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Political Reflections | Historical Memoir

By Ismail H. Warsame

The Scholar Who Walked Between Books and Battles

Dr. Hassan Ali Mire was, by all standards, one of the most brilliant Somali intellectuals of his generation — a Princeton University graduate whose mind traversed politics, poetry, and philosophy with ease. Yet, his life remains a paradox of potential unfulfilled — a story of intellect that never quite materialized into transformative leadership.

I knew Dr. Mire personally. We worked together in the most difficult days of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), when resistance meant sleeping in exile, breathing the air of suspicion, and fighting tyranny with little more than conviction and a typewriter. He was a man of intellect and impulse — articulate, persuasive, and fiercely independent, yet politically naïve in ways that cost him dearly.

The Tragedy of the Ivory Tower

Dr. Mire embodied the tragedy of the Somali intellectual: brilliant in theory, scattered in execution. His thoughts were vast — sometimes too vast to be contained within the limits of realpolitik. He was constantly reading, scribbling notes, crafting ideas — always on the verge of something great, but rarely completing it.

He lived as if trapped in the pages of his own manuscripts, disconnected from the brutal realities of the political arena he had entered. In SSDF, he was respected, even revered, for his intellect and command of ideas, but his colleagues soon discovered that governance requires more than genius — it requires grit, patience, and compromise.

Where others maneuvered for survival, Dr. Mire argued for principles. Where others conspired, he philosophized. His mind was too pure for the muddy trenches of Somali politics. That purity, in a land of deception and betrayal, became his undoing.

A Moment in Exile: The Press Statement Incident

I remember one particular day in exile vividly — a moment that revealed both his brilliance and his uncompromising intellect. The SSDF Executive Committee had convened to issue an important press statement. Mohamud Abdi Ali “Bayr,” another distinguished intellectual from the left-wing of the organization, took charge of drafting it.

When Bayr completed the draft — five long pages of impassioned political rhetoric — someone suggested that Dr. Mire should double-check it before release. Dr. Mire read the document carefully, line by line, then placed both hands on his forehead in disbelief and exclaimed:

“What a disorganized mind!”

Then, in an act of editorial mastery, he took Bayr’s verbose five pages and condensed them into a single page — precise, coherent, and powerful. That was Dr. Mire: ruthless in intellectual clarity, intolerant of confusion, and always striving for refinement of thought.

His comment, though cutting, came not from arrogance but from a deep commitment to discipline and order in expression. He demanded rigor in thought and form — a rare quality in a revolutionary movement where passion often overshadowed precision. That episode revealed not only his sharp intellect but also his instinct for structure — the mark of a true scholar in the midst of chaos.

The Addis Ababa Lecture: Courage in the Lion’s Den

I also recall another unforgettable incident during those turbulent years of exile. Dr. Mire was invited to lecture at Addis Ababa University on Ethio-Somali relations — at the height of the Derg regime’s authoritarian grip. It was a time of intense fear and uncertainty for all of us. Abdullahi Yusuf, the founding chairman of SSDF, was imprisoned by the Ethiopian government, and Dr. Mire was then serving as the movement’s chairman.

In a vast lecture hall filled with students, professors, and Derg security agents, he stood tall and delivered one of the most courageous public remarks I have ever witnessed. With calm defiance, he declared:

“Today’s African President is tomorrow’s political refugee.”

The hall fell silent. Then he added another sharp observation that has since become legendary among those who heard it:

“Somalis are irresistible, and Ethiopians are unmovable over the Ogaden Desert.”

It was a moment of intellectual audacity — a daring act of truth-telling in a hall thick with fear and surveillance. Those words, uttered under the shadow of Mengistu’s regime, captured both the tragedy and the stubborn pride of two neighboring peoples locked in historic contention.

Dr. Mire’s wit and courage that day revealed not only his brilliance but also his instinct for speaking uncomfortable truths, even when silence would have been safer.

The Rift with Abdullahi Yusuf

Despite their shared roots in the SSDF struggle, Dr. Mire’s relationship with his predecessor, Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, grew increasingly sour in later years. What began as ideological differences over leadership style and political priorities evolved into a deep personal and political rift.

Dr. Mire’s intellectualism clashed with Abdullahi’s militarism. Where Yusuf believed in control and discipline through command, Mire sought persuasion through reason and dialogue. The two men represented contrasting schools within Somali resistance politics — the soldier and the scholar, the pragmatist and the idealist.

History, perhaps unfairly, rewarded one and forgot the other. But those of us who lived through that era know that both were indispensable to the story of Somali resistance — and that Dr. Hassan Ali Mire’s voice, though subdued by time, still echoes in the conscience of the nation.

A Cultural Luminary

To remember Dr. Hassan Ali Mire only through the prism of politics would be unjust. He was deeply rooted in Somali cultural heritage — a man who could recite entire poems from memory, who understood the rhythm and nuance of Somali oral tradition like few others. His conversations were filled with quotes from the masters of Somali verse, his metaphors drawn from the nomadic imagination, his wit sharp and poetic.

He was the bridge between the old and the new — between the Somali pastoral intellect and Western academic sophistication. He spoke both the language of the desert and the discourse of Princeton. In that rare combination lay his charm — and perhaps, his torment.

The Gentleman Revolutionary

Dr. Mire’s leadership in SSDF came at a time of deep crisis and disillusionment. He was a gentleman in a world of hardened militants, a man of civility among conspirators and career revolutionaries. His tenure was marked by efforts to intellectualize a liberation movement that had already become militarized and fractured by external manipulation.

His simplicity bordered on political innocence. He trusted where suspicion was warranted. He believed in unity where division was already institutionalized. His moral compass, unbending in an era of expediency, made him vulnerable.

But those of us who worked alongside him — through nights of argument and exile — remember a man with a good heart, generous with ideas and compassion. He believed that liberation was not only from dictatorship but also from ignorance and clan servitude. His dream was to make Somali politics rational and humane — a dream too advanced for its time.

Legacy of an Unfinished Mind

When history is written, Dr. Hassan Ali Mire will not be remembered for winning power, but for holding on to integrity. He will not be celebrated for political triumphs, but for intellectual courage. His was a life of struggle — not only against tyranny, but against the mediocrity of his contemporaries and the limits of his own temperament.

He was quick-tempered, easily frustrated by incompetence, often isolated by his high standards. But behind that restlessness was a deep love for Somalia and a stubborn refusal to surrender his ideals to convenience.

In an age when Somali politics has been overrun by opportunists and empty slogans, Dr. Mire stands as a symbol of what could have been — a reminder that intellect without strategy is a candle in the storm.

Epilogue: The Man I Knew

I remember him as a man who carried too many books and too little patience, who debated endlessly about democracy and justice while the world around him burned. He was one of the few who believed that ideas could defeat dictatorship — that words could outlast guns.

He was right in spirit, wrong in method. But his legacy — like the flicker of a lamp in exile — still illuminates the path for those who dare to think in a land that punishes thinkers.

Dr. Hassan Ali Mire, may your restless mind find peace in eternity. Somalia, in its chaotic journey, still owes you the recognition you never received in life.

WDM Editorial Note:
In remembering men like Dr. Mire, we remember that Somalia’s tragedy was never the absence of intellect — it was the failure to translate intellect into collective will. His life remains a mirror for the Somali elite: brilliant in thought, broken in action.

By Ismail H. Warsame

A Dangerous Joke in a Fragile Nation

When someone floated the absurd notion that Puntland might one day secede to join the United Arab Emirates as another emirate, it might have been meant as humor — but the laughter died in the throat of every conscious Somali. It was not funny. It was symptomatic. It revealed, with brutal honesty, the deep disillusionment with Mogadishu’s failed federal project under Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s administration.

Let’s state facts: Puntland is several times larger than the entire UAE in landmass. Its coastline dwarfs that of most Gulf states combined. Its untapped mineral wealth, hydrocarbons, fisheries, livestock, and fertile interior plains represent a sleeping economic giant. The only thing missing is leadership — one that governs by vision, not by opportunistic foreign appeasement.

So when the rumor mills echo with “joining the Emirates,” it isn’t a dream — it’s a sarcastic reflection of despair in the Somali political imagination.

The Anatomy of a Somali Political Vacuum

Puntland, Jubaland, and Somaliland — three states with administrative coherence, relative stability, and defined borders — now stand isolated, abandoned by a central government that neither listens nor learns.

Under Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, the Federal Government of Somalia (FGS) has mutated into a narrow political cartel — a Damul Jadiid experiment in ideological arrogance. The result? The spirit of federalism — the sacred pact that bound Somalia together after 1991’s disintegration — is now dead in all but name.

Every federal member state looks inward, not outward. Every president becomes a mini-head of state, not a federal partner. Villa Somalia has become a centralizing force of division, not unity.

Somaliland’s Old Argument Revisited

For decades, Somaliland justified its withdrawal from the union with one haunting phrase:

“There is no one to negotiate with in Mogadishu.”

That line, once dismissed as separatist propaganda, now echoes ominously in Garowe and Kismayo. Puntland, long the most loyal advocate of a federal Somalia, finds itself confronting the same painful realization — there is no credible partner left in Mogadishu.

When the very seat of the federal government becomes a theater of corruption, manipulation, and clan-centric governance, dialogue dies. When dialogue dies, secession talk thrives.

The Strategic Patience of Puntland

Puntland has always played the long game. It resisted the Arta Conference in 2000, not out of arrogance, but because it demanded genuine federalism — not clan arithmetic dressed as unity. It participated in Mbagathi to shape a real national charter, not another political illusion.

Now, two decades later, Puntland’s political patience is being tested to its limits. Garowe’s quiet diplomacy is giving way to growing cynicism. The people’s frustration is real — not because they want to “join the UAE,” but because they are tired of waiting for Somalia to grow up.

The Real Secession is Already Happening

Let’s be brutally honest — the real secession is not territorial; it’s institutional and psychological.
Every time Villa Somalia undermines federalism, it secedes from the covenant of the 2012 Provisional Constitution.
Every time it manipulates parliament, it breaks the moral union.
Every time it treats Puntland and Jubaland as political adversaries instead of partners, it accelerates the national disintegration it pretends to prevent.

