By Ismail H. Warsame

The first duty of any government is not building roads, holding conferences, issuing press releases, or making political speeches. The first duty of government is to establish and maintain law and order. Without law and order, everything else becomes a facade. Without accountability, a state gradually surrenders authority to criminals, armed groups, and political opportunists.
Unfortunately, one of the greatest failures of the administration of President Said Abdullahi Deni has been its inability to grasp this fundamental principle.
For years, Puntland has projected itself as one of the more stable regions of Somalia. Yet stability is not measured merely by the absence of war. Stability is measured by the ability of institutions to investigate crimes, prosecute offenders, record violations, enforce the law impartially, and prevent repeat offenses. By this standard, Puntland’s law enforcement institutions remain alarmingly weak.
No society is immune from violence. Every country experiences criminal acts, murders, armed clashes, political instigation, and breaches of public order. The difference between a functioning state and a failing one lies in what happens afterward. Were suspects identified? Were they summoned for questioning? Were investigations conducted? Were criminal records maintained? Were prosecutions initiated? Were preventative measures put in place?
In Puntland, too often the answer is no.
A few years ago, nearly forty people were reportedly killed in armed clashes in Garowe. Similar deadly incidents have occurred in Bosaso and elsewhere. Yet the public has rarely seen serious investigations, public inquiries, prosecutions, or convictions proportionate to the magnitude of these crimes. Families bury their dead. Communities move on. Political leaders issue statements. Then silence follows.
One is left asking a troubling question: How can dozens of people be killed and nobody be held responsible?
Where are the police investigations?
Where are the witness statements?
Where are the arrest warrants?
Where are the court proceedings?
Where are the official records?
The absence of answers is not merely an administrative weakness; it is an invitation to future violence.
When perpetrators discover that there are no consequences for their actions, they become emboldened. Today’s offender becomes tomorrow’s gang leader. Today’s armed agitator becomes tomorrow’s political mercenary. The lesson learned is simple: violence works and accountability does not exist.
A functioning police service does not wait for crimes to disappear into public memory. It actively summons suspects, interviews witnesses, gathers intelligence, maintains criminal records, and builds prosecutable cases. This is basic police work practiced in every functioning jurisdiction in the world. Yet Puntland’s security institutions continue to rely excessively on reactive measures while neglecting the painstaking investigative work that actually deters crime.

There was a time in Puntland’s early history when the state’s leadership understood this principle instinctively.
During the administration of President Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, a group of political agitators began creating tension and instability in Garowe. Among them were individuals associated with Aaran Jaan and several influential elders, including a well-known figure popularly known as “Cambe Cambe.” Their activities were becoming increasingly disruptive, threatening public order and political stability in the fledgling state.
President Abdullahi Yusuf summoned the Governor of Nugaal Region, Nur-Salaad, and asked him a simple but revealing question:
“Have you summoned these agitators to the police station yet?”
Nur-Salaad immediately understood the significance of the question. The President was not asking for mass arrests, collective punishment, or heavy-handed repression. He was asking whether the state had exercised its basic authority to question individuals whose actions were contributing to public disorder.
Nur-Salaad stood to attention and replied:
“Not yet, Sir. But I will do that tomorrow morning.”
And he did.
The significance of that episode lies not in what happened afterward but in the lesson it conveys. The mere act of summoning individuals for questioning sends a powerful message: the state is watching, the law is present, and actions have consequences. It establishes accountability before violence erupts and before disorder becomes normalized.
That was the essence of preventive policing. The objective was not necessarily to imprison people. The objective was to remind them that there existed a government, a police service, and a legal authority responsible for maintaining public order.
Today, one is left wondering whether that institutional mindset has been lost. When dozens of people can die in armed clashes without investigations, summonses, or prosecutions, the contrast with Puntland’s earlier years could not be more striking. In those days, potential troublemakers were called to answer questions before crises escalated. Today, in too many cases, even after blood has been spilled, nobody is called to answer for anything

