This is where and when we had established Southwest Somalia in 2001. After that, SRRC (SOMALI RECONCILIATION and RECONSTRUCTION COUNCIL), a council of Somali warlords, was established to oppose TNG of AbdulQassin Salad Hassan, who was crowned in Arta (Djibouti) Conference in 2000. You have that story in our Dhaxalreeb videos, 2025.
The Illusion of Peace in the “Second Republic“
Two decades after the establishment of the Second Somali Republic through the 2004 Transitional Federal Charter, the promise of a unified, federal Somalia remains tragically unfulfilled. The official narrative would have us believe that the civil war belongs to the past, that the federal system is steadily consolidating, and that national reconciliation is underway. This narrative is a dangerous fiction. The reality is that Somalia’s war is not over; it has merely evolved. The frontline has shifted from overt clan warfare to a more insidious conflict waged within the very institutions meant to foster peace—a conflict characterized by a systematic dismantling of the federal constitution, a leadership class addicted to a dysfunctional city-state model, and a performative politics that substitutes substance for spectacle. The continuous failure of the Federal Government is not a flaw in the federal design, but the direct consequence of presidents who wear the title of “federal” leader while their actions are guided by a centralist, strong-man mentality that has already proven catastrophic in Somalia’s history.
The Constitutional Façade: A Charter Honored in the Breach
The Provisional Constitution of 2012 was meant to be the foundational social contract, painstakingly designed to rectify the historical grievances born from over-centralization that fueled the 1991 state collapse. It established a federal system to balance power between the center and the Federal Member States (FMS), safeguarding unity while respecting diversity. Yet, from its inception, this contract has been treated not as a binding covenant, but as a suggestion box from which the political elite in Mogadishu can pick and choose.
1. Constitutional Violations as Policy: The constitution explicitly defines Somalia as “an indivisible federal republic” (Art. 1) and mandates power-sharing. In practice, the Federal Government of Somalia (FGS) routinely usurps state prerogatives over security, taxation, and resources, rendering the Intergovernmental Relations Framework (Art. 51) and the Constitutional Court (Art. 109) deliberately dormant. This creates a legal vacuum where intergovernmental disputes fester without impartial arbitration. This is not an implementation failure; it is a strategy of deliberate institutional paralysis.
2. The Land Grabs and Human Cost: The most visceral betrayal of the constitution is seen in the violent forced evictions plaguing Mogadishu. Critics and a coalition of lawmakers have directly accused President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud of authorizing the sale of public lands without due process, leading to the forceful eviction of thousands of poor and displaced families. These actions, allegedly enriching the president’s inner circle while displacing citizens, violate constitutional guarantees of property rights (Articles 25, 27) and the state’s duty to protect citizen welfare (Articles 10, 12). The result is a humanitarian crisis and a stark confirmation that for the powerful in Villa Somalia, the constitution is merely parchment.
The Security Theater: Militants Advance as Leaders Play Politics
The devastating human cost of this governance failure is most apparent in the ongoing military conflict. While the government engages in political theatrics, the threat from Al-Shabaab remains potent and deadly.
Table: Selected Al-Shabaab Attacks and Operations in 2025
Date Event Impact & Significance
February 20, 2025 Launch of the “Shabelle Offensive” Coordinated attacks on multiple villages and military positions in Middle Shabelle region, aiming to encircle Mogadishu.
February 27, 2025 Capture of Balad Militants temporarily seized this strategic town just 30km north of the capital, storming a military base and freeing prisoners.
March 18, 2025 Assassination Attempt on the President A roadside bombing targeted President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s entourage near Villa Somalia, a brazen attack he narrowly survived.
June 2, 2025 Seizure of Hawadley Al-Shabaab took control of a village 91km northeast of Mogadishu after Burundian AUSSOM forces withdrew from a strategic base.
This relentless insurgency persists precisely because political energy is diverted. As the opposition “National Salvation Forum” has stated, political disputes and mismanagement in Mogadishu have directly distracted from defeating Al-Shabaab. The government is simultaneously fighting an insurgency and a political war of its own making, and it is failing on both fronts.
The Failed Promise of Reconciliation and the Rise of Confederal Options
The profound failure to implement a genuine federal system has bred a dangerous new cynicism, pushing some regions to consider even more radical and disuniting solutions.
1. The Mirage of National Reconciliation: The 2017 National Reconciliation Framework (NRF) was launched with grand promises of being a “Somali-led and supported effort – for the people and by the people”. It recognized that past conferences, dominated by politicians and military leaders, had failed because they were not inclusive, community-based processes. Yet, this initiative too has been undermined by the same lack of political will. True reconciliation requires dealing with the past and building trust in institutions—a prospect impossible when those institutions are actively being weaponized.
2. The Lure of Confederalism: In this vacuum of legitimate federal governance, the idea of confederalism has emerged as a provocative alternative, most notably proposed by Puntland’s intellectuals. This model, which would reduce the FGS to a nominal authority and grant near-full sovereignty to member states, is a symptom of terminal frustration.
The “Never-Ending Circus” and the Mentality of Failure
The core of Somalia’s crisis is not structural; it is a crisis of character and mentality within the political class. The governance of Somalia has been described as a “never-ending circus” at Villa Somalia, a theatrical production in its fifth encore where the script is tired and the audience is ignored. The Federal Parliament often acts as a rubber stamp, while the opposition mobilizes through press releases rather than popular action.
This spectacle is powered by a regressive political mentality that is fundamentally at odds with a modern federal state:
1. The City-State Delusion: Somalia’s presidents, despite their titles, have failed to transition from the mindset of a Mayor of Mogadishu to that of a national leader. They cling to the illusion that governing the capital is synonymous with governing the nation, treating federal member states as rebellious districts rather than constitutional partners. This is the same strong-man mentality that led to the state’s initial collapse, now repackaged in a federal guise.
2. The Zero-Sum Trap: The political elite operates in a zero-sum game, where one leader’s gain must be another’s loss. As noted by analysts, “Somalia’s greatest obstacle is not structural or financial. It is the refusal of its political class to rise above a zero-sum mindset”. This mentality sacrifices long-term national cohesion for short-term political points, making the cooperation and compromise essential for federalism impossible.
Conclusion: The Stubborn Reality and the Path Not Taken
Somalia stands at a precipice. The “Second Republic” is failing not because federalism is unworkable, but because it has been systematically sabotaged from within. The solution is not another grand constitutional overhaul. The solution is a fundamental reckoning with reality.
Until Somalia’s leaders—and the citizens who enable them—accept the de facto situation on the ground that emerged from the civil war, a reality of diverse regional identities and interests that demand a genuine power-sharing arrangement, nothing will change. The path forward is not mysterious. It requires:
1. A return to constitutional order, operationalizing the dormant institutions like the Constitutional Court and respecting the distribution of powers.
2. An end to the political theater and the adoption of a cooperative, positive-sum political culture.
3. A sincere, community-owned national reconciliation that addresses historical wounds rather than using them as political weapons.
The weapons of the civil war may have largely fallen silent, but the war for Somalia’s soul and statehood continues. It is being lost not on the battlefield, but in the corridors of power, through every violated article of the constitution, every evicted family, and every cynical political calculation. The war will only be over when the constitution is more than just ink on paper—when it becomes the lived reality of Somali governance.
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
In the twilight of Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s second reign — a tenure best described as “busy abroad, bankrupt at home” — the hyenas are circling the carcass of Villa Somalia. The scent of decaying legitimacy has spread far beyond the marble walls of Mogadishu, attracting three familiar packs of political predators, each convinced it was born to “save the nation” from the very mess it helped create.
The First Pack: Damul Jadiid — The Monks of Manipulation
Once the self-anointed reformist movement, Damul Jadiid has now aged into a cynical cult of survivalists. They speak the language of “vision,” but practice the religion of “position.” The group that promised to modernize Somalia now specializes in manufacturing smokescreens, distributing ministries among loyal disciples, and sending “technical advisers” who can’t distinguish between a constitution and a campaign slogan. Their slogan remains unspoken but clear: If it moves, politicize it; if it breathes, tax it; if it questions, exile it.
The Second Pack: Golaha Mustaqbalka — The United Front of Disunity
Enter the self-proclaimed “Future Council” — Golaha Mustaqbalka — a confusing coalition of Puntland, Jubaland, and Mogadishu’s restless opposition. United only by mutual distrust of Villa Somalia, this fragile front looks like a camel trying to sing in harmony. Puntland wants autonomy, Jubaland wants security, Banadir wants recognition — and none wants to share the microphone. Their slogan might as well be: “Together, apart.”
They meet in posh hotels, issue lengthy communiqués, and hold press conferences to condemn the government for corruption — before retiring to private dinners sponsored by the same business cartels they denounce.
The Third Pack: Sirdoon & The Shadow Broker
Then comes the intelligence gang — former Prime Minister Sirdoon and his one-time puppeteer, Fahad Yasin, Somalia’s self-made Machiavelli. Having divorced Farmaajo in public but not in ambition, they now lurk in the alleys of regional politics, exchanging dossiers and whispering alliances. In the chessboard of Somali politics, these two are not players; they are the smoke between the pieces. Their plan: restore order by reclaiming control of chaos.
And Farmaajo, the silent watcher, plays his old trick again — pretending neutrality while secretly measuring the curtains for Villa Somalia’s windows. To the untrained eye, he looks detached; to seasoned observers, he’s counting the spoils before the gunfire starts.
Foreign Investors in Somali Politics Inc.
No Somali election is complete without Emirati and Qatari sponsorships. Doha funds “vision,” Abu Dhabi funds “stability” — both fund instability. Somalia’s ballot box is now a diplomatic ATM. The Arabs play their favorite sport: “Bet on every horse, collect from the winner.” The result is a federation of beggars, each state auctioning loyalty to the highest bidder.
The Predictable Tragedy
The tragedy is not that these men compete; it’s that they all have already ruled and failed. Each carries a record of mismanagement, missed opportunities, and miraculous self-enrichment. None offers a vision beyond “I should be president next.” Somalia, therefore, is not electing leadership — it is recycling leadership.
As the next political storm brews, the public watches with weary eyes. The choice remains the same: between incompetence, corruption, and manipulation. The only suspense left is who will hold the key to the treasury when the music stops.
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When rumor becomes news and noise becomes “investigative journalism,” you know Somalia has entered another round of the absurd theatre called “Blame Puntland.”
This week’s episode: The Bosaso Military Base Saga.
Supposedly, cargo planes belonging to the United Arab Emirates have been taking off from Bosaso, heading to Sudan, dropping off weapons for the Rapid Support Forces (RSF). A shocking revelation indeed — except for one minor detail: airports in Somalia, including Bosaso, are under federal control for flight permissions. Every foreign aircraft, every cargo manifest, every clearance request is stamped — not by Garowe, but by Mogadishu’s own Civil Aviation Authority.
So let’s ask the forbidden question: Who signed on those flight permits?
The Flight of Convenient Hypocrisy
If there were indeed military flights to Sudan, Mogadishu’s men with stamps and suits had to authorize them. Planes don’t just land or take off in a federal republic as if it were a camel camp. The radar, the air traffic, the flight plans — all belong to the Somali Civil Aviation Authority under the Federal Government’s supervision. Yet, the blame machine points north.
Why? Because Puntland is the convenient scapegoat — the punching bag of Villa Somalia’s propaganda factory. When there’s failure in governance, blame Puntland. When there’s hunger in Baidoa, blame Puntland. When there’s chaos in Mogadishu, blame Puntland.
The Art of Smokescreen Politics
President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s administration, facing collapsing legitimacy, unpaid soldiers, angry elders, and expired mandates, suddenly finds oxygen in foreign scandals. Why address the rotting domestic front when you can wave the flag of “Bosaso conspiracy” and look patriotic?
The RSF issue becomes a perfect smokescreen to distract from Mogadishu’s political paralysis. Meanwhile, the same people pointing fingers in press conferences are the ones signing “classified cooperation agreements” with foreign powers in VIP lounges.
Puntland: The Perennial Villain
Let’s be clear — Puntland has neither the mandate nor the motive to fund wars in Sudan. But the political theatre demands a villain. Puntland is independent-minded, refuses to bow to Mogadishu’s centralist tantrums, and speaks the uncomfortable truth — and that is unforgivable in the Somali political circus.
So they invent treason where there is none. They turn routine flights into “secret operations,” trade partnerships into “covert deals,” and logistical cooperation into “UAE’s Bosaso conspiracy.”
The Real Treason Lies Elsewhere
The true treason is not a phantom cargo plane. It is in the Federal Government’s failure to safeguard the nation’s airspace, to maintain transparency, to build institutions that work. The real betrayal is turning the Somali people’s attention away from famine, insecurity, and corruption — to chase shadows in the Gulf of Aden skies.
Before they shout “Puntland is guilty,” perhaps they should look into the flight logs in Mogadishu. The ink stains might still be wet on their own desks.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
Somalia is burning — politically, economically, and institutionally — but its political class insists on dancing around the fire instead of putting it out. The air is thick with smoke, but the conversations in Mogadishu salons ( Parliament), TV talk shows, and social spaces sound like the chatter of people discussing the color of the curtains while their house collapses.
While federal and state mandates expire faster than milk in the sun, the so-called “leaders” keep themselves busy with distractions. President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud — the man who turned political escapism into an art form — is globe-trotting again, cutting ribbons, signing irrelevant communiqués, and blaming everyone but himself for the implosion of the system he was supposed to lead.
His courtiers — the ever-loyal Damul Jadiid apostles — have perfected the game of diversion. When inflation bites, they talk about “federal harmony.” When the parliament stops functioning, they organize “consultations.” When security collapses, they whisper about “external conspiracies.” When they run out of excuses, they shout “Puntland problem!” or anything else but accountability.
The real issues — constitutional vacuum, corruption, insecurity, clan rivalry, and economic paralysis — are swept under a thick rug woven from donor reports and fake optimism. The central government acts like a street magician pulling a rabbit from a broken hat while the audience, weary and cynical, wonders when the next blackout will hit.
Federalism, which was meant to decentralize hope, has instead devolved into a patchwork of expired mandates and expired leaders. Some cling to office like it’s a family inheritance. Others negotiate “extensions” as if time itself were for sale. And yet, no one dares speak of real governance reform — that would spoil the party.
Somalis deserve leaders who face the fire, not those who dance around it. Governance is not a masquerade of empty conferences or staged press briefings — it is the moral obligation to manage the lives and hopes of millions. But Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and his band of smoke merchants seem content to keep the country guessing, deflecting, and drifting.
In the end, Somalia’s tragedy isn’t just bad leadership — it’s the normalization of distraction. Every crisis becomes an opportunity for another meeting, another committee, another slogan. And the people, once again, are told to wait for “the next phase.”
WDM’s verdict: Stop the smoke. Face the fire. Somalia’s survival depends on leaders who govern, not performers who evade.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s desperate grip on power has now become an existential threat to Somalia’s fragile political recovery. His obsession with personal rule — camouflaged under slogans of “Soomaali Heshiis ah” ( but in reality being divided), is systematically dismantling the modest gains earned through blood, dialogue, and sacrifice since 2004. His administration has turned the Provisional Constitution into a playbook for authoritarian improvisation. Every institution — the parliament, the judiciary, the security apparatus — is being reshaped into tools for his second-term entrenchment.
