By Ismail Warsame
First published April 27, 2014 | Updated March 10, 2021
Although I had heard about it for years and often reminded myself to read it, I finally had the opportunity to go through General Jama Mohamed Ghalib’s The Cost of Dictatorship (1995 edition). While I commend the author’s courage in documenting his experience within the notoriously repressive regime he loyally served for decades—and while I share a measure of sympathy for his lifelong advocacy of Somali unity—I found his account riddled with historical distortions, selective omissions, and a deep bias toward the very forces that dismantled the Siyad Barre regime.
Encounter at Mbagathi: A Revealing Moment
Reading The Cost of Dictatorship instantly recalled an episode from the Somali National Reconciliation Conference (Mbagathi, Kenya, 2002–2004). General Ghalib, though claiming to have supported the Somali National Movement (SNM) from Mogadishu, never set foot in Hargeisa after its fall to SNM forces. He remained tethered to Mogadishu, navigating its web of rival warlords and donor-funded “civil society” circles that, ironically, became obstacles to state restoration.
One telling moment occurred at Nairobi’s Safari Park Hotel in 2004, when President Yoweri Museveni—then IGAD Chairman—met Somali delegates to bridge deep divisions. During the discussion, Ms. Ardo, a prominent Digil-Mirifle figure, lamented that “warlords are giving no chance to anyone, including my brother General Jama Mohamed Ghalib.” Museveni turned to the General and, with a mix of humor and disbelief, asked:
“Aren’t you a General? What are you doing here?”
The exchange revealed the contradictions of Ghalib’s self-image: a man oscillating between the uniform of a regime enforcer and the moral posturing of a civilian activist.
Setting the Historical Record Straight
General Ghalib’s narrative glorifies the SNM and USC while erasing the pioneering role of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF)—the first organized armed resistance against the military dictatorship. History cannot be rewritten to suit partisan nostalgia.
In 1981, when Isaaq political figures like Duqsi and Jumcale met the Somali Salvation Front (SSF)—successor to the Somali Democratic Action Front (SODAF)—in Addis Ababa, there was no SNM. It was during these meetings that the Isaaq participants were advised either to join SSF collectively or form their own organization to be later unified under a single anti-Barre front.
The Somali National Movement (SNM) was formally launched in London in 1982, after the SSF evolved into the SSDF through a merger with two other groups: the Somali Communist Party (led by Abdirahman Aideed) and the Somali Workers’ Party (led by Said Jama). The SSDF, well-funded by Libya and equipped with modern arms, agreed to support the fledgling SNM with resources and radio facilities—transforming Radio Kulmis into Radio Halgan, the “United Voice of Somali Opposition.”
This cooperation lasted through successive SNM leaderships—Sheikh Yusuf Madar, then Col. Kosaar—until the latter’s assassination in Mustahiil, likely orchestrated by Siyad Barre’s agents. After Ahmed Mohamed Silanyo succeeded Kosaar, relations between SSDF and SNM cooled, particularly after SSDF’s leader, Col. Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, was arrested by Mengistu Haile Mariam following political disagreements. That arrest precipitated a split within the SSDF, but not before its ideas, networks, and sacrifices had laid the groundwork for later insurgent movements.
The USC Connection
Ghalib conveniently ignores that the United Somali Congress (USC) originated as a splinter faction of the SSDF after Abdullahi Yusuf’s imprisonment. Key USC figures—including Mohamed Farah Jimcaale, once SSDF’s Deputy Chairman—were direct SSDF offshoots. Even General Aideed’s rise in the USC was facilitated through internal power struggles within SSDF-linked circles.
When Aideed sought Mengistu’s blessing to take over USC leadership from Hussein Ali Shido, he went as far as requesting Abdullahi Yusuf’s release—an audacious move Mengistu firmly rebuffed. These are verifiable episodes the General, with his intelligence training, could not have missed. Yet, his book omits them entirely.
The Duality of Ghalib
It is disingenuous for anyone to serve a dictatorship for two decades—climbing its ranks, enforcing its repressive apparatus—and later rebrand as a human rights advocate or member of “civil society.” One cannot be both a loyal general of tyranny and a moral critic of the same system without confronting one’s complicity.
In The Cost of Dictatorship, Ghalib does not once mention SSDF or Abdullahi Yusuf, the movement’s founder and Somalia’s eventual transitional president. Instead, he elevates his former regime colleagues while portraying himself as a conscience of the nation. Such selective memory does not withstand scrutiny.
A Partial Truth and a National Dilemma
Despite its distortions, Ghalib’s book inadvertently highlights a grim reality: the destructive zeal with which some northern intellectuals pursued Siyad Barre’s downfall, conflating the regime with the Somali nation itself. In their quest to end “southern domination,” they inflicted irreversible damage on the very idea of Somalia as a unified state.
I recall a conversation in Nairobi with the late Mohamud Jama “Sifir,” a UN veteran, reflecting on this tragedy. He recounted a haunting question raised by one of his colleagues:
“Who will ever dig Somalia out of the deep hole of our own making?”
That question lingers—an indictment of our collective complicity in the unmaking of a nation.
Conclusion
The Cost of Dictatorship is valuable as a personal memoir of survival and regret, but it fails as an objective historical record. Its omissions, distortions, and silences reveal more about the author’s psychology than about the dictatorship he condemns. True reconciliation with the past requires not selective amnesia but honest reckoning.
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By Ismail H. Warsame
amazon.com/author/ismailwarsame
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