Equally troubling is the apparent absence of institutional memory. Effective law enforcement depends on records. Governments must know who committed what offense, where it occurred, who financed it, who participated, and whether the individuals involved are repeat offenders. Criminal behavior follows patterns. Intelligence gathering exists precisely to identify those patterns before they erupt into violence.
When governments fail to maintain such records, every incident begins from zero. Every criminal receives a fresh start. Every cycle of violence repeats itself.
Puntland’s traditional conflict-resolution mechanisms, once among its greatest strengths, have also been underutilized. Elders, customary authorities, community leaders, and local mediation structures historically played a significant role in containing violence and identifying troublemakers. Modern law enforcement and traditional mechanisms should complement one another, not operate in isolation.
The consequence of this institutional neglect is becoming increasingly visible. Individuals involved in previous acts of violence continue to resurface in new conflicts. Some are reportedly recruited by external political actors seeking to destabilize Puntland. Others become permanent agents of disorder. This should surprise nobody. A government that fails to impose consequences effectively subsidizes future lawlessness.
The issue is therefore larger than any individual crime. It concerns the credibility of the state itself.
A government that cannot investigate murders weakens public confidence.
A government that cannot prosecute offenders weakens deterrence.
A government that cannot maintain records weakens intelligence.
A government that cannot hold perpetrators accountable weakens its own authority.
The tragedy is that Puntland possesses many of the ingredients required for effective governance: experienced security personnel, established institutions, traditional authority structures, and a population that overwhelmingly desires peace and stability. What has been missing is political commitment to build a culture of accountability.
The path forward is neither complicated nor revolutionary. Puntland must strengthen criminal investigations, institutionalize record-keeping, establish transparent inquiry procedures following major incidents, improve intelligence coordination, empower prosecutors, and ensure that every serious crime produces a visible legal response.
The message must be unmistakable: violence carries consequences.
Without such reforms, Puntland risks creating a permanent class of repeat offenders who move from one crisis to another, confident that the state will neither investigate nor punish them. A society that fails to confront lawlessness eventually becomes hostage to it.
The measure of a government is not how loudly it speaks about security. The measure of a government is whether criminals fear the law.
In Puntland today, that remains the unanswered question.

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The tragedy of Somalia is no longer merely a story of weak governance, corruption, clan politics, or failed institutions. It is rapidly becoming a story of national self-destruction.
What is unfolding today in Somaliland is not simply a regional political maneuver. It is a symptom of a much deeper national disease. Faced with decades of diplomatic isolation and frustrated aspirations for international recognition, Somaliland’s political leadership appears increasingly willing to seek recognition from any quarter, regardless of the broader consequences for Somali territorial unity and statehood. Desperation has produced desperate choices.
Yet Somaliland alone should not bear the blame.
The greater responsibility lies with the collective failure of Somalia’s political class. For years, leaders in Mogadishu have ignored warning signs, dismissed legitimate grievances, and pursued narrow political interests instead of building a genuine national consensus. Every crisis was treated as a temporary inconvenience rather than evidence of a collapsing national project.
The message should have been clear long ago.
Puntland and Jubaland have spent years locked in political confrontation with Villa Somalia. Constitutional disputes, power struggles, and mutual distrust have become permanent features of the federal landscape. Instead of dialogue, compromise, and institutional development, Somalia’s leaders have chosen confrontation and political brinkmanship.
Now Somaliland appears to be moving further away from the Somali state altogether.
Yet even now, few lessons are being learned.
There remains a dangerous illusion among many political actors that Somalia can survive indefinitely through improvisation, personality cults, and the manipulation of clan loyalties. There is an assumption that the country can always return to the familiar patterns of the post-1991 era—fragmented administrations, competing authorities, and localized power centers.
That assumption is profoundly mistaken.
The next phase may not resemble the era of warlord fiefdoms. The conditions that existed in the 1990s no longer exist. Regional geopolitics have changed. Global competition has intensified. Strategic waterways have become more valuable. Foreign powers are more interested in the Horn of Africa than ever before.
A stateless or fragmented Somalia is not a vacuum. Vacuums do not remain empty.
If Somalia continues to unravel, other forces will emerge to fill the void. Some will come from within the region. Others will come from far beyond it. They will not be motivated by Somali unity, Somali sovereignty, or Somali national interests. They will be motivated by strategic access, commercial opportunities, military positioning, and geopolitical influence.
The Horn of Africa sits astride some of the world’s most important maritime routes. The Gulf of Aden, the Red Sea, and the Indian Ocean are not merely geographical features; they are strategic assets coveted by global and regional powers alike.
Those who believe Somalia’s collapse would benefit their faction, clan, administration, or political movement are making a catastrophic miscalculation.
Neither Hassan Sheikh Mohamud nor Al-Shabaab would emerge victorious from the territorial dismemberment of Somalia.
The fragmentation of Somalia would not produce winners. It would produce replacement actors.
New political entities would emerge. New external patrons would arrive. New security arrangements would be imposed. New realities would be created that Somalis themselves might no longer control.
History offers countless examples of nations that believed they could manage disintegration, only to discover that once the process begins, it acquires its own momentum.
That is the real danger confronting Somalia today.
Disintegration is easier to start than to stop.
Once territorial fragmentation becomes normalized, once constitutional legitimacy collapses, once regions permanently lose confidence in the national project, reversing the process becomes exponentially more difficult. Political wounds harden into permanent realities. Temporary arrangements become irreversible facts on the ground.
Somalia is approaching that threshold.
The country is not merely experiencing a political crisis. It is confronting an existential crisis.
The solution requires immediate action: restoration of constitutional order, genuine federal dialogue, respect for regional autonomy, national reconciliation, and leadership capable of thinking beyond clan calculations and short-term political survival.
Above all, Somali leaders must rediscover a simple truth: no individual, no administration, and no political faction is more important than the survival of the Somali nation itself.
Time is running out.
The warning signs are visible.
The fractures are widening.
The consequences are becoming irreversible.
Act now—or witness the disappearance of Somalia as it has been known for generations.
The choice remains in Somali hands, but perhaps not for much longer.