But finally, and perhaps too late, a coalition calling itself Golaha Mustaqbalka — a mix of Puntland, Jubaland, and the Golaha Samatabixinta opposition group in Mogadishu — has emerged. Their stated mission: to stop Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s creeping dictatorship and restore balance to Somalia’s federal compact. On paper, it looks promising. In practice, it is dangerously fragile.
Fragmented Personalities, No Command Structure
This coalition is not a disciplined political front. It is a loose assembly of political survivors — each with ambitions to replace Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, not necessarily to reform the system he has corrupted. Puntland and Jubaland have their own state interests and controversial state presidents. Mogadishu opposition elites want personal redemption after years of political marginalization. Without a unified leadership, clear agenda, or mobilization strategy, this “united front” risks being outplayed, infiltrated, or bought out — as Villa Somalia has done to every alliance before.
Hassan Sheikh’s Advantage: Divide, Distract, Dominate
Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s political genius lies not in nation-building, but in political arithmetic — dividing blocs, buying loyalties, and weaponizing clan insecurities. His administration thrives on confusion. He will exploit every gap between Puntland and Jubaland, every ego among opposition figures, every delay in their coordination. By the time the “united front” agrees on its letterhead, Villa Somalia will have staged another constitutional manipulation, or called another “national consultation” in Djibouti, Ethiopia, or somewhere equally irrelevant.
Somalia at a Dangerous Crossroads
The stakes are existential. If this coalition fails, Hassan Sheikh will consolidate a centralist, personality-driven regime — erasing federal autonomy, militarizing politics, and delegitimizing regional governments. Puntland and Jubaland will be cornered into survival mode; Mogadishu opposition will be neutralized through arrests, intimidation, or co-option. Somalia’s fragile peace will revert to confrontation.
RECOMMENDATIONS: HOW TO EFFECTIVELY OPPOSE HASSAN SHEIKH MOHAMUD
1. Form a Central Leadership Council:
Establish a small, credible command structure of respected figures — not aspiring presidents. A council that speaks with one voice, defines clear objectives, and executes a united political strategy.
2. Develop a Federal Defense Charter:
Puntland and Jubaland should formalize a joint defensive and political pact — a “Federal Integrity Compact” — to resist unconstitutional interference from Villa Somalia. This must include security coordination, economic cooperation, and diplomatic outreach.
3. Control the Narrative:
The opposition must dominate the information war. Create a joint media platform — independent, multilingual, and digital — to expose Villa Somalia’s manipulations and present an alternative vision of governance. Let the Somali people see the truth daily.
4. Mobilize Civil and Religious Leaders:
Bring the moral weight of the community into the political equation. Somali elders, clerics, and professional associations should issue statements against the erosion of federalism. Legitimacy must move away from Mogadishu’s palace back to the people.
5. Engage International Partners Early:
The coalition must diplomatically preempt Villa Somalia’s propaganda. Present their case to the UN, AU, EU, and IGAD as defenders of constitutional federalism, not as spoilers. Use facts, not rhetoric.
6. Set a Timetable and Vision:
Announce a roadmap for political transition — not just resistance. Define what a post-Hassan Sheikh era looks like: constitutional review, electoral reforms, and a national reconciliation plan led by federal member states.
CONCLUSION
Somalia’s future will not be saved by eloquent communiqués or endless conferences. It will be saved by political discipline, federal unity, and strategic courage. If the opposition fails to evolve from personalities into principles, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud will succeed — not because he is strong, but because his opponents are weak, disorganized, and late.
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
Fearless. Independent. Speaking truth to power.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
WDM Satire
President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud must hold a world record — not for good governance, but for air miles. He is everywhere except where he should be — Mogadishu. Whether it’s a mid-level education forum in Brussels, a charity dinner in Doha, or an irrelevant “peace symposium” in Tashkent, you can be sure Hassan Sheikh will be there — front row, smiling, flag pin shining, pretending Somalia is stable while the house burns at home.
You start to wonder if he is allergic to Villa Somalia. Maybe he sees coup d’état attempts in every hallway, or fears that the State House itself might one day declare independence. While he roams the world with the energy of a man running from his own shadow, some federal member state leaders seem to have joined his hide-and-seek game — living comfortably in Mogadishu instead of governing their states. Perhaps Garowe, Baidoa, or Kismayo have become too “provincial” for their tastes.
And yet, despite this theatre of absentee leadership, Somalia is not in total flames. Clans, though weary, are not at each other’s throats. Regional administrations function, however imperfectly. Markets open, children go to school, and local police handle their own affairs. The miracle behind this relative calm? Federalism.
Federalism — the very system demonized by centralists in Mogadishu — is quietly doing what no strongman ever could: keeping Somalia governable by dividing power among many hands instead of one. It allows every clan, every community, every corner of the republic to breathe, to self-manage, to avoid being smothered by the delusion of “one-size-fits-all” governance. It is federalism, not Mogadishu’s noise, that has prevented a return to the chaos of the 1990s.
Ironically, the same centralists who shout about “unity” from Mogadishu are the biggest beneficiaries of decentralization. They fly safely because Puntland controls its roads, Jubaland guards its ports, and Galmudug keeps its militia busy. But mark this: those who underestimate the quiet blessings of federalism will only realize its worth after they lose it. And when that happens, Hassan Sheikh may find himself travelling not to Paris or Doha — but to exile, holding yet another irrelevant conference on “Somali Unity,” hosted by whichever dictator offers him a chair and a microphone.
Moral of the satire: Somalia survives not because of its leaders, but despite them. Federalism is the invisible glue keeping the nation from collapsing under its own hypocrisy.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
Somalia is once again staring down the barrel of an avoidable political crisis — this time, not born of clan warfare or extremist insurgency, but of institutional decay and an irreconcilable tug-of-war between Garowe and Mogadishu. The very foundations of the federal project — the hard-earned covenant between center and periphery — are on the verge of collapse.
The next parliament selection and presidential election — once expected to mark a peaceful transition — are now trapped in the murk of manipulation, mistrust, and competing claims of legitimacy. What should have been a routine constitutional process is instead evolving into a showdown that could decide Somalia’s future political geography.
A Federation or a Fracture Zone?
For months, Mogadishu has been tightening its political noose under the guise of “harmonizing” federal elections. But in truth, the Villa Somalia administration is attempting to turn the Federal Member States into provincial municipalities — satellites orbiting its personal ambitions. Garowe, on the other hand, has drawn a constitutional red line. Puntland insists that no credible election can occur under an incumbent who has repeatedly violated both the letter and spirit of federalism.
Thus, two centers of political gravity are emerging:
Garowe, representing federalism, regional autonomy, and continuity of the 2004–2012 constitutional order.
Mogadishu, representing presidential absolutism cloaked in federal rhetoric — an imitation of unity without consent.
Observers whisper of two rival conferences: one in Garowe, another in Mogadishu — each preparing to crown its own “interim parliament” and perhaps even a “president.” The parallel legitimacy paths echo the fractures of 1990–2000, when Somalia became a battlefield of competing authorities claiming the same nation.
The Return of the Transitional Abyss
If Somalia indeed witnesses two simultaneous parliaments and two claimants to the presidency, it will mark a political implosion not seen since the early 2000s. The irony is cruel: after two decades of rebuilding from chaos, Somalia risks returning to the same transitional paralysis it once escaped.
The constitutional vacuum, already stretched by illegal term extensions and executive overreach, cannot hold indefinitely. Without a neutral arbiter, Somalia’s so-called “federal compact” may unravel entirely — and with it, the fragile trust that binds Puntland, Jubaland, Galmudug, and others to the federal framework.
Garowe’s Dilemma and Mogadishu’s Gamble
Garowe is preparing for what it calls a “constitutional correction” — a national dialogue free from Villa Somalia’s control. It seeks to reassert the principle that the federal center is not the owner of sovereignty, but its trustee. Mogadishu, however, is gambling on the inertia of international diplomacy — assuming that donor fatigue and geopolitical disinterest will allow it to entrench power by default.
But Somalia’s politics have shifted. Federal states, once dependent, are now assertive. The public, once passive, is now politically literate. Any attempt to force a Mogadishu-centered transition will ignite resistance, not obedience.
This isn’t mere political posturing — it’s an existential defense of Somalia’s plural legitimacy.
The Coming Fork in the Road
Somalia stands at a fork where two futures diverge sharply:
1. A negotiated consensus — led by Garowe’s insistence on genuine federalism and the rule of law.
2. A dangerous fragmentation — where Mogadishu’s unilateralism spawns rival governments, contested institutions, and international confusion.
The world should take note: a country at the heart of the Horn of Africa, geopolitically vital yet institutionally fragile, cannot afford another collapse of legitimacy. The choice between Garowe and Mogadishu is not merely about location — it is about the soul of the Somali Republic.
In the end, Somalia’s destiny will not be decided in one conference hall or another — but by whether Somalis can reclaim their constitution from those who treat power as private property.
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Rebuttal to Abdisaid Muse Ali’s “Somalia’s Complicity in the El Fasher Tragedy” (WardheerNews, October 31, 2025)
1. The Fallacy of Guilt by Geography
WardheerNews’ article commits the oldest propaganda trick in the playbook — conflating geography with guilt.
Because a plane allegedly touched Bosaso’s runway, the author stretches this into “Somalia’s complicity” in Sudan’s tragedy. That is not journalism; it is conjecture.
WDM’s data shows no credible evidence, photographic or documentary, that any flight carried munitions through Puntland’s Bosaso Airport. All civil aviation movements were logged and cleared under ICAO-compliant civilian manifests. The “identical tail numbers” claim cited from unnamed intelligence leaks remains unverified and unverifiable.
2. Political Motive Behind the Story
The piece is not investigative — it is politically weaponized writing, designed to deflect attention from the Villa Somalia–Damul Jadiid foreign policy collapse in Sudan and Jubaland. By dragging Puntland into the Sudanese quagmire, Abdisaid attempts to sanitize the central government’s inaction and restore his own lost relevance as a former foreign minister.
This is not the first time WardheerNews has amplified narratives aligning with Villa Somalia’s smear campaign against Puntland. The same pattern appeared after the failure of the SSC-Khaatumo manipulation and the Arta-Djibouti fiasco.
3. The Data Holds
WDM’s independent monitoring of Bosaso Airport (April–October 2025) records:
Zero cargo flights filed under diplomatic or military clearance.
All IL-76 aircraft logged under civilian cargo classification, delivering humanitarian goods and construction equipment from the UAE.
No deviation in ICAO-filed flight paths toward Sudanese coordinates.
Satellite-verified cargo volume and local eyewitness reports confirm routine commercial operations — not covert transfers. If Abdisaid has any “US intelligence report,” let him produce it. Until then, it remains the typical proxy whisper journalism used to justify diplomatic attacks on Puntland’s autonomy.
4. Real Complicity: Villa Somalia’s Silence
The real complicity lies in Villa Somalia’s paralysis:
Mogadishu granted unrestricted overflight rights without federal inspection protocols.
The Civil Aviation Authority remains unreformed and politically captured, issuing diplomatic clearances with no transparency.
The so-called “national foreign policy” is dictated by Qatari intermediaries, not by the Somali parliament.
When Abdisaid speaks of “institutional negligence,” he is describing his own legacy as the architect of Mogadishu’s dependency diplomacy — where foreign actors lease sovereignty by cheque.
5. Puntland’s Record Speaks for Itself
Puntland has consistently upheld international compliance and transparency:
Its ports and airports are jointly monitored by private logistics contractors with Emirati and Somali oversight.
No international sanction or compliance warning has ever cited Bosaso or Garowe.
Puntland’s focus remains economic recovery and regional stability, not participation in Sudan’s internal wars.
Accusing Puntland of “leasing sovereignty” is both false and defamatory — coming from an administration that outsourced its own sovereignty to Turkish and Qatari bases around Mogadishu.
6. Sudan’s Pain, Somalia’s Shame
Yes, El Fasher is a tragedy — but to weaponize Sudan’s suffering to smear Somali regions is morally obscene. The Sudanese people deserve solidarity, not propaganda scapegoats. Puntland has provided humanitarian corridors for Sudanese refugees and stood against RSF atrocities in every regional forum it attended.
7. Journalism vs. Political Memoir
WardheerNews printed a political manifesto disguised as journalism. Its author, Abdisaid Muse Ali, is no longer an independent observer; he is a discredited political operative whose career thrived on the very “proxy diplomacy” he now pretends to expose.
True journalism demands evidence, documentation, and neutrality — none of which appear in this 3,000-word essay of innuendo.
Conclusion
WDM rejects the baseless accusation that Puntland or Somalia as a whole is complicit in the El Fasher tragedy.
The real scandal is the collapse of state responsibility in Mogadishu — where foreign clearance stamps are sold as political favors and propaganda is exported through sympathetic media outlets.
Facts matter. Evidence matters. Geography is not guilt.
Ismail H Warsame, WDM, Garowe, Puntland, Somalia.
WDM EDITORIAL
The headline is simple: Somali immigrants are not “participating” in Western politics — they’re shaping it. Minnesota is the clearest case study: a tight, disciplined, neighborhood-level machine built on mosques, tenant unions, small-business corridors, and relentless door-knocking has turned a once-invisible refugee community into a decisive bloc in primaries, city halls, and statehouses. And Europe is watching the same movie with a short delay.
Minnesota: From Refugee Apartments to Power Brokers
Start in Minneapolis’ Ward 6 — Cedar-Riverside, Little Mogadishu. Abdi Warsame broke the ceiling in 2013, became councilmember, then moved to run the city’s Public Housing Authority — institutional power, not symbolism. Jamal Osman succeeded him and chairs the Business, Housing & Zoning Committee — real leverage over permits, landlords, and development pipelines.
At the state level, Rep. Ilhan Omar moved from the Minnesota House to Congress in 2018, anchoring an unapologetically progressive 5th District operation. Meanwhile, Sen. Omar Fateh became the first Somali American in the Minnesota Senate and, in 2025, briefly secured the DFL endorsement for Minneapolis mayor before party officials voided the convention — a drama that still signals how far Somali organizers have pushed inside the machine. Zaynab Mohamed’s win made her one of the first Black women — and the youngest woman — in the Minnesota Senate. Add Rep. Hodan Hassan’s tenure and you get a full bench, not a one-person brand.
Zoom out to mayoral politics. Deqa Dhalac in Maine (first Somali-American mayor, selected by council in 2021) and Nadia Mohamed in St. Louis Park, Minnesota (first Somali American elected mayor of a U.S. city in 2023) show executive-office reach beyond Minneapolis proper. That’s institutional normalization, not a protest wave.
Data check. Minnesota hosts the country’s largest Somali-American community, concentrated in the Twin Cities — a base big enough to swing primaries and municipal RCV tallies, and diverse enough to punish national parties when they misread local sentiment (see Somali-heavy precincts’ visible dissent in 2024).