So, when Puntland intellectuals or elders joke about joining the UAE, they are merely mocking a failed system — not seeking a new flag.

Conclusion: The Coming Reckoning

Somalia’s unity will not be saved by slogans or donor-funded conferences in Mogadishu hotels. It will be saved when the federal ideal — autonomy within unity — is respected in deed, not in speech.

Until then, Puntland will continue to be misunderstood: too pragmatic for Mogadishu, too patient for separatists, too self-reliant for parasites.

But make no mistake — if the current trend continues, the laughter about Puntland becoming an emirate will be replaced by something far more serious: the quiet declaration of independence through governance, accountability, and results.

And when that day comes, it won’t be because Puntland left Somalia —
It will be because Somalia left Puntland.

—

© 2025 Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Critical analysis, satire, and truth-telling from the Horn of Africa’s uncompromising voice.

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)

The Feline Coup in Garowe

There was a time when Garowe’s hotels proudly displayed manicured gardens — symbols of hospitality, order, and Puntland’s claim to urban civilization. Today, those same gardens have been seized — not by political militias, not by opposition parties, but by cats. Yes, the new rulers of Garowe come with whiskers, claws, and an entitlement only rivaled by certain government officials.

Garowe’s hotel gardens have been quietly converted into open-air toilets for the city’s fast-multiplying feline population. What used to be green serenity for tea and diplomacy is now a battlefield of mating yowls, foul odors, and territorial disputes. At night, these furry anarchists organize what sounds like a constitutional conference — perhaps to ratify The Republic of Meowland under the slogan: “We came, we saw, we sprayed.”

Uncontrolled In-House Proliferation: A Hygiene Apocalypse

This is not a joke anymore — it’s an environmental and public health emergency disguised in fur. Behind every hotel wall, a new litter is born every week. These are not pampered pets. These are feral freeloaders — thriving in garbage, breeding unchecked, spreading fleas, and converting respectable courtyards into biological minefields.

The foul smell of cat droppings is unbearable around these once-beautiful hotel gardens. The air itself has become heavy, infected with a nauseating odor that drives away both guests and common sense. What used to be the pride of Garowe’s hospitality industry has turned into an olfactory nightmare — a testament to how civic neglect can literally stink to high heaven.

Of Leaders and Litter Boxes

Garowe’s situation is a perfect metaphor for Puntland’s current governance: overrun by unregulated forces, lacking supervision, and thriving on negligence.
When the government cannot manage basic urban hygiene, what hope is there for democracy or security?

Imagine the scene — dignitaries arriving from abroad to find a cat parade in the hotel garden. One foreign visitor reportedly said, “I thought these were holy cats protected by local law.” Indeed, in Garowe today, the cat enjoys more freedom of movement than the average citizen.

There was once a Garowe Mayor named Ahmed Barre, who still jokes about my early warnings regarding the invasion of cats and goats in Garowe. Every time he sees me in town, he laughs and says:

“Ismail, tell me about the cats in Garowe,”
As if I were somehow responsible for his political downfall — as if my critique of his feline administration haunted his mayoral days!

Yet, not all establishments have surrendered to the feline invasion. Certain hotels, notably Martisoor and Rugsan, have found a way around this problem — discreetly, effectively, and without waiting for municipal miracles. Their courtyards are clean, their nights quiet, and their guests relieved. It seems they’ve mastered the art of feline diplomacy — firm, silent, and decisive.

WDM Conclusion: Declaw the Disorder

If this continues, WDM proposes a tongue-in-cheek but deadly serious intervention:

1. Declare a Feline Emergency — appoint a Minister of Cat Control.

2. Launch Operation Litter Freedom — mass sterilization, not speeches.

3. Reclaim Hotel Gardens — turn them back into symbols of urban decency, not cat kingdoms.

Garowe, the proud heart of Puntland, deserves better than this creeping animal anarchy. Hygiene is not a luxury — it’s a moral indicator of civilization. When cats rule the courtyards and leaders chase vanity projects, the city’s soul begins to rot — and the stench isn’t just from the gardens anymore.

—

WDM © 2025 — “Talking Truth to Power (and Paws)”
Garowe’s cats have declared independence. Now who will liberate the city from them?

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Critical Analysis, News & Commentary – 2025 Edition

From Pride to Putrefaction

Once the cradle of Somali courage and intellect, Galkayo now reeks—literally—of decay. The city that once produced generals, scholars, and entrepreneurs is collapsing under the stench of neglect. The proud “Rocco Littorio” of colonial times, once named after an Italian warship for bravery, has become the rotting corpse of Puntland’s governance failure.

The smell of uncollected garbage and broken drainage systems wafts through the streets, mingling with the acrid odor of dust and despair. After the rains, filthy runoff floods markets and alleyways, forming stagnant ponds of disease. The once-bustling municipality has disintegrated—its trucks grounded, workers unpaid, and officials absent. Galkayo today is a city without sanitation, administration, or salvation.

And yet, as this misery unfolds, the brave and fine soldiers of Galkayo are fighting and dying in the Cal Miskaad Mountains—defending Puntland from extremist threats and protecting the very state that has abandoned their city.

The Return of Clan Vengeance

The rot is not only physical.
The city bleeds from a new kind of infection—revenge killings, spreading faster than any epidemic. Day after day, clan retaliations take lives in a self-perpetuating cycle of grief and retribution. The law has withdrawn, and the police merely count the dead.

Evenings in Galkayo are ghostly. Residents dare not step outside after sunset. Streets once alive with merchants, taxis, and laughter now echo with the hum of fear. In some neighborhoods, gunfire punctuates the night, and every household fears the next knock could be fatal.

Funerals outnumber weddings. Families mourn by day and barricade themselves by night. The thin fabric of social order has torn apart.

Collapse of Commerce and Civic Life

Business—the lifeblood of Galkayo—has flatlined.
Shops close before dusk, wholesalers move their goods to safer districts, and investors quietly migrate to Garowe, Bosaso, or beyond Somalia altogether. Even the once-thriving livestock trade has slowed to a crawl as insecurity makes transport routes lethal.

Market stalls stand half-empty, and currency dealers whisper that circulation has dried up. The economic arteries are clogged, just like the city’s drainage. Galkayo is not merely unsafe—it is economically asphyxiated.

The Administration That Cannot Govern

President Said Abdullahi Deni’s government has perfected the art of inertia.
Puntland under his rule no longer governs—it waits. Ministries issue statements instead of solutions. Every local crisis is deferred to “a later time” that never comes.

The Deni administration does not multitask; it does not even delegate. Authority has become ornamental—concentrated in Garowe but functionally absent everywhere else. Governors act like political hostages; mayors are ceremonial. There is no effective municipal structure left in Galkayo. Even garbage collection has become a private, clan-based affair.

This paralysis has turned Puntland from a model of federalism into a museum of mismanagement.

The Smell of State Failure

Nowhere is Puntland’s dysfunction more visible—or smellable—than in Galkayo.
Open sewers overflow through the city’s arteries. Piles of waste block alleys. Children play beside gutters bubbling with human refuse. The municipality, once Galkayo’s pride, has ceased to exist in all but name.

The smell of rotten decay has become symbolic—a constant reminder that this is what happens when leadership decomposes in office. The physical filth mirrors the moral corruption of a state that stopped caring.

Administrative Vacuum Across Puntland

Galkayo’s plight is only the loudest symptom of a broader collapse. Across Puntland, every structure of governance—education, policing, public works—is either stagnant or deteriorating.
Civil servants go unpaid for months. Districts operate without budgets. Clan militias, not police, enforce security. And Deni’s government still pretends it has control while it actually presides over a slow-motion implosion.

There is an administrative vacuum everywhere, and Galkayo stands as the capital of that vacuum.

The Dystopia of Everyday Life

To live in Galkayo today is to balance between fear and fatigue.
The youth—unemployed, disillusioned—oscillate between revenge networks, extremist recruiters, and smuggling syndicates. Elders have lost authority, religious leaders have lost influence, and women bear the brunt of insecurity as both victims and breadwinners.

When a society normalizes murder, corruption, and filth, it ceases to be a society. Galkayo has reached that threshold.

A State in Denial

Despite these conditions, Puntland’s officialdom continues to issue cheerful press releases about “stability and progress.”
Reality, however, speaks louder:

Lawlessness reigns.

Municipal services are dead.

Economy is collapsing.

People are terrified.

This is not merely a Galkayo tragedy—it is the death rattle of Puntland’s governance system.

Conclusion: The Smell of Abandonment

Galkayo is not suffering by accident. It is suffering because its leaders chose ambition over administration, optics over obligation, and vanity over vision.

The drainage catastrophe, the revenge killings, the business collapse, and the paralyzed municipality all tell one story: a government that has abandoned its people.

If Puntland continues on this path, Galkayo will not be its exception—it will be its future. And the stench rising from the city’s drains will not be just of waste, but of a failed state decomposing from within.

Editorial Note (WDM)

Galkayo’s condition demands emergency governance, not election slogans. Puntland’s ruling elite must remember: when the heart of a state rots, the whole body follows.

WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
A Political Memoir Essay
By Ismail H. Warsame

Preface
When the Puntland State of Somalia was founded in August 1998, it was more than a political experiment — it was a declaration of organized resistance to national collapse. As Director General at the Presidency, I stood at the nerve center of a new state struggling to balance vision, power, and governance. Those early years were marked by enthusiasm, fear, and fierce debates about Puntland’s role in rebuilding Somalia. Inside the corridors of Garowe’s Presidency, decisions were not just administrative — they were historical. This memoir captures the untold story of my internal and sometimes stormy disagreements with President Abdullahi Yusuf, a man both revered and feared, and my own moral struggles in defending the principles of statehood over politics.

What most people never knew was that I was instrumental in bringing peace back to Puntland after that dark confrontation. In the months that followed, I quietly persuaded both Abdullahi Yusuf and General Adde Muse to open channels of dialogue and consider reconciliation as the only viable path forward. Through discreet diplomacy and persistent reasoning, I convinced Abdullahi Yusuf to re-engage with his former rivals, paving the way for internal stabilization just before the Mbagathi Somali Reconciliation Conference (2002–2004).