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By Ismail H. Warsame, MSc, PhD Candidate
The greatest gift President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has received is not foreign support, constitutional manipulation, or the weakness of state institutions. His greatest gift is the weakness of his opposition.
Across Somalia, political leaders and citizens alike have expressed growing concern over what they view as Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s disregard for constitutional limits, the concentration of power in Mogadishu, the erosion of federal principles, and the extension of political authority beyond agreed mandates. Yet despite these grievances, the opposition has failed to transform public frustration into a coherent national movement.
The reason is simple: the opposition suffers from the very disease it accuses Hassan Sheikh Mohamud of spreading.
It lacks vision.
It lacks national reach.
It lacks moral authority.
And most importantly, it lacks the courage to rise above the narrow politics of clan, region, and personal ambition.
The Mogadishu Trap
Somali politics has become imprisoned within the boundaries of Banadir.
Every political dispute is discussed through a Mogadishu lens. Every alliance is measured according to sub-clan arithmetic. Every political calculation revolves around Villa Somalia.
This is precisely where the opposition has failed.
A genuine opposition movement should be speaking not only to politicians in Mogadishu hotels but also to citizens in Bosaso, Kismayo, Garowe, Baidoa, Beledweyne, Dhusamareeb, Laascaanood, and every district across Somalia.
Instead, opposition leaders appear only when there is a political crisis in the capital.
They issue statements.
They hold press conferences.
They attend meetings.
Then they disappear.
The Somali public sees little difference between this behavior and the conduct of those they oppose.
A national opposition cannot be built through elite bargaining alone. It must be built through public persuasion.
That work is not being done.
The Silence of Deni and Madobe
Among Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s principal opponents are Puntland President Said Abdullahi Deni and Jubaland President Ahmed Mohamed Islam “Madobe.”
On paper, both possess significant political advantages.
They control functioning regional administrations.
They have security institutions.
They enjoy substantial political experience.
They possess platforms from which to challenge Villa Somalia.
Yet neither has succeeded in becoming a national alternative.
Instead of leading a national conversation, they have become background noise.
Their criticism of Hassan Sheikh Mohamud is often reactive rather than strategic.
Their messaging rarely extends beyond federal-state grievances.
Their political language is defensive rather than inspirational.
Most importantly, neither has articulated a compelling vision of what Somalia should become after Hassan Sheikh Mohamud.
Politics abhors a vacuum.
People do not rally merely against a leader.
They rally behind an alternative.
That alternative has not been presented.
The Credibility Problem
The opposition’s greatest weakness is credibility.
Many Somalis ask a simple question:
If these leaders cannot transform their own administrations into models of governance, why should they be trusted to reform Somalia?
Puntland continues to struggle with unresolved governance challenges, institutional weaknesses, economic limitations, and unfinished democratic reforms.
Jubaland faces similar questions regarding accountability, institutional development, and political inclusiveness.
This does not absolve Hassan Sheikh Mohamud of responsibility for the current crisis.
But it does weaken the opposition’s ability to claim the moral high ground.
The public notices inconsistency.
A politician who condemns authoritarian tendencies in Mogadishu while tolerating similar practices at home loses credibility.
A leader who demands constitutionalism nationally must demonstrate constitutionalism locally.
Otherwise, criticism becomes mere political convenience.
Opposition Is More Than Resistance
Somalia’s opposition appears trapped in the belief that opposing Hassan Sheikh Mohamud is itself a political program.
It is not.
Opposition requires more than resistance.
It requires imagination.
Where is the national economic vision?
Where is the constitutional roadmap?
Where is the security strategy?
Where is the plan for elections?
Where is the blueprint for federal-state relations?
Where is the proposal for reconciliation?
Where is the vision for the next generation?
Without answers to these questions, opposition becomes little more than organized dissatisfaction.
That may generate headlines.
It does not generate leadership.
Somalia’s Leadership Crisis
The deeper problem is that Somalia is experiencing a leadership crisis, not merely a constitutional crisis.
The country is dominated by politicians competing for office rather than statesmen competing for ideas.
Personal ambition has replaced national purpose.
Clan mobilization has replaced political organization.
Short-term survival has replaced long-term vision.
This crisis affects Villa Somalia and its opponents alike.
The tragedy is that while Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s political mistakes are visible, the opposition’s inability to offer a superior alternative allows those mistakes to continue.
A weak government is dangerous.
A weak opposition is even more dangerous because it removes accountability from the political system.
The Road Ahead
If Somalia’s opposition wishes to become a credible national force, it must undergo a profound transformation.
First, it must abandon Mogadishu-centric politics and engage citizens across the entire country.
Second, it must speak the language of national interests rather than regional grievances.
Third, it must build institutions instead of temporary alliances.
Fourth, it must offer a clear vision for Somalia’s future.
Finally, it must demonstrate through action that it can govern better than the people it seeks to replace.
The struggle against constitutional abuse, centralization, and political exclusion cannot succeed through slogans alone.
It requires leadership.
At present, Somalia faces an uncomfortable reality.
Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s opponents have correctly identified many of the country’s problems.
What they have not demonstrated is that they are capable of solving them.
And until they do, Somalia will remain trapped between a government losing legitimacy and an opposition unable to inspire confidence.
That is not a recipe for democratic renewal.
It is a recipe for national stagnation.

