficult business environment.

In many respects, Martisoor Hotel is a microcosm of Somalia’s broader struggle for state-building and economic recovery. Just as the country has had to rebuild its institutions, reestablish rule of law, and create a functioning civil service, so too did Martisoor have to build a professional culture from scratch. The lesson is clear: success requires not only resources but also persistence, creativity, and a belief in the potential of local people.

Conclusion

The story of Martisoor Hotel in Garowe stands as a testament to determination in the face of adversity. What began as a daunting experiment—building and running a premium hotel in a fragile and underdeveloped environment—has turned into a symbol of what can be achieved through persistence, problem-solving, and local capacity building. For its owners, the journey has been filled with frustration, setbacks, and countless lessons. For Puntland, however, Martisoor Hotel represents something larger: a living example of how businesses can thrive, professional standards can be established, and local communities can rise to meet the demands of a modern economy.

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To effectively advocate for asymmetrical federalism, leveraging its resources and historical political strength, Puntland State has to follow these structured recommendations: 1. Historical and Political Contextualization 2. Legal and Constitutional Frameworks 3. Resource Management and Economic Arguments 4. Coalition Building and Diplomacy 5. Education and Advocacy Strategies 6. Addressing Challenges 7. Strategic Messaging Key Examples […]

PUNTLAND IS FOR ASYMMETRICAL FEDERALISM

“The Emirati ‘Puntland Project’: Somali and Colombian Mercenaries Between Sudan and the Horn of Africa” by Ammar AlAraki (August 17, 2025):

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A Review

Strengths of the Document

1. Timely and Politically Relevant
   • The piece connects developments in Sudan’s war (RSF vs. SAF) with wider Horn of Africa dynamics, especially Puntland’s role.
   • It situates the UAE as a central external actor with a consistent playbook: financing mercenaries, destabilizing fragile states, and manufacturing proxies.
2. Investigative Value
   • Names specific Somali casualties from Bosaso, grounding the story in verifiable human details rather than vague allegations.
   • References satellite imagery analysis (Nyala airport, drones) to support claims of Emirati military involvement.
   • Identifies recruitment numbers (two Somali contingents: 320 and 670) and Colombian involvement, which enhances credibility.
3. Analytical Depth
   • Links the RSF model in Sudan to a “Puntland experiment”, drawing parallels between Hemeti’s militia and President Said Abdullahi Deni’s foreign-funded security structures.
   • Raises broader implications for proxy warfare, sovereignty erosion, and youth commodification.
4. Narrative Clarity
   • Well-structured sections (background, revelations, analysis, conclusion).
   • Strong framing with memorable phrases: “engineering chaos and manufacturing proxies,” “open mercenary market.”

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Weaknesses / Gaps

1. Source Limitations
   • The primary evidence rests heavily on Brown Land News, an independent but little-known platform. Without triangulation (UN reports, major media, academic studies), skeptics may dismiss it as speculative.
   • The Somali Press reference on Deni’s remarks feels only tangentially connected to the mercenary issue.
2. Lack of Hard Evidence on Puntland Government Complicity
   • While Bosaso is highlighted as a logistical hub, the text does not prove direct Puntland state sanction or Deni’s involvement.
   • The leap from “casualties from Bosaso” to “Puntland authorities complicit” risks overextension unless more documentation is provided.
3. Geopolitical Context Could Be Expanded
   • The report underplays Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Turkey/Qatar’s competing roles in Somalia and Sudan. Focusing only on UAE may oversimplify the proxy landscape.
   • Colombia’s mercenaries are mentioned but not fully contextualized (Why Colombians? Previous UAE use of ex-Colombian soldiers in Yemen could have been detailed).
4. Map Inclusion
   • While the Britannica map provides regional grounding, it feels under-integrated into the narrative (more visual-analytical commentary on troop movements or ports would strengthen it).

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Overall Assessment

• Impact: This document is a hard-hitting investigative piece that exposes an under-reported Emirati project linking Somalia, Sudan, and Colombia in a mercenary network.
• Credibility: Moderately strong but still vulnerable to criticism due to reliance on a single independent news source and limited corroborating data.
• Analytical Value: High. It draws important parallels between RSF structures and Puntland’s externally financed forces, raising alarms about future destabilization across the Horn.
• Usefulness: Excellent for policy analysts, researchers, and journalists examining UAE foreign policy, mercenary warfare, and Somali politics.

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✅ Verdict:
The piece is an important but preliminary exposé. It successfully frames the Emirati “Puntland Project” as part of a broader proxy warfare strategy but requires further corroboration, comparative analysis, and cross-referencing to achieve maximum impact and withstand scrutiny.

By WDM — Published November 17, 2024 In Somalia, the concept of “Nomadia”—a fusion of pastoral democracy and modern statecraft—was meant to provide a governance model grounded in both tradition and effective civil administration. However, reality has fallen far short of our aspirations. Today, institutions are largely dysfunctional, serving symbolic roles while power has become […]

NOMADIA GOVERNMENT LOSES ITS WAY IN SOMALIA

By WDM

Introduction

Somali culture pretends to be Islamic, but the truth is raw and ugly: it is shackled by tribe and family. The supposed “collective good” is a fragile mirage, shattered every time clan interest is invoked. Religion, that mighty moral compass elsewhere, in Somalia is reduced to a thin layer of paint covering tribal cracks. When fairness collides with tribal allegiance, fairness dies. Even Al-Shabab, with its fiery slogans of puritan Islam, bends its knees before the tribal altar.

Clan: Somalia’s True Constitution

Forget constitutions, parliaments, or federal charters. The real Somali constitution is written in blood and bone (Lewis, 1994). Kinship defines identity, guarantees protection, and dictates justice.

Security comes not from state institutions, but from diya-paying groups, who avenge or pay blood-compensation for crimes.

Justice is not blind but tribal, arbitrated by elders under the xeer, where guilt and innocence are calculated against lineage loyalties.

Identity is not citizenship but clan membership, where “Somaliness” itself fractures into hostile sub-clan silos.

This structure is older, stronger, and deadlier than any Somali state. It ensures that the nation remains a hostage to its own genealogy. As Menkhaus (2006) argues, attempts to build a modern state collapse because every state project becomes just another weapon for clan dominance.

Religion: Sacred but Subservient

Islam is the universal Somali faith, but in politics it plays second fiddle. When survival, land, or political power are at stake, religion is downgraded to decoration.

Somali elites invoke Islam when they want legitimacy, but behind the curtain, every decision is filtered through clan arithmetic. Even the revered Sufi brotherhoods of the past were entangled in clan rivalries (Samatar, 1992). The Somali civil war proved this hierarchy once and for all: mosques multiplied, preachers multiplied, but justice and fairness disappeared.

Somalis shout “Islam” on their lips, but whisper “clan” in their hearts. Every administration in Somalia—past and present, national or regional—has proven itself nothing more than a family business masquerading as a government. From Siyad Barre’s military dictatorship to today’s fragile federal states, the pattern is the same: clan first, country last. The only fleeting exception came during 1960–1969, when the Somali Youth League (SYL) tried to impose an anti-tribal political order. That brief decade remains a rare pause in the relentless march of clannism that continues to cripple Somalia. However, the current level of nepotism and cronyism is unprecedented in history.

Al-Shabab: Tribalism Wearing a Turban

Al-Shabab sells itself as a force to erase tribalism under Sharia. Nonsense. The group thrives only because it negotiates with the very tribal structures it condemns.

Recruitment: Fighters join through clan networks, and elders act as brokers.

Governance: Clan representation is carefully balanced inside Al-Shabab’s leadership.

Survival: When disputes arise, the group bows to clan elders or risks annihilation (International Crisis Group, 2019).

This is the great Somali paradox: even the most fanatical Islamist insurgency cannot escape clan gravity. The gun may be draped in black flags, but its trigger finger still points where the clan dictates.

The Somali Dilemma: A Nation Devouring Itself

What does this mean? Somalia is trapped.

1. Statehood remains a fantasy, because the state is never national; it is always clan property.

2. Fairness is a joke, because justice serves only the tribe, never the citizen.

3. Religion is neutered, because tribalism amputates Islam’s universal principles and shrinks them into clan bargaining chips.

The Somali body-politic is cannibalistic. Every attempt at nationhood is consumed by the tribal stomach. No constitution, no peace accord, no international intervention has broken the iron law of lineage.

Conclusion

Somali culture is not merely influenced by tribalism—it is suffocated by it. Family and clan remain the alpha and omega of identity, while religion is tolerated only when it does not interfere with lineage loyalty. Even Al-Shabab, waving the banner of Islam, cannot break free from the chains of clan.