By the eve of Mbagathi’s conclusion — which crowned Abdullahi Yusuf as Somalia’s first Federal President in October 2004 — Puntland had regained relative calm and political coherence. Few knew how close we came to losing it all, and fewer still knew of the quiet diplomacy behind the scenes that helped deliver peace back to Puntland — and a national mandate to Abdullahi Yusuf himself.

1. The Arta Conference: To Engage or To Boycott? (2000)

When the Djibouti-sponsored Arta Peace Conference convened in mid-2000, Abdullahi Yusuf’s instinct was total rejection — dismissing it as a political trap by outsiders seeking to dilute the federalist vision of Puntland. I, however, argued that engagement, even through limited participation, could safeguard Puntland’s interests and prevent its isolation. My position was grounded in statecraft: legitimacy is never gained through absence. History proved the point — Puntland’s empty seat at Arta was filled by those who later claimed the title of “Transitional National Government,” rewriting Somalia’s political narrative without us.

To drive my position home, I offered my resignation — not once, but multiple times — each immediately rejected by the President. He would say, “Ismail, you are not leaving me in the middle of this storm.” Yet my conscience was clear: leadership sometimes means standing firm against the tide of unquestioned authority.

2. The Controversial Extension of the Puntland Legislature (Late 2000)

As Puntland’s first three-year mandate neared its end in late 2000, Abdullahi Yusuf engineered an extension of the House of Representatives’ term, and by extension, his own presidency. I stood opposed. It was a dangerous precedent — undermining constitutional order and public trust. The legislative term had expired; renewal required a new political consensus, not decrees dressed in legality. My advice was blunt: “Mr. President, no constitution survives when convenience dictates its interpretation.” His response was equally sharp: “Ismail, politics is not a textbook exercise.” Indeed, Article 34 of the Puntland Founding Charter (1998) was the central legal battleground in the debate over Abdullahi Yusuf’s 2000 extension of both the legislature and presidency. The article stipulated term limits and renewal procedures, intended to ensure peaceful transition and continuity through constitutional consultation — not unilateral decrees or legislative manipulation.

I again submitted my resignation, believing that moral protest is stronger than silent compliance. Once more, he refused to accept it — insisting that “the system cannot afford to lose its thinkers.” It was a paradoxical compliment wrapped in political defiance.

3. The Bosaso Confrontation with Jama Ali Jama (Late 2001–Early 2002)

Nothing tested the integrity of Puntland like the late 2001–early 2002 confrontation in Bosaso. When Abdullahi Yusuf rejected the results of the November 2001 Garowe Constitutional Conference — which had elected Jama Ali Jama as President — he regrouped militarily in Galkayo and Qardho. His decision to retake the port city by force risked plunging the young state into civil war.

I opposed the use of arms, arguing that Puntland’s legitimacy could not be built on fratricide. Leadership demanded restraint, dialogue, and wisdom. But the militarist instinct prevailed — tanks rolled, shells thundered, and the cost of victory was the erosion of unity. It was a tragedy disguised as triumph.

In protest, I wrote a detailed memorandum to the President, reaffirming that the path of reconciliation was still open. I was told to “stay in my lane.” My response was another resignation letter — and once again, a firm rejection. “Ismail,” he said, “you may disagree, but you don’t abandon ship.”

4. The “Fadlan” Culture: Politics of Patronage (1998–2004)

Another source of sharp disagreement was the President’s habit of dispensing public money — euphemistically called “Fadlan” (please) — to appease individuals or groups for political loyalty. I called it what it was: a dangerous welfare populism masquerading as generosity. State resources were not personal property to be handed out in envelopes for political gain. This system bred dependency, inflated expectations, and weakened public institutions. I warned that “Fadlan politics” would one day corrode the very foundation of Puntland governance. Sadly, it did.

When I opposed these disbursements and questioned their legality, I was accused of being “too bureaucratic for Somali politics.” My response was yet another attempt to resign — my way of documenting dissent in a system allergic to accountability.

5. Family Interference: The Silent Cancer of Nepotism (1999–2004)

Perhaps my most difficult confrontation with Abdullahi Yusuf was over family interference in the Presidency. Decisions that should have remained within the professional bureaucracy were often influenced — even dictated — by close relatives. It became a creeping form of parallel governance, where personal relationships trumped administrative order. I protested quietly at first, then formally in writing. My position was simple: a state cannot function when the boundaries between family and government dissolve. Abdullahi Yusuf viewed such resistance as disloyalty; I viewed silence as a betrayal of the public trust. At one point, I left his entourage in the middle of an official journey after witnessing his close relatives interfering with travel arrangements. That moment broke every boundary of institutional respect. My decision to walk away triggered severe anger from the President, who viewed it as insubordination. I was briefly placed under home arrest within the Presidency compound  afterwards— an extraordinary episode that revealed the depth of my disillusionment and the dangerous collision between family power and formal authority.

Each time I pressed the issue, my resignation followed. Each time, it was rejected. “Ismail,” he would say, “you are stubborn — but loyal.” I took it as the highest form of reluctant respect.

Epilogue: Loyalty, Dissent, and the Burden of Conscience

Despite these fierce disagreements, I never abandoned respect for Abdullahi Yusuf’s courage and historic role in the Somali struggle. But leadership is not defined by bravery alone — it is measured by one’s willingness to be guided by principle, not power. In those turbulent years, I learned that dissent is the highest form of loyalty when it defends the truth. My conscience demanded that I speak — not against Abdullahi Yusuf the man, but against the political culture that mistakes obedience for patriotism.

The untold story of those years is not about rebellion or disloyalty — it is about defending the moral architecture of Puntland. History may forget the memos, the meetings, and the midnight debates, but it cannot erase the truth: that building a state requires men who dare to disagree, even when their resignations are never accepted.

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By Ismail Warsame
First published April 27, 2014 | Updated March 10, 2021

Although I had heard about it for years and often reminded myself to read it, I finally had the opportunity to go through General Jama Mohamed Ghalib’s The Cost of Dictatorship (1995 edition). While I commend the author’s courage in documenting his experience within the notoriously repressive regime he loyally served for decades—and while I share a measure of sympathy for his lifelong advocacy of Somali unity—I found his account riddled with historical distortions, selective omissions, and a deep bias toward the very forces that dismantled the Siyad Barre regime.

Encounter at Mbagathi: A Revealing Moment

Reading The Cost of Dictatorship instantly recalled an episode from the Somali National Reconciliation Conference (Mbagathi, Kenya, 2002–2004). General Ghalib, though claiming to have supported the Somali National Movement (SNM) from Mogadishu, never set foot in Hargeisa after its fall to SNM forces. He remained tethered to Mogadishu, navigating its web of rival warlords and donor-funded “civil society” circles that, ironically, became obstacles to state restoration.

One telling moment occurred at Nairobi’s Safari Park Hotel in 2004, when President Yoweri Museveni—then IGAD Chairman—met Somali delegates to bridge deep divisions. During the discussion, Ms. Ardo, a prominent Digil-Mirifle figure, lamented that “warlords are giving no chance to anyone, including my brother General Jama Mohamed Ghalib.” Museveni turned to the General and, with a mix of humor and disbelief, asked:

“Aren’t you a General? What are you doing here?”

The exchange revealed the contradictions of Ghalib’s self-image: a man oscillating between the uniform of a regime enforcer and the moral posturing of a civilian activist.

Setting the Historical Record Straight

General Ghalib’s narrative glorifies the SNM and USC while erasing the pioneering role of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF)—the first organized armed resistance against the military dictatorship. History cannot be rewritten to suit partisan nostalgia.

In 1981, when Isaaq political figures like Duqsi and Jumcale met the Somali Salvation Front (SSF)—successor to the Somali Democratic Action Front (SODAF)—in Addis Ababa, there was no SNM. It was during these meetings that the Isaaq participants were advised either to join SSF collectively or form their own organization to be later unified under a single anti-Barre front.

The Somali National Movement (SNM) was formally launched in London in 1982, after the SSF evolved into the SSDF through a merger with two other groups: the Somali Communist Party (led by Abdirahman Aideed) and the Somali Workers’ Party (led by Said Jama). The SSDF, well-funded by Libya and equipped with modern arms, agreed to support the fledgling SNM with resources and radio facilities—transforming Radio Kulmis into Radio Halgan, the “United Voice of Somali Opposition.”

This cooperation lasted through successive SNM leaderships—Sheikh Yusuf Madar, then Col. Kosaar—until the latter’s assassination in Mustahiil, likely orchestrated by Siyad Barre’s agents. After Ahmed Mohamed Silanyo succeeded Kosaar, relations between SSDF and SNM cooled, particularly after SSDF’s leader, Col. Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, was arrested by Mengistu Haile Mariam following political disagreements. That arrest precipitated a split within the SSDF, but not before its ideas, networks, and sacrifices had laid the groundwork for later insurgent movements.

The USC Connection

Ghalib conveniently ignores that the United Somali Congress (USC) originated as a splinter faction of the SSDF after Abdullahi Yusuf’s imprisonment. Key USC figures—including Mohamed Farah Jimcaale, once SSDF’s Deputy Chairman—were direct SSDF offshoots. Even General Aideed’s rise in the USC was facilitated through internal power struggles within SSDF-linked circles.

When Aideed sought Mengistu’s blessing to take over USC leadership from Hussein Ali Shido, he went as far as requesting Abdullahi Yusuf’s release—an audacious move Mengistu firmly rebuffed. These are verifiable episodes the General, with his intelligence training, could not have missed. Yet, his book omits them entirely.

The Duality of Ghalib

It is disingenuous for anyone to serve a dictatorship for two decades—climbing its ranks, enforcing its repressive apparatus—and later rebrand as a human rights advocate or member of “civil society.” One cannot be both a loyal general of tyranny and a moral critic of the same system without confronting one’s complicity.