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By Ismail H. Warsame, MSc, PhD Candidate

Somalia is making history—but not the kind of history that nations celebrate. It is making history in dishonour, constitutional recklessness, and political absurdity. Across the Somali territories, leaders who were entrusted with public office have transformed democratic mandates into personal entitlements, constitutional terms into indefinite privileges, and public institutions into instruments of self-preservation.
The result is a political landscape so bizarre that future historians may struggle to find comparable examples anywhere in the modern world.
At the centre of this crisis stands President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud. Elected through a constitutional process and entrusted with the responsibility of safeguarding the Somali state, he now faces accusations from his opponents of remaining in office after the expiry of his constitutional mandate. In functioning democracies, leaders prepare for departure as their terms end. They seek legitimacy through elections, constitutional transitions, and public consent. They do not govern through ambiguity or institutional paralysis.
Yet Somalia has become a place where the expiration of a constitutional mandate is treated as a technical inconvenience rather than a binding legal requirement.
The problem, however, does not end in Mogadishu.
In Puntland, President Said Abdullahi Deni has increasingly come under criticism for strained relations with oversight institutions and for political disputes regarding accountability and governance. Parliament, which should serve as an independent check on executive authority, appears weakened and unable to exercise effective oversight. The fundamental principle of constitutional government—that leaders answer to institutions and laws—has been steadily eroded.
Meanwhile, Somaliland has ventured into territory unprecedented in modern Muslim political history. By pursuing diplomatic engagement in Jerusalem while the Israeli-Palestinian conflict remains unresolved, Somaliland’s leadership has stepped into one of the most sensitive political and religious disputes in the world. Whatever one’s view of diplomacy or recognition, the symbolism is profound. No self-governing Muslim political entity has willingly positioned itself in such a manner while the status of Palestine remains contested and unresolved.
History will record that decision.
The absurdity deepens further in the federal member states.
In Galmudug, President Ahmed Abdi Kaariye (Qoor Qoor) continues to govern despite persistent debates over mandate legitimacy and delayed political transitions. In Hirshabelle, President Ali Abdullahi Hussein (Ali Guudlaawe), has similarly remained in office amid long-standing controversies surrounding constitutional timelines and electoral processes.
The message being sent across Somalia is devastatingly simple: constitutional terms no longer matter.
If leaders can remain in office indefinitely, why hold elections? If mandates can be extended through political manoeuvring, why draft constitutions? If institutions cannot enforce legal limits, why pretend that the rule of law exists?
This is not merely a governance crisis. It is a crisis of political morality.
A society survives not because it possesses constitutions, parliaments, courts, or security forces. A society survives because its leaders accept limits on their power. Once leaders begin treating public office as private property, institutions become hollow shells. Elections become rituals. Constitutions become decorations. Citizens lose faith in the political system itself.
Somalia today appears trapped in precisely that cycle.
The tragedy is that this constitutional breakdown is occurring at every level simultaneously. The Federal Government faces legitimacy disputes. Federal member states face legitimacy disputes. Political opposition groups reject existing arrangements. Constitutional frameworks are contested. Electoral timelines are uncertain. Trust between institutions has collapsed.
The country is not suffering from a shortage of leaders.
It is suffering from a shortage of statesmen.
A statesman understands that legitimacy does not come from occupying an office. Legitimacy comes from respecting the rules that created that office in the first place. A statesman knows when to govern and when to leave. A statesman protects institutions even when doing so weakens his personal power.
What Somalia increasingly produces instead are political actors who view institutions as obstacles rather than guardians of national stability.
The consequences are predictable. Public cynicism deepens. Clan tensions intensify. Extremist groups exploit political divisions. International partners lose confidence. Investors stay away. Young people lose hope.
And perhaps most dangerous of all, constitutional violations become normalised.
When constitutional anarchy becomes routine, national collapse ceases to be an event and becomes a process.
Somalia’s leaders should understand one fundamental truth: no political office is permanent, but the damage inflicted on institutions can last generations.
History is watching. Future generations are watching. The Somali people are watching.
The question is whether today’s leaders wish to be remembered as founders of a constitutional democracy—or as the politicians who transformed Somalia into a global case study of how not to govern a nation.
The answer will be written not by speeches, but by whether they respect the limits of their power.