What Makes the Minnesota Model Work
1. Grassroots density: apartment blocks, cooperative markets, and mosque networks translate into rapid turnout operations that outperform their size.
2. Issue discipline: housing, immigration services, wage enforcement, and diaspora foreign-policy concerns (Horn of Africa, Gaza) align local to global.
3. Institutional savvy: leaders moved into committees that control budgets, zoning, and public housing — the levers that change daily life.
This is why Muslim-American wins shattered records in the 2022 midterms — it’s not just demographic drift; it’s hard organizing.
Europe: The Parallel Story
If Minnesota is the lab, Europe is the replication:
Sweden: Leila Ali Elmi became the first Somali-Swedish MP (Green Party) in 2018, rooted in Gothenburg community work.
Finland: Suldaan Said Ahmed entered Parliament in 2021 — first Somali-Finnish MP — after city-level organizing in Helsinki.
Norway: Marian Hussein rose to deputy leader of the Socialist Left Party, a strategic seat in coalition arithmetic.
United Kingdom: Magid Magid jumped from Sheffield councillor to Lord Mayor and then to the European Parliament — a masterclass in insurgent branding plus grassroots ties.
The Research: Why This Keeps Scaling
Solid scholarship explains the engine behind these wins:
Transnationalism with teeth. Somali diasporas fuse local service work with long-distance political agendas — remittances, advocacy, and elite brokerage — making them unusually organized compared to other newcomer groups. (Lindley; Danstrøm et al.; Liberatore; EUI studies on Somalis in Europe).
From “remitters” to policymakers. After years of being framed as senders of money, diaspora leaders now sit at tables that allocate public money — committees and ministries — a qualitative shift in power. (SOAS/Anna Lindley’s corpus; peacebuilding roles mapped in Nordic journals).
The Political Consequence
When parties respect this base, it delivers. When they don’t, it defects or abstains, sending shockwaves through supposedly safe urban strongholds. And that’s the point: Somali-origin voters are no longer a footnote; they are a veto and a vehicle — capable of elevating candidates (Omar, Fateh, Mohamed, Dhalac) and punishing those who take them for granted.
The Next Fronts
Executive power: expect more mayors and committee chairs in U.S. cities with RCV and strong ward politics; similar openings in Nordic municipalities.
Policy pipelines: housing authorities, school boards, and immigration ombuds offices are gateways to national clout.
Coalition bargaining: diaspora foreign-policy priorities (Somalia, Red Sea security, refugee protection) will continue to shape endorsements and turnout.
Bottom line: “Refugees” became constituencies, then coalitions, then kingmakers. Minnesota wrote the playbook; Europe is updating it in real time.
Select Evidence & Further Reading
Minnesota seats and figures: Ilhan Omar (U.S. House), Omar Fateh & Zaynab Mohamed (MN Senate), Hodan Hassan (MN House), Jamal Osman & Abdi Warsame (Minneapolis).
Mayoral milestones: Deqa Dhalac (South Portland, 2021) and Nadia Mohamed (St. Louis Park, 2023).
Scale of the U.S. Somali diaspora and Minnesota concentration: Pew; U.S. Census/ACS; Minnesota Compass.
Europe’s Somali-origin officeholders: Sweden (Leila Ali Elmi), Finland (Suldaan Said Ahmed), Norway (Marian Hussein), UK (Magid Magid).
Scholarship on diaspora political incorporation & transnationalism: Lindley & SOAS corpus; Nordic/European studies.
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Warsame Digital Media (WDM) Editorial
A Protocol Written in Bias
Since 1991, Djibouti’s political theatre under successive rulers — from Hassan Gouled Abtidon to Ismail Omar Guelleh — has maintained a consistent “Djibouti Protocol” on Somali affairs. It is a doctrine not written on paper, but etched into every diplomatic gesture, every conference seating plan, and every whispered “brotherly” intervention in Somali politics.
When President Hassan Gouled hosted the first post–civil war Somali Reconciliation Conference, he revealed more than hospitality. He revealed bias. The sharp remark of the late Prime Minister Abdirizak Haji Hussein — “Djibouti has received some of us as brothers and the rest as friends” — was not simply a complaint about protocol. It was a diagnosis of Djibouti’s selective fraternity — a chronic political virus that continues to infect Somali diplomacy three decades later.
The Origins of the Bias
Three geopolitical currents shaped Djibouti’s enduring hostility toward a strong or united Somalia:
1. French Neo-Colonial Leash: Paris never truly released Djibouti; it merely outsourced control. The tiny port-nation remained a garrison for French interests, designed to counter both Somali nationalism and Eritrean independence ambitions. France viewed Somalia as the ghost of Greater Somalia, a dream that once nearly consumed the Horn.
2. Ethiopian Imperial Paranoia: Successive regimes in Addis Ababa, from Menelik II to Abyi Ahmed, maintained a standing doctrine: “Keep Somalia divided or risk Ethiopian fragmentation.” Djibouti became their perfect proxy, a miniature client state designed to suppress Somali nationalism under the banner of “regional stability.”
3. Abtidon’s Inferiority Complex: Siad Barre once treated Djibouti as a natural Somali province — an attitude that insulted Abtidon’s fragile sense of sovereignty. His answer was to exaggerate Djibouti’s independence by humiliating Somali delegates and aligning with forces that would keep Mogadishu weak and divided.
From Arta to Arrogance
The Arta Conference of 2000 was the apotheosis of the Djibouti Protocol — a spectacle disguised as peace. Under Guelleh, Djibouti transformed reconciliation into political theater. Delegates from Puntland and other federalist constituencies were deliberately sidelined, while Hawiye leaders were elevated as “national saviors.” The conference crowned Ali Mahdi Mohamed, the same man whose leadership ignited clan wars in Mogadishu, as the face of Somalia’s “new dawn.”
This was no accident. It was strategy. Arta institutionalized the marginalization of federalist and Darood-aligned regions, creating a political monopoly that Villa Somalia continues to exploit today under Damul Jadiid and its foreign backers.
The Five Pillars of the Djibouti Protocol
1. Political Marginalization of Darood Clans:
The so-called “Erir-Samaale” ethnographic myth is weaponized to delegitimize the Darood political base, painting it as “foreign” or “less Somali.” Djibouti’s propaganda machine sells this nonsense to Hawiye elites who happily buy it — because it keeps them in power.
2. Inheritance of Somali Arab League Seat:
When Somalia collapsed, Djibouti slid into its diplomatic vacuum, masquerading as the Arab world’s “gateway to the Horn.” It now markets Somali suffering as its own strategic capital.
3. Exploitation of Somali Collapse:
Djibouti’s economy thrives on Somali decay. Somali money transfer companies, import-export businesses, and traders keep Djibouti’s ports alive. Somalia’s misery is Djibouti’s GDP.
4. Control through Cultural Narratives:
The “Erir Samaale” myth is not anthropology — it is political anesthesia. It keeps Hawiye politicians loyal to Guelleh’s foreign policy while convincing the rest of Somalia that Djibouti is their benevolent “big brother.”
5. Economic Capture through Banking Dependency:
Djibouti’s banks are the offshore vaults of Somali capital. Every hawala, remittance firm, and logistics company operates through Djibouti’s financial arteries. It’s the perfect colonial model: Somalia’s money builds Djibouti’s skyscrapers.
The Hidden Empire of a Tiny State
Djibouti’s real power lies not in its size, but in its ability to weaponize Somalia’s weakness. With foreign military bases paying rent and Somali elites paying homage, Guelleh’s government has perfected the art of manipulation — dressing exploitation as “regional cooperation.”
From Arta to every subsequent “summit,” Djibouti has played the double game: peace-broker in public, political pickpocket in private. Its latest act — hosting recycled Somali politicians under the guise of “unity” — is nothing but déjà vu.
Conclusion: Djibouti’s Small State, Big Game
The Djibouti Protocol is not diplomacy; it is a doctrine of dependency. It thrives on Somali disunity and foreign indulgence. Every Somali leader who kneels in Arta or Djibouti City strengthens the very hand that profits from Somalia’s brokenness.
Until Somalia — particularly Puntland and the federalist north — confronts this parasitic arrangement, the “Djibouti Protocol” will remain the invisible constitution of Somali politics.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) CRITIQUE
The latest flurry of allegations circulated by partisan outlets and amplified by Turkish internet bots reeks of desperation — not journalism. What we are witnessing is a deliberate campaign orchestrated by Villa Somalia’s propaganda machine, designed to deflect from its own humiliating political and military failures in Jubaland and the catastrophic collapse of its SSC-Khaatumo project.
1. The Anatomy of Manufactured Scandal
Middle East Eye’s so-called “exclusive” exposé on Puntland is built on sand — anonymous sources, unverifiable claims, and selective omissions.
Key accusations rely on pseudonymous witnesses whose identities and motives remain hidden. The excuse of “safety” may sound noble, but it conveniently shields fabricators from accountability. Journalism without verifiable sourcing is gossip with grammar.
No shipping manifests. No photographic evidence. No neutral corroboration. Just a string of conjectures recycled from Mogadishu’s rumor mill and dressed up as investigative reporting. Even the report itself admits its one-sidedness: no official comment from UAE or Puntland — not because they are guilty, but because the so-called journalists never intended to verify anything that contradicted their pre-written narrative.
2. Villa Somalia’s Fingerprints Are All Over It
This propaganda was not born in London or Dubai — it was conceived in the shadowy backrooms of Villa Somalia, the same regime that:
Failed to defeat Ahmed Madobe in Jubaland despite lavish funding and Turkish training;
Watched its SSC-Khaatumo puppet project implode in disarray;
Lost the political narrative in Puntland, where state institutions remain intact, independent, and defiant.
Unable to impose its will through diplomacy or force, Villa Somalia resorts to information warfare — planting fake “investigations,” mobilizing Turkish and Qatari social media troll networks, and manipulating Middle Eastern media houses desperate for regional clicks.
And here lies the hypocrisy: if they have any facts on these allegations, why can’t these internet trolls, partisans, and the Damul-Jadiid administration challenge the UAE directly on their so-called findings? Because they know the allegations are hollow — and they believe they can intimidate Puntland into folding under Villa Somalia’s whims. Puntland will not bend. Not to propaganda. Not to political blackmail.
3. The Real Target: Puntland’s Sovereignty
The campaign’s goal is transparent — to delegitimize Puntland’s government, tarnish its partnership with regional allies, and paint it as a “rogue state.” This aligns perfectly with Mogadishu’s broader Damul-Jadiid playbook: weaken the federal states, isolate their leadership, and centralize power around a corrupt and unpopular presidency.
But Puntland’s record speaks louder than propaganda:
It remains Somalia’s most stable and functional regional administration.
It has upheld electoral processes, fiscal discipline, and regional security.
It continues to be the last functional counterweight to Villa Somalia’s authoritarian drift.
The irony is bitter — a government that can’t control one street in Mogadishu lectures Puntland about “foreign meddling.”
4. A Note on Middle East Eye’s “Editorial Line”
MEE has every right to question Gulf policies — but when it echoes Mogadishu’s talking points without cross-checking facts, it becomes complicit in a disinformation war. Its reputation as a critic of Gulf interventionism may serve ideological agendas, but it does not excuse the abandonment of journalistic ethics.
Real journalism demands verification, not regurgitation.
5. The Puntland Response
Puntland owes no apology for cooperating with regional and international partners in pursuit of its own economic and security interests.
It does not need permission from a discredited federal administration that survives on donor stipends and foreign guards. The real scandal is not in Bosaso’s airport — it is in Mogadishu’s palace, where national sovereignty is traded for political survival.
In Conclusion
This latest smear is not investigative journalism — it’s psychological warfare by a nervous regime facing the ruins of its regional projects. Puntland stands unshaken. Let Villa Somalia’s trolls type; Puntland will continue to build, govern, and lead.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
So it finally happened. A convoy of Puntland’s “distinguished” elders — the self-appointed custodians of honor and protocol — travelled to Djibouti thinking they were heading for a royal reception. Instead, they were met with buffet lines and bunk beds. The mighty “delegates” of Puntland State, men accustomed to red carpets and local bodyguards saluting their shadows, found themselves elbow-to-elbow in the Arta dining hall, balancing plastic plates and asking, “Where’s our room?”
Welcome to the Guelleh School of Humility, where arrogance meets reality.
The Great Queue of Shame
What was once sold as a “special invitation” from Djibouti’s master of ceremonies turned out to be an open-door jamboree — a recycled anniversary of the 2000 Arta Conference, now reduced to a noisy crowd of job-seekers, opportunists, and nostalgic relics.
The elders, who imagined themselves as “ambassadors of peace,” discovered they were just another set of names on a guest list longer than a Mogadishu power deal.
There they stood — queuing for food, queuing for rooms, queuing for recognition. Some say a few even asked, “Where is our protocol officer?” The answer was silence — or maybe laughter from Guelleh’s aides who knew exactly what they were doing.
When Dignity Travels Without Direction
The insult wasn’t just logistical — it was political. These elders left Puntland without consultation, without clarity, and without a mandate from the very people they claim to represent. They boarded the flight as “Puntland’s elders” but landed as Guelleh’s extras in a political theatre meant to decorate Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s desperate propaganda show.
Respect in politics is earned through principle, not invitations. You cannot expect protocol abroad when you ignore your people at home. Those who bypassed their constituencies have now learned the cruel arithmetic of self-importance — that prestige without legitimacy equals humiliation.
Arta: The Ghost of 2000
Twenty-five years later, Arta has returned — not as a peace conference, but as a comedy of errors. The same Guelleh who once used Arta to impose his will on Somalia now uses its anniversary to parade political relics who lost relevance in their own regions. Puntland’s elders became props in a ceremony meant to revive a dead legacy, while Djibouti’s regime showcased them as trophies of submission.
One can imagine Guelleh smirking from his throne, thinking: “Those who ignored Garowe’s authority now beg for food in Arta.”
Lesson Learned — or Not?
If there is one lesson from this fiasco, it’s this: respect is not outsourced. Those who disregard their own institutions and people in pursuit of foreign flattery end up discovering the meaning of respect in the most humiliating way possible — with a plastic plate in hand and no seat at the table.
Let this be a warning to every self-proclaimed elder or envoy: before accepting invitations from foreign regimes with hidden agendas, ask yourself who benefits — your people or your ego?
Because in Arta, ego was the first casualty.
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“Nin Daad Qaaday Xumbo Cuskay“
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) SATIRE
Once again, the old ghosts of Somali politics have found a new address — not in Mogadishu, not in Garowe, but in Arta, Djibouti — the new diplomatic rehabilitation center for washed-up politicians and political has-beens. A photo circulating from what looks like a presidential luxury living room captures it all: a dozen “former” Somali politicians seated on golden couches, waiting for political resurrection courtesy of His Excellency, President Ismail Omar Guelleh — the forever ruler of Djibouti and now the unofficial landlord of Exile Villa Somalia.