In The Cost of Dictatorship, Ghalib does not once mention SSDF or Abdullahi Yusuf, the movement’s founder and Somalia’s eventual transitional president. Instead, he elevates his former regime colleagues while portraying himself as a conscience of the nation. Such selective memory does not withstand scrutiny.

A Partial Truth and a National Dilemma

Despite its distortions, Ghalib’s book inadvertently highlights a grim reality: the destructive zeal with which some northern intellectuals pursued Siyad Barre’s downfall, conflating the regime with the Somali nation itself. In their quest to end “southern domination,” they inflicted irreversible damage on the very idea of Somalia as a unified state.

I recall a conversation in Nairobi with the late Mohamud Jama “Sifir,” a UN veteran, reflecting on this tragedy. He recounted a haunting question raised by one of his colleagues:

“Who will ever dig Somalia out of the deep hole of our own making?”

That question lingers—an indictment of our collective complicity in the unmaking of a nation.

Conclusion

The Cost of Dictatorship is valuable as a personal memoir of survival and regret, but it fails as an objective historical record. Its omissions, distortions, and silences reveal more about the author’s psychology than about the dictatorship he condemns. True reconciliation with the past requires not selective amnesia but honest reckoning.

—

By Ismail H. Warsame
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WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
Critical Analysis, History, and Political Commentary

By Ismail H. Warsame

The Day Suspicion Became Survival

It was one of those mornings in Addis Ababa in early 1985 when the SSDF Secretariat Office felt unusually tense. The war against tyranny was being waged not only in the field but also in the corridors of intrigue. Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, the Chairman of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), and his close associate Abdullahi Mohamed Hassan — known in the Front as Abdullahi Faash, who died in Derg jail presumably under torture— walked into the Secretariat office where I worked as director. Their faces betrayed a mixture of defiance and dread.

They asked me to draft a letter. It was to be addressed to the Ethiopian External Research Department, the counter-intelligence branch of the Ministry of Public Security then liaising with the SSDF. The contents were explosive: evidence of a conspiracy to assassinate Abdullahi Yusuf. The plot, they claimed, involved none other than an Ethiopian intelligence officer, the late Ahmed Mohamed Silaanyo, then Chairman of the Somali National Movement (SNM), and Amina Ahmed Warsame Nur Godane, the wife of SSDF Executive Secretary Abdirahman Aydeed Dhadhable.

That letter would later become a piece of political dynamite — a prelude to Abdullahi Yusuf’s arrest by Mengistu’s Derg regime.

The Anatomy of a Conspiracy

At the time, relations between Abdullahi Yusuf and the Derg government were deteriorating rapidly. Once the favored ally of Addis Ababa, Yusuf had become an irritant — a Somali nationalist who refused to bend entirely to Ethiopian manipulation. The Derg wanted obedience; Yusuf demanded sovereignty.

The alleged assassination plot was not merely about eliminating a man. It was about dismantling a movement. The SSDF represented the first organized Somali resistance against the dictatorship of Siad Barre, but it operated within Ethiopia — a state with its own imperial ambitions over Somali territories. The Derg’s counter-intelligence machinery was notorious for playing double games: nurturing Somali rebels on one hand, neutralizing their leaders on the other.

By bringing in figures like Silaanyo — then leading SNM — and exploiting internal SSDF fissures through figures such as Fadumo Nur Godane, Ethiopia’s intelligence apparatus seemed to be orchestrating a divide, discredit, and destroy campaign.

The Drafting of the Letter

I wrote the letter as requested, my pen trembling over the typewriter keys. It was to be signed by Abdullahi Yusuf himself. The letter outlined the conspiracy, the names involved, and the imminent threat to his life.

When I personally delivered it to the Ministry of Public Security, an officer — with the cold curiosity of a spy — asked me, “What is in this letter?”

I simply replied: “I don’t know.”

In truth, I knew every word of it. But in a city where truth could be fatal, ignorance was the only shield.

That single statement may have saved my life.

The Press, the Proofs, and the Peril

Outside political intrigue, my other duty was more mundane — proofreading Midnimo, SSDF’s quarterly magazine published in English. This was done at Burhan Selam Press, the largest print house in Ethiopia. It was a delicate task, but even the world of printing was not immune to espionage.

One day, as I worked on the English-language proofs, Ethiopian technicians asked me to examine official Somali documents — driver’s licenses, postal stamps, and auto circulation permits. They appeared to be “studying” these documents, but it soon became evident that they were engaged in forging Somali government documents — reproducing official seals and designs for intelligence purposes.

That was when I realized the abyss I was standing over: I was in a room where the machinery of forgery and deception operated under the guise of “printing.” Shortly thereafter, I was quietly told never to enter that room again.

They feared I had seen too much.

I left that building with the haunting awareness that even paper could be a weapon — a tool of political warfare and infiltration.

The Aftermath: Arrest and Silence

Not long after that letter reached the Ministry, Abdullahi Yusuf was arrested by the Derg regime. The very government that once sheltered him turned against him. The conspiracy he warned about may have accelerated his downfall, or perhaps it was used as a convenient pretext to silence him.

The Derg had no patience for Somali independence of mind, even among its supposed allies. SSDF was tolerated only as long as it served Ethiopian interests. The moment Abdullahi Yusuf asserted autonomy, he became expendable.

His arrest sent shockwaves across SSDF ranks and across the world. The Front fractured; trust evaporated. The movement that once symbolized Somali unity against dictatorship was now consumed by internal suspicion and Ethiopian manipulation.

The Lesson in Betrayal

That episode was more than an assassination attempt — it was a defining lesson in political betrayal under foreign shadow. Ethiopia’s involvement with Somali resistance movements was never altruistic; it was always transactional, driven by its own national calculus.

The tragedy of SSDF lies not just in external manipulation but in how easily Somali movements allowed themselves to become arenas for foreign games.

Abdullahi Yusuf survived the assassination plot and the Derg’s prison — but the scars of that era marked him for life. When he later returned to lead Puntland and eventually Somalia, he did so with a hardened realism born from betrayal and captivity.

—

WDM Verdict

The assassination attempt against Abdullahi Yusuf was real — not in the cinematic sense of bullets and bombs, but in the political sense of premeditated elimination through intrigue, isolation, and imprisonment.

It revealed the true nature of the SSDF–Ethiopia relationship: one of convenience, control, and calculated betrayal. It exposed how revolutionary movements, when hosted by foreign powers, inevitably become hostages to foreign agendas.

And it showed that in the shadow politics of the Horn of Africa, truth is never safe — even in a letter.

—

Warsame Digital Media (WDM) — speaking truth to power, documenting history without fear or favor.

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)

Abstract

This paper explores the political and psychological dynamics of Ethiopian–Somali relations during the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF) era of the 1980s, focusing on the patterns of manipulation, mistrust, and humiliation that characterized Ethiopia’s foreign policy toward Somali liberation movements. Drawing from first-hand experience as a member of the SSDF Secretariat in Ethiopia, this study examines subtle bureaucratic behaviors—such as deliberate silence and symbolic condescension—were used as tools of imperial control. By analyzing the Ethiopian political psyche and its duality of envy and suspicion toward Somali assertiveness, this paper argues that Ethiopia’s approach to Somali actors was rooted in a colonial tradition of containment and domination rather than partnership.

1. Introduction

The relationship between Ethiopia and Somalia has long been defined by rivalry, insecurity, and cultural contrast. From the late nineteenth century, when the Abyssinian Empire expanded eastward under Menelik II, to the Cold War alliances of the Derg era, Ethiopia has treated Somali political formations as both a threat and a strategic necessity.¹ Somali liberation movements such as the SSDF (founded in 1978 after the failed coup against Mohamed Siad Barre) relied heavily on Ethiopian logistical support, yet that dependence came with humiliation and mistrust.

This paper examines this asymmetrical relationship through the lens of bureaucratic behavior—particularly what may be called Ethiopia’s “silent diplomacy.” The author’s personal recollections of Ethiopian officials, such as the mid-level officer “Aklilo,” illustrate how silence and indifference were transformed into mechanisms of political subjugation.

2. Background: SSDF and Ethiopian Patronage

Following the Ogaden War (1977–1978), Ethiopia, then under the Marxist Derg regime led by Mengistu Haile Mariam, offered sanctuary to Somali opposition figures seeking to overthrow Siad Barre.² The SSDF, led initially by Colonel Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, was among the first organized Somali resistance movements to operate from Ethiopian soil. However, the alliance was fraught with tension.

Ethiopia’s military intelligence treated the SSDF less as a partner and more as a controlled instrument of statecraft. Access to resources, movement permits, and communications were tightly regulated.³ Requests for routine administrative tasks—such as travel passes to the frontlines—often became exercises in humiliation.

In one revealing incident, an SSDF representative, facing urgent operational needs, called an Ethiopian liaison officer named Aklilo to request official clearance. The officer answered the phone but refused to speak, maintaining a prolonged, uncomfortable silence. Such behavior was not merely rude; it was a subtle assertion of dominance—an unspoken reminder of dependency.⁴

3. The Psychology of Ethiopian Diplomacy

Ethiopia’s statecraft toward Somalis reflected deep historical and psychological contradictions. On one hand, Ethiopians admired the Somali’s independence, eloquence, and mobility; on the other, they feared and resented those very traits.⁵ This oscillation between admiration and hostility produced a political culture that viewed Somalis as both potential allies and existential threats.

The use of silence as a diplomatic weapon symbolized a broader Ethiopian attitude: control through psychological superiority. As Levine (1974) observed in Greater Ethiopia, the Ethiopian elite historically maintained “a politics of guarded distance,” employing ritualized aloofness as a method of asserting hierarchy.⁶ In bureaucratic settings, this manifested as procedural delays, ambiguous communication, and deliberate opacity—techniques designed to reinforce dependence.

During SSDF’s tenure in Ethiopia, such tactics translated into chronic frustration among Somali cadres. While official rhetoric emphasized “solidarity,” the reality was one of containment.⁷ Ethiopia’s silence was not ignorance—it was strategy.