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By Ismail H. Warsame

For nearly half a century, the confrontation between the United States and the Islamic Republic of Iran has defined the geopolitical architecture of the Middle East. Administrations have changed in Washington. Leaders have come and gone in Tehran. Wars have erupted, regimes have collapsed, and alliances have shifted. Yet one reality has remained constant: neither side has been able to decisively defeat the other.

That is why any future U.S.–Iran agreement would be more than a diplomatic arrangement. It would be an acknowledgment of strategic reality.

From Washington’s perspective, a deal may be presented as a mechanism for regional stability, nuclear restraint, and de-escalation. But from another perspective, particularly among critics of American policy in the region, such an agreement would amount to recognition that decades of sanctions, military pressure, covert operations, and diplomatic isolation failed to bring Iran to its knees.

Iran would emerge not merely as a survivor, but as a state that successfully resisted the combined pressure of the world’s most powerful military alliance.

The symbolism would be profound.

For China and Russia, Iran’s endurance would reinforce the argument that American power is no longer absolute. Beijing would view it as evidence that alternative centers of economic and political power can withstand Western pressure. Moscow would portray it as another crack in the post-Cold War order dominated by Washington.

Likewise, the broader coalition of emerging powers—often associated with the BRICS framework—would interpret such an outcome as confirmation that the global balance of power is steadily shifting away from a unipolar world.

The implications extend beyond diplomacy.

Iran sits astride some of the world’s most critical energy routes. Its influence stretches from the Persian Gulf to the Strait of Hormuz and through networks of allied actors across the region. Any arrangement that leaves Iran stronger, wealthier, and less isolated inevitably raises questions about the future security architecture upon which American influence has rested for decades.

For many observers, the petrodollar system, American military basing strategy, and Washington’s regional alliances are interconnected pillars of U.S. influence. A more confident Iran, integrated into alternative economic and financial networks, would be viewed as a challenge to that structure.

Israel faces a similar strategic dilemma.

Successive Israeli governments have regarded Iranian regional influence as the principal long-term threat to Israeli security. Tehran’s support for armed movements across the region, combined with its missile and nuclear capabilities, has shaped Israeli military doctrine for years.

Any agreement that leaves Iran politically strengthened may therefore be interpreted in Tel Aviv not as peace, but as a temporary pause in a larger struggle.

This is where the central contradiction emerges.

If one side views a negotiated settlement as strategic survival while the other views it as strategic defeat, the foundations of lasting peace remain fragile.

Neither great powers nor regional powers easily accept what they perceive as historic losses. The United States built its Middle East strategy over generations. Israel views its security doctrine as existential. Iran regards resistance as central to its revolutionary identity. These competing visions leave little room for a definitive settlement.

The result is a sobering possibility: diplomacy may reduce tensions, but it may not eliminate the underlying conflict.

Agreements can freeze disputes. They can delay confrontations. They can buy time for exhausted adversaries. But they rarely resolve struggles rooted in competing visions of regional order.

The Middle East today is not merely witnessing a contest between Iran and the United States. It is witnessing a broader transition between an aging geopolitical order and an emerging one. Whether that transition occurs through negotiation or confrontation remains uncertain.

What appears increasingly clear is that no side is prepared to concede its vision of the future.

And when rivals believe that compromise equals surrender, peace becomes temporary, while conflict becomes permanent.

The tragedy of the Middle East may therefore be that even successful diplomacy cannot end the struggle. It can only postpone the next chapter.

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WDM Editorial Note: The views expressed in this article reflect a geopolitical interpretation of regional power dynamics. They do not constitute predictions of inevitable outcomes but rather an examination of competing strategic perceptions shaping the contemporary Middle East.

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By Ismail H. Warsame, MSc, PhD Candidate