This is Somalia’s curse: a people who pray in Islam five times daily but prostrate to the tribe six times daily. Until this hierarchy is reversed—until Somalis learn to treat the collective goods above the clan—the state will remain a hollow carcass, the nation a battlefield of cousins, and religion a mask for tribal greed.

References

Lewis, I. M. (1994). Blood and Bone: The Call of Kinship in Somali Society. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press.

Menkhaus, K. (2006). “Governance without Government in Somalia: Spoilers, State Building, and the Politics of Coping.” International Security, 31(3), 74–106.

Samatar, A. I. (1992). “Destruction of State and Society in Somalia: Beyond the Tribal Convention.” Journal of Modern African Studies, 30(4), 625–641.

International Crisis Group. (2019). Al-Shabaab Five Years After Westgate: Still a Menace in East Africa. Nairobi/Brussels: ICG.

André, L. (Ambassador, ret.). “Somaliland Status Policy Review: Proceed Carefully, Consult Widely, Consider Facts.” Substack. Available at: https://larryandre61.substack.com/p/somaliland-status-policy-review.

Warsame, I. H. (2021, February 3). “Why Somalis Complain about 4.5 Clan Power-Sharing Formula.” Warsame Digital Media (WDM) Blog. Available at: https://ismailwarsame.blog/2021/02/03/why-somalis-complain-about-4-5-clan-power-sharing-formula-2/.

Warsame, I. H. (2024, November 17). “Nomadia Government Losing Its Way in Somalia.” Warsame Digital Media (WDM) Blog. Available at: https://ismailwarsame.blog/2024/11/17/nomadia-government-losing-its-way-in-somalia/.

When the army takes to the highway, it is not war—it is hunger on parade. Mutinous Puntland soldiers, unpaid and ignored, now declare the nation’s busiest roads as their new battleground. Checkpoints rise like mushrooms, not out of strategy, but out of despair. Guns are pointed not at enemies, but at commuters. The road becomes a cashbox, and the rifle becomes a receipt.

Traffic stretches for miles. Truckers curse. Families wait in sweltering heat. Vegetables rot before reaching markets, medicine never arrives on time, and the economy clogs up like a sick man’s arteries. All because leaders thought loyalty could be maintained with speeches instead of salaries.

This is the Puntland paradox: soldiers without pay, leaders without authority, people without movement. No delegation of power, no functional chain of command, no coherent state. Just a crumbling road network where sovereignty is reduced to the barrel of a gun and the endless question at every checkpoint: “Halkee lacag taa laa?”

Instead of defending borders, the army now defends empty stomachs. Instead of building the state, it dismantles it one roadblock at a time. Puntland is not dismembered by Somaliland, nor Mogadishu, nor foreign conspiracies—but by its own unpaid soldiers, turning highways into hostages.

And when a government cannot guarantee the free movement of goods and people, it ceases to be a government. It becomes just another bystander in its own collapse.

Scene:

A long highway, jammed with trucks, donkey carts, and buses, stuck in endless gridlock.

At the center, ragged Puntland soldiers in mismatched uniforms set up makeshift checkpoints with sandbags and rusty barrels.

One soldier holds up a STOP sign with “SALARY” written across it.

Another soldier collects money from frustrated drivers, while behind him a billboard reads: “Welcome to Puntland – Where the Road Belongs to the Hungry.”

In the background, government officials are seen hiding inside a palace, looking out the window with binoculars, pretending they see nothing.

Deni is shown in the front row, wearing an oversized suit that doesn’t fit, smiling nervously while trying to polish his image. Behind him, the elders stand stiff like cardboard cutouts, lifeless props for the PR exercise.

In the background, a giant Puntland map hangs on the wall — but pieces of it are falling off like puzzle parts: Sool and Buuhoodle already missing, Sanaag cracked down the middle, Haylaan dangling by a thread.

On the ground, scavenger vultures labeled “Somaliland” and “SSC-Khatumo” peck at the fallen regions.

Deni is holding a broom, trying to sweep the disappearing map fragments under a carpet labeled “Closed Door Politics”.

A speech bubble from Deni: “See? Puntland is united and strong… as long as you don’t look at the map.”

The Somali Republic, once proudly stitched together by camel milk and poetry, has now been digitally dismembered by TikTok dances and clan hashtags. Social media didn’t just kill the family; it embalmed it with filters and buried it under viral skits where the new Somali proverb is: “If it’s not livestreamed, it didn’t happen.”

Forget reconciliation—Somalis now specialize in mutual annihilation as a national sport, each clan sharpening its hashtags like spears. Politics has degenerated into a blood feud fought on Facebook comment sections, where warriors armed with broken English and ALL CAPS do more damage than Kalashnikovs ever did.

Extremists? Oh, they’re thriving. Why not, when the government outsourced the war against them to wishful thinking and empty donor conferences in Nairobi hotels? Meanwhile, the only serious battles Somalis fight are over diaspora remittances and who gets to dominate TikTok’s daily clan-bashing session.

Strategic resources? Foreign vultures are already circling the Somali coast, sniffing the oil, the fish, and the geopolitics, while locals are too busy trending: “#MyTribeIsBetter.” The country is being carved up like a sacrificial goat, only this time the guests are outsiders, and Somalis are the ones serving the meat with a smile.

And yet, while all this unfolds, Somalis themselves are like partygoers in a burning house—arguing over who owns the living room while the roof caves in.

The truth is harsh: Somalia is not just being destroyed from outside—it is being hollowed from within. Not by bombs, but by memes. Not by colonizers, but by self-inflicted division. Not by dictators, but by an army of dancing robots who forgot that survival requires more than Wi-Fi.

Welcome to Somalia 2.0: irreconcilable, incoherent, and irretrievably entertained.

Ambassador Larry André’s piece is a thoughtful, sober, and experience-driven analysis of one of the Horn of Africa’s most contentious political issues: the status of Somaliland. Drawing on decades of diplomatic engagement in Somalia, Djibouti, and the wider region, André calls for a measured and fact-based U.S. policy review at a time when advocacy for Somaliland recognition is growing louder in Washington.

Here is the link to the piece:

https://open.substack.com/pub/larryandre61/p/somaliland-status-policy-review?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

Strengths of the Article

1. Pragmatism Over Idealism
André avoids simplistic solutions. He carefully outlines three U.S. policy options—status quo, liaison office in Hargeisa, or full recognition of Somaliland—and persuasively argues for the middle ground of opening a U.S. office in Hargeisa under Mogadishu’s embassy framework. This cautious approach reflects both regional realities and U.S. strategic interests.

2. Deep Regional Context
Unlike many Western commentaries on Somaliland, André situates the issue within the complex clan dynamics of the Somali people, emphasizing that clan loyalties often outweigh national ones. His acknowledgment that the Isaaq overwhelmingly drive Somaliland independence while other clans (Dir, Darod) remain ambivalent is particularly important—and often overlooked.

3. Balanced Consideration of Facts
The article highlights uncomfortable truths on both sides. For example, André notes Somaliland’s stronger governance and stability compared to southern Somalia, but also its intolerance of pro-unionist voices, illustrated by President Bihi’s blunt admission about jailing “traitors.” Similarly, he dismisses unproven allegations about Somaliland collusion with al-Shabaab, while recognizing that Somaliland’s security partly benefits from international efforts in southern Somalia.

4. Comparative Insights
The discussion of federalism models (Canada–Quebec, UK–Scotland, Tanzania–Zanzibar) adds intellectual weight, suggesting creative constitutional arrangements as alternatives to either secession or forced unity.

Weaknesses of the Article

1. Limited Somali Voices
While André emphasizes consultation, the essay still largely reflects a diplomat’s top-down perspective. More engagement with grassroots Somali perspectives beyond political elites and business leader would have enriched the analysis.

2. Underplaying External Geopolitics
Although he briefly mentions Turkey, the UAE, and rival powers, the piece could have more fully assessed how great-power competition (China, Gulf states, Western powers) intersects with Somaliland’s recognition question, especially regarding Berbera port and Red Sea security.

3. Ambiguity on U.S. Interests
André stresses “do no harm” and regional stability, but is less clear on what concrete U.S. interests—counterterrorism, maritime security, great-power competition—would ultimately drive Washington’s decision.

Overall Assessment

This is an enlightening, cautious, and authoritative contribution to the Somaliland debate. Its greatest strength lies in tempering passionate advocacy with historical perspective, lived diplomatic experience, and a clear warning against reckless unilateralism. By urging a process rooted in consultation, facts, and creative federalist thinking, André positions himself as a voice of prudence in a debate often dominated by emotion and lobby-driven arguments.