A Stage for the Politically Undead
What couldn’t be organized in Mogadishu — a city where even microphones tremble before explosions — is now being staged under Guelleh’s chandeliers. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, the tireless salesman of recycled politics, has found in Guelleh a willing host to parade Somalia’s broken past. These gentlemen — yes, gentlemen of expired mandates and manufactured relevance — have gathered not to save Somalia, but to remind us why it keeps sinking. Their agenda? A mystery. Their mission? Survival. Their motto? “We were there before, and we can be there again — even if only in a hotel lobby abroad.”
Arta as Political Refugee Camp
This isn’t the first time Djibouti has played the role of “guardian angel” of Somalia’s misfortunes. Back in 2000, Guelleh hosted the Arta Conference — a grand theater that birthed the TNG, a government that never governed and a legacy that never ended. Now, 25 years later, the same stage is being dusted off. But this time, it’s not about reconciliation — it’s about relevance. It’s about Hassan Sheikh Mohamud finding a friendly hall to speak to his own people because he can’t gather them in his own capital.
Let’s call it what it is: a political séance. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and Ismail Omar Guelleh are trying to summon the spirit of Arta’s past — hoping that nostalgia might mask the stench of failure.
Guelleh’s Distraction, Mohamud’s Desperation
For Guelleh, this political circus is a distraction from his own internal crisis — a constitutional coup that made him president-for-life in all but name. For Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, it’s an escape from the growing realization that his government’s “vision” has collapsed into chaos. Together, they form a duet of desperation — one trying to extend a dynasty, the other trying to extend a mandate.
And those sitting quietly on the couches, hands folded like schoolboys in detention? They are the supporting cast — men who’ve presided over Somalia’s decline in every decade since 1991, now reassembled for one last group photograph in the Guelleh Museum of Political Taxidermy.
A Show Without a Nation
Arta’s air-conditioning may be cooler than Mogadishu’s heat, but the political atmosphere remains suffocating. Somalia’s people are not invited. Its suffering is not discussed. Its sovereignty is not respected. Instead, the discussion revolves around how to polish the same failed faces for one more season of political entertainment.
Call it “Villa Somalia in Exile” — where yesterday’s leaders rehearse tomorrow’s delusions under the warm patronage of Djibouti’s eternal ruler.
WDM Verdict:
If history repeats itself first as tragedy and then as farce, Arta 2025 has achieved the double. Somalia doesn’t need another conference — it needs an exorcism.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
The much-hyped Arta Conference 25th Anniversary was supposed to be a moment of nostalgia and national revival — a political pilgrimage to the birthplace of Somalia’s so-called “reconciliation.” Instead, it ended as an expensive, hollow pageant — a Djiboutian fireworks show with no audience, no substance, and no soul.
What was billed as a “commemorative summit of unity” turned out to be a stage-managed farce. President Ismail Omar Guelleh, desperate to divert attention from his own constitutional coup in Djibouti, invited a cast of recycled politicians, rent-a-elders, and self-proclaimed visionaries to a hotel ballroom in Arta. Cameras rolled, microphones buzzed, and speeches echoed through empty applause. The outcome? Nothing but political confetti scattered across the Horn.
Guelleh’s Distraction and Mohamud’s Desperation
Let’s call it what it was: a double act of political desperation.
Guelleh needed a distraction — a smokescreen to cloud his latest maneuver to make himself president-for-life. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, on the other hand, needed a stage — any stage — where he could pretend to address “the Somali people” without facing the reality that he can’t gather them in Mogadishu, Beledweyne, Baidoa, or Garowe.
So Guelleh handed Mohamud the microphone — literally.
In that single gesture, Djibouti’s veteran strongman became the voice-giver to Somalia’s struggling federal leader. If irony could blush, this would be its moment. How can a president who cannot summon his citizens on Somali soil travel to a foreign land to be heard through another leader’s amplifier?
The Erasure of TFG History
In the haze of pomp and protocol, another quiet theft took place: the erasure of history.
The Transitional Federal Government (TFG) — led by the late President Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed — was the real product of Somali reconciliation, born from the sweat and sacrifice of countless patriots at the Mbagathi Conference. But Arta’s revisionists, desperate to rewrite the script, attempted to rebrand the TFG’s legacy as a Djiboutian success story. It’s like a plagiarist celebrating someone else’s thesis at a graduation ceremony.
For those who lived the history, the insult is unbearable.
The TFG was forged through Somali willpower, not Djiboutian choreography. To pretend otherwise is to spit on the memory of the men and women who risked their lives for national restoration.
A Political Stunt Gone Wrong
The masterminds behind this spectacle promised Guelleh that hosting Mohamud’s show would elevate Djibouti’s regional prestige — a “new Arta moment.” Instead, it collapsed under its own self-importance.
No major Somali political faction endorsed it. Puntland ignored it. Jubaland shrugged off. Even the Mogadishu streets yawned. What was meant to be a grand political resurrection became a ghost event — a conference that died before it began.
The symbolism couldn’t be sharper:
A president who can’t govern his capital,
a host clinging to a throne beyond its expiry date,
and a people too weary to applaud another act of elite theatre.
The Verdict: Backfire of the Century
The “Arta@25” spectacle didn’t just fail — it backfired spectacularly.
Instead of projecting power, it exposed weakness. Instead of rewriting Somali history, it reminded everyone who really wrote it. Instead of uniting the Somali people, it proved once again that legitimacy cannot be borrowed — not from Guelleh, not from Arta, not from history’s dustbin.
The lights have dimmed, the guests have departed, and the bill is yet to be paid.
Arta’s 25th anniversary was not a celebration — it was a confession.
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By WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
A President Who Needs a Foreign Microphone
It is one of the strangest spectacles in modern African politics: a head of state who cannot gather his own citizens on his own soil — not in Mogadishu, not in Baidoa, not in Garowe, not even in Laascaanood — but must instead borrow the stage of a foreign autocrat to speak to his own people. President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, the self-proclaimed defender of Somali unity, has found himself standing not as a host but as a guest, addressing Somalis from Arta, Djibouti — a rented hall under another man’s flag.
The symbolism is deafening. The so-called Federal President uses another country’s legitimacy to perform his national duty. What does it say about sovereignty when the President of Somalia needs to be introduced to his own citizens by President Ismail Omar Guelleh? It’s like a father asking the neighbour’s permission to talk to his own children — a tragic comedy of failed statehood.
Arta 2025: The Sequel Nobody Asked For
The “25th Anniversary of the Arta Conference” is being paraded as a historic reunion — but in truth, it is a desperate rerun of a tired political play. What’s the real purpose of this show? Three things stand out clearly.
1. Microphone Diplomacy: Guelleh provides the microphone, Hassan Sheikh provides the speech. The Somali President, stripped of domestic credibility, borrows the voice of Djibouti’s palace to make himself heard. A President speaking to Somalis in exile — what a metaphor for the state of Somalia itself.
2. Historical Theft: The gathering attempts to erase the legacy of the Transitional Federal Government (TFG) founded by Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, the only Somali leader who built a legitimate post-war central authority and marched it back to Mogadishu and sat in Villa Somalia after Siyad Barre. Arta 2025 is not about peace; it’s about plagiarism. Hassan Sheikh and his Damul Jadiid courtiers are trying to rewrite history, pretending the TFG never existed — as if the journey from Nairobi to Mogadishu happened by divine teleportation, not by political courage.
3. Djibouti’s Domestic Distraction: Let’s not fool ourselves — Guelleh’s new “Arta show” is a smokescreen. His recent constitutional coup, extending his rule into eternity, has angered many Djiboutians. What better way to divert attention from domestic unrest than to resurrect Somalia’s endless conferences? While Djibouti’s youth whisper about political reform, Guelleh waves the Somali flag and declares another “peace initiative.” The irony? There is no peace to be made — just recycled rhetoric and hotel per diems.
But make no mistake: The elephants in the Arta Hall now are TFG and Puntland State.
The Puppet and the Puppeteer
In this theatre of borrowed legitimacy, two aging regimes perform a duet of self-preservation. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud needs Guelleh’s stage to look relevant. Guelleh needs Hassan Sheikh’s chaos to look indispensable. One is struggling to control his federation; the other is struggling to control his own succession. Together they form a tragic alliance of political insecurity.
The Somali President, who once promised “Soomaali Heshiis Ah,” now acts like a tenant of Djibouti’s foreign policy. His ministers chase after photo opportunities instead of federal consensus. Meanwhile, Guelleh, the octogenarian master of political disguise, plays the “wise regional statesman” while chaining his own citizens to perpetual rule.
The Real Message of Arta
The 2025 Arta Conference does not symbolize reconciliation — it symbolizes regression. It marks the return of Somalia’s dependency politics, where every local crisis requires a foreign sponsor, and every Somali leader kneels before a smaller but more coherent state.
If Hassan Sheikh Mohamud cannot summon his own citizens in Mogadishu without foreign permission, then what exactly is he president of? And if Ismail Omar Guelleh’s only legacy after 25 years in power is hosting other people’s problems, then what is Djibouti’s independence worth beyond its borders?
Final Word: The Emperor and the Errand Boy
Somalia’s President borrows legitimacy; Djibouti’s President hides from his own people. One cannot speak at home, the other cannot stop speaking abroad. Together they create the perfect paradox — two leaders bound by insecurity, united by illusion, and blessed by self-deception.
In the end, Arta 2025 will not be remembered for speeches or resolutions. It will be remembered as a political masquerade — where a nation without direction applauded another without democracy.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
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Overview
Abdullahi A. Nor’s narrative is a sweeping historical reconstruction of Sir Richard Burton’s 1854–1855 journey through the Horn of Africa, written with literary polish and ethnographic precision. Drawing heavily from First Footsteps in East Africa, Nor revisits Burton’s odyssey not merely as an act of exploration but as a profound cultural encounter — between the Victorian world of empire and the oral democracies of Somali society.
This is no mere retelling; it is a reinterpretation that situates Burton’s journey within Somali agency, geography, and memory.
Strengths
1. Masterful Historical Framing
Nor situates Burton’s journey in the larger 19th-century “Age of Exploration” but immediately distinguishes him from the rest. The opening lines — invoking “lost cities, the sources of the Nile, and the edges of empire” — evoke the grandeur of exploration while contrasting Burton’s intellectual curiosity against the imperial arrogance of his contemporaries.
The author skillfully connects this to the ancient identity of Punt, grounding the reader in a Somali-centered geography rather than a European map.
2. Ethnographic Fidelity and Respect
Each section dedicated to a Somali clan (Isa, Gadabuursi, Habr Awal, Geri Kombe, Dir) is both vivid and fair. Nor captures the internal diversity and sophistication of Somali society — emphasizing customary law (xeer), lineage politics, and oral governance.
He translates Burton’s occasionally exotic descriptions into respectful ethnography, allowing Somali institutions to stand as coherent systems of law and social contract rather than “tribal curiosities.”
Notably, his description of the Gadabuursi’s “parliament without walls” and the Geri Kombe’s “court beneath a tamarind tree” demonstrate a deep understanding of the Somali moral order.
3. Elegant Prose and Balanced Tone
The writing is lyrical without being overwrought. Phrases like “every man carries his genealogy in his memory, his honor on his tongue, and his sword at his side” echo Burton’s own romantic language but carry a Somali rhythm and restraint.
Nor’s tone remains balanced — critical of colonial ambitions yet appreciative of Burton’s intellectual courage and curiosity.
4. Restoring Somali Centrality
Most English-language writings on Burton cast him as the protagonist and the Somali as the backdrop. Nor reverses this perspective: the land, people, and codes of the Horn become the story’s true framework. Burton appears as a guest navigating a pre-existing civilization.
By calling the Somalis “a democracy of equals,” Nor not only quotes Burton but reclaims the phrase as a historical affirmation of Somali political identity — centuries before the notion of “federalism” entered the region’s discourse.
Weaknesses
1. Limited Critical Interrogation of Burton’s Biases
While the author acknowledges the “colonial assumptions of his age,” he does not fully unpack how Burton’s writings reinforced later imperial projects. A deeper critique of the racial, economic, and religious hierarchies embedded in Burton’s ethnography could have strengthened the analysis.
2. Absence of Contemporary Reflection
The “Epilogue” beautifully connects Burton’s footsteps to the modern Somali landscape, yet the piece stops short of drawing explicit parallels to current identity debates, border politics, or the legacies of British and Ethiopian influence.
A paragraph connecting Burton’s maps to present-day geopolitical fault lines — Somaliland, the Ogaden, Zeila, Harar — would have added resonance.
3. Over-Romanticization
Though Nor’s poetic tone is captivating, at times it risks idealizing precolonial Somali society as an egalitarian utopia. A few nods to internal conflicts, feuds, or hierarchies could balance this romantic portrayal.
Style and Structure
Nor organizes the piece with clarity and rhythm. Each clan is given a standalone section, producing a sense of journey and continuity. The structure mirrors a caravan route — coastal, pastoral, frontier, and highland — culminating in Harar.
His use of bold subheadings and balanced paragraphs makes the text highly readable for both academic and general audiences.
Conclusion
Abdullahi A. Nor’s essay is a rare blend of historical scholarship, literary craft, and cultural empathy. It reframes Burton’s First Footsteps not as a European triumph of discovery but as an encounter between knowledge systems — one written, the other spoken.
It is both a homage to Somali civilization and a critique of how history was told about it. Nor gives voice to the Isa, Gadabuursi, Habr Awal, and Geri Kombe not as footnotes to Burton’s adventure, but as the rightful authors of their own landscape.
In short, this story is not merely about Burton’s footsteps — it’s about the ground he walked on finally speaking for itself.
—
Rating: ★★★★★ (5/5)
Verdict: A meticulously researched and elegantly written historical essay that reclaims Somali agency in one of the most mythologized episodes of African exploration.
Dear WDM Readers,
Here is why the release of the latest instalment of the interview series (on Arta Conference and Mbagathi Conference) is nothing less than a breakthrough — and why it should set off alarms in every quarter that profits from confusion, distortion, and the “unitary-only” narrative of Somalia.
What these interviews do
1. Restore the credible chronology — The record of Somali peace, reconciliation and state-building conferences has been battered for decades by selective memory, bad-faith revisionism and outright political opportunism. The new series offers voices that cut through the noise, reminding us: Arta (Djibouti, 2000) though unrepresentative and manipulated by Djibouti President Ismail Omar Guelleh, laid the foundation for what became the transitional federal system, and Mbagathi (Nairobi, 2002) created the Second Somali Republic, the Federal Republic of Somalia.
2. Expose the distortions — For too long, opponents of federalism have reduced these long series of talks to “failed unitary state attempts” or “mere elite bargains.” The interviews draw attention back to the substance: clan and regional delegations, diaspora involvement, the roles of external actors—not just as spoilers but as architects of new national pathways.
3. Clarify Puntland’s missing links — In your own field of interest — the establishment of Puntland (1998 onward) and the subsequent federal trajectory — these interviews provide context. They place Puntland as the leading partner and an integral part of the pre-federal puzzle: those conferences and trajectories originated from the north-east Somalia
4. Punch holes in the “unitary nostalgia” narrative — The forces pushing for a strong centralised Somalia (for understandable motives: control, rents, centralised aid flows) have long misused the conference histories to argue that federalism is a foreign import, a last-resort fallback. The interviews dismantle that line: federal forms were emerging in real time, not hijacked later.