Somalia today stands as a painful monument to collective failure. No one is better. No one is innocent. No one can honestly point a finger at another while keeping their own hands clean. From Villa Somalia to the federal member states, from political elites to self-proclaimed opposition figures, from clan elders to business interests, the nation has been abandoned to its fate.
The tragedy of Somalia is no longer merely a crisis of governance. It is a crisis of purpose. A nation without vision eventually loses direction. A nation without patriotism eventually loses cohesion. A nation without leaders willing to sacrifice for the common good eventually loses itself.
Today, no one truly speaks for Somalia.
The Federal Government speaks of authority while presiding over division. Federal Member States speak of federalism while often pursuing narrow political interests. Opposition groups speak of reform while waiting for their turn at power. Political actors denounce corruption while benefiting from the very systems they condemn. Every camp claims righteousness. None offers a national project capable of rescuing the country from its decline.
Meanwhile, the ordinary Somali citizen watches helplessly as the political class wages endless battles over power, positions, constitutional manipulation, clan arithmetic, and personal enrichment. Roads collapse. Public services deteriorate. Security remains fragile. Youth flee the country in search of dignity elsewhere. The educated abandon hope. The poor are left behind.
The greatest tragedy is not that Somalia is poor. Nations have recovered from poverty before.
The greatest tragedy is that Somalia has lost its sense of national purpose.
There was a time when Somalis, despite their differences, could rally around a shared vision. Today, every issue is viewed through the lens of clan, faction, region, or foreign sponsorship. The idea of Somalia itself is under assault. National interest has become subordinate to personal interest. Public office has become a route to private gain.
And where national weakness emerges, foreign interests inevitably follow.
History offers a cruel lesson: weak states invite intervention. Fragmented societies attract predators. Countries that cannot defend their own interests eventually become arenas where others pursue theirs.
There are powerful regional and international actors who would not mourn the further fragmentation of Somalia. Some would welcome a permanently divided Somalia as an opportunity to expand influence, secure strategic territory, exploit resources, control coastlines, or advance geopolitical ambitions. They need not even conspire openly. Somali politicians often perform the work of disintegration themselves.
No foreign power can destroy a country that remains united.
But a divided nation can destroy itself.
The painful reality is that Somalia’s enemies did not create this crisis. They merely exploit it. The roots of the problem lie within. It lies in the failure of leadership. It lies in the abandonment of statesmanship. It lies in the replacement of national vision with short-term political calculations.
When fools seize power, institutions become weak.
When opportunists seize power, public resources become private property.
When patriots disappear from public life, the nation becomes vulnerable.
And when an entire political class loses sight of the national interest, society itself begins to decay.
What we are witnessing today is not merely a political crisis. It is the slow erosion of the moral foundations upon which nations are built. Trust is disappearing. Legitimacy is disappearing. Hope is disappearing.
A society can survive poverty.
A society can survive conflict.
A society can survive political disputes.
But a society cannot survive indefinitely when its leaders cease to believe in the nation they claim to govern.
Somalia stands at such a crossroads.
The country does not suffer from a shortage of intelligence, resources, or talent. It suffers from a shortage of leadership. It suffers from a shortage of courage. It suffers from a shortage of men and women willing to place Somalia above clan, above faction, above personal ambition, and above foreign patronage.
The warning signs are everywhere.
A fractured political order.
Weak institutions.
Growing public cynicism.
Persistent insecurity.
Unresolved constitutional disputes.
Deepening regional divisions.
Foreign actors competing for influence.
These are not signs of national renewal. They are symptoms of national decline.
Yet decline is not destiny.
The first step toward recovery is honesty. Somalia’s leaders must stop pretending that someone else is responsible. Every level of government bears responsibility. Every political actor bears responsibility. Every institution that has placed narrow interests above national interests bears responsibility.
The nation does not need more slogans.
It needs statesmanship.
It does not need more political theatre.
It needs national vision.
It does not need more clan mobilization.
It needs civic patriotism.
Until that transformation occurs, Somalia will continue drifting toward uncertainty while its citizens pay the price.
History will ultimately record this era not by the speeches politicians delivered, but by whether they saved the nation when it mattered most.
The verdict, so far, is not encouraging.

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Warsame Policy & Media Network (WAPMEN) — Commentary and Critical Analysis.