The article does not settle the Somaliland question—but it is not meant to. Instead, it provides a framework for responsible deliberation, reminding U.S. policymakers that decisions made in Washington can carry unintended, and possibly explosive, consequences in Hargeisa, Mogadishu, and beyond.

Verdict: A must-read for anyone serious about Somali politics, U.S. Africa policy, or the geopolitics of the Horn.

Coined by political scientists Henry Farrell and Abraham L. Newman, the term refers to the strategic leveraging of global economic networks—like finance, supply chains, and communication systems—to exert coercive pressure on other states. This isn’t traditional military force, but control via chokepoints or surveillance-like power in the global economic architecture .

Chokepoint effect — Dominant players can restrict or penalize access to critical network hubs.

Panopticon effect — They can monitor and observe others’ activities through embedded informational structures .

U.S. Economic Power as a Weapon

Financial Coercion

The United States has weaponized its dominance in global finance—primarily through:

The U.S. dollar’s centrality in foreign exchange and global reserves.

Influence over SWIFT and financial messaging systems.

Its role in global debt issuance .

These tools enable economically punitive measures—like sanctions—without firing a weapon .

Trade and Manufacturing Limitations

However, the U.S.’s coercive capacity in trade is more limited:

China dominates manufacturing and critical materials, granting it leverage in areas like rare earths, lithium, cobalt, and semiconductors .

U.S. export restrictions—e.g., on chipmaking technologies—have prompted retaliatory supply controls from China, highlighting mutual vulnerabilities .

China’s Strategic Countermeasures

Unlike the U.S., whose sanctions tend to have legal justification, China employs more opaque, politically motivated coercion. This includes:

Trade restrictions or boycotts following political slights—e.g., countries meeting with the Dalai Lama.

Private sector compliance or self-censorship (companies removing content or apologizing to avoid Chinese backlash).

Tourism bans, restrictive trade practices, and market access limits .

This strategy shapes behavior by creating a mental environment of deference—discouraging criticism of China due to fear of economic repercussions .

Global Impacts and Responses

Risk of Fragmentation

Continuous economic coercion risks destabilizing the global economic order.

Sanctions can backfire: countries may seek alternatives, fragmenting global systems.

Scholars note resemblances to the interwar era—sanctions undermining cooperation and security .

Regulatory vs. Abolitionist Approaches

Regulatory Mode: Proposes legal/ethical frameworks to minimize humanitarian harm from economic coercion (akin to laws of armed conflict).

Abolitionist Mode: Rejects economic coercion outright, especially unilateral measures that undermine sovereignty .

Multilateral and Collective Resilience

Solid strategies to resist coercion include:

Diversifying trade partners and supply chains.

Strengthening legal/regulatory frameworks (e.g., the EU’s ACI).

Coordinated responses through institutions like the G7, WTO, OECD, or ad-hoc coalitions .

Key Takeaways

1. Global economic networks now serve as instruments of power, beyond just trade and finance—encompassing communication technology, supply chains, and messaging systems.

2. Both the U.S. and China weaponize interdependence—but in different ways:

The U.S. uses transparent, legally justified leverage via finance and sanctions.

China uses less transparent coercion tied to political objectives and market control.

3. Overusing coercive economic tools risks fragmenting globalization, reducing system resilience and multiplied vulnerability.

4. The path forward should blend regulation and cooperation, leveraging alliances, legal safeguards, trade diversification, and institutional reform to restore stability and limit coercion’s destructive capacity.

By WDM Political Desk

Donald Trump, once again, summoned European leaders to the White House as if he were a circus master calling his performers to line up for the evening show. This time the star attraction was President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine, reluctantly standing beside Trump in what looked like a family portrait of a very dysfunctional household.

Trump, notorious for turning high-stakes geopolitics into cheap reality TV, avoided repeating last February’s debacle with Zelensky—not out of wisdom, but out of sheer self-interest. Two reasons drove him this time:

First, Trump needed to show Vladimir Putin that he has “control” over Zelensky. To Trump, Ukraine is not a sovereign nation, not a battlefield of survival, not a bleeding edge of European security—it is just a bargaining chip, a poker card to trade away slices of Ukrainian territory in exchange for Russian favors. He dreams of calling Putin on live television and boasting: “Look Vlad, I made your boy sit down quietly. Where’s my deal?”

Second, Trump’s everlasting obsession: the Nobel Peace Prize. Obama got one for breathing air in the Oval Office, and that burns Trump’s ego daily like acid. He wants the same, even if it means auctioning Ukraine’s sovereignty on the Nobel Committee’s altar. “Nobel Prize! Nobel Prize!” is Trump’s mantra—he craves it like a toddler screaming for candy in a supermarket.

But Europe is not fooled. Macron, Scholz, Rutte, Meloni, and the rest flew in not to humor Trump but to chain themselves around Zelensky. They know the game: if Ukraine falls, Russia won’t stop at Kyiv—it will march to Warsaw, Berlin, Paris, and maybe even Brussels. Trump may play diplomat, but Europeans know he is dangling Ukraine as bait while sharpening the knife under the table.

The tragicomic scene at the White House was clear:

Trump puffing his chest, grinning like a salesman desperate to close a deal.

Zelensky, trapped in a photo-op he didn’t want, surrounded by allies who looked more like bodyguards shielding him from Trump than partners in peace.

European leaders, smiling stiffly for cameras while whispering in each other’s ears: “God save us if this maniac sells Ukraine to Moscow.”

History will remember this summit not as diplomacy but as a pawn shop negotiation where Trump tried to trade Ukrainian land for personal glory. Europe left Washington more worried than when they arrived—because the real threat is not only Russia’s tanks, but also Trump’s hunger for applause, prizes, and Putin’s approval.

Trump wants to be crowned peacemaker. Instead, he looks like a desperate broker selling Europe’s security for a Nobel medal.

Donald J. Trump didn’t just inherit bankruptcy filings, bad casinos, and failed steaks — he inherited the biggest file cabinet of filth in American politics: Jeffrey Epstein’s little black book. Except this time, the “filing cabinet” wasn’t for keeping records — it was for keeping politicians on a leash.

The Epstein Files — that forbidden archive of power, sex, and compromise — are still suppressed. Who killed them? Who has them in a vault? My suspicion: three men keep the keys to Trump’s deepest nightmares — Trump himself, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Vladimir Putin.

Yes, you heard it. The “art of the deal” was never about real estate. It was about Trump bargaining with his own scandals. Netanyahu and Putin play the oldest game in global politics: blackmail as foreign policy. Every time Trump pretends he’s the strongman in the room, just know two men keep their thumbs pressing down on his bloated ego: one from Moscow, the other from Tel Aviv.

And the evidence? Look no further than the Christopher Steele Dossier and the Robert Mueller Investigation. Both launched like rockets, both fizzled out mid-air. Why? Because to expose Trump’s kompromat is to expose the entire global establishment that swam in Epstein’s sewer. Washington, London, Moscow, Tel Aviv — they all dipped their hands in that poisoned pool. And Trump, rather than being the master manipulator, is the dirtbag pawn — the one too obscene to let the truth out, because if he sinks, the whole rotten elite goes down with him.

So, Trump suppresses the Epstein files not out of loyalty to anyone, but out of survival instinct. He knows Netanyahu whispers: “I know what you did in the penthouse.” Putin smirks: “I have the tapes.” And Trump, that hollow clown, rants about witch hunts while living every day in the dungeon of his own secrets.

The Epstein Files aren’t just a scandal. They are the nuclear button of political blackmail. And Trump, instead of draining the swamp, became the swamp’s dirtiest, most useful crocodile.

It is no longer about Ukraine’s sovereignty, democracy, or the blood of its fallen. It is about real estate. Trump and Putin appear ready to redraw borders like brokers at a Manhattan property show. The Kremlin brings the tanks, Trump brings the signatures, and Ukraine? Ukraine brings the land.

President Volodymyr Zelensky, once a comedian on stage, is now cast in the cruelest skit of history: to stand before Trump in the White House, under chandeliers and cameras, while being told that his country must be partitioned to “end the war.” A forced peace, a coerced surrender, wrapped in the language of “deal-making.”

The irony is poisonous. Trump, who claims “America First,” now wants Ukraine Last — reduced, carved, parceled out like a bankrupt casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk. Putin, smiling like a fox fattened on global cowardice, couldn’t have asked for a better partner than a man who confuses foreign policy with property flipping.