Why this matters politically
Power & resources: Whoever controls the narrative controls how revenue (hydrocarbons, port revenues, diaspora flows, donor funds) is allocated. By reconstructing a credible narrative of federalism’s roots, the interviews shift the terrain away from zero-sum centralisation.
Legitimacy and memory: In Somalia’s fragile political architecture, memory is contested terrain. These interviews insert a counter-memory to the dominant one-state-only mythology. For Puntland, for diaspora networks, for business communities in Galkayo, Garowe, Qardho — this means recognition and standing.
External actors: With your interest in UAE, Turkey, Qatar, IMF/World Bank, etc., recall that many external players prefer a weak centre to negotiate bilaterally. A stronger federal architecture threatens that. The interviews thus irritate not just domestic monopolies but external contractors of ambiguity.
Narratives shape institutions: If the conferences are portrayed as failures or as “throwaways,” then federalism becomes a placeholder. But if the interviews make clear that they were substantive, then federalism becomes an institution with roots and rights — and Puntland’s claim to its piece of that architecture becomes sharper.
But: No piece is perfect. Here are caution flags and opportunities for sharpening.
Selection bias: Make sure the interview series does not give the impression of cherry-picking voices friendly to your agenda. Credibility is built when critics—yes, even opponents of federalism—are present, questioned, held to account.
Depth of archival grounding: Oral interviews are powerful, but must be backed with documentation (resolutions of Arta, minutes of Mbagathi, clan-delegation lists). Without that, critics will accuse you of anecdote substitution.
Vocabulary discipline: Some audiences dismiss the label “federalism” because of its misuse. The interviews should define terms clearly: what “federalism” meant in 2004, how that framework differs from “autonomy,” “confederation,” “unitary state.” Clarify the difference between de facto federalism (as in Puntland’s reality) and de jure federalism.
Avoid triumphalism: While it’s tempting to celebrate the interviews as “the answer,” stay in journal-istic posture: raise questions, point the gaps, invite commentary. That strengthens rather than weakens the piece.
Footnote the economic dimension: Given your interest in infrastructure, remittances, donors, etc., ensure a stronger thread in the interviews about how these peace conferences had direct economic/macro consequences (e.g., how conference outcomes enabled diaspora flows, or how they linked to telecom liberalisation, or how they influenced port logic). This links the political critique to your core interest.
The bottom line
For too long, Somali federalism has been treated like an accident of war, a refuge of clan leaders, or a donor fad. These interviews slash through that fiction. They remind us that–from Arta to Mbagathi to Puntland––there existed purposeful design, contested negotiations, regional and diaspora agency, and institutional potential.
In doing so, they unsettle those who prefer a weak Mogadishu-centric rent-seeking model, who benefit from a fuzzy memory of the past, and who still see federalism as a threat to their resource-grain.
So: Listen. Review. Share. But don’t stop there. Use the interviews as a weapon in the contest of history — because until history is agreed, policy will be surrendered.
Support WDM — the home of fearless, independent journalism that speaks truth to power across Somalia and the region. Tel/WhatsApp: +252 90 703 4081
— Yours in the unflinching fight for Somali accountability and development,
Ismail H Warsame
WDM
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
Ethiopia’s latest declaration from the Office of the Prime Minister is not diplomacy — it is delusion disguised as doctrine. When a head of government publicly questions “who decided to deprive Ethiopia of access to the Red Sea,” it signals not historical inquiry but territorial appetite. In Abiy Ahmed’s Ethiopia, fiction has replaced fact, and revisionism has become state policy.
The Return of Imperial Geography
Ethiopia’s political elite has long been haunted by the ghost of its lost coastline. The rhetoric now emanating from Addis Ababa — dressed in the polite vocabulary of “shared prosperity” — is nothing short of a veiled threat. It echoes the expansionist fantasies of the late Emperor Menelik II and Haile Selassie, both of whom saw the Red Sea not as a regional commons but as Ethiopia’s divine inheritance.
But history is not kind to such delusions. Ethiopia was never deprived of the Red Sea; it lost it through war and law — specifically, through its own refusal to respect the self-determination of Eritrea. The 1993 Eritrean referendum, recognized internationally and conducted peacefully, was the very “institutional decision” that the Prime Minister now pretends never happened. It was endorsed by the United Nations and accepted by Addis Ababa itself. To now question that settlement is to reopen the coffin of a century-old imperial corpse.
The Dangerous Myth of “Landlocked Entitlement”
The world is full of landlocked countries — from Switzerland and Austria to Rwanda and Uganda — all of which thrive through diplomacy and economic integration, not invasion or intimidation. Yet Ethiopia’s narrative of “natural entitlement” to the Red Sea reeks of arrogance. What makes Ethiopia different? Only one answer fits: its chronic habit of bullying weaker neighbours.
Landlocked status is not a curse; it is a test of leadership. The problem is not geography — it is psychology. Ethiopia’s ruling class still sees regional cooperation as subservience, and neighbourly sovereignty as negotiable.
Let us be clear: the port access question is not about “shared prosperity.” It is about coercion disguised as partnership. It is about an empire nostalgic for a coastline it lost through its own folly.
Abiy Ahmed’s “Prosperity” or “Predation”?
Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed presents himself as a reformer, but his words increasingly betray the instincts of a revisionist. The Prosperity Party’s ideology has become a cocktail of neo-imperial ambition and domestic distraction. When internal crises multiply — from the Amhara rebellion to the Tigray fallout — Ethiopian leaders look outward for scapegoats. “The Red Sea issue” is now the new smokescreen for failed governance at home.
This is not about trade routes; it is about political survival. The Red Sea rhetoric allows Abiy to rally nationalist sentiment, silence dissent, and portray himself as a defender of Ethiopia’s “historic destiny.” In other words, it is a dangerous mix of populism and paranoia — a familiar cocktail that has poisoned the Horn of Africa before.
A Warning to the Neighbours
For Eritrea, Djibouti, and Somalia — particularly Puntland and Somaliland — this rhetoric is not academic. It is a prelude. When Ethiopia starts invoking “historical and geographical rights” to access the sea, it is preparing the public for confrontation. The neighbours must therefore treat these words not as harmless political theatre but as a strategic signal.
Remember: when Ethiopia, in its sinister motive, talks about “access to the Red Sea,” it is not referring to Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, or Israel. It is talking about aggression against Somalia and Eritrea — the two countries whose sovereignty and coastline represent the nearest and most vulnerable targets of its ambitions.
Ethiopia’s obsession threatens to militarize the Red Sea corridor and destabilize an already fragile region. The international community must recognize this early — before another Horn of Africa war erupts under the banner of “economic necessity.” The world cannot afford another 1977.
Conclusion: Ethiopia’s Crisis Is Ethiopia’s Own
The truth Abiy refuses to confront is simple: Ethiopia’s crisis is not external — it is internal. It is not about ports — it is about politics. The real deprivation lies not in geography but in governance, not in access to the Red Sea but in access to reason.
Instead of plotting imaginary corridors to the sea, Ethiopia’s rulers should open corridors of justice, reconciliation, and reform inside their own borders. Until they do, every talk of “mutual progress” will ring hollow — a euphemism for domination wrapped in diplomatic deceit.
——–
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
The signs are unmistakable. The air in Garowe smells of déjà vu — the year is 2000 all over again. Back then, the same shadows moved across the landscape: suspicious invitations to foreign capitals, traditional elders lured to “witness celebrations,” and a slow but deliberate orchestration of political replacement masked as reconciliation. What was once called the Arta Conference now has a reincarnation — this time, in Djibouti again, under the familiar fingerprints of President Ismail Omar Guelleh and his ally in Mogadishu, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud.
Déjà Vu: The Djibouti Connection
It is not coincidence — it is choreography. When traditional elders of Puntland are suddenly summoned to Djibouti “for talks,” when meetings of elders quietly multiply in Bosaso and Garowe, when Hassan Sheikh’s aircraft lands in Djibouti with no public itinerary, the alarm bells should be deafening.
In 2000, Puntland was betrayed by those who went to Arta claiming to represent the Northeast Somalia. They came back as Trojan horses, ushering in a foreign-engineered “regime change” and dismantling the foundations built through sweat and sacrifice since 1998. That same pattern is reemerging — only this time, the threat is more cunning, wrapped in the language of “renewal,” “dialogue,” and “New Puntland.”
The “New Puntland” Trap
Who is behind this phrase — New Puntland? It is not the people. It is the echo chamber of Villa Somalia’s ideological architects — the same Damul Jadiid strategists who undermined SSC-Khaatumo, fractured Jubaland, and now seek to neutralize the last bastion of autonomous federalism: Puntland.
“New Puntland” is not a slogan — it’s a sedative. It’s the language of infiltration, meant to disarm vigilance and weaken political resistance. Those who whisper it are not reformers; they are emissaries of Mogadishu’s centralizing project — a regime whose survival depends on dismantling any model of local autonomy that dares to challenge its illegitimacy.
Foreign Hands, Familiar Patterns
President Guelleh’s Djibouti has always played both arsonist and firefighter in Somali politics. From Arta to today, Djibouti thrives on Somali instability, using “peace conferences” as smokescreens for influence operations. The recent series of Hassan Sheikh’s “consultations” in Djibouti are not about friendship — they are strategic briefings. Something is being cooked, and Puntland is once again on the menu.
If Puntland leadership continues to underestimate the pattern — to dismiss this as routine diplomacy — they are sleepwalking into a trap that history already scripted once before.
A Call to Wake Up
The lesson of 2000 was written in betrayal, but it does not have to be repeated. Puntland’s stability is not guaranteed by its borders — it is guarded by its political consciousness. The moment Puntland allows foreign capitals to dictate its internal dynamics, the spirit of 1998 dies.
Every elder must now ask: Who invited you, and why? Every official must ask: Who benefits from your silence? Every citizen must remember: A state is not lost by invasion — it is lost by negligence.
The battle for Puntland’s soul has begun again — quietly, cunningly, and under diplomatic disguise. Those who built this state must rise once more to defend it, or risk watching it collapse into another Arta-style disaster.
——–
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
When a foreign state openly invites large delegates of Somali citizens—comprising traditional elders, businesspeople, and ordinary civilians—from Puntland territory, the question writes itself: Has Puntland surrendered its sovereign agency over its own citizens?
Let’s be clear. This is not a mere cultural visit, nor an innocent diplomatic courtesy for several persons. This is huge active intelligence measures by Djibouti flexing its political muscles in Somalia’s northern theatre—a carefully choreographed act of soft subversion disguised as hospitality. In the age of proxy politics, every “invitation” carries a message, and every banquet has a price.
The Anatomy of Negligence
How did a sovereign regional government—one that claims political maturity and institutional capacity—allow an entire delegation of its residents to be dragged across borders by a foreign regime, without public consultation, without vetting, and without accountability?
This isn’t just poor coordination. It is a security breach of the first order. A lapse in intelligence coordination, an insult to Puntland’s authority, and an open mockery of its sovereignty. Where are the internal security agencies, the Ministry of Interior, and the political advisors who are supposed to defend the state’s interests?
When elders, who carry moral legitimacy in their communities, are courted by foreign regimes, they become tools of influence. And when a state like Djibouti—whose leadership thrives on manipulation and transactional diplomacy—hosts such delegations, the intent is rarely benign.
Who Bears the Blame?
Responsibility must be traced to those who looked the other way.
The Puntland security apparatus, for failing to regulate or monitor the movement of such groups.
The Counter-intelligience Agency.
And ultimately, the Puntland Presidency, for tolerating the erosion of the state’s external dignity.
In any functional state, this would trigger an inquiry. In Puntland, however, it risks becoming yet another “non-event” swept under the rug of political convenience.
Djibouti’s Political Theatre
Let us not be naïve. Djibouti’s aging autocrat, Ismail Omar Guelleh, has a well-documented record of meddling in Somali politics—from the infamous Arta Conference that fractured Somalia’s political landscape, to his more recent manipulations in the Horn.
By inviting Puntland citizens, Guelleh is not extending friendship. He is testing Puntland’s vigilance, probing for weakness, and possibly cultivating new agents of influence.
After SSC-KHAATUMO: The Price of Complacency
This intrusion comes right after the SSC-KHAATUMO episode, when Puntland leadership chose to ignore repeated warnings about Mogadishu’s covert campaign to destabilize the region. That neglect—born of political arrogance and diplomatic inertia—opened cracks in Puntland’s internal cohesion.
Now, as Djibouti steps into the vacuum, Puntland’s complacency has turned into a liability. When a state fails to defend its peripheries politically, others will gladly claim them diplomatically.
The Cost of Silence
Every time Puntland remains silent in the face of external interference, it loses another inch of its political sovereignty. Today, it’s Djibouti inviting traditional elders. Tomorrow, it could be another foreign state funding local factions or shaping Puntland’s future behind closed doors.
If Puntland is to survive as a state—not as a symbolic region under endless manipulation—it must assert its diplomatic independence, regulate foreign engagement, and draw red lines that no external power, however rich or connected, can cross.
Silence, in this case, is not diplomacy. It is complicity.
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
It seems the octogenarian ruler of Djibouti, Ismail Omar Guelleh, has perfected the dark art of self-recycling — not just of his own presidency, but of political fossils from Somalia’s forgotten past. This week, Guelleh pulled off what can only be described as a legislative coup d’état in broad daylight, rewriting the constitution to ensure that he will remain in office not only for life, but possibly beyond — through hologram, embalming, or divine decree, whichever comes first.
But that’s not the whole circus. What truly adds insult to injury is the guest list. For reasons known only to the Sheikhs of recycled politics, Guelleh has chosen to invite the very men who betrayed Puntland’s founding spirit at the 2000 Arta Conference — those who signed away regional autonomy for the applause of foreign dignitaries and the empty promise of “national unity” under the UN tents of Djibouti. These are the same relics who couldn’t represent Puntland even then, yet have now reappeared in Guelleh’s court like ghosts who never learned shame.
Whom do they represent today? Puntland? Hardly.
Somalia? Don’t make us laugh.
The people? Not even their own clans.
No — these are the wandering souls of Somalia’s political graveyard, summoned by Guelleh for one last séance. His motive? Perhaps he dreams of another Arta-style coup, not against Mogadishu this time, but against Puntland itself — the last surviving experiment in Somali federalism. Maybe Guelleh believes he can once again broker a “Somali dialogue” where he sits on the throne and the same faded actors read from the same old script written by foreign consultants and funded by French francs.
The Sultan of Longevity and the Sheikh of Betrayal Guelleh, the self-crowned “Sultan of Stability,” has outlasted four French presidents, seven Somali transitional charades, and an entire generation of Djiboutian youth who can’t find work unless they shine the shoes of Chinese contractors at Doraleh Port. Yet he insists that only he can keep Djibouti from falling apart — the same excuse used by every dictator from the Red Sea to the Nile. His parliament, meanwhile, has become a rubber-stamp factory, whose only product is eternal servitude.