4. Dire Dawa and the Whispered Regrets

During one SSDF conference in Dire Dawa, the author observed an illuminating moment of candid reflection. Outside the meeting venue, a group of Ethiopian officers and civil servants spoke among themselves about the treatment of the Somali movement. Some expressed quiet regret for what they described as the “betrayal” of Somali allies by their own government.⁸

Their tone revealed a dichotomy between the Ethiopian state and its citizens: the regime’s imperial instincts versus the individual’s moral discomfort. This subtle empathy among Ethiopian officials—expressed privately and never officially—underscored the moral fragility of the Derg’s foreign policy. Ethiopia’s leadership feared Somali independence more than it valued genuine regional stability.

5. Silence as Statecraft and the Colonial Continuum

The Ethiopian bureaucratic culture that SSDF encountered was not an invention of the socialist era; it was the continuation of a much older imperial tradition. The Abyssinian court system, and later the modern civil service, were modeled on hierarchical, deferential communication structures where silence symbolized authority.⁹

This cultural dynamic permeated Ethiopia’s external relations. By refusing to engage Somali representatives openly, Ethiopian officials maintained both psychological distance and political leverage. The “diplomacy of silence” became a tool of control, reflecting a belief that dialogue implies equality—something the Ethiopian state historically resisted granting to Somalis.

Such behavior is consistent with the broader colonial psychology described by Fanon, wherein the colonizer enforces hierarchy not only through violence but through symbolic humiliation.¹⁰ Ethiopia’s silence toward Somali liberation actors thus functioned as both a political and psychological form of domination.

6. Conclusion: The Legacy of Humiliation and the Persistence of Defiance

Ethiopia’s “school of silent diplomacy” left a lasting imprint on Somali political consciousness. For the SSDF, the experience revealed the perils of dependency on a neighboring power whose strategic objective was control, not cooperation. The episode of “Aklilo the Mute Bureaucrat” encapsulates a larger truth: silence can wound more deeply than words.

Yet, this history also affirms Somali resilience. Despite humiliation, manipulation, and betrayal, the SSDF laid the groundwork for Puntland State in 1998—an embodiment of Somali political continuity and defiance. The silence of Ethiopian bureaucrats could not erase the voice of Somali determination.

—

Bibliography

1. Marcus, Harold G. A History of Ethiopia. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994.

2. Lefebvre, Jeffrey A. “Ethiopia, the Horn of Africa, and U.S. Foreign Policy.” Middle East Policy 5, no. 1 (1997): 144–166.

3. Halliday, Fred, and Maxine Molyneux. The Ethiopian Revolution. London: Verso, 1981.

4. Warsame, Ismail H. Personal Field Notes, SSDF Secretariat, Addis Ababa and Dire Dawa, 1983–1986.

5. Samatar, Ahmed I. “Destruction of State and Society in Somalia: Beyond the Tribal Convention.” Journal of Modern African Studies 30, no. 4 (1992): 625–641.

6. Levine, Donald N. Greater Ethiopia: The Evolution of a Multiethnic Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974.

7. Clapham, Christopher. Transformation and Continuity in Revolutionary Ethiopia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988.

8. Author interview and recollection, Dire Dawa, 1985.

9. Bahru Zewde. A History of Modern Ethiopia, 1855–1991. London: James Currey, 1991.

10. Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove Press, 1963.

Warsame Digital Media
September 8, 2019

For the benefit of those who may have forgotten the political trajectory of Somalia over the past two decades—or those too young to remember the formative years of modern Somali politics—it is important to revisit Puntland’s two historical schools of thought that have shaped its political philosophy and engagement with the rest of Somalia.

1. The Founding Debate (1998)

a) Establish Puntland State of Somalia (August 1998) as the first building block toward a future federal Somalia.

b) Oppose establishing Puntland without the full participation of South-Central Somalia.

2. The National Vision Divide

a) Puntland should lead the national effort to revive the collapsed central state of Somalia.

b) Puntland should disengage from the chaos of South-Central Somalia and pursue self-determination, even secession.

3. The Arta Conference Controversy (2000)

a) Puntland should participate in the Arta (Djibouti) peace conference to shape Somalia’s political future.

b) Puntland should reject Arta altogether, given its unilateral approach that ignored federal principles and Puntland’s founding charter.

4. After Abdullahi Yusuf’s Resignation (2004–2008)

a) Puntland should abandon the rest of Somalia and focus inward.

b) Puntland must continue its commitment to rebuilding Somalia through a functional federal system and stronger institutions.

The Decline of Political Debate

These once-vibrant ideological debates have gradually faded. The administrations of Abdirahman Faroole and Abdiweli Mohamed Ali Gaas each contributed—albeit differently—to this decline.

Faroole’s presidency was marked by strength and intellect but marred by authoritarian tendencies and sub-clan favoritism that stifled open debate and dissent.

Gaas’s tenure, on the other hand, was defined by political apathy, self-interest, and a dismissive attitude toward Puntland’s intellectual class. His leadership lacked vision, strategy, and respect for Puntland’s founding principles.

The problem was further compounded by the poor performance of Puntland representatives in Mogadishu, whose weakness and lack of coordination diminished the state’s national influence and political weight.

Farmaajo’s Centralization Drive

The Farmaajo administration accelerated this erosion by systematically purging Puntlanders from federal institutions while concentrating on constitutional powers in Villa Somalia—at the expense of federal member states.

The Current Test

Today, Puntland no longer has two schools of thought. It suffers instead from intellectual stagnation and political fatigue. The once-spirited debates that defined its political maturity have been replaced by silence, division, and uncertainty.

This moment presents a defining test for President Said Abdullahi Deni—a test of leadership, conviction, and clarity of vision. Will he restore Puntland’s role as the anchor of Somali federalism, or allow it to drift into irrelevance amid Villa Somalia’s encroachments and internal disunity?

The answer will determine whether Puntland remains the beacon of Somali federalism or becomes a footnote in the long history of missed opportunities.

Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Critical Analysis, News, and Commentary

——

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March 10, 2021

Ali Mahdi Mohamed — popularly known as Ali Mahdi — was a man of contrasts. His warm smile and mild demeanor belied the dark legacy of his political and military career. As leader of one faction of the United Somali Congress (USC) in North Mogadishu, he became a central figure in the bloody power struggle that followed the fall of General Mohamed Siad Barre in January 1991.

Despite his reputation as a “man of peace” in later years, Ali Mahdi bore moral responsibility for the atrocities committed under his watch — including the ethnic cleansing of Darood civilians from Mogadishu. While the ideological architect of clan cleansing was General Mohamed Farah Aideed, Ali Mahdi nonetheless facilitated the disintegration of the Somali National Army, exploiting his position as Djibouti-sponsored Interim President of Somalia (1993) and using his Prime Minister, Ambassador Omar Arteh, as a political instrument.

Political Liabilities and Limitations

Ali Mahdi’s political career was plagued by two enduring liabilities:

1. The “Goofka Banadir” mentality — a narrow provincial worldview confined to the Mogadishu–Banadir orbit, leaving him unable to build a national political perspective or connect with the rest of Somalia.

2. The “Kaaraan Syndrome” — a psychological subordination of Abgaal leadership to Habargedir dominance, born out of the trauma inflicted upon Kaaraan residents by Aideed’s relentless shelling and massacres during the North Mogadishu war.

The Siege of Kaaraan

As leader of the Mudulood, Ali Mahdi won admiration among the residents of Kaaraan for his defiance during Aideed’s onslaught. For four months, over 400 barrels of artillery and mortar fire rained down on Kaaraan, reducing it to rubble and traumatizing its inhabitants.

Later Years and Political Legacy

Ali Mahdi passed away in Nairobi after recently declaring his readiness to “take up his white gun again” — a metaphor for re-entering the political arena as an opponent of President Mohamed Abdullahi Farmaajo, whom he accused of clinging unlawfully to power at Villa Somalia.

He was also widely blamed for the collapse of the 1997 Cairo Peace Talks, having conspired with Hussein Aideed and Egyptian authorities to sabotage the Sodare Group’s progress. His actions subsequently derailed the Bosaso Conference, forcing Somali reconciliation efforts to shift to the Arta Conference in Djibouti (2000).

A Tale of Two Warlords

The difference between Aideed and Mahdi was one of intent, not outcome. Aideed was ruthless and strategic — willing to justify mass mobilization and clan cleansing as means to seize power. Ali Mahdi, by contrast, seemed politically naïve — swept along by events he barely understood or controlled.

Accusations and Aftermath

Ali Mahdi was later accused of entering into illegal contracts with the Italian Mafia to dump toxic industrial waste in Somalia’s territorial waters and even inland wells. Both he and Aideed died before ever facing justice for their roles in Somalia’s tragedy.

—

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https://ismailwarsame.blog/2025/10/18/the-somali-salvation-democratic-front-ssdf-the-first-spark-against-tyranny-and-the-genesis-of-puntland/

By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media – WDM

October 17, 2025

Abstract

The Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF) occupies a crucial, though often under-acknowledged, position in the modern political history of Somalia. Formed in 1978 in the wake of the Ogaden War defeat and a failed coup attempt, it became the first organized armed resistance to Mohamed Siad Barre’s dictatorship. Despite the regime’s propaganda portraying it as a narrow clan faction, the SSDF initially emerged as a multi-clan political movement, uniting Somalis from diverse regions around a shared vision of liberation.
This paper explores the SSDF’s formation, its uneasy alliance with its Ethiopian hosts, its internal ideological evolution, and its broader military and political trajectory. It argues that although the SSDF failed to overthrow the Barre regime militarily, it succeeded in planting the seeds of federalism and regional autonomy—principles that would later crystallize in the creation of the Puntland State of Somalia in 1998. The SSDF thus stands as a foundational force in the post-Barre political landscape.

Keywords: Somalia, SSDF, Siad Barre, Puntland, Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed, Ethiopian Derg, Somali Civil War, Federalism, SODAF, Multi-clan politics.