Europe watches with clenched jaws. Leaders in Paris, Berlin, Warsaw — all know that the “Ukraine question” is not Ukrainian alone, but European to the bone. A partitioned Ukraine is a destabilized Europe, an open door to Russian expansion, and a betrayal of every European value paraded in Brussels conferences. Yet Europe dithers. Their support for Zelensky “depends” — depends on whether he bows or breaks in Washington. Europe, which should lead, is once again waiting on Washington’s mood swings.

Trump sees Ukraine as a bargaining chip for his red-carpet friendship with Putin, a stage-prop for his “I alone can make peace” narrative. But peace built on partition is not peace; it is a funeral dressed up as a treaty. It is Yalta revisited — Churchill and Roosevelt in 1945 giving Stalin half of Europe. Except now it is Trump, with no cigar, handing Putin what his armies could not win outright.

Zelensky faces an impossible test. To stand up to Trump is to risk isolation. To give in is to betray not only Ukraine but the idea of Europe itself. History’s burden now rests on his shoulders: resist being strong-armed in Washington, or watch his country auctioned off at the geopolitical bazaar.

Make no mistake: Ukraine is not Trump’s to sell, not Putin’s to buy, not Europe’s to delay. It is Europe’s frontline, democracy’s trench. And if Zelensky bows to pressure, the next partitioned country will not be across the Black Sea — it will be in the heart of Europe.

Puntland stands today at the edge of its own manufactured abyss. The supposed “stable” state in Somalia’s chaos, the self-branded “island of relative peace,” is now no more than a shaky raft patched together with old clan deals, fading loyalties, and the last drops of remittance dollars. At the center of this mess looms the biggest question no one dares to answer: what happens to Puntland’s 66-member legislature when half of its foundations are crumbling beneath it?

Let’s start with the facts no one in Garowe’s political salons wants to admit out loud: SSC-Khatumo is gone. Dhulbahante elders have slammed the door shut on Garowe’s pretensions. They do not want to send delegates to a Puntland House that legislates in their name. Yet Puntland’s entire arithmetic of legitimacy—the sacred number of 66—was built on their inclusion. Without SSC, the house is not just incomplete, it is illegitimate. Puntland’s legislature is becoming a parliament of ghosts, haunted by missing seats and empty loyalties.

And who is left to fill the vacuum? Certainly not the voters. The much-trumpeted democratization project, with its glittering promises of universal suffrage, is dead—buried without ceremony by a leadership that decided Garowe is not enough of a throne, that only Villa Somalia’s golden chair is worthy of ambition. Said Abdullahi Deni’s eyes are fixed on Mogadishu’s spoils, and in the process, he has left Puntland’s democratization to rot in the graveyard of broken promises. Elections in Puntland remain a hereditary lottery, reserved for those with the right bloodline and the right clan balance. Universal suffrage? A cruel joke in a state where even universal electricity and clean water are luxuries.

Meanwhile, the ground beneath Puntland burns. In the mountains of Bari and Sanaag, ISIS and Al-Shabaab are not hiding—they are nesting, multiplying, embedding themselves into the crevices of Puntland’s fragile society. The security forces are underpaid, demoralized, and busy guarding checkpoints where they shake down starving traders instead of fighting terrorists. And while Garowe politicians debate the sacred “number 66,” the real masters of the eastern mountains are carrying out recruitment drives among unemployed youth whose only alternatives are migration, piracy, or militancy.

The economic downturn has turned into a freefall. The air-money system—this Ponzi scheme masquerading as a financial sector—remains the fragile lifeline. Hard cash is gone. Bank deposits are fiction. A technical glitch in the Golis or Somtel servers could freeze the entire state into panic. The few wealthy elites are already transferring what’s left of their fortunes abroad, buying real estate in Nairobi and Dubai, while ordinary Puntlanders quietly vanish—boarding boats to Yemen, braving deserts to Libya, or taking the long road to Europe.

Urban centers are shrinking. Drive through Garowe, and you’ll feel the difference—the bustle of markets is gone, the chatter of young people replaced by silence and empty tea shops. Poverty and unemployment have reached levels that would once have sparked rebellion, but today only fuel quiet despair. Puntland is bleeding people as fast as it is bleeding legitimacy.

And yet, the political class continues its performance: the 66 seats must remain 66, even if half the members come from thin air. Empty chairs can still be counted. Ghost MPs can still vote. Legitimacy can still be fabricated with ink and stamps. This is Puntland’s political genius: to govern nothing and pretend it is something.

The tragedy is not that Puntland is collapsing. The tragedy is that it is collapsing quietly, with no drama, no great battle, no revolution—just a slow leak of people, of money, of legitimacy, of hope. By the time anyone wakes up, Puntland’s legislature will no longer represent its people but only its absence. A state of shadows, a parliament of ghosts, legislating in the name of a population that has already fled.

When nations speak of economic growth, they refer to tangible progress — industries rising, entrepreneurship thriving, banks expanding capital, and treasuries enforcing stability. Puntland, however, is not a nation of production but of illusion — a fragile bubble inflated by air-money.

Here, in the so-called “stable state of Somalia,” there is no hard cash. There is no meaningful bank deposit system. No treasury. No fiscal control. Puntland’s economy is a digital mirage: numbers on a screen, vulnerable to a technical glitch, a wire cut, or a corporate whim from Golis, Somtel, or MyCash.

What happens when the system collapses for a day? Shops close. Food markets freeze. Salaries vanish. Panic erupts. Families cannot buy a sack of rice or a cup of tea. Life halts — suspended in the invisible cloud of Djibouti’s servers, where the actual money resides, far from Puntland’s reach.

This is not an economy; this is gambling with survival. Mogadishu, with all its corruption and clan feuds, at least enforces some limits on mobile-money. Hargeisa, with its Somaliland experiment, maintains central control. But Puntland — supposedly the veteran of Somali federalism — is running headlong into disaster, surrendering its economy to foreign-controlled telecom giants without oversight, without regulation, without thought.

The erosion of entrepreneurship is clear: who dares to build industry when every shilling is trapped in air-money accounts? Brain drain accelerates — youth flee to escape economic paralysis. Capital flees. What remains is dependency, imported food, imported fuel, imported everything — paid for by digital air that could vanish in a second.

A single software glitch could unleash famine. A banking freeze in Djibouti could bring down Puntland overnight. And yet, leaders sit idle, dreaming of Villa Somalia power games, while their house is on fire.

Puntland’s economy is not fragile. It is suicidal. Built on sand dunes that shift with the desert wind, it waits for the inevitable collapse. When that collapse comes, there will be no bailout, no safety net, no treasury — only hunger, chaos, and regret.

WDM warns: a state without control of its own money is not a state at all. Puntland today is not managing an economy. It is mismanaging a countdown to disaster.

When you read WDM, ask yourself a simple question: Did you pay for it? No. You didn’t. And yet you act like some silent saint, reading in the shadows, lips sealed, hands idle, eyes pretending to be innocent. What is this hypocrisy? You don’t pay, you don’t comment, you don’t share—yet you soak up the fire like a sponge and walk away as if you did WDM a favor by glancing through a few paragraphs.

Do you think WDM survives on your silence? Do you imagine that truth spreads itself without readers lifting a finger? This is the tragedy: our readers are like the Somali opposition—loud in private whispers, invisible in public stance. They consume, they nod in agreement, but when it comes to showing support, they fold like a cheap umbrella in the wind.

This isn’t gratitude, it’s graveyard silence. You read enlightening essays, yet you don’t light a single candle of reaction, not even a flicker of a “like,” not even the courage of a simple share. You read, you smile secretly, and then you lock it up in your head like contraband.

What is your measure of gratitude? To scroll by? To act as if WDM is writing into a void? Do you think knowledge grows stronger by being hidden under your mattress? The enemies of truth celebrate when readers are cowards. Non-participation is their victory.

Reading without engagement is like going to a wedding, eating the food, and sneaking out without clapping for the bride and groom. Worse still, it is like attending a funeral, sitting silently, and refusing to say “Innaa Lillaahi.” What kind of audience is that?

WDM writes. You read. But truth is not a one-way street. If you believe silence is neutrality, you are mistaken. Silence is complicity with ignorance. Silence is betrayal of the very enlightenment you just consumed.

So here is the challenge: break the chains of mute readership. If you can’t pay, at least react. If you can’t contribute, at least share. If you can’t fight, at least stand up and clap. WDM doesn’t ask for your blood, only your finger on the “share” button.