Now, as he builds his next chapter of immortality, Guelleh seeks to dress up tyranny in pan-Somali robes, importing faded faces from Puntland’s past to legitimize his aging dream. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s fingerprints are not far either — for no Somali president ever misses a chance to meddle in Puntland affairs through proxies and puppets.
But Puntland is not Arta. Not anymore.
The Puntland of 2025 is not a desperate refugee camp searching for relevance; it is a state with its own institutions, its own people, and a long memory. Those who betrayed it once will not be allowed to do so again.
Let Guelleh play emperor in his tiny French protectorate. Let him rewrite his constitution until the paper turns to dust. Puntland has seen far greater men rise and fall.
And when Guelleh finally meets his Creator — constitutionally or otherwise — perhaps he will realize that no ruler, however long his rule, can outlive the truth.
—
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
It’s that time again — another delegation from Mudug, led by the ever-patient Islaan Bashiir Islaan Cabdille, marching to Garowe with the same civic optimism, the same PowerPoint dreams, and the same eternal hope that this time, the promises might stick.
The scene? Predictable as a Ramadan moon sighting. The Mudug Regional Development Committee, diaspora businesspeople, and Galkacyo City Administration — all lined up like a tired choir, singing praises to the “development” symphony with President Said Abdullahi Deni, maestro of repetitive pledges.
Act I: Security — or the Art of Announcing Announcements
The President solemnly “informed” the people of Mudug that a new police force may be latter sent to the city, but not now- you are on your own— the same promise that’s been “on its way” since Puntland was young. The people nodded.
What they didn’t ask was who will pay them at that time, equip them, or lead them.
Security in Galkacyo has become an industry of words, not deeds. For years, each crisis births a press release, not a police reform. Yet, they still clap — as if applause can stop the bullets at night.
Act II: The Water Mirage
Ah, the water project — Galkacyo’s longest-running joke since the “joint administration” era. This time, the President confirmed that $1 million is “ready.” The diaspora nodded. The committee smiled.
Let’s recall: WDM has reported before on the stench of decay, the collapse of the drainage system, and the municipal paralysis that turned Galkayo into a city of dust and disease. Yet here we are, back at the conference table — talking water while people queue for jerrycans.
They say $3 million has been allocated, but $10 million is needed.
Translation: we are still thirsty.
Act III: The Airport Dream That Refuses to Land
The business community, brave as ever, proposed to invest in the airport, a noble dream buried in every administration’s promise book. The President agreed — as Presidents always do when the bill isn’t theirs.
$20 million, they say, will resurrect the Abdullahi Yusuf International Airport. Perhaps. But the people of Galkayo have already contributed enough: their patience, their remittances, their dignity. What they lack is leadership that delivers — not another round of mutual congratulations.
Act IV: The Grand Finale — The “Unity” Script
As usual, the meeting ended with “understanding and prayers.”
The President ticked his talking points:
✅ Galkayo–Bacaadweyn Road.
✅ Galkayo Airport.
✅ Water Supply.
✅ Garacad–Goldogob Road.
It sounds impressive until you drive through Galkacyo’s streets — where open sewers, clan checkpoints, and uncollected garbage greet every visitor long before the President’s promises do.
Epilogue: A City of Meetings Without Progress
If meetings built cities, Galkayo would be Dubai by now. Instead, it remains a tragic metaphor of Puntland’s politics — where every handshake is a headline, every “understanding” a delay, and every “prayer” a substitute for policy.
The people of Mudug don’t need more meetings; they need action.
They don’t need “forces on the way”; they need security they can feel.
They don’t need speeches about water; they need clean water that flows.
And they don’t need airport blueprints; they need leaders who land on reality.
Until then, the Delegation of Hope will keep coming — as the Government of Promises keeps smiling.
In conclusion, President Deni has advised Galkayo residents to mend their own affairs, including the construction of the airport.
—
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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.
———-
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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)
© Warsame Digital Media (WDM), October 2025
In the cacophony of Somali politics, one begins to notice a familiar pattern — old enemies of Puntland reemerging under new and deceptive banners: “New Jubaland,” “North East State,” “New Puntland.” These are not creative political innovations. They are cynical attempts by Villa Somalia’s DamulJadiid operatives to sow confusion, fracture unity, and test the resilience of Puntland’s federal legacy. What we are witnessing today is not new — it is a recycled strategy drawn from the same poisonous well that once attempted to dismantle the SSDF-led Northeast administration in the early 1990s.
Let’s call things by their real names. These so-called “new” formations are not movements of reform, but agents of regression — political mercenaries reviving a mission that failed three decades ago. Their masters reside in Mogadishu’s marble halls, where the DamulJadiid cartel, hidden behind the façade of federal legitimacy, continues its long war of attrition against Puntland — the mother of federalism, the first bulwark of Somali self-governance.
THE COUP THAT NEVER ENDED
Back in the 1990s, the same forces now disguised under “new” labels participated in a treacherous coup attempt against the SSDF administration in the Northeast — the very crucible from which Puntland State was later born. That coup failed militarily but succeeded in planting the seeds of betrayal and disunity that haunt the Somali political landscape to this day.
When Puntland’s founding fathers later built the State through dialogue and reconciliation, they made one fatal mistake: they forgave too easily. Out of a noble desire for unity, those who once drew guns against the very idea of self-governance were welcomed back under the banner of peace. No one was held accountable. The message was clear: treachery pays if you wait long enough.
Today, the ghosts of that decision have returned. The same circles that sabotaged the SSDF are now the echo chambers of Mogadishu’s DamulJadiid deep state — the same manipulators whispering the language of division in Galkayo, Bosaso, and even Garowe.
THE DAMULJADIID HAND BEHIND THE CHAOS
Let’s not pretend this is spontaneous. Nothing in Somali politics ever is. The so-called “New Puntland” narrative is not the product of political thought or civic discontent; it is a project — drafted, financed, and orchestrated from Villa Somalia, whose current tenants have made a career out of destabilizing federal states that refuse to kneel.
DamulJadiid, the ideological offshoot of the old Islah tariqa elite, has always viewed Puntland as a threat — a living reminder that Somali federalism was born not in Mogadishu, but in Garowe. Their mission is psychological warfare: to make Puntland doubt itself, to make its people forget their own political lineage, and to convince the young generation that their history started yesterday.
A LESSON LONG DELAYED
In the past, Puntland responded to treachery with tolerance. It absorbed political shocks through reconciliation, dialogue, and patience. But that patience has now expired. When these same dark forces last attacked Garowe, they were allowed to melt away into the night — unpunished, unrepentant, and unashamed. That mistake cannot be repeated.
Puntland must now act — decisively and without apology. History has taught us that peace without justice is merely a pause between two betrayals. Those who undermine the State from within must be confronted, exposed, and neutralized politically and legally. There can be no coexistence between nation-builders and saboteurs.
PUNTLAND IS NOT FRAGILE
The architects of chaos have underestimated Puntland’s internal cohesion. They assume fragmentation where there is in fact quiet resolve. They mistake leadership disputes for institutional decay. They confuse democratic debate for weakness. But Puntland is not as brittle as they imagine. Its foundation was not built by opportunists but by patriots who risked everything to give Somalia a second chance at federal survival.
Puntland has survived the collapse of central governments, the manipulation of Mogadishu elites, and the greed of international actors who seek to divide and exploit. It will survive this latest round too. The only question is whether Puntland will finally learn the most important lesson of its history: reconciliation without accountability is suicide by generosity.
CONCLUSION
The so-called “New Puntland” is not a renewal — it is a relapse. Its backers are not reformers — they are repeat offenders in new clothing. Puntland’s response must therefore be not just rhetorical, but strategic and firm. The time has come to draw a clear line between dialogue and defense, between forgiveness and folly.
The era of political amnesia is over. Let those who betrayed Puntland once know: this time, history will not forget — and neither will the people.
WDM STAMP © 2025
Warsame Digital Media – Talking Truth to Power.
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM) EDITORIAL
© WDM 2025
The Broken Runway of Promises
The business community of Galkayo has once again landed in Garowe—not for leisure, not for investment forums, but to remind Puntland’s leadership of something so basic, it should have been completed years ago: Abdullahi Yusuf International Airport. Once heralded as a symbol of Galkayo’s rebirth and Puntland’s progress, it now stands as a monument to deceit, dysfunction, and the failure of public policy.
These businessmen—many of whom flew in from Nairobi, Toronto, and Minneapolis—came not as beggars, but as citizens demanding accountability. They brought their own money, their own engineers, their own vision. What they need from Garowe is simple: political will. But in Deni’s Puntland, political will is a rare commodity, traded only for loyalty and kickbacks.
Deni’s Empty Terminal of Promises
President Said Abdullahi Deni has made a career out of launching projects that never take off. The so-called “modernization” of Galkayo’s airport was one of his flagship pledges—a project that appeared on countless speeches, campaign posters, and social media photo ops. Yet, most of Deni’s years on, the airport remains a construction site of political lies, where taxpayers’ hopes have been buried under layers of unfulfilled promises.
It’s not just Galkayo’s runway that’s dilapidated—the very foundation of public trust in Puntland’s institutions has cracked. The state can’t even define what “public-private partnership” means. There is no legislation, no transparency, and no functional mechanism to govern such cooperation. Everything happens behind closed doors, negotiated in whispers, and concluded with handshakes that exclude the public.
The Shadow Zone Called ‘Public-Private Partnership’
In functioning states, PPP (Public-Private Partnership) is a framework that defines who invests, who builds, who owns, and who benefits. In Puntland, it’s a gray zone—a convenient void where political elites can milk donors, delay progress, and silence business leaders with false promises.
Ask any investor: how does one invest in Puntland without being extorted, politically blackmailed, or left hanging in a maze of bureaucracy? The businessmen of Galkayo are not naïve—they have funded, Gara’ad Port, schools, hospitals, and infrastructure before. But now, they face a government that neither facilitates nor cooperates. Instead, it obstructs and controls, as if every development initiative threatens its monopoly over public resources.
The Ghost of Abdullahi Yusuf
The irony is heavy. The airport bears the name of Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed—the founder of both Puntland State and the Second Somali Republic (the Federal Republic), who fought for Puntland’s autonomy and institutional discipline. He would be horrified to see his city’s airport turned into a political hostage. The late leader understood that development was about action, not speeches. Today’s Puntland leaders seem to understand the reverse: speeches without substance, and projects without progress.
Even Islaan Bashir Islaan Abdulle—normally a figure of moral restraint—was compelled to join the businessmen’s plea. When elders abandon neutrality to lobby for something as fundamental as an airport, it speaks volumes about institutional decay.
Galkayo’s Economic Artery at Risk
Galkayo is not a city of excuses—it’s a commercial artery connecting Somalia with the rest of the world. Every delay in its airport project bleeds the regional economy. Traders lose time, diaspora investors lose faith, and the youth lose opportunities. How long can Garowe play politics while the rest of Puntland stagnates?
This isn’t merely about an airport. It’s about whether Puntland’s leadership can govern, coordinate, and deliver. If Garowe continues to hoard decision-making power while neglecting the rest of the regions, it risks transforming Puntland into a hollow state—one capital city surrounded by frustration and distrust.
The Message from Galkayo: Enough
The message from Galkayo’s business community is clear and unambiguous:
“We are done waiting. We are ready to build.”
They came in good faith, with the intention to collaborate. If Garowe doesn’t respond this time, the people of Galkayo might simply take matters into their own hands—and who could blame them? Development delayed is development denied.
President Deni can no longer hide behind slogans of “reform” or “modernization.” The people are demanding results. Abdullahi Yusuf International Airport must either take off—or the Deni administration must land hard on the runway of accountability.
—
WDM Verdict:
Puntland’s public-private partnerships are not partnerships at all—they are political traps. The Galkayo airport fiasco is not an isolated case; it is a mirror reflecting a deeper rot in Puntland’s governance culture. Until there is transparency, law, and respect for local initiative, every airport, road, or port project will remain grounded.
—
© WDM 2025 | warsamedigitalmedia.com | “Talking Truth to Power in a Tribal Context”
(Edited and published under WDM Editorial Series: “Infrastructure of Deceit”)
By Ismail H. Warsame
Garowe – October 25, 2025
Garowe is holding its breath again — or perhaps choking. Every time the Puntland House of Representatives convenes for a “session,” the city’s narrow arteries clog with Toyotas sporting tinted windows, pickup trucks overloaded with bewildered guards, and ministers who think parliamentary duty means parking diagonally across the road.
The show begins: 57th Session, another sequel in a long-running tragicomedy titled “Sessions of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing.” The plot remains the same, only the actors grow older.
The Road to Nowhere — Literally
The first victim of Puntland’s legislative tradition isn’t corruption or incompetence — it’s traffic. Every session paralyzes Garowe. Ordinary citizens, already suffocating in economic hardship, now find themselves trapped behind barricades manned by “honourable” Members of Parliament whose legislative output is inversely proportional to the number of roadblocks they erect.
It’s as if traffic congestion were the real legislative achievement — a perfect metaphor for governance in Puntland: immobile, noisy, and exhaust-spewing, with progress stalled at every intersection.
The Agenda Nobody Reads
Inside the air-conditioned hall, the Speaker clears his throat and opens a folder thicker than the State’s debt ledger. Inside lie the ghosts of unfulfilled promises: unpaid salaries, collapsing institutions, economic paralysis, demoralized civil servants, ISIS in the mountains, Al-Shabaab in the plains, SSC in political limbo, and the specter of the 2026 federal elections.
All are quietly postponed to “next time.” And in Garowe, “next time” means never.
Every session ends the same way — with resolutions so vague that even the drafters forget their intent. Puntland’s legislative record now reads like a museum catalogue of abandoned intentions.
The only sound that remains constant is the Speaker’s gavel — thumping desperately like a doctor applying CPR to a patient long declared dead.
And then comes the familiar ritual: the rubber-stamped budget.
Millions approved, millions unaccounted for. Not a single parliamentary committee has ever dared to trace where those funds go. In Puntland, oversight is heresy, and obedience is law. The House doesn’t legislate; it laminates. The so-called “people’s representatives” are not watchdogs — they are the government’s decorative carpets.
Lawmakers Without Mandate
Across Somalia, the legitimacy crisis has become a national epidemic. Presidents and MPs sit on expired mandates like old batteries refusing to die. Puntland, once the proud model of federal order, has joined the same club — clinging to legality not through constitutional principle, but through the noise of motorcades and the glare of sirens.
The 57th Session, therefore, isn’t a deliberative body; it’s a reunion of expired politicians pretending to govern a bankrupt state. Think of an orchestra where every musician has lost their instrument but still insists on performing. The result is not music — it’s noise.
The Great Silence Over Real Issues
Outside the hall, Garowe gasps. The price of food climbs like a thief in the night; the shilling has vanished from circulation many years ago. Teachers and police go months unpaid; insecurity grows like a weed in every district.
Yet inside, the “honourables” debate ceremonial motions of “solidarity” and “concern.” The irony is painful — the lawmakers live on allowances while the people live on miracles.
Even existential threats — ISIS, Al-Shabaab, SSC-Khatumo’s fragile status — are treated as casual afterthoughts. The House of Representatives, once envisioned as the moral compass of Puntland, has become a stage for procedural acrobatics — motions without movement, sessions without substance, and debates without direction.