Introduction

In the chaotic aftermath of Somalia’s humiliating defeat in the 1977–78 Ogaden War, a new force emerged from the ashes of national disillusionment: the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF). It was not merely a dissident faction; it was the first organized, armed opposition to Siad Barre’s decaying dictatorship.
While later movements such as the Somali National Movement (SNM) and the United Somali Congress (USC) are often credited with toppling the regime, the SSDF’s pioneering role as the initial vanguard of defiance remains historically pivotal.

This paper examines the SSDF’s genesis—facilitated by the pre-existing Somali Democratic Action Front (SODAF)—its resistance to functioning as an Ethiopian proxy, its internal ideological tensions, and its enduring legacy in the formation of the Puntland State. The SSDF story is not merely a tale of rebellion, but the chronicle of a movement that first articulated a decentralized vision of Somali governance.

The Birth of Armed Defiance: From Coup Attempt to Exile

The SSDF’s origins are inseparable from the political fallout of the Ogaden War. The immediate catalyst was the failed coup d’état of April 1978, led by army officers primarily from the Majeerteen clan. [1] Following the coup’s collapse, key figures—including Colonel Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed—fled to Kenya, though their attempts to establish a secure base there proved unsuccessful. [2]

Their fortunes changed through the intervention of the Somali Democratic Action Front (SODAF), an opposition group based in Ethiopia and led by Omar Hassan Mohamud (“Omar Starlin”) and Osman Nur Ali Qonof, a lawyer and former Minister of Justice in Barre’s early cabinet. [3] Through SODAF’s mediation, the Ethiopian Derg regime formally invited the dissident officers to Addis Ababa—transforming them from fugitives into an organized insurgent movement with external backing. [4]

The SSDF operated under harsh internal security conditions within Ethiopia, where movement of people and goods was tightly restricted. Foreign nationals were required to obtain a so-called “pass paper” to travel between towns, making communication and mobility extremely difficult.

The initial rebel organization, known as the Somali Salvation Front (SSF), was soon established in Ethiopia. Mustafa Haji Nur, a respected journalist and politician, became its first chairman, while Colonel Abdullahi Yusuf commanded its military wing. [5] In October 1981, the SSDF was formally created in Addis Ababa through the merger of the SSF, the Somali Workers Party, and the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Somalia—with SODAF already integrated into its structure. [6]

Despite the Barre regime’s propaganda painting it as a clanist venture, the SSDF’s founding membership was multi-clan, encompassing Majeerteen, Hawiye, and Isaaq leaders united by the goal of ending dictatorship. [7] Barre’s brutal reprisals against the Majeerteen community only strengthened the SSDF’s legitimacy and cemented its role as a movement born out of both repression and resistance. [8]

The Ethiopian Connection: Dilemmas of Patronage

The SSDF’s alliance with Ethiopia represented a classic case of realpolitik. Mengistu Haile Mariam’s Marxist Derg viewed the movement as a strategic instrument to destabilize its rival in Mogadishu. [9] However, this patron-client relationship was deeply asymmetrical. Analysts have described the SSDF as having been “created, organized, trained, and initially financed by Ethiopia.” [10]

This dependency placed the SSDF in a constant struggle for autonomy. The Ethiopian government provided training, logistics, and safe havens, but also sought to dictate the SSDF’s operations and political messaging. [11] While the movement drafted manifestos envisioning a pluralist and democratic Somalia, its survival was inseparable from Ethiopian support. The tension between national liberation and external dependency would later contribute to internal power struggles and ideological fragmentation.

Ideology and Internal Fractures

From its inception, the SSDF projected a nationalist, pan-Somali agenda that transcended clan boundaries. Its political roots in SODAF were reflected in the SSF’s Central Committee, which included representation from the Isaaq, Hawiye, and Majeerteen communities. [12] This multi-clan foundation served as a direct rebuttal to Barre’s propaganda and embodied an early vision of inclusive governance. [13]
The SSDF’s ideological framework emphasized Somali unity, personal freedoms, and political pluralism, alongside an unambiguous anti-dictatorship stance. [14]

Over time, however, this ideological inclusivity eroded. As the conflict deepened and the regime’s reprisals devastated the Majeerteen heartland, the SSDF’s identity increasingly narrowed to reflect its core constituency. [15] Internal divisions—driven by leadership rivalries, Ethiopian interference, and competition over scarce resources—further fragmented the organization. [16] These fractures would ultimately paralyze the movement and blunt its revolutionary potential.

Major Military Campaigns and Strategic Decline

The SSDF’s first major guerrilla campaign, code-named “Awrayaal” (Camel Corps), launched in 1979 against a government garrison in Mudug, took the regime completely by surprise and signaled the emergence of a formidable insurgent force.

The group’s largest military operation came in June 1982, when approximately 15,000 Ethiopian troops—supported by thousands of SSDF fighters—invaded central Somalia. [17] Yet, rather than inciting a popular uprising, the offensive backfired: it galvanized Somali nationalism in favor of Barre and exposed the SSDF to charges of serving Ethiopian interests. [18]
By 1983, with defections increasing and morale collapsing, the SSDF’s military power waned. Barre’s regime exploited this disarray through amnesties and financial inducements that lured many fighters to surrender. [19] When Abdullahi Yusuf resisted Ethiopian attempts to control the movement, he was arrested in Addis Ababa in 1985—a blow from which the SSDF never recovered.

From Armed Resistance to Foundational Governance: The Puntland Legacy

The twin collapses of Barre’s dictatorship in 1991 and the Derg regime in Ethiopia created a political vacuum across the Horn. The SSDF—fragmented yet ideologically resilient—re-emerged as a central organizing force in northeastern Somalia. [21]

SSDF militia veterans also played a decisive role in liberating and defending Galkayo in 1991, successfully repelling General Aideed’s forces after their brief occupation of the city.

Its greatest legacy came in 1998, when it spearheaded the founding of the Puntland State of Somalia. A three-month constitutional conference in Garowe, attended by SSDF veterans, traditional elders, and civil society leaders, culminated in the establishment of an autonomous regional government. [22]
Unlike the secessionist Somaliland, Puntland declared itself “an autonomous part of a future federal Somalia.” [23] Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed became its first president, marking the transformation of the SSDF’s liberation ideals into tangible governance structures. The decentralist principles debated in SSDF councils two decades earlier now found institutional expression in Puntland’s constitution.

Conclusion

The story of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front is one of both heroism and tragedy. It was heroic for shattering the myth of Barre’s invincibility and pioneering the struggle for political pluralism. It was tragic in its internal divisions, external dependency, and failure to achieve regime change.

Yet, to measure the SSDF merely by its military outcomes is to miss its deeper significance. Building upon SODAF’s groundwork, the SSDF became an incubator for Somalia’s later federal experiment. Its vision of regional autonomy and decentralized governance survived its battlefield defeats and was realized in the Puntland model.

The SSDF’s legacy, therefore, endures—not in its lost battles of the 1980s, but in the continuing political architecture of a federal Somalia.

Reviewed Article:

Addis Standard (13 October 2025): “The Northeastern State of Somalia: A Gateway to Enhance the Federal Model or a Step to Exacerbate Existing Tensions?”

1. Overview and Framing Bias

Although the article presents itself as a neutral academic analysis, its structure and tone betray a centralist-leaning framework aligned with Mogadishu’s narrative. The “Key Takeaways” and early paragraphs frame the new state as a federal success story—an “aspiration of marginalized communities”—while the rest of the essay acknowledges the backlash from Puntland and Somaliland almost as afterthoughts.
The authorship (“EPC Horn of African Studies Unit”) and repeated emphasis on Mogadishu’s legitimacy and “federal balance of power” suggest a think-tank piece designed to intellectualize Villa Somalia’s political maneuver rather than neutrally assess it.

2. Content Strengths

a. Structured Political Mapping:
The article successfully sequences the political logic behind Mogadishu’s move:

Weakening Somaliland’s secessionism

Curtailing Puntland’s autonomy

Projecting federal power through Laascaanood

Signaling to foreign partners that Mogadishu can redraw Somalia’s internal map

b. Recognition of Regional Complexity:
It fairly acknowledges that Sanaag and Ayn remain deeply divided, and that Khatumo’s legitimacy is fragmented along clan lines, especially with the Warsangeli’s hesitation. This is a rare admission from a Mogadishu-leaning publication.

c. Connection to Foreign Policy:
It perceptively links Mogadishu’s political urgency to shifting international attitudes toward Somaliland—particularly Washington’s signals suggesting possible reconsideration of the “One Somalia” doctrine. That link between domestic maneuvering and foreign perception is a genuine analytical strength.

3. Analytical Weaknesses

a. Intellectualized Centralism:
The essay treats centralization through new states as institution-building, when in fact it is state capture through fragmentation. It normalizes federal interference by redefining clan insurgencies as “federal initiatives.”

b. Mischaracterization of Puntland’s Stance:
Puntland’s constitutional objections are reduced to mere “territorial concerns.” It ignores Article 49 of Somalia’s Provisional Constitution, which requires bottom-up consent for creating new federal states. This omission hides the illegality of the “sixth state.”

c. Silence on SSC-Khatumo’s Autonomy Narrative:
The analysis erases the fact that SSC-Khatumo’s uprising was anti-Somaliland but not pro-Mogadishu. By merging it into a centralist storyline, the article co-opts a local liberation movement’s agency.

d. Overreliance on External Sources:
Citing Reddit for maps and multiple media links without quoting Somali academics or SSC officials exposes the essay as desktop analysis, not field research, and weakens its scholarly credibility.

4. Political Messaging and Subtext

The article’s subtext targets multiple audiences:

Donors: Somalia is “federalizing effectively,” so aid should flow through Mogadishu.

Somaliland: Any talk of independence will meet administrative counter-weight.

Puntland: “Your dominance is over; Mogadishu can manufacture federal states.”

SSC-Khatumo elites: “Align with us, and we’ll legitimize you.”

In essence, this is propaganda disguised as policy analysis—a textbook case of narrative laundering through international media.