Remember: reading in silence doesn’t make you a thinker—it makes you a ghost.

Didn’t WDM warn you before? Didn’t we tell you that the United States respects only nuclear deterrent, not human rights, not international law, not the suffering of small nations? Welcome to the Alaska Summit — America’s diplomatic theatre where Trump’s megaphone threats dissolved into a Hollywood handshake with Putin.

Trump had promised “consequences” if Russia dared defy him. Consequences? Yes — for Ukraine. The Russian army marches, the world watches, and Trump rolls out the red carpet. A salute, a smile, and a handshake — the ceremony of surrender dressed up as diplomacy.

This was no summit. It was a political striptease — Washington exposing its impotence, Moscow flexing its nuclear chest hair. Ukraine, the bleeding victim, wasn’t even allowed in the room. Peace talks without the war’s primary casualty — a joke so cruel it deserves its own category in international comedy festivals.

And what did Trump offer? Gratitude. Gratitude to Putin for showing up, as if the Russian President had gifted him Alaska back. It was Helsinki 2.0 — only colder, faker, and more humiliating.

WDM says it plainly: America only negotiates when faced with nuclear teeth. Without nukes, you are treated like a mosquito — swatted, ignored, or lectured. With nukes, you are ushered in with trumpets, champagne, and flattery. That is the world order exposed in Alaska: power respects only annihilation.

The Alaska Summit will be remembered not as a breakthrough, but as a capitulation in broad daylight. It was the day Ukraine was erased from its own war, the day US threats turned into a public grovel, the day Trump proved once again that his foreign policy is a reality TV episode with Putin as the producer.

So let’s not call it diplomacy. Let’s call it what it is: Nuclear Blackmail Incorporated, doing business as “Peace Summits.”

It is either in the news or slithering through Mogadishu’s rumour mills — President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has done what all corrupt power brokers eventually do when faced with noisy opposition: he bought them. Not through persuasion, not through policy, but with the oldest currency in Somali politics — cash in briefcases, land titles in dusty folders, and hollow promises of ministerial chairs.

The so-called Mogadishu opposition — those who once roared like lions in front of microphones — have now been reduced to house cats purring on the lap of Villa Somalia. The revolutionary fire that once burned in their speeches has been extinguished by envelopes and title deeds. Their once-defiant slogans now sound like whispers of gratitude.

WDM warned about these men long ago. We told you their principles were not rooted in ideology or patriotism but in opportunity cost. We said their loyalty was not to the people but to the highest bidder. We told you that Somali politics has perfected the art of turning opponents into waiters at the presidential table. Now, it has happened — live and unashamed — before your eyes.

What does this mean for Somalia? It means the so-called democratic checks and balances have been reduced to cheque and balance transfers. It means the opposition’s “political struggle” was never about state-building, justice, or accountability — it was a long and tedious job interview for government posts. It means Hassan Sheikh has bought himself a choir of praise singers dressed up as reformists.

Villa Somalia, once the symbol of Somalia’s fragile hopes, is now the largest livestock market in the Horn — except here, the cattle walk in wearing suits and come out chewing their cud of privilege. And as for the Mogadishu streets, they are quieter now, not because the people are happy, but because their “leaders” have traded protest placards for personal benefits.

In the end, WDM’s prophecy stands vindicated: Somalia does not have an opposition. Somalia has a waiting list.

International diplomacy is supposed to be a dignified ballet — polite, precise, and subtle. What we have here is more like a drunken wedding dance: a Senator from a superpower openly scribbling to his President, “Hey boss, let’s break up Somalia — should be fun!” while the Somali ambassador writes back, “Dear Mr. Trump, we love your joint strikes and your friendship, please don’t forget we are a steadfast partner.”

One letter is a sledgehammer to the sovereignty of a so-called ally, the other is a thank-you note for the sledgehammer.

Let’s be clear: Ted Cruz isn’t just “expressing an opinion” — he is lobbying his own President to dismantle another UN-member state, in writing, on official U.S. Senate letterhead, dated and signed like a high school permission slip. This isn’t a side whisper in a diplomatic corridor — it’s a neon sign reading: We hereby invite chaos to the Horn of Africa.

And the Somali Embassy’s reply?
No outrage. No calling it a violation of the UN Charter. No telling Washington that meddling in Somalia’s internal affairs is unacceptable. Instead, they’re busy praising joint drone strikes like a client praising his barber: “Twenty strikes this year, sir, even better than last year!” The elephant in the room — an American Senator calling for Somalia’s dismemberment — is politely ignored like an unpaid bar bill.

This is the problem with modern African diplomacy: When a superpower steps on your neck, you thank them for polishing their boots. Somalia’s so-called “steadfast partnership” reads less like a defense of sovereignty and more like an audition for “Best Loyal Sidekick” in a Hollywood war movie.

If international law were a living person, it would have choked on its coffee reading these two letters. One openly undermines a sovereign state; the other avoids saying anything that might be construed as standing up for itself. The result? The message to Washington is loud and clear: Somalia won’t even raise its voice when you carve it up.

The art of diplomacy used to be about protecting national interests. Now, it’s about making sure your colonial babysitter doesn’t get offended when you cry — so you don’t cry at all.

Said Abdullahi Deni was elected to lead Puntland State — a fragile, strategic territory balancing on the knife-edge between resilience and collapse. Instead, he has turned Puntland into his personal political launchpad for the coveted Villa Somalia seat, leaving his own state exposed to the very dangers he swore to protect it from.

As he redirects resources, attention, and state machinery toward his second presidential run in Mogadishu, Deni leaves Puntland to the mercy of ISIS cells in the mountains, Al-Shabab infiltration in rural districts, and an economy bleeding out from neglect and mismanagement. The man who vowed to defend Puntland’s unity has allowed SSC to be bartered away to Mogadishu power brokers and Somaliland’s secessionists, even striking quiet understandings with Abdirahman Ciro while Puntland’s eastern flank disintegrates. Sanaag and Haylaan came perilously close to falling under the banner of a so-called “North East State,” a separatist fantasy that grew in the cracks of Deni’s political absenteeism.

Deni is a master of policies that never see daylight. Announcements are made with fanfare, projects are launched on paper, then buried in the dust of unkept promises. He governs from behind closed doors, shutting out Puntland’s brightest thinkers, civil society voices, and diaspora expertise. In his mind, consultation is weakness, intellectual challenge is disrespect, and elders — the backbone of Puntland’s traditional legitimacy — are simply props to be discarded when inconvenient.

His leadership has taken on the character of a family business franchise — opaque, insular, and insulated from accountability. When he travels abroad, the “official delegation” is often his immediate family, while qualified state officials are left at home to watch the news like everyone else. The state’s resources are now tools for his personal vendetta against Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, as if political revenge were a developmental policy.

Meanwhile, Puntland’s infrastructure — especially in Mudugh — has deteriorated to a level that borders on abandonment. Roads crumble, port stagnates, and no functional system exists to regulate the quality of goods entering the market. From toxic foodstuffs to counterfeit medicines, the absence of quality control is a silent killer stalking Puntland’s population. The health sector has withered into a skeletal institution, underfunded, mismanaged, and incapable of meeting even basic standards.

Deni has yet to grasp the simple truth that governance is not a one-man show. A state leader must juggle multiple priorities — security, economy, diplomacy, social cohesion — all at once. His style is the opposite: monofocused, vindictive, and allergic to scrutiny. He presides over a Puntland increasingly fragmented, disillusioned, and exposed to existential threats.

If Puntland falls further into disarray, history will not remember Deni as the leader who tried and failed — it will remember him as the man who walked away from his post in broad daylight, leaving the gates open for every wolf at Puntland’s borders.

Once upon a post-war time, Somalia had nothing left holding it together except clan grudges, bullet holes, and a dusty little thing called the Provisional Federal Constitution — a transitional document so fragile that even a sneeze from Mogadishu could tear it apart. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t sacred scripture. But it was the last tube of glue keeping Somalia’s fractured clan plates from sliding off the table. And there was a clear rule: don’t mess with it until the Somaliland question is settled.

Enter President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and his Damul Jadid club of power-gamblers — a group whose political philosophy can be summed up in three words: Siyad Barre Reloaded. These folks saw the glue, read the warning label, and decided to squeeze it for their own political collage project.

Federalism? Never Heard of It

In theory, federalism means the regions have a say. In practice, Hassan Sheikh thinks federalism means the regions can vote… as long as they vote yes. Damul Jadid’s version of “dialogue” is sending troops, starving states of funds, and rewriting the constitution behind closed doors while telling the rest of the country it’s all “for unity.”

