By Ismail H. Warsame
Every time violence erupts in Galkayo, the political class reaches for the same tired script. More police. More checkpoints. More emergency meetings. More promises. Then, after the shooting subsides, everyone congratulates themselves until the next crisis arrives.
Nothing changes.
That is because they continue treating the symptoms while ignoring what many regard as the deeper structural problem.
In my view, Galkayo’s greatest challenge is not simply criminality or clan rivalry. It is the absence of a sufficiently rooted civic population with a long-term stake in preserving law, order, and public institutions. Too much of the city’s political energy has historically been shaped by continual population movement rather than stable civic development.
Cities become peaceful when people build permanent lives there—buy homes, establish businesses, educate their children, invest in neighbourhoods, and expect future generations to inherit what they have built. Such citizens have everything to lose from instability.
Galkayo has struggled to reach that point.
For decades, the city has served as a magnet for migration from surrounding rural areas and neighbouring jurisdictions. Migration itself is neither unusual nor undesirable; every successful city grows through newcomers. The problem arises when rapid demographic change intersects with weak institutions, political competition, and clan mobilisation. Under those conditions, population movement can become part of political strategy rather than simply economic opportunity.
Compounding this problem, many social divisions that originate elsewhere are carried into the city rather than left behind. In my assessment, some sub-clan communities continue to view one another primarily through the prism of historical rivalry instead of as neighbours sharing a common urban future. Old feuds are transplanted into the city, producing recurring cycles of revenge killings, criminal violence, armed robbery, and retaliation. The idea of citizenship becomes secondary to sub-clan allegiance, while loyalty to public institutions weakens.
The consequences are profound. The rule of law struggles to establish itself because public authority is constantly challenged by competing loyalties. Police and security agencies are forced into reacting to violence rather than preventing it. Political leaders spend more time managing crises than building institutions. Meanwhile, the greatest losers are the educated, the professionals, and the entrepreneurial members of society. Instead of investing in Galkayo’s future, many choose to leave, taking with them the skills, capital, and civic leadership needed to transform the city into a stable commercial centre. Instability therefore becomes self-perpetuating: violence discourages investment, investment declines, opportunity disappears, and yet another generation leaves.
History offers uncomfortable reminders.
General Mohamed Farah Aideed’s political claim over the whole of Mudug did not emerge in a vacuum. It reflected a broader contest over territory, influence, and political legitimacy during one of Somalia’s most turbulent periods. Whether those claims were justified or not, they demonstrated how demographic realities and political ambitions could become intertwined.
Today, many leaders still refuse to confront these structural questions honestly.
Instead, every outbreak of violence is explained away as an isolated security incident. It is not. It is the recurring consequence of weak governance, inconsistent law enforcement, poor urban planning, and the failure to cultivate a shared civic identity that rises above temporary political alignments.
Breaking that cycle requires more than armed patrols.
Galkayo needs institutions that command respect rather than fear; policing based on investigation rather than reaction; municipal governance that protects property rights and public services; and political leadership willing to speak honestly about long-term urban development instead of exploiting every crisis for short-term political gain.
Above all, the city needs a stronger sense of shared civic ownership. Stability is ultimately secured not by barricades but by residents who believe that protecting the city is in their own enduring interest. Equal citizenship—not perpetual sub-clan competition—is the foundation upon which peaceful cities are built.
The tragedy is that Galkayo possesses enormous economic and strategic potential. It sits at the crossroads of Puntland, central Somalia, and the Somali interior. Properly governed, it could become one of Somalia’s great commercial centres. Instead, it too often finds itself trapped in a cycle of recurring instability that benefits only opportunistic politicians, criminal networks, and those who thrive in disorder.
The future of Galkayo will not be decided by the next security operation. It will be decided by whether its leaders can build institutions strong enough to transform a city of competing interests into a city of common purpose.
Until then, every celebration of “restored peace” will remain temporary.
Peace without citizenship is temporary. Peace without institutions is an illusion. Peace without permanent stakeholders is impossible.
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