By Ismail H. Warsame, MSc, PhD Candidate

The US–Israeli war on Iran has now moved beyond the battlefield. Regardless of how many missiles are intercepted, military facilities destroyed, or political statements issued, the conflict has already entered a phase where its strategic consequences are becoming increasingly clear. Wars are not ultimately judged by tactical victories but by their long-term political and geopolitical outcomes. By that measure, this war has fundamentally altered the strategic landscape of the Middle East.
For decades, the United States and Israel sought to establish an uncontested regional order built on military superiority, political intimidation, economic leverage, and strategic alliances with Arab monarchies. Iran was identified as the principal obstacle to this vision. Yet the war has produced consequences that may ultimately undermine the very objectives that justified it.
The first and perhaps most significant outcome is the validation of Iranian deterrence. Iran has demonstrated that it cannot be treated like Iraq, Libya, or Syria. Despite decades of sanctions, isolation, cyber warfare, assassinations, and military threats, Iran has preserved sufficient military capability to impose costs on its adversaries. The mere possibility of Iranian retaliation has forced Washington, Tel Aviv, and their allies to continuously calculate risks before every military move. Deterrence is not about defeating an enemy outright; it is about making aggression costly. By that measure, Iran has already achieved a strategic success.
Second, the conflict has elevated the importance of the Strait of Hormuz as a geopolitical weapon. Nearly one-fifth of global oil shipments pass through this narrow maritime corridor. Every escalation instantly sends shockwaves through energy markets, financial institutions, and global supply chains. Iran’s ability to threaten, disrupt, or control traffic through Hormuz gives Tehran leverage far beyond its economic size. The war has reminded the world that the global economy remains vulnerable to a handful of strategic chokepoints.
Beyond Hormuz lies a broader strategic reality: Iran’s capacity to project power into the Bab el-Mandab Strait and the Red Sea through its alliance with the Houthis. What began as a local Yemeni conflict has evolved into a regional pressure point capable of disrupting one of the world’s most important maritime routes. Western navies have spent billions attempting to secure Red Sea shipping lanes, yet attacks continue to demonstrate the limits of military solutions against decentralized proxy forces. The message is unmistakable: maritime dominance can no longer be taken for granted.
The war has also intensified pressure on the petrodollar system. Since the 1970s, global oil trade has reinforced American financial dominance. However, every major confrontation involving Iran encourages oil producers and emerging powers to seek alternatives. China, Russia, and several Global South countries increasingly explore non-dollar trade arrangements and alternative payment mechanisms. While the petrodollar remains dominant, its aura of permanence has been weakened by the repeated weaponization of sanctions and financial systems.
Another strategic consequence concerns the future of Zionist expansionism and Israeli regional ambitions. For years, Israel pursued normalization agreements and regional integration under the assumption of overwhelming military superiority. The war has challenged that assumption. It has demonstrated that military power alone cannot eliminate resistance movements, erase ideological opposition, or impose a stable regional order. Instead, it has deepened polarization and reinforced anti-Israeli sentiment across much of the Middle East.
Equally important is what the conflict has revealed about American military power. The United States maintains an extensive network of military bases across the Middle East, costing hundreds of billions of dollars over decades. Yet the war raises fundamental questions about the sustainability of this posture. Military installations spread across Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, and elsewhere increasingly resemble strategic liabilities rather than instruments of uncontested dominance. Every base becomes a target; every deployment carries escalating political and financial costs. The age of effortless American hegemony in the region appears increasingly unsustainable.
Perhaps the greatest political casualty has been the credibility of the Arab monarchies. Decades of extraordinary oil wealth have produced some of the richest states in the world, yet many have appeared strategically dependent and politically passive during one of the region’s defining confrontations. Their vast military expenditures have not translated into strategic autonomy. Their dependence on external security guarantees has exposed profound vulnerabilities. The contrast between immense wealth and limited geopolitical influence has become increasingly difficult to ignore.
The war has also exposed deeper structural problems: elite corruption, governance deficits, democratic stagnation, and the growing disconnect between rulers and citizens throughout much of the Arab world. While governments issue carefully calibrated diplomatic statements, public opinion across the region often moves in a very different direction. This widening gap represents a long-term source of instability that no amount of military spending can permanently suppress.
Most importantly, the conflict signals the acceleration of a transition toward a multipolar world. The era in which Washington could unilaterally shape Middle Eastern outcomes is fading. Regional powers now possess greater autonomy, global powers increasingly compete for influence, and non-state actors exercise unprecedented strategic relevance. The result is a more fragmented but also more contested regional order.
The ultimate irony of the US–Israeli war on Iran may be that an operation intended to reinforce regional dominance has instead highlighted its limits. Iran remains standing. Maritime chokepoints have become more strategically important. The petrodollar faces growing questions. Arab monarchies appear increasingly vulnerable. American bases look more exposed. Israeli assumptions about regional supremacy have been challenged. And the broader Middle East has moved one step further away from a unipolar order.
History often judges wars not by who fired the most missiles but by who altered the strategic balance. By that measure, the defining legacy of this conflict may not be military destruction but the exposure of a changing Middle East—one in which old certainties are collapsing and new realities are emerging.

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By Ismail H. Warsame, MSc, PhD Candidate