It’s the same playbook that drove the old Somali Republic straight into the grave — only now they’ve added a few Twitter hashtags and donor-funded “constitutional review workshops” to make it look modern.

Tampering: From Siad Barre’s Playbook

The President’s political vision isn’t about reconciliation or consensus. It’s about owning the rules of the game — literally. If you control the constitution, you control the referees, the ball, and the scoreboard.

Back in the late ’80s, Siyad Barre played this game until the whole country exploded. Hassan Sheikh seems determined to run the same experiment, apparently convinced that the results will be different this time. (Spoiler: they won’t.)

The Civil War: Damul Jadid’s Season 2

Some say the civil war ended in 2004. Damul Jadid says: Hold my tea. This crew has found a new way to keep the war alive without all the messy tank battles — just pick apart the one legal document that prevents the regions from walking away completely. Call it civil war by pen.

Of course, the PR machine insists this is “reform.” But in Somalia, “reform” usually means: We couldn’t win under the old rules, so we changed them.

The Warning Label on Somalia’s Future

The Provisional Federal Constitution is the one thing every region reluctantly agreed to respect — a truce written in legalese. Destroy that, and you’re left with Mogadishu shouting orders into a vacuum while the peripheries quietly pack their bags.

Hassan Sheikh isn’t just tampering with the glue — he’s peeling the wallpaper off the walls and selling the bricks while calling it home renovation.

If this continues, the next chapter of Somalia’s history won’t be titled Nation Rebuilt. It’ll be Siyad Barre: The Sequel — starring Damul Jadid as the centralist dreamers who thought they could bully federalism into submission.

And as every Somali elder knows, sequels are usually worse than the original.

Byline: Warsame Digital Media Special Report | Garowe, Puntland 
August 13, 2025 

GAROWE, PUNTLAND – In a rare display of intellectual rigor and political transparency, Frontier University hosted a landmark public forum on Somalia’s fragile state-building efforts Tuesday night, headlined by presidential hopeful Nuradin Aden Dirie. 

Organized by the Puntland-based think tank “May Fakeraan“, the event drew academics, civil society leaders, students, and political observers into a spirited three-hour discourse on national reconstruction. At its center stood Deriye—a polyglot diplomat and emerging political force—who issued a stark warning: “Somalia remains mid-process in state formation. If we fail now, we risk vanishing from the map altogether.”

The Man in the Spotlight 
Dirie, a Xudur-born veteran of Somalia’s civil service and foreign postings, leveraged his multilingual fluency (Somali, May May Southwest dialect, English, Arabic, Italian, and French, to dissect governance challenges with uncommon precision. His address blended academic depth with charismatic delivery, dissecting institutional reform, federalism, and the urgent need for political maturity. 

Beyond Scripted Politics 
The forum broke from Puntland’s typically cautious political theater. Deriye’s unfiltered passion ignited a marathon Q&A where attendees grilled him on: 
– Tensions between federal and state governments 
– Systemic corruption 
– Youth exclusion from governance 
– Inter-regional distrust 
His evidence-backed replies, described by observers as “refreshingly unrehearsed,” drew repeated applause. 

Unscripted Impact 
Audience engagement defied the clock, with students and policymakers lingering long past the scheduled end—a testament to the discussion’s resonance. Multiple attendees called it “the most substantive political dialogue in Puntland in years,” praising Dirie’s willingness to address “taboo truths.” 

What’s Next 
“May Fakeraan” confirmed the debate will reconvene tonight, August 14, at Garowe’s Martisoor Hall to be hosted by different actors, and amplifying scrutiny on Somalia’s leadership vacuum. Deriye’s performance positions him not just as a policy voice, but as a credible contender in a nation hungry for change. 

End Report

Garowe, Puntland – WDM Special Report

In a rare evening of intellectual vigor and political candor, Frontier University in Garowe became the stage for one of the most compelling public forums Puntland has witnessed in recent years. Organized by a Puntland-based think tank (May Fakeraan), the event brought together academics, civil society leaders, students, and political observers for a night dedicated to one of Somalia’s most pressing challenges: state-building and nation-building.

The keynote speaker, Nuradin Aden Dirie, a seasoned diplomat and polyglot, is widely regarded as a rising political force — and a potential contender in Somalia’s next presidential race. “Somalia is still in the process of state formation, and if not done right, it risks disappearing altogether”, said Mr Dirie. Born in the historic town of Xudur in Southwest State, Deriye’s roots run deep across Somalia’s diverse cultural and linguistic landscapes. Beyond his native Somali, he commands English, Arabic, Italian, French, and the Somali May May dialect with equal fluency, an asset that has fortified his long civil service career and diplomatic engagements abroad.

From the outset, Dirie’s presence commanded attention. His delivery was marked by precision, charisma, and an effortless rapport with the audience — qualities that transformed the night into more than just a lecture. Drawing on decades of government service, foreign postings, and policy experience, he dissected the mechanics of nation-building in a fractured political environment. His message was one of unity, institutional reform, and the urgent need for political maturity in Somalia’s governance.

What set the evening apart was not just the content, but the energy. Unlike the cautious, scripted exchanges that often dominate Puntland’s political stage, Deriye’s engagement brimmed with passion and spontaneity. The Q&A segment stretched for hours, with attendees pressing him on federalism, inter-regional relations, corruption, and youth participation in governance. His answers were sharp, evidence-based, and delivered with an openness rarely seen among political figures.

The crowd — ranging from university students to veteran policymakers — lingered long after the scheduled close, a testament to both the relevance of the topic and the magnetic quality of the speaker. Several participants described the session as “unprecedented” in depth and sincerity for Puntland’s current political climate.

The dialogue is far from over. The think tank announced that the debate will resume tomorrow night at Martisoor, promising another round of high-stakes discourse in a political season where Somalia’s future leadership hangs in the balance.

If tonight’s performance was any indication, Nuradin Aden Dirie has placed himself firmly on the radar — not only as a thought leader on governance but as a formidable figure in the political contests ahead.

The end,

WDM Eyewitness Report

[This article has been updated after posting].

I arrived in Moscow in the autumn of 1985 (date imagined for privacy), a scholarship student from the Global South, carrying more than just a suitcase—I carried the idea that I was about to see socialism at its peak. The Soviet Union was, after all, a sverkhderzhava—a superpower—capable of defeating fascism, launching Sputnik, and standing toe-to-toe with America. I imagined a land of efficient planning, abundance, and ideological confidence.

But on my very first week, I stepped into a univermag (department store) and saw the truth: three lonely jars of pickled cabbage on an otherwise empty shelf. The shop smelled faintly of boiled beets and cheap soap. Outside, babushkas in headscarves sold sunflowers seeds by the paper cone, and queues snaked around the block for kolbasa (sausage) that might or might not arrive that day.

It was the first crack in the marble statue I’d built in my head.

Life in the Obshaga

My dormitory—the obshaga—was a towering concrete block in the grey sprawl of a mikrorayon (Soviet housing district). The hallways smelled perpetually of cabbage soup and cigarette smoke. Four of us shared a room the size of a pantry, furnished with creaky metal beds, a wobbly table, and a communal wardrobe that seemed older than Lenin.

The bathroom was down the corridor, shared by an entire floor. Hot water was a rumor more than a reality, and we learned to take po-kovboyski (“cowboy-style”) showers—quick splashes of cold water before running back to our rooms. At night, we gathered in the komnata otdykha (common room), where the walls were plastered with faded posters of Soviet heroes and a sagging couch hosted endless debates about Marx, Brezhnev, and football.

Foreign students—Africans, Asians, Latin Americans—were treated with a mix of curiosity and caution. Many Soviet students were warm and eager to make friends, but some whispered that we were inostrantsy (“foreigners”) with suspicious freedoms.

The First Pair of Levi’s

One evening, my Indian roommate returned from a trip abroad wearing Levi’s 501s—deep indigo, sharp creases, the unmistakable copper rivets. The reaction was electric. Soviet students ran their fingers over the fabric like it was gold thread. One offered his “khozyaistvenny” (utility) wristwatch in trade. Another asked if he could just wear them for one day—just to be seen in them.

These were more than pants—they were defitsit (scarce goods), symbols of the West’s abundance and individuality. I later learned they could fetch a month’s salary on the black market. In Moscow’s chernyy rynok (black market) near Izmailovsky Park, whispers of “Levi’s, Marlboro, gum” passed between strangers like spy codes.