5. Regional Geopolitical Implications

a. Ethiopia’s Shadow:
The omission of Ethiopia’s interest in the Laascaanood corridor is glaring. Addis Ababa’s security calculus via Borana and Somali regions overlaps directly with Mogadishu’s activism in the northeast.

b. UAE and Gulf Footprint:
The essay overlooks how the UAE’s port politics in Bossaso and Berbera parallel the federal re-engineering underway in Khatumo.

c. Puntland–Somaliland Convergence:
While it briefly mentions possible reconciliation between Garowe and Hargeisa, it understates its transformative potential. Villa Somalia’s provocation may, in fact, accelerate a confederal realignment—a joint front of Puntland and Somaliland against central overreach.

6. Internal Contradictions

The essay calls Khatumo “Somalia’s sixth federal state” while admitting it “lacks inclusivity, cohesion, and control.” That is a contradiction in terms—a state without statehood.

It praises Mogadishu for “integrating regions,” yet concedes that the move “deepens polarization.”

It attributes Khatumo’s creation to local “aspirations,” but all evidence shows top-down orchestration from Mogadishu.

7. WDM Interpretation: What the Article Doesn’t Say

From a Warsame Digital Media (WDM) analytical perspective:

1. Khatumo’s invention is not a gateway to federal renewal but a Trojan horse to dilute Puntland and suffocate Somaliland’s diplomacy.

2. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s Damul Jadiid strategy seeks to encircle Puntland with loyal satellites—Galmudug in the south, Khatumo in the north—to weaken Garowe before 2026 elections.

3. SSC-Khatumo elites risk losing grassroots legitimacy the moment they are absorbed by Villa Somalia’s orbit.

4. The international community should interpret this as re-centralization through clan engineering—a process that historically precedes civil conflict in Somalia.

8. Conclusion: A Manufactured “Federal State”

The Addis Standard Op-Ed is a polished justification of Mogadishu’s interference dressed in think-tank prose. It records events accurately but interprets them through a centralist optic—minimizing constitutional breaches, exaggerating community consent, and masking the geopolitical game behind “federal consolidation.”

In truth, the so-called Northeastern State of Somalia (Khatumo) is less a bottom-up federal success than a top-down political instrument.
It will neither enhance Somalia’s federal model nor stabilize the Horn; it will exacerbate tensions among Puntland, Somaliland, and SSC-Khatumo—each now trapped in competing legitimacy claims.

WDM Evaluation Summary

WDM Analytical Ratings (1–10 scale):

Factual depth: 8 — Well-sourced chronology

Analytical balance: 5 — Strong Mogadishu bias

Constitutional awareness: 3 — Ignores Article 49 framework

Regional insight: 6 — Misses Ethiopian/Gulf dimensions

Propaganda sophistication: 9 — Subtle centralist spin masked as scholarship

Final Assessment

On the WDM Reality Index, this Op-Ed scores 6.2/10 — intellectually polished but politically misleading.
It reflects Mogadishu’s growing use of external media to legitimize unconstitutional experiments in federal manipulation.
For scholars and policy observers, it stands as a case study in how fragile federal systems can be rewritten through narrative, not law.

By Ismail H. Warsame — Warsame Digital Media (WDM Historical Essay, 2025)

Abstract

This essay posits that the modern Puntland State of Somalia is the direct geographical and cultural heir to the ancient Egyptian Ta Netjer—the fabled “Land of the Gods,” known as Punt. By synthesizing archaeological records, textual evidence, and contemporary ecological data, this study traces an unbroken thread of aromatic-resin production from the Pharaonic era to the present day. It concludes that Puntland’s resource base is not merely an economic asset but a living testament to its role in one of history’s earliest and most prestigious global trade networks.

1. A Legacy Carved in Stone and Landscape

Ancient Egyptian inscriptions vividly portray Punt as a distant southern coast, a land of aromatic trees, ivory, and exotic animals (Breasted 1906, 231). The famed reliefs from Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s temple at Deir el-Bahari provide a visual map: they depict stilted huts, lush coastal vegetation, and distinctive mountain ridges that strikingly mirror the Golis Range and Bari coastal plains of modern Puntland. This correlation strongly suggests that the northern Somali coastline—from Bosaso to Qandala and the ancient port of Hafun—formed the core of the legendary Punt (Kitchen 1993, 27; Manzo 2017, 180).

2. The Incense Belt: An Unbroken Ecological Heritage

The heart of Punt’s wealth was its flora. The unique botanical zone of Commiphora myrrha (myrrh) and Boswellia carteri (frankincense) runs almost exclusively through Puntland’s Golis and Cal Miskaad mountains. Significantly, Egyptian cargo lists from Hatshepsut’s expedition describe the transport of “myrrh trees with their roots,” a detail that aligns perfectly with the biological range of these species (Naville 1898, pl. LXVII).

This connection is not merely historical. Modern scientific analyses, including DNA and isotopic testing of resins, confirm that the highest-quality myrrh in today’s global perfume and pharmaceutical markets still originates from the Bari and Sanaag regions (Dominy et al. 2020; Fattovich 2012, 207). Puntland, therefore, is not just a historical site but a living archive of the Puntite environment, its hills continuing to produce the same precious resins after four millennia.

3. From Ancient Ritual to Modern Markets: The Resin Economy

The aromatic wealth of Puntland extends beyond frankincense and myrrh. Local communities also harvest natural chewing gums derived from Acacia species, exported as gum arabic and gum myrrh. These are the very same plant exudates that the ancient Egyptians prized for embalming and temple rituals (Redford 2003, 168), creating a direct link between ancient sacred practices and modern global industries like confectionery, cosmetics, and medicine.

Field surveys by the FAO and local cooperatives indicate that Puntland’s annual potential for exporting frankincense and natural gums exceeds 10,000 metric tons, representing a multi-million-dollar renewable economy (FAO 2021). However, this potential remains underdeveloped, with harvesting methods often artisanal and environmentally unsustainable, threatening the very resource that has defined the region for centuries.

4. Reclaiming an Identity: The Meaning of “Puntland”

The official adoption of the name “Puntland” in 1998 was a profound act of cultural and historical reclamation. It was a conscious effort by the region’s founders to anchor a modern political identity in a deep, pre-existing civilizational heritage. This naming symbolizes a declaration that Somali state-building can draw strength from its own historical authenticity. The ancient title “Land of the Gods” thus evolves into a powerful metaphor for self-reliance, maritime heritage, and ecological stewardship in the modern era.

5. From Historical Successor to Economic Leader

Recognizing Puntland as the successor to Punt reframes its economic potential. This is not a subsistence economy, but a heritage-based one. Strategic policies that protect resin-producing trees, regulate sustainable harvesting, and promote branded products like “Puntland Myrrh” or “Puntland Natural Gum” can transform an ancient trade into a premium modern industry.

Furthermore, Puntland’s strategic ports—Bosaso and the historic Qandala—occupy the same locations where Egyptian and Greco-Roman ships once anchored to load their precious cargo. By reactivating these maritime routes through legal, eco-certified trade, Puntland can reclaim its ancient stature as a commercial hub within the modern Red Sea economy.

6. Conclusion

The same sun-baked escarpments that once perfumed the temples of the pharaohs today sustain the livelihoods of Somali harvesters. From the myrrh trees depicted in Hatshepsut’s reliefs to the bustling resin markets of modern Bosaso, the continuity is undeniable. The “Land of the Gods” endures—not as a forgotten myth, but in the tangible, fragrant tears of gum and incense that continue to flow from Puntland’s trees, connecting a legendary past to a promising future.

—

Bibliography

Bard, Kathryn A., and Rodolfo Fattovich. Harbor of the Pharaohs to the Land of Punt: Archaeological Investigations at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis, Egypt (2001–2009). Naples: Università degli Studi di Napoli “L’Orientale,” 2010.

Breasted, James H. Ancient Records of Egypt. Vol. 2. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1906.

Dominy, Nathaniel J., et al. “Mummified Baboons Reveal the Far-Reaching Trade of Ancient Egypt.” eLife 9 (2020): e57523.

FAO. Non-Wood Forest Products of Somalia: Frankincense, Myrrh and Natural Gums. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization, 2021.

Fattovich, Rodolfo A. “The Red Sea and the Horn of Africa in the Ancient World.” African Archaeological Review 29, no. 2 (2012): 199–212.

Kitchen, Kenneth A. The Land of Punt. London: University College London Press, 1993.

Manzo, Andrea. “Eastern Africa and the Horn in the Middle Kingdom and New Kingdom: A View from Egypt.” African Archaeological Review 34, no. 2 (2017): 173–195.

Naville, Edouard. The Temple of Deir el-Bahari: The Expedition to Punt. London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1898.

Redford, Donald B. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt. Vol. 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.

By Ismail H. Warsame

The International Monetary Fund and the World Bank – the twin high priests of global finance – have a peculiar religion. They worship spreadsheets, recite fiscal prayers, and preach sermons about “economic restructuring” to the starving faithful of the Global South. They never speak of corruption, only “leakages.” They don’t mention poverty, only “growth potential.”

You will never hear an IMF mission chief whisper the word thievery, even when billions vanish overnight from aid budgets. They call it “misallocation of resources.” When their Structural Adjustment Programs (SAPs) demand the shutdown of hospitals, schools, and local industries, they describe it as “fiscal discipline.” And when an African or Latin American minister flies first class to Washington to beg for another loan, it’s labeled a “capacity-building dialogue.”

The irony? These institutions claim to fight poverty by prescribing the same poison that caused it—tighten your belts, sell your assets, and privatize what’s left of your soul. They never ask who benefits from the pain they inflict. This is not a bug in the system; it is a feature. As one analysis notes, austerity is a tool for “shifting resources away from working people and into the hands of the wealthy elite,” ensuring that “austerity is for the workers, not for the millionaires.”

Their favorite mantra is “revenue mobilization.” Translation: tax the people who can’t escape. In Egypt, this meant quadrupling the price of subsidized bread, a staple for 65 million citizens, and hiking the cost of thousands of medicines. Never mind that the elites stash billions abroad with the silent complicity of Western banks. Never mind that every so-called reform program leads to more suffering, more dependency, and more photo-ops for the same recycled economists who caused the problem in the first place.