Somalia is once again approaching a dangerous political crossroads. The country appears trapped in a recurring cycle where leaders mistake temporary control of state power for permanent political legitimacy. Every generation seems destined to confront a new political reckoning born from the failures of those entrusted with safeguarding the nation.
The first great political reckoning came under the military dictatorship of General Mohamed Siyad Barre. Backed by the immense military support of the Soviet Union during the Cold War, Barre became convinced that state power was synonymous with personal power. Institutions disappeared into the shadow of one man. Dissent became treason. Opposition became criminality. The state gradually transformed from a national institution into a personal political project.
As resistance mounted and the regime weakened, Barre reportedly declared that if he could not rule Somalia, nothing would remain of it. Whether remembered as a literal statement or as a reflection of the regime’s destructive mindset, the outcome was tragically similar. By the time his government collapsed in 1991, Somalia had descended into state collapse, civil war, and one of the greatest humanitarian disasters in modern African history.
The scars of that period remain visible today. Entire generations grew up without functioning national institutions. Cities were destroyed. Public trust evaporated. The Somali state itself became a distant memory.
Yet Somalis did not surrender.
Through immense sacrifice by the Somali people, local communities, regional administrations, traditional leaders, civil society organizations, and international partners, a slow and painful process of reconstruction began. The establishment of Puntland in 1998, the peace processes in Djibouti and Kenya, the Transitional Federal Institutions, and eventually the Federal Government of Somalia represented collective attempts to rescue a nation from the ruins.
The federal system that emerged was imperfect, fragile, and frequently contested. Nevertheless, it represented a political compromise designed to prevent the return of centralized authoritarian rule.
Then came the second political reckoning.
The administration of Mohamed Abdullahi Farmaajo entered office promising reform and national revival. Instead, political tensions intensified between the Federal Government and Federal Member States. Trust eroded. Political consensus fractured. Constitutional disputes multiplied. The election crisis pushed Somalia dangerously close to armed confrontation in Mogadishu itself.
For many Somalis, the warning signs were unmistakable. The political methods that had contributed to previous national disasters appeared to be returning under new slogans and new personalities. The resistance that emerged against Farmaajo’s extension attempt eventually united a broad coalition of opposition forces, Federal Member States, and international actors. The result was his departure from Villa Somalia through political pressure rather than national consensus.
Many hoped Somalia had learned its lesson.
Unfortunately, history has a cruel habit of repeating itself when its lessons are ignored.
President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud returned to office promising reconciliation, dialogue, and national unity. Yet many of the political tensions that defined the previous administration have resurfaced. Relations between the Federal Government and key Federal Member States have deteriorated. Constitutional disputes have deepened. Questions surrounding legitimacy, mandate, political inclusion, and governance continue to dominate national discourse.
What makes the current situation particularly alarming is the apparent belief that foreign military support and concentrated economic investment can substitute for national political consensus. General Siyad Barre believed that the backing of the Soviet Union gave him unlimited room to maneuver and impose his will on Somalia. History proved him catastrophically wrong.
Today, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud appears to have fallen into a similar political illusion. Encouraged by extensive Turkish military assistance, security cooperation, and major infrastructure and economic investments concentrated largely in Mogadishu, he seems to have concluded that political legitimacy can be secured through external partnerships and centralized authority rather than broad-based national consensus.
This is a dangerous misunderstanding of Somalia’s political reality.
Somalia is not Mogadishu alone. The country is a federal republic whose stability depends upon cooperation, consultation, and political accommodation among its diverse regions, communities, and stakeholders. No amount of foreign military training, weapons, infrastructure projects, or diplomatic support can compensate for the absence of trust among Somalis themselves.
Like Siyad Barre before him, Hassan Sheikh appears to have mistaken external backing for domestic legitimacy. He appears to believe that military successes, foreign investment, and international endorsements can overcome growing constitutional disputes, regional grievances, and widening political divisions. In doing so, he risks repeating the very mistakes that plunged Somalia into disaster decades ago.
Foreign powers can provide assistance, but they cannot manufacture legitimacy. They can build roads, ports, airports, and military facilities, but they cannot build national unity where political exclusion and mistrust prevail. Leaders who confuse foreign support with popular legitimacy eventually discover that their political foundations are far weaker than they imagined.
The growing confrontation in Mogadishu today reflects more than a dispute between political opponents. It represents a deeper struggle over the future direction of the Somali state itself. Once again, political actors appear to be testing the limits of Somalia’s fragile institutions. The current confrontation between opposition forces and Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s administration may well represent Somalia’s third great political reckoning since the collapse of the military dictatorship.
The tragedy is not that political disagreements exist. Disagreements are normal in democratic societies. The tragedy is that Somali leaders repeatedly behave as though political power belongs to individuals rather than institutions. Every generation produces leaders who believe they can bend the constitutional order to their personal ambitions. Every generation discovers that Somalia eventually pushes back.
History teaches a brutal lesson.
Siyad Barre believed military power could preserve his rule indefinitely. He was wrong.
Farmaajo believed political maneuvering could override constitutional consensus. He was wrong.
Hassan Sheikh Mohamud appears to believe that foreign-backed state power can overcome political legitimacy deficits. He, too, may be learning the limits of that assumption.
Somalia does not need another strongman.
Somalia does not need another political messiah.
Somalia does not need another “Madax-ka-Nool” system where institutions exist only on paper while power resides in one office.
What Somalia desperately needs is constitutionalism, institutional governance, respect for political agreements, and genuine national dialogue.
The choice facing the country today is stark. Either Somali leaders finally strengthen institutions above personalities, or the nation risks repeating the same destructive cycle that has haunted it since independence.
The third political reckoning is not merely about one administration or one opposition coalition.
It is about whether Somalia can finally break free from its historical addiction to personalized power and embrace the rule of institutions.
History is watching.
And history has already delivered its verdict on those who ignored its warnings.

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