The Gum That Made Me Popular

Chewing gum—zhevatel’naya rezinka—was my accidental weapon of soft power. My family sent me a care package from home with several packs of Wrigley’s Spearmint. I didn’t think much of it until I unwrapped one in the university cafeteria.

It was as if I had taken out bars of gold. Students leaned in, eyes wide. “Is that… American?” one whispered, glancing around as if the KGB might burst in. I handed out a few sticks, and my popularity soared. People chewed slowly, savoring every minute. Some washed their gum at night to “renew” the flavor. One girl told me she planned to keep hers until New Year’s Eve.

From then on, whenever I walked through campus, I’d hear my name called from across the quad, followed by, “Hey, do you have more gum?”

Moscow Streets and Forbidden Music

By day, Moscow was a mosaic of contradictions. The grandeur of Red Square, with Lenin’s Mausoleum and the bright onion domes of St. Basil’s, stood in sharp contrast to the endless lines of concrete apartment blocks in the suburbs. The wide prospekty (avenues) were flanked by giant propaganda billboards—smiling workers, tractors, and slogans like “Nasha tsel – kommunizm!” (“Our goal is communism!”).

But at night, the city changed. In the obshaga, radios were tuned carefully to forbidden stations—Voice of America, Radio Free Europe—through a hiss of static. I’ll never forget the night my Soviet friend Sasha invited me to his room. He pulled a thin, translucent disc from under his bed. It wasn’t vinyl—it was an old chest X-ray, cut into a rough circle, with grooves scratched into it. He placed it on the turntable, and the crackling strains of The Beatles’ Let It Be filled the room.

We sat in silence, barely breathing. That music—illegal, foreign—felt dangerous yet liberating. Sasha whispered, “They tell us this is capitalist poison… but it feels like truth.”

The Real Weakness

I had come believing the Soviet Union’s strength lay in its tanks, rockets, and ideology. But what I saw was that its real vulnerability was human desire—the longing for choice, color, and self-expression. No matter how many speeches the Party gave, they couldn’t make a pair of stiff, shapeless Soviet trousers feel like Levi’s. They couldn’t make “Soviet gum” taste like Wrigley’s, or a state-approved folk choir stir the heart like a Beatles song.

By the time I left Moscow, I could see the cracks widening. The young people I knew still loved their country, but the queues, the shortages, the dullness—they no longer felt like sacrifices for a greater cause. They felt like proof that somewhere else, life was simply better.

Years later, when the Soviet Union collapsed, I wasn’t surprised. I had already seen the quiet revolution. It didn’t come with tanks in the streets—it came with smuggled jeans, chewing gum, and music on bones.

History, I learned, can be toppled not only by bombs or revolutions, but also by a single stick of gum and a forbidden song.

[This is based on a true story].

Welcome to Puntland — the only place on earth where the free market is so free that even poison competes for shelf space. Here, “food safety” is just a colonial plot designed to keep honest merchants from adding that special local touch — whether it’s lead, formalin, or a sprinkling of last night’s cockroach dust.

In Garowe, the Ministry of Public Health operates much like a mirage — visible in speeches, absent in reality. Its budget was swallowed long ago, and now the only time you see the Minister is when he’s cutting a ribbon at a “Public Health Awareness Workshop” in a five-star hotel, smiling in front of a buffet table safer than anything outside the lobby.

Meanwhile, makeshift kiosks bloom overnight like political manifestos. They hawk counterfeit cigarettes, stuffed with God-knows-what, to boys whose lungs seem to have been nationalized. By fifteen, these boys cough out black smoke, but at least the shopkeeper can pay school fees — for his children in Dubai, where milk comes without worms.

And then there are the real survivors — the single mothers and abandoned wives of deadbeat fathers. You’ll find them squatting on dusty pavements or under tattered umbrellas, selling bundles of qaad leaves, the only crop guaranteed to keep the men awake for their political arguments. There’s no microcredit, no welfare, no training programs — just a relentless grind to feed five to ten children on a profit margin thinner than the leaf stalks in their hands. Their business license? Hunger. Their business hours? Until the last leaf wilts or the last coin clinks.

Accountability? In Puntland’s public health and economic sectors, it’s an imported luxury — rarer than Swiss chocolate and far more expensive. You could sue if tainted milk kills your child, but the court will first ask if you can pay the “inspection fee” for the judge’s afternoon tea.

And so, if you can’t trust the water, the milk, the meat, the air, or the economy… at least you can trust the government — to do absolutely nothing, with remarkable consistency.

President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud — the self-styled “Peacemaker-in-Chief” who manages to ignite more fires than a pyromaniac at a petrol station, and then shows up with a thimble of water for the cameras.

This is the man who airlifted federal troops to Ras Camboni — not to defend against foreign threats, mind you, but to attack the very Jubaland Administration he is constitutionally meant to work with. He then airlifted another batch of soldiers to Balad Hawo in Gedo Region, pouring petrol into the already raging inferno of clan rivalry. And just in case the fire didn’t spread fast enough, he’s been busy meddling in Puntland, planting a rival administration in Laas Caanood, and dispatching political arsonists to Sanaag.

But wait, there’s more! While the nation suffers under the grip of poverty and insecurity, Villa Somalia has been caught in red-handed trafficking arms (MV Sea World )— a government moonlighting as a gun-runner, like some bizarre Netflix crime drama where the villain also happens to be the “President.”

And now, after his meddling and machinations left Balad Hawo soaked in blood, Mohamud dons his trademark pained expression, moistens his eyes for the camera crew, and starts preaching “peace” for Gedo. Peace? From the same hands that loaded the gun, aimed it, and pulled the trigger?

These aren’t tears — they’re political saline solutions, squeezed out for international optics, while the real agenda is as ruthless as ever. The tragedy isn’t that Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has no shame. The tragedy is that he wears his shamelessness as a political crown and still expects applause.

In the theatre of Somali politics, he’s both the playwright and the arsonist — penning scripts of peace while burning down the stage.

[This article has been updated since posting].

When Political Flies Fight Over Rotten Meat

The other day, at a busy internet Cafe shop in Garowe, Puntland, I had the misfortune — or perhaps the blessing — of overhearing a heated debate between two young “activists.” I use the word loosely, because in Somalia “activism” has devolved into the fine art of online propaganda for hire.

One lad, chest puffed out like a seasoned politician, accused the other of being an official of Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s CBB — Cayayaanka Baraha Bulshada — the buzzing, tweeting, and trolling insects employed to defend the Mogadishu regime. His opponent, not to be outdone, fired back that the accuser was nothing more than a Garowe mouthpiece, the type who would print a press release from the Puntland presidency and call it investigative journalism.

They went back and forth like this — federalist fly versus regionalist roach — each pretending to be a principled patriot while in reality fighting over which corrupt master’s leftovers they preferred to gnaw on.

What struck me was not the intensity of their insults, but the absence of any real political vision. These were not debates over policy, governance, or the future of the Somali people. No — this was just another episode in the tragic sitcom called “Clan-Driven Politics, Season Infinity.”

One was proud to “stand for the unity of Somalia” as long as unity meant unquestioned obedience to Mogadishu. The other was equally proud to “protect Puntland’s autonomy” as long as autonomy meant immunity for Garowe’s failings. Neither cared that the constitution they claim to defend is being torn to shreds daily by the very people they serve.

The truth is, whether you buzz for Villa Somalia or chirp for Garowe, you are still an insect in someone else’s political jar — and the jar is getting smaller by the day.

WDM says: Until Somali youth stop renting out their voices to the highest bidder, our politics will remain nothing more than a noisy swarm circling a rotten carcass.

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)

Reposted: March 31, 2021 (updated for clarity)

This is how Modern Warlordism in Somalia started:

Introduction: Warlordism Reimagined

In the lexicon of Somalia’s turbulent politics, the term warlord usually points to armed, self-appointed commanders who rely on force—not law or democratic legitimacy—to enforce their will. By this definition, Mohamed Abdullahi “Farmajo” has emerged as Somalia’s most unexpected warlord, not through military uprising, but via political manipulation.

Rise to Power: 2016’s Contested Election

Farmajo ascended to power in 2016 through a highly controversial parliamentary vote. Accusations of procedural fraud and manipulation shadowed his victory, infusing his presidency with an aura of illegitimacy from its inception. This pattern echoes the modus operandi of traditional warlords—those who operate above law by claiming divine or exclusive authority.

Tools of Control: Patronage, Militias, and Foreign Support

Farmajo’s grip on power is buttressed by a multifaceted network:

Unaccountable financial backing, sometimes referred to as “Qatari dinars,” hint at clandestine patronage systems.