Epilogue: Waiting for a Session That Works
The citizens have stopped expecting reform; they expect performance. The legislative calendar now reads like a horoscope of despair:
“Today, traffic will be heavy. Parliamentary discussions will be inconclusive. Hope will be postponed until further notice.”
And so the 57th Session will end as the 56th did — with applause, adjournment, and another round of unpaid salaries. When the convoy engines fade and the barricades lift, the people will sigh with relief, knowing nothing has changed.
Puntland will continue its slow march in circles, led by a parliament that confuses sessions for progress and applause for achievement.
WDM Editorial Verdict
A parliament that rubber-stamps budgets it never reviews is not a legislature — it’s an accessory to executive impunity.
In Garowe, progress doesn’t move — it parks.
—
© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
“Talking truth to power — even when power blocks the road.”
By Ismail H. Warsame – Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
A Deal Without Dignity: The Laascaanood Mirage
When President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud announced his anticipated visit to Laascaanood, many believed it would mark a historical reconciliation — a long-awaited recognition of SSC-Khatumo’s legitimacy after months of heroic resistance against Somaliland’s occupation. Yet, as the political smoke cleared, it became apparent that the visit was reduced to nothing more than a conditional charade.
The Damul Jadiid–Aaran Jaan machinery inside Villa Somalia — skilled in deception and transactional politics — has shifted the goalposts. The President’s trip is now tied to an irrelevant precondition: the release of Somaliland’s prisoners of war. This cynical twist insults the sacrifices of SSC-Khatumo’s fallen heroes and mocks the aspirations of its people who fought not for Hargeisa’s comfort but for self-determination within the Somali Republic.
Hassan Sheikh’s message is unmistakable: Laascaanood must submit, not be recognized.
SSC-Khatumo’s Strategic Miscalculation
SSC-Khatumo’s leadership, especially under Firdhiye, a student of illusionary and hate politics of late Dr Ali Khalif Galaydh, made a fatal error in judgment. They mistook flattery from Mogadishu’s Damul Jadiid circle for political partnership and fell into a trap that Puntland’s veterans have long warned against — trusting a regime that operates through manipulation, not conviction.
Their anti-Puntland posture, driven by emotional bitterness rather than strategic foresight, left them vulnerable to the very predators they thought were allies. The irony is tragic: in trying to outsmart Garowe, they empowered Villa Somalia’s worst operators — those who see Laascaanood not as a constituency but as a bargaining chip in their clan-based chessboard.
Let’s be blunt: SSC-Khatumo’s struggle risks being reduced to a token gesture in Hassan Sheikh’s fake “federal unity” narrative. Instead of a respected federal member state, Khatumo is being treated as a pawn to placate Hargeisa, while Mogadishu pretends to mediate peace.
Three Cardinal Errors of Khatumo Leadership
1. Anti-Puntland Obsession Over Realpolitik
In rejecting Puntland as a natural ally, SSC leaders allowed personal animosities and historical grievances to override geopolitical logic. Puntland shares not only kinship and geography but a federalist philosophy — a common cause that could have fortified SSC’s position. Instead, Khatumo became an isolated island, adrift between a cynical Mogadishu and a hostile Hargeisa.
2. Misreading the Somali Political Ecosystem
Khatumo leaders failed to map the Somali political terrain. They overestimated their leverage in Mogadishu and underestimated the entrenched Damul Jadiid network that thrives on exploiting divisions. In the zero-sum politics of the capital, loyalty is bought and sold — not earned through shared ideals.
3. Absence of Strategic Clarity and Statesmanship
Without a clear long-term vision, Khatumo leadership oscillates between reactive moves and sentimental declarations. They confuse media visibility for political capital and mistake empty gestures from the presidency for genuine recognition. Leadership requires cold calculation, not emotional improvisation.
The Reality: Hassan Sheikh’s “Recognition” Was Never on the Table
Hassan Sheikh’s promise to recognize SSC-Khatumo was a political mirage — a tactical bluff meant to neutralize SSC’s military momentum against Somaliland while keeping Puntland contained. By turning his visit conditional on POW releases, he signaled that Mogadishu’s loyalty still lies in appeasing Hargeisa, not empowering Laascaanood.
This is not federalism — it is deception packaged as diplomacy.
This is not recognition — it is slow strangulation by bureaucratic delay.
The Way Forward: Strategic Recalibration
SSC-Khatumo must stop confusing emotional satisfaction with political success. Recognition cannot be begged; it must be earned and enforced through leverage, unity, and clarity of purpose. The path forward demands three immediate actions:
Reconciliation with Puntland: A return to pragmatic cooperation with Garowe will restore SSC’s negotiating power.
Diplomatic Offensive: Engage regional and international partners independently — not through Mogadishu’s filters.
Internal Consolidation: Build governance structures that function, proving capability beyond the battlefield.
Conclusion: Hassan Sheikh’s Game, Khatumo’s Choice
In Somali politics, weakness is punished and disunity exploited. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s ultimatum to Firdhiye is not about prisoners — it’s about power. Either SSC-Khatumo reclaims its agency by aligning with its natural allies, or it remains a convenient prop in Villa Somalia’s endless theatre of manipulation.
The choice is stark:
Stand tall with dignity — or kneel for a handshake that leads nowhere.
—
WDM Editorial Note:
This essay is part of the ongoing “Somali Statehood and Betrayal” series by Ismail H. Warsame, documenting the moral, political, and strategic failures that shape contemporary Somali federalism.
© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
All rights reserved.
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
Critical Analysis, Political Memoir, and Historical Truths
By Ismail H. Warsame
A Youth Caught in the Crossfire of a “Revolution”
In the turbulent year of 1969, I was a third-year student at Banadir Secondary School, Mogadishu—a young mind hungry for knowledge, unaware that my generation was about to be shackled by a regime that mistook silence for loyalty and fear for order. Somalia’s fragile democracy, the product of independence and hope, was abruptly assassinated—literally and politically. Only a week before the coup, President Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke had been gunned down in Laascaanood during an official visit. His death became the pretext for the military takeover led by General Mohamed Siyad Barre, whose so-called “Revolution” would soon metastasize into tyranny.
At Banadir, suspicion replaced innocence. A group of students, mostly from Mudug, were rounded up by military authorities, accused of being “anti-revolutionary”—a poisonous label invented to criminalize thought. Among the detainees was a student hailing from Borama, in the Northern Somalia, Abdisalam Omar Hadliye, later to become Somalia’s FGS Foreign Minister. Their “crime”? Belonging to the wrong clan. The revolution’s mask of equality had already begun to slip, revealing its tribal face.
From Moscow’s Cold Winter to Barre’s Hot Fury
I completed high school in 1971 and earned a scholarship to the Soviet Union, where I studied Thermal Power Engineering in Minsk, Byelorussia. Those were intellectually vibrant years; Somalia still had diplomatic warmth with the USSR. But in 1977, when the Ogaden War erupted and the Soviets betrayed Somalia to side with Ethiopia, everything changed overnight. The military junta ordered all Somali students in the USSR to return home immediately.
Defiance was my first act of rebellion. I stayed behind to complete my master’s thesis—fully aware that my decision would place me on the regime’s blacklist. When I finally returned to Mogadishu, I was briefly detained at the airport and interrogated by the infamous Nur Bidaar, the iron-fisted Immigration boss. After checking my records, he waved me off—but not before noting my name.
A week later, I received an official order: report to Halane Military Base for indoctrination training. I didn’t go there. I had not studied engineering to become a tool of propaganda.
An Encounter with Dr. Ali Khalif Galaydh
It was during those uncertain days that I met Dr. Ali Khalif Galaydh, then director of the Juba Sugar Project (JSP)—a massive industrial dream financed by Kuwait and designed to modernize Somalia’s sugar production near Jilib, in Lower Jubba. I introduced myself, stating both my professional qualifications and that we shared distant kinship. He scoffed: “Clan sentiments are outlawed by the Revolution.” I replied sharply: “I am not invoking clan, Dr. Galaydh. I am invoking courtesy.”
Dismissed and humiliated, I left his office—but destiny had other plans. Across the hall sat an English engineer overseeing the project’s technical operations. When I mentioned my degree in thermal-electric power systems, his eyes lit up. Within days, I was flown to Kismayo for an interview and hired as an engineering trainee for the sugar factory under construction.
Soon, I was sent to SNAI Sugar Factory in Jowhar for six months of industrial training. Ironically, when a Kuwaiti delegation toured the facility, proudly showcasing Somalia’s sugar “self-sufficiency,” Galaydh himself spotted me working in the boiler-room. His surprise was palpable. I simply smiled: “I work for you now, Dr. Galaydh.”
After completing the program, I returned to JSP and was later sent to England for advanced training in sugar technology. It was there, in London, that I once again encountered Galaydh—by now a member of Siyad Barre’s People’s Assembly and newly married into the dictator’s Mareexaan clan. Over lunch, he joked:
“Are you thinking of joining Qurmis?” —the regime’s slur for the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF).
“Yes,” I answered calmly. The table fell silent. He never expected an honest reply.
Surveillance, Fear, and the Politics of Birthplaces
Back in Mogadishu, life was suffocating under the regime’s paranoia. During earlier business trips, I stayed at the Shabeelli Hotel, and every check-in required stating one’s place of birth. I always hesitated. My birth certificate said Laascaanood, but my school papers listed Galkayo—a city despised by the regime as a hotbed of “anti-revolutionaries.” Later, I discovered that all hotels were required to submit nightly guest lists to the National Security Service (NSS). Every signature became a potential death sentence.
By 1980, I had made my decision. Enough of fear. Enough of pretense.
I joined the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF)—the first organized resistance against Barre’s dictatorship. It was a moral necessity, not a political choice.
The irony of fate was striking. Only a few years after I had joined the SSDF, Dr. Galaydh himself found it necessary to flee the very regime he once served, with a warrant issued for his arrest. Years later, while accompanying President Abdullahi Yusuf on a routine medical visit to London, I received a call from Dr. Galaydh expressing his desire to meet the President. I immediately arranged the meeting and mentioned it to Mr. Yusuf that Dr. Galaydh and I had previously worked together at the JSP, where he had been my superior and treated me with utmost respect. The whole episode felt surreal—almost like a political joke written by destiny itself.
Epilogue: Truth Against Power
The revolution that promised equality delivered suspicion. The system that claimed to fight tribalism institutionalized it. The “scientific socialism” that claimed to uplift Somalia reduced it to ashes and exile.
My story is not merely personal—it is generational. It belongs to those young Somalis who traded classrooms for trenches, who faced prison instead of promotion, and who learned that in Siyad Barre’s Somalia, intelligence was a liability and loyalty a weapon.
History, however, has a way of avenging truth. The same regime that mocked dissenters as “Qurmis” fell into the dustbin of history. The very men it persecuted built the foundations of Puntland and the Federal Republic of Somalia—a testament that truth, though delayed, is never denied.
WDM COMMENTARY:
Ismail H. Warsame’s untold story is more than autobiography—it is an indictment of a generation betrayed by revolutionary lies. His defiance, intellectual courage, and moral steadfastness represent the conscience of a nation long silenced by fear.
—
© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
All Rights Reserved.
ismailwarsame.substack.com | ismailwarsame.blog
Two Fateful Nights That Forged Puntland
August 30, 2015
The collapse of the Somali National Reconciliation talks in Cairo in 1997 sent key political actors scrambling. The co-chairmen of the National Salvation Council (NSC, or Sodare Group), Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed and General Aden Abdullahi Nur Gabyow, managed to depart Cairo safely for their temporary headquarters in Addis Ababa.
A group of us from north-eastern Somalia were lodged at the Ghion Hotel in the Ethiopian capital. The gathering included Abdullahi Yusuf, Hassan Abshir Waraabe, Said Caduur, General Abdullahi Omar “Ina Libaax Sankataabte,” Ambassador Azhari, myself, and a few others. We were drafting responses to the failed conference in my hotel room when Hassan Abshir shared crucial news: Islaan Mohamed Islaan Muuse had phoned him, relaying an invitation for our group to attend a “Harti Conference” soon to be held in Garowe.
We debated the issue for over an hour. Hassan Abshir recommended asking the Islaan to postpone the conference, citing our pressing commitments in Ethiopia. Most of the group agreed. Abdullahi Yusuf remained non-committal.
As the youngest member, I dissented. I posed a question that, I believe, changed the course of the discussion: “Why are General Caydiid and Cali Mahdi considered the most powerful warlords in Somalia today?”
The group fell silent, looking at each other before staring at me. I provided the answer: “Because they don’t run Mogadishu by remote control, which is what you are suggesting we do. We must drop everything here in Ethiopia and all go to Garowe to hold this meeting.” It took two more days of discussion, but the decision was made: we would travel to Bosaso and onward to Garowe.
The First Fateful Night: A Decision in Addis Ababa
Concurrently, a separate meeting was organized by a group of Dhulbahante men led by Abdullahi Shariif to reconcile Abdullahi Yusuf and Mohamed Abdi Hashi. Abdullahi Yusuf directly asked Mohamed what grudge he held against him.
Mohamed replied that his issue was with Abdullahi Yusuf’s alliance with “the bad man of Somalia,” General Caydiid, while he himself preferred Cali Mahdi, “the better man.”
“Is that all, Mohamed?” Abdullahi Yusuf asked. When Mohamed confirmed it was, Abdullahi Yusuf addressed the group with the real story. He recounted, “During the time we belonged to opposing warlord camps, Mohamed Abdi Hashi came to me and advised, ‘If the Majertaines are unable to lead this time, they should hand over that role to us.’ I responded, perhaps unwisely, ‘You should belong to either Farah Garaad or Mohamoud Garaad to suggest that to me. As a Qayaad man, you shouldn’t.’”
The meeting room erupted in hilarious laughter and commotion. On that soft note, the reconciliation between the two men was complete. This was the crucial groundwork that allowed the Consultative Congress of the Puntland Foundation to proceed.
The Second Fateful Night: A Crisis in Bosaso
The second critical moment came after the Consultative Congress. Abdullahi Yusuf, then in Galkayo, received an urgent call from Elders Abdullahi Boqor Muuse “King Kong” and Ugaas Yaassiin of Ahmed Harti (Dashiishe) in Bosaso. They reported that the SSDF Executive Committee was sabotaging fund-raising efforts for the Constitutional Congress, which was to include the Sool and Sanaag regions.
We immediately left for Bosaso. Upon arrival, we found the SSDF Executive had nearly succeeded. They had persuaded Bosaso’s business community to refuse any levies earmarked for the conference. For Abdullahi Yusuf and his committee, it was an uphill battle against this internal sabotage.
The resistance grew so fierce that Said Caduur, a committee member, suggested Abdullahi Yusuf resign immediately. Our entire effort to create Puntland—the Constitutional Congress itself—was in jeopardy.
The crisis peaked during a lunch at our residence in Bosaso. Abdullahi Yusuf told me, his wife Hawo Abdi Samater, and a trader guest, Muuse Diibeeye, that he was on the verge of resigning.