The IMF doesn’t see people—it sees ratios. It levies punitive “surcharges” on its most indebted borrowers, which act like junk fees on a late loan payment, further draining the budgets of nations like Morocco, which is still recovering from a devastating earthquake and a severe water crisis. The World Bank doesn’t see families—it sees feasibility studies. Together, they turn nations into laboratory rats, testing economic experiments no Western country would dare apply to itself. This dynamic is a modern form of neo-colonialism, a system of control that, as Thomas Sankara observed, doesn’t always come with guns but often arrives in the subtle form of a loan or blackmail.

In Somalia, Ethiopia, or Sudan, they call it “support for resilience.” In reality, it’s the same old neocolonial script with a digital signature. The poor are told to be patient. The rich are told to invest. And the IMF is told to continue the good work.

Welcome to the gospel according to the IMF—where corruption is invisible, suffering is data, and salvation comes with a PowerPoint presentation.

WDM Verdict:
They don’t fix economies—they restructure despair.

By Ismail H. Warsame, WDM Editorial Board

President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s pilgrimage to Addis Ababa is a spectacle of tragic repetition. Under the gilded ceilings of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s palace, amidst the sterile choreography of state visits, a far more cynical transaction was being negotiated. This was not diplomacy; it was the liquidation of sovereignty, a desperate barter of Somalia’s hard-won federal structure for a short-term political lifeline.

The agenda, pieced together from diplomatic cables and strategic leaks, reveals a mission of stunning paradox. The President, who once cloaked himself in the rhetoric of nationalist resolve, now travels to a historical regional hegemon not to discuss mutual interests, but to solicit its intervention in Somalia’s most delicate internal affairs: the fractious politics of Jubaland and the Gedo region. His initiative, dubbed “New Jubaland,” is not an organic political movement but a contrivance—a proxy project engineered in the sealed chambers of Villa Somalia. The formula is familiar: identify local dissent, infuse it with Damul Jadiid patronage, and seek a foreign power’s imprimatur to legitimize the illegitimate.

The profound absurdity lies in the betrayal. Federalism, however imperfect, remains the only constitutional framework preventing a return to the centralized ruin that plunged the nation into chaos. It is the fragile covenant between Mogadishu and the regions. Yet here is the President, not building bridges but burning them, offering this very covenant as a bargaining chip to an external actor. He is not strengthening the state; he is dismembering it to retain a piece of the throne.

For Abiy Ahmed, the calculus is clear. He acquires a pliant partner in Mogadishu, gains a lever to control the strategic Jubba corridor, and burnishes his credentials as an indispensable regional power broker. For President Hassan Sheikh, the gain is purely optical—a staged display of relevance and international backing, even if that backing comes at the cost of national dignity and long-term stability. It is the politics of the sugar rush: intensely sweet now, destined for a debilitating crash.

On the ground, the consequences are already felt. The people of Gedo are subjected to yet another abstract political experiment conceived in a distant capital. How many times must the map be redrawn from Mogadishu before leadership understands that nations are built on consent, not coercion? This administration’s track record—the political engineering in Galmudug, the manipulation in the Southwest, the invention of Hirshabelle—suggests a compulsive refusal to learn. This “New Jubaland” is merely the latest chapter in a doomed saga of centralist revivalism.

The handshakes in Addis Ababa represent more than a diplomatic misstep; they are an abdication of a national vision. Somalia does not need a president who seeks validation in foreign capitals to wage war on his own federal members. It needs a leader who will return to Mogadishu, open the constitution, and engage in the arduous, unglamorous work of building a genuine, negotiated federation.

President Hassan Sheikh, however, seems condemned to replay the past. Today’s photo-op may provide a fleeting sense of victory, but it is a pyrrhic one. When the flags are furled and the delegations depart, Somalia is left with a sobering reality: its leadership has once again chosen the path of dependency, and the bill for this diplomatic theater will be paid by generations to come.

WDM VERDICT:
A president who seeks a foreign power’s blessing to subdue his own people does not practice statecraft. He engages in surrender. Federalism was not merely discussed in Addis Ababa; it was placed on the auction block.

WDM – Talking Truth to Power.

By Ismail H. Warsame

Introduction: The Fractured Mirror of Global Media

The polarized split screen—Al Jazeera on one side, Western media like the BBC and CNN on the other—during coverage of Gaza’s conflicts represents more than a visual metaphor. It reflects a fundamental schism in how reality is constructed and presented to global audiences. This division captures the new world order of media representation: truth is increasingly tribal, filtered through geopolitical alignments and editorial biases that shape public consciousness. While Al Jazeera broadcasts from within the rubble, Western networks often report from sterile studios, creating what amounts to parallel realities of the same events .

This essay examines how this split screen manifests, its consequences for public understanding, and what it reveals about the state of contemporary journalism. The analysis extends beyond surface-level comparisons to explore systematic patterns confirmed by internal whistleblowers, academic research, and the testimony of journalists working within these institutions .

The Systematic Bias of Western Media: Evidence Beyond Anecdote

Western journalism, once considered a global model of integrity, has demonstrated consistent patterns of bias that extend beyond individual stories to systemic editorial practices. The evidence for this bias is substantial and comes from multiple sources:

· Internal testimony: Over 100 BBC staff members and 200 media professionals signed a letter accusing the broadcaster of systematic bias in its coverage of Israel’s war in Gaza, noting that “basic journalistic tenets have been lacking when it comes to holding Israel to account for its actions” . Similar concerns have emerged from CNN, where journalists reported being unable to describe Israeli actions as “air strikes” without Israeli confirmation—a standard not applied to other conflict zones .
· Academic analysis: A critical discourse analysis published in January 2025 compared Al Jazeera English and BBC’s online reporting on the 2023 Gaza War, finding “drastic differences in the quoting patterns and negative lexicalization,” with BBC refraining from emphasizing accusations against Israel of committing “genocide,” “ethnic cleansing,” “terrorism,” and “war crimes” .
· Language asymmetry: Analysis by The Nation revealed that during the first 30 days of the conflict, emotive words like “brutal,” “massacre,” “slaughter,” “barbaric,” and “savage” were “overwhelmingly used to describe the killing of Israelis and Ukrainians, and almost never that of Palestinians” .

These patterns represent what the Al Jazeera Journalism Review has termed “systematic double standards in Western journalism” , where the same events are framed through entirely different moral and linguistic lenses depending on which network is reporting.

Table: Comparative Language in Conflict Coverage

Term Western Media Usage and Al Jazeera Usage
Palestinian casualties “Palestinians killed” “Palestinians killed by Israeli forces”
Israeli casualties “Israelis killed by Hamas” “Israeli settlers/killed”
Descriptive terms for casualties Rarely uses “slaughter,” “massacre” Frequently uses these terms for Palestinian deaths
Historical context Limited reference to occupation Regular reference to historical context

The Manufactured Objectivity of Western Outlets

The performance of objectivity in Western media often masks deeply embedded biases that serve political interests. This “manufactured objectivity” manifests in several ways:

Selective Sourcing and Verification

Internal BBC communications reveal a systematic approach to vetting guests that disproportionately scrutinized Palestinian perspectives. According to a former BBC journalist, potential Palestinian interviewees were subjected to intense scrutiny in internal group chats, while Israeli spokespeople “were given a lot of free rein to say whatever they wanted with very little pushback” . This created a fundamental imbalance in whose perspectives were legitimized and challenged.

Structural Conflicts of Interest

At the BBC, structural conflicts have been identified that potentially influence coverage. Over 400 media figures, including 111 BBC staffers, signed a letter demanding the removal of board member Robbie Gibb over his “consistent efforts to stifle legitimate coverage of Israel’s war on Gaza” . The letter specifically noted Gibb’s ties to the Jewish Chronicle, which “has repeatedly published anti-Palestinian and often racist content,” creating what signatories viewed as an untenable conflict of interest for someone involved in editorial decisions .

Editorial Intervention and Censorship

At CNN, a long-standing policy requires that “every CNN journalist covering Israel and Palestine must submit their work for review by the news organization’s bureau in Jerusalem prior to publication” . While CNN describes this as ensuring “accuracy in reporting on a polarizing subject,” critics argue it places editorial control under the shadow of a bureau operating with permission from the Israeli government and military .

Al Jazeera: Ground-Level Reporting Amid Geopolitical Complexities

Al Jazeera’s coverage, while operating within its own geopolitical context rooted in Qatari funding, has provided perspectives largely absent from Western reporting. The network’s distinctive approach includes:

Unflinching Documentation

Al Jazeera’s reporters have consistently documented the human toll of the conflict with a persistence that has come at tremendous cost. The network has suffered significant journalist casualties in Gaza, highlighting their ground-level presence in conflict zones . Their reporting often includes raw visuals and testimonies that convey the visceral reality of destruction and loss.

Willingness to Challenge Dominant Narratives

While Western media frequently avoid terms like “genocide” and “ethnic cleansing” in reference to Palestinian suffering, Al Jazeera has consistently employed this vocabulary when appropriate . This linguistic directness stands in stark contrast to the cautious, often euphemistic language of Western outlets.

Contextual Reporting

Unlike Western coverage that often isolates events from their historical background, Al Jazeera typically frames current violence within the broader context of occupation, settlement expansion, and historical Palestinian displacement . This approach provides audiences with a more comprehensive understanding of the conflict’s roots.

The Global Consequences of Media Fragmentation

The split screen phenomenon extends beyond journalism to impact international relations, public consciousness, and the very possibility of shared reality:

Erosion of Shared Facts

When the same events are reported through fundamentally different frameworks, the possibility for consensus on basic facts diminishes. This fragmentation mirrors political polarization and undermines the potential for diplomatic solutions grounded in mutually acknowledged realities.

Differential Humanization

The consistent framing of Israeli and Palestinian suffering through different moral lenses creates what scholars have called “hierarchies of humanity” . As one BBC journalist noted anonymously, “we can see blatantly that certain civilian lives are considered more worthy than others—that there is some sort of hierarchy at play” .

Impaired Moral Judgment

When information systems provide radically different accounts of suffering and responsibility, the foundation for ethical response is compromