WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL

A House of Representation or a Hall of Repetition?

When the Speaker of Puntland’s Parliament cleared his throat to read the “agenda,” citizens expected echoes of urgency — debate on the collapsing economy, dying social services, unpaid civil servants, insecurity in Galkayo, federal paralysis in Mogadishu, and the widening vacuum of legitimacy.
Instead, they got a lullaby of bureaucracy — a hollow recital designed to sedate a weary population.

Not a single item demanded answers from the executive. No call for accountability. No inquiry into unpaid salaries, collapsing hospitals, or decaying roads and airports, and flights of families en masse from the state because of poverty and crumbling social services, fleeing high living costs to Egypt, Kenya (Nakuru), even Somaliland (Borama).

And yet, they still call this institution the Puntland House of Representatives. What a joke. No — what an insult to the intelligence of its people.

The State That Pretends — The Monarch That Reigns

Puntland, once a proud federal pioneer, now resembles a manorchy — a hybrid of monarchy and fiefdom where the “king” rules unchallenged and Parliament performs on cue.
This is not democracy; it is political theater under the shadow of absolutism. The “House” has become his stage; the “Representatives,” his obedient orchestra.

Each session opens with self-praise, proceeds through a symphony of confusion, and ends with a standing ovation for mediocrity. If this is representation, then the people are represented only in their silence.

The Agenda of Absurdities

Examine the Speaker’s agenda carefully: it says much but means nothing. It reflects no real issue — and forbids real solutions. It’s an academic exercise in futility, like reading the weather forecast after the flood. It is an obscene kind of exercise that repeats itself with the same joke over and over every year – no reflection whatsoever on the challenging issues of the time. It is obviously one word document file saved in the laptop of an incompetent Parliament Secretary to be reproduced unedited for every session for the Speaker’s express signature and seal.

Where are the questions on Galkayo’s insecurity, where residents fear the evening?
Where is outrage over unpaid teachers, collapsing hospitals, and the stench of the city’s failed drainage?
Where is the parliamentary courage to ask why Puntland’s economy bleeds while corruption thrives?

Instead, the Assembly gathers to close its moral eyes — singing hymns to ruin while pretending the music still sounds fine.

A Conspiracy of Silence

This Parliament no longer legislates; it merely echoes. It is a soundproof chamber tuned to amplify one voice — the ruler’s.

Inside, MPs congratulate themselves for “thorough deliberations.” Outside, civil servants curse empty treasuries.
No minister trembles under questioning; no executive fears a motion. The Speaker doesn’t guide debate — he conducts it, baton in hand, ensuring perfect harmony between submission and hypocrisy.

In Puntland, the only budget fully implemented is the budget for applause.

Rubber-Stamp State

The tragedy is not that Parliament cannot act — it is that it refuses to.
Its members confuse loyalty with servitude and oversight with obstruction.
The result: a rubber-stamp state, where constitutionalism has been replaced by courtiership.

Every decision is pre-approved. Every motion is pre-censored. Opposition has been exiled from debate, replaced by the hollow rhetoric of “unity” and “progress.”
They sit in Garowe’s old corrugated building, congratulating themselves for “stability” while the foundations of governance rot beneath them.

Conclusion: A Show for the King’s Amusement

The play continues — tickets issued to sycophants and sidekicks to enjoy special performance.
The actors perform with obedient precision; the audience — the public — watches in despair.

History will not remember this Parliament for what it accomplished, but for what it allowed:
It allowed a state built on ideals to decay into a courtyard monarchy.
It allowed silence to replace scrutiny, and flattery to replace freedom.

In the end, the Speaker’s “agenda” is not a plan.
It is a eulogy for Puntland’s democratic soul. This is the legacy of a king handpicking members of a parliament before the eyes of would-be voters without public protests.

—

WDM Footnote:
When a House becomes a hall of applause, and a Speaker becomes the King’s announcer, representation dies in ceremony. The people of Puntland deserve better than orchestrated silence.

———-

Support WDM — the home of fearless, independent journalism that speaks truth to power across Somalia and the region.
Tel/WhatsApp: +252 90 703 4081 ✅

By WDM Editorial Desk

Act I: The Republic That Was

Once upon a time, there was a Somali Republic — singular, hopeful, and fragile. Born in 1960, with independence as its birthmark and unity as its ideal, it lasted barely three decades before collapsing under its own contradictions. That was the First Somali Republic — a democratic experiment with a functioning constitution, elections, and leaders who at least pretended to respect the rule of law.

It was not perfect — far from it — but it was a republic. People could speak, write, and disagree without being labeled “enemies of the revolution.” Then came 1969 — the year the soldiers traded their rifles for political speeches and declared that they had “saved the nation.” In truth, they strangled it.

Act II: The Phantom Republic

The military junta called itself “revolutionary,” not republican. Why? Because it wasn’t. You can’t have a republic without citizens who participate in their own governance. What we had instead was a military fortress draped in a national flag.

From 1969 to 1991, Somalia lived under what history should honestly label The Phantom Republic — a dictatorship wrapped in socialist rhetoric, without a constitution, without checks and balances, and without accountability.

A coup d’état does not create a new republic; it suspends one. You don’t call hijacking a “new flight.” The military didn’t build a new state — it simply occupied the ruins of the old one.

Act III: The Federal Reality (and the Confusion Industry)

In 2004, after years of chaos, Somali leaders, elders, and warlords gathered to sign the Transitional Federal Charter, which later evolved into the Provisional Federal Constitution of 2012. That was the true beginning of the Second Somali Republic — federal in structure, experimental in nature, and still under construction.

But today, in Mogadishu cafés and online “think tanks,” a new myth circulates — talk of a Third Somali Republic. Some even pronounce it with divine conviction, as if Somalia secretly dissolved the second one between two failed elections.

This confusion industry thrives on ignorance. These same voices can’t distinguish between constitutional transition and political chaos. In their logic, every reshuffle is a revolution, every new prime minister is a rebirth.

Act IV: The WDM Verdict

Let’s be blunt — Somalia remains in its Second Republic. There was no Second before 2004, and there is no Third now. The so-called “Third Republic” exists only in the fevered imagination of political commentators desperate for new slogans.

Until Somalia adopts a final, ratified constitution, what exists is an unfinished Second Republic — imperfect, disputed, but real. Pretending otherwise is not patriotism; it’s escapism.

So the next time someone mentions a “Third Somali Republic,” ask them politely:
“When exactly did the Second one end — during the last donor conference or at the airport lounge?”

WDM Editorial Stamp:
“We don’t rewrite history — we expose who’s faking it.”
© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)