I was shocked. “How can you resign when you are on the brink of a great victory?” I demanded.
“What victory?” he retorted in despair. “There is only defeat and humiliation here!”
I argued and essentially quarreled with him throughout that lunch and long after. Ultimately, he did not resign. We persevered, eventually defeating the SSDF leadership’s obstruction by raising the first 300 million Somali shillings for the Congress. We handed the funds over successfully to Islaan Mohamed Islaan Muuse in Garowe.
Victory!
That is how we held the Founding Congress of Puntland.
By Ismail H. Warsame
E-mail:ismailwarsame@gmail.com
Twitter:@ismailwarsame
[Republished].
By Ismail H. Warsame | Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
The Existential Question
Laascaanood stands at a precipice. It is a city politically isolated, economically exhausted, and strategically contested, caught between the competing sovereignties of Puntland and Somaliland. Both claim its territory; neither commands the allegiance of its people. The residents of the SSC-Khatumo region are thus stranded in a geopolitical limbo, their future hanging in the balance.
The predicament is Shakespearean (Ina Mohamed Abdulle Hassan) in its drama but profoundly Somali in its tragedy. The question now haunting every elder, intellectual, and activist is the most fundamental one: To be or not to be? Will Laascaanood forge itself into a functional, autonomous entity, or will it be crushed in the vise of regional power politics?
The Geopolitical Quagmire
Puntland anchors its claim in history—the 1998 charter that established its borders. Somaliland invokes the colonial boundaries of the British Protectorate. Both arguments are legalistic, both are absolute, and both ignore the will of the people on the ground.
The result is a perfect stalemate. Laascaanood’s relationship with Garowe and Hargeisa is now one of profound distrust. It is viewed by Puntland as a wayward relative and by Somaliland as a rebellious province. And from Mogadishu? The Federal Government offers little more than empty declarations—a masterclass in political theater that provides photo-ops but no practical power.
The Mirage of Mogadishu
The brief alliance between SSC-Khatumo and President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s government has proven to be a mirage. Promises of recognition, integration, and funding evaporated upon contact with reality. No ministries were granted, no significant development funds were allocated, no diplomatic weight was thrown behind the cause.
Mogadishu found it more convenient to use SSC-Khatumo as a pawn to pressure Hargeisa and harm Garowe, all while quietly withholding the resources necessary to build a sustainable local administration. The Federal Government took the political capital; SSC-Khatumo was left with the political debt.
The Abyss of Economic Reality
Beneath the high politics lies a crushing economic reality. Laascaanood’s economy is medieval, running on livestock and remittances. Diaspora money pays for emergencies, not for enterprise. There are no factories, no paved roads, no banks. The tax system is ad-hoc, and the “government” operates more like a committee for resistance than an engine for development.
The youth, disillusioned by the failures of both local and national leadership, see only two paths: exodus or extremism. Without an economic foundation, political aspirations are built on sand.
The International Betrayal
Adding insult to injury is the stance of the international community, led paradoxically by the United Kingdom. The very power that drew the colonial borders now champions their inviolability in the name of “stability.” But this is a stability of the grave—a preference for the quiet of a repressed region over the messy, legitimate struggle for self-determination.
Western diplomats, comfortable in their Nairobi embassies, prioritize neat maps over just outcomes. Once again, Somali destiny is being debated in foreign corridors, its people treated as subjects of a geopolitical experiment rather than authors of their own fate.
The Enemy Within
Yet, the greatest obstacle to SSC-Khatumo’s survival may be internal. The movement is plagued by divisions, a lack of a unified vision, and an absence of professional administration. Leadership is often rooted in historical lineage rather than modern statecraft.
A movement cannot be sustained on defiance alone. Laascaanood does not need more declarations or diaspora debates; it needs an institutional spine: a professional civil service, a transparent budget, and a actionable roadmap for governance based on law, not just legacy.
The Road Ahead: From Defiance to Governance
For SSC-Khatumo to truly “be,” it must transform its spirit of resistance into the architecture of a state. This requires three concrete actions:
1. Build a State, Not a Stage: Shift from a rhetoric of protest to a culture of service. Establish a local administration that delivers security, justice, and education—proving its legitimacy through competence.
2. Forge an Economic Foundation: Move beyond a pastoral and remittance economy. Develop a fiscal plan, establish control over trade routes, and invest in the livestock value chain to generate revenue that funds real autonomy.
3. Pursue Principled Diplomacy: End the strategic isolation. Re-engage with Puntland from a position of strength, and present Mogadishu with a clear, non-negotiable demand for constitutional inclusion and resources.
SSC-Khatumo cannot remain an “emotional republic.” It must become a functional polity.
Conclusion: The Choice is Ours
In the end, the fate of Laascaanood will not be decided in Hargeisa, Garowe, or Mogadishu. It will be determined by the will, wisdom, and discipline of its own people. The international community may look away, and old powers may oppose it, but the ultimate question remains:
Can the leaders of SSC-Khatumo translate the raw courage of defiance into the enduring work of governance?
If they cannot, Laascaanood will remain a city of shadows, its people forever asking the same, unanswered question.
—
© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Hard-hitting Analysis. Truth Without Compromise.
A Rare Evening at Bar Saqajaan
Back in my boarding school days at Banadir Secondary School in Mogadishu, three of my closest friends and I often slipped away after study hours for a taste of freedom and laughter. The school compound also housed many Soviet teachers—disciplined, reserved, and methodical—sent on secondment to teach English and science. They lived in small, identical quarters that stood in sharp contrast to the chaotic life of Somali students.
Life in the boarding school was tough. The worst hardship, however, was the food. The dining hall was infamous for serving flavorless, nutritionless meals that could trigger both heartburn and homesickness. Our rice dinners were so sticky and solid that we nicknamed them “cement”—you could flip your plate upside down and nothing would fall off.
Given such conditions, a few Somali shillings could mean salvation—enough for a stolen evening in town, a cup of sweet shaah caano leh (tea with milk), and maybe a cigarette to share. But pocket money was scarce, so even small pleasures became shared adventures.
One evening, we managed to scrape together enough coins for four cups of tea and two Rothmans cigarettes. We made our way to a small teashop that our principal, Saleman Gaal—now the Chairman of the Somaliland Senate (Guurti)—mockingly called Bar Saqajaan, a term meaning “the den of rascals.”
Our tight-knit gang of four sat down, ready to savor every sip and puff. Among us, Anshur, the oldest, came from Buhodle in Togdheer, near the Ethiopian border (now in Puntland’s Ayn region). As we shared a cigarette, he took noticeably longer drags than his co-owner. The other complained, “Hey, you’re smoking more than your share!”
Without missing a beat, Anshur replied:
“Let me puff enough to reach all the way to Buhodle!”
The room exploded with laughter.
After the tea and the meager taste of nicotine, everyone was content—except Sharif, from the coastal town of Brava. Back home, he adored bursalid, a rich, oily Somali pastry. Spotting some behind the glass counter, he sighed dramatically—he couldn’t afford a single piece. Then, with mock sorrow, he began to sing:
“Bursalid, nin aan meeso qabin balad haduu joogo,
kama baahi beelee ishu balac ku siihaaye.”
Roughly translated: “A poor man in town can’t help but keep staring at the bursalid.”
The entire shop—customers and waiters alike—burst into laughter. The shop owner, perhaps out of pity or fearing the “evil eye” of Sharif’s longing, brought us four pieces of bursalid on the house.
Sharif’s hunger was satisfied, but his mind wasn’t done wandering. Just then, a hen darted around the corner of the shop. He turned to Anshur and asked, “Anshur, how soon does a hen deliver her babies after conception?”
Without hesitation, Anshur quipped:
“If you mate with it now, it’ll give you plenty of kittens right away!”
Another roar of laughter shook the teashop.
That night, we agreed it had been a rare and wonderful evening—a perfect mix of friendship, humor, and small joys amidst the roughness of boarding school life.
—
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[Republished]>
Do you know that without the pioneering work of Adam Jama Bihi with his war-torn society, the creation of Puntland State would have been difficult, if not impossible? Ask around—people who witnessed those early days will tell you.
As Project Manager of War-Torn Society—an international NGO financed and based in Switzerland—operating in the North-East Regions (today’s Puntland), Adam Jama Bihi played a decisive, though often overlooked, role in shaping the foundation of Puntland State. Under his leadership, the organization’s resources—its personnel, logistics, and outreach—were strategically redirected to support the successful organization of two landmark community congresses in Garowe. The outcome was historic: the birth of the Puntland State of Somalia in 1998.
Adam took an extraordinary step: he commissioned five Western European constitutional lawyers and one Egyptian jurist to assist in drafting the founding Puntland Charter. His actions embodied patriotism and foresight—but his superiors abroad saw them differently. He was reprimanded and sanctioned by his Swiss employers, including Matt Bryden, who is now a prominent figure at SAHAN Africa. These punitive measures continued for months after Puntland’s establishment. Yet, Adam’s justification was simple and irrefutable: he was helping a war-torn society rebuild itself—the very mission the organization claimed to serve.
Tragically, Adam’s life was cut short in a car accident at Xalimo Dheere Mountain, near Garowe, while traveling from Galkayo. His untimely death marked one of the saddest moments of my life. Adam was not only patriotic but also intellectually brilliant—perhaps a genius in his own right, comparable in creativity to Einstein, if not more gifted in practical intellect and leadership.
Following his death and the conclusion of War-Torn Society activities, the Puntland Presidency initiated the creation of the Puntland Development and Research Centre (PDRC)—a direct continuation of Adam’s vision and groundwork. I personally pushed for the idea, drafted the initial documents, and became a founding board member alongside Mohamed Abshir Waldo, Dr. Abdiqawi Yusuf (ICJ), Ali Isse Abdi (SSC), and others. We appointed Abdirahman Abdulle Shuke as Director-General. PDRC was conceived as a parastatal agency, but due to funding constraints, we allowed it to function as an NGO. In practice, Abdiqawi and Ali Isse made little to no contribution to PDRC’s foundation or subsequent activities.
Like many gifted and outspoken figures in Puntland, Adam eventually found himself at odds with President Abdullahi Yusuf. During those turbulent years, I often served as an intermediary between the President and those he perceived—rightly or wrongly—as members of the opposition, including General Adde Muse and Mohamed Abshir Waldo.
One evening, at the President’s residence in Garowe, the four of us—Abdullahi Yusuf, Waldo, Bihi, and I—were engaged in a heated discussion. The argument between Abdullahi Yusuf and Adam escalated dramatically, with both exchanging fierce words, restrained only by decorum from coming to blows. After they left, I advised the President to let me investigate the allegations that Adam was mobilizing opposition forces. He agreed.
In the following days, I attended several War-Torn Society workshops. What I discovered was revealing: civil war erupts when members of a society stop talking to each other, and Adam’s mission was precisely to restore dialogue and understanding among the people of North-East Somalia. His was a noble, patriotic, and peace-building effort—grossly misunderstood by the President. I reported my findings back, warning Abdullahi Yusuf that he was misjudging a national asset. Sadly, my words fell on deaf ears; he continued to distrust and criticize anyone he deemed an opponent.
Adam Jama Bihi’s legacy remains largely unacknowledged, but his fingerprints are visible in every institutional and civic foundation laid in Puntland’s formative years. He was a visionary who turned post-war despair into hope and dialogue, a true son of Puntland whose contribution deserves enduring recognition.
Ismail H. Warsame
[Published earlier in WDM]
WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
Critical Analysis | Political Satire | Truth-Telling Without Apology
By Ismail H. Warsame
A specter is haunting Somali social media—the specter of the Kacaan. With predictable regularity, a chorus of digital nostalgics emerges, peddling a rose-tinted fantasy of the late General Mohamed Siad Barre’s regime. They flood our feeds with curated black-and-white images: pristine Mogadishu streets, orderly school parades, and polished military boots. It is a carefully constructed gallery, designed to suggest that discipline and progress once defined our nation. But a photograph cannot scream; it cannot capture the sound of firing squads or the silence of mass graves.
This is not mere nostalgia. It is a calculated act of historical erasure, weaponized for the digital age.
The Dictator’s Digital Resurrection
These online tabliiq sheikhs of the Kacaan preach with a zealot’s fervor, eulogizing a “golden age” they never knew. In their sermons, there is no room for the dark underbelly of that so-called revolution: a state that institutionalized terror, criminalized free thought, and orchestrated the persecution of targeted clans under the hollow banner of “unity.”
Their memory is impeccably selective. They glorify the concrete of new buildings but ignore the blood soaked into the soil of Labaatan Jirow’s torture chambers. They celebrate a unified Somalia while forgetting the poets it silenced and the intellectuals it forced into endless exile.
It brings to mind a grim irony: looking at the dystopian control of North Korea and seeing not a warning, but an aspiration.
From Kacaan to Kleptocracy: A False and Dangerous Dichotomy
Let us be honest: this nostalgia flourishes in the fetid swamp of our present despair. It is a direct reaction to the breathtaking corruption, staggering incompetence, and theatrical absurdity of Somalia’s current political elite.
A generation scrolls through TikTok and sees a government that cannot deliver electricity, jobs, or basic dignity. They watch ministers charter private jets while soldiers—their fathers and brothers—die on unpaid frontlines. They are subjected to a democracy of deception.
Is it any wonder that a whisper gains volume: “At least under Siad Barre, there was order”?
This is the modern rebranding of tyranny. It no longer needs to march in with tanks; it can simply trend with a hashtag.
The Cruelty of Selective Memory
To romanticize the Kacaan is to perform a profound act of betrayal against its victims. It is to dance on the unmarked graves of the disappeared, to mock the families for whom the pain is not a historical footnote but a living, breathing inheritance of loss.
We have reached a tragic nadir: the chasm between the brutal order of the past and the humiliating chaos of the present has narrowed so much that we are left debating which form of suffering was more dignified—the sharp crack of the whip, or the slow, grinding humiliation of failure.
The Digital Vanguard of a Dead Regime
They are the new commissars, these digital comrades. Their weapons are not Kalashnikovs but keyboards; their battlefields are Twitter threads and Facebook posts, adorned with hashtags like #KacaanForever and #SomaliUnity. They speak the language of restoration, promising a return to a past that never existed.
The ultimate irony is lost on them: the very platform they use to deify a dictator would have been their death warrant during the regime they so ardently admire.
WDM Verdict: Reject the Seduction of the Strongman
Let us be unequivocal: the kleptocrats in tailored suits offer no salvation from the ghosts in military uniforms. Both are parasites on the nation’s soul, differing only in their methods of extraction.
But the cure for corruption is not the cudgel of authoritarianism; it is the relentless light of accountability. The antidote to chaos is not a single strongman, but a strong, civically engaged citizenry.
Somalia does not need another Siad Barre. It needs a generation that has learned the lessons of history—one that rejects both the prison of tyranny and the swamp of thievery.
WDM Conclusion:
When a people begin to look fondly upon their former jailers,it is a damning indictment of their current leaders. Yet, we must remember: the road to hell is paved with sanitized memories and the seductive, dangerous lie that a single pair of boots can clean a nation’s wounds.
—
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