AMISOM protection, which shields him militarily.

External alliances with Turkey and Ethiopia, offering political and strategic cover.

Dependence on clan-based militias from southern-central Somalia, reinforcing his dominance through armed loyalty rather than democratic consensus.

These pillars create an image of a leader untouchable by constitutional norms or public opinion.

Defiance of Norms: Electoral Impasse & Political Standoff

Since the end of his term, Farmajo has resisted public and international pressure to step down. The resulting electoral deadlock and political standoffs have stalled progress and undermined fragile state institutions—exactly what warlords historically do when their authority is threatened.

Why This Matters: Beyond Political Labeling

Labeling Farmajo as a “warlord” is not mere sensationalism—it reframes how we understand governance in Somalia:

Erodes constitutional legitimacy: When power is upheld by arms, not law, democratic growth stalls.

Reduces public trust: Citizens grow disillusioned with a system that values coercion over consensus.

Perpetuates instability: Political deadlocks and factionalism invite further unrest.

A Path Forward: Rebuilding Institutional Governance

To escape the cycle of warlordism:

1. Revitalize electoral processes — ensure they are open, transparent, and credible.

2. Reassert institutional authority — strengthen parliamentary, judicial, and civil society checks on executive power.

3. Decentralize security — integrate militias like the Maawisley into formal security structures under federal oversight. Their origins as community defense groups could be leveraged positively.

4. Promote inclusive dialogue — address demands from clan factions and political actors through negotiation, not force.

In Summary

Mohamed Abdullahi Farmajo’s tenure bears the hallmarks of warlordism—coercive authority, unaccountable networks, and systemic impunity. Acknowledging this reality is essential for resetting Somalia’s political trajectory toward true institutional legitimacy and stability.

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
August 11, 2025

Abstract
This study explores how the Somali collective psyche has transitioned from a historically grounded nomadic identity—anchored in land, clan, and survival—to a modern condition marked by dislocation, diluted national attachment, and entrenched political instability. Utilizing comparative frameworks involving Palestinians and Kurds, the paper argues that Somalia’s enduring struggle to forge a unified state reflects an erosion of traditional territorial values that once defined nomadic life.

1. Introduction

For centuries, Somali pastoral nomads maintained an intimate, survival-driven bond with land—grazing territories and seasonal routes defined livelihoods, security, and prestige. Territorial boundaries were fiercely protected through clan-based mechanisms rather than centralized authority. Yet contemporary Somalis often struggle to embrace the more abstract notion of territoriality inherent in modern statehood.

2. Nomadic Territorial Values

In Somali society, territorial loyalty was intensely local and clan-centered. Each clan maintained a historically rooted mosaic of grazing lands rather than a single unified national territory, reinforcing micro-level loyalties but not fostering a broader national identity. Mobility—essential in arid ecosystems—reinforced adaptability and undermined the cultural affinity toward fixed borders and centralized governance .

3. The Urban Transition and the Displacement of Values

Colonial rule, post-independence modernization, and conflict-induced displacement propelled Somalis toward cities. This shift eroded the traditional land-based identity: although clan identities persisted, they were detached from their historical territorial roots. Urbanized Somalis became more mobile in a different sense—not as seasonal pastoralists, but as economic migrants, refugees, and members of a far-flung diaspora.

The collapse of the Somali central government in 1991 marked a pivotal moment in this transformation. Many nomads—who formed the backbone of the United Somali Congress (USC)—swiftly began seizing both private and public lands amid the lawlessness that ensued after state collapse. This phenomenon reflected deeply ingrained nomadic raiding traditions, but in the urban context, it mutated into predatory land grabs and opportunistic economic activity .During this period of anarchy, urban upheaval in Mogadishu manifested as widespread looting and banditry. Insurgent groups, including the USC, contributed to the chaos—they didn’t so much control the uproar—they facilitated it. Crowds and militias targeted public offices, state-owned businesses, and banks, turning what began as nominal resistance into destructive appropriation .

During this period of anarchy, urban upheaval in Mogadishu manifested as widespread looting and banditry. Insurgent groups, including the USC, contributed to the chaos—they didn’t so much control the uproar—they facilitated it. Crowds and militias targeted public offices, state-owned businesses, and banks, turning what began as nominal resistance into destructive appropriation .

4. Comparative Lessons: The Palestinians and the Kurds

The Palestinian experience—marked by statelessness, fragmented territory, and continuing diasporic identity—illustrates how national consciousness can persist even without direct control over territory. Similarly, Kurds, divided across multiple nation-states, have cultivated robust diasporic nationalism that often transcends legal citizenship or territorial sovereignty.

Somalis, in contrast, possess a recognized territorial state—yet they have struggled to value it collectively. This paradox suggests that possession without shared stewardship can be as destructive as dispossession itself. Without internalized national loyalty, sovereignty becomes hollow.

5. The Crisis of Somali Nationalism

Mid-20th-century Somali nationalism initially held promise in unifying Somali-inhabited territories. However, its collapse amid authoritarian rule, civil war, and foreign interference fractured this identity into competing clan loyalties. The nomadic instinct to defend one’s localized “turf” re-emerged—this time, micro-territorial instincts eclipsed national unity.

6. Conclusion: Relearning the Value of a Homeland

Beyond rebuilding institutions, Somalia must reforge a shared sense of territorial belonging. Cultural, educational, and civic innovations should frame the state not as an abstract construct, but as a tangible legacy—akin to the pastoral fields once zealously defended. Without such reorientation, Somalia risks drifting into a fragmented global identity devoid of territorial anchoring.

PUNTLAND IS DYING — AND ITS PEOPLE MUST DECIDE IF THEY WILL SAVE IT OR BURY IT

“If you are silent now, you are already part of the problem.”

For the first time since its creation, Puntland is rotting from the inside.
The tragedy is not that enemies are attacking us — it is that our own so-called leaders are dismantling the very house they swore to protect, brick by brick, deal by dirty deal.

The people’s faith is collapsing. Disillusionment is spreading.
This is the most dangerous moment in Puntland’s history because the betrayal is coming from within.

While the public is distracted with daily struggles, a corrupt political class is auctioning off Puntland’s future — to Mogadishu power-brokers, foreign meddlers, and private greed.

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

We must speak the truth: Who is responsible for the

1. Political decay?

2. Security collapse?

3. Economic stagnation?

Under whose watch:

1. Puntland became a playground for opportunists

2. ISIS extorts our businesses in the Cal Miskaad Mountains

3. Mogadishu agents buy loyalty from former Puntland leaders to undermine federalism

4. And the silence of many so-called elders?
➡ Cowardice in the face of treachery.

Puntland was not built on cowardice.
It was forged in the fire of a four-decade struggle, paid for in the blood of thousands, created to stand as a bulwark against chaos.

Now, it is in the hands of men who think leadership means clinging to power and cutting secret deals.

“When the going gets tough, only the tough get going.”
Well — the going has never been tougher.

If you love Puntland, you either rise to defend it now, or you become an accomplice in its destruction.

WDM CALL TO ACTION

PUNTLAND WILL NOT SAVE ITSELF — THE PEOPLE MUST

Puntland stands at the edge of a cliff.
Words alone will not pull it back. Action will.

Every citizen must understand: the fight is NOW — not next year, not after the next election.

7 STEPS TO SAVE PUNTLAND

1.  EXPOSE THE BETRAYERS

Name them. Shame them. Confront them.
Whether in Garowe, Mogadishu, or abroad — make their betrayal public.

2.  MOBILIZE THE PEOPLE

Form grassroots committees in every district.
Demand transparency. Defend federalism. Organize peaceful protests.

3. DEFEND PUNTLAND’S SECURITY

Support real security forces — not political cronies in uniform.
Resist ISIS extortion and criminal networks with community-led defense.

4.  REJECT MOGADISHU’S POLITICAL BRIBES

Federalism is being dismantled with cash and promises.
Any leader or elder selling loyalty is a traitor to the State.

5.  DEMAND ACCOUNTABILITY

Push for independent investigations into corruption, security failures, and secret deals — including the MV Sea World weapons scandal.

6.  STAND UNITED ACROSS CLANS

The vultures thrive on division.
Unity is our strongest weapon.

7. PREPARE FOR LEADERSHIP CHANGE

The current order is beyond repair.
Groom principled, educated, unbought, unafraid leaders.

WDM’s message is clear:
If you are silent now, you will have no right to speak when Puntland is gone.

History is watching.
The blood of those who died for this State is watching.

Act now — or be remembered as one of those who stood aside and let Puntland be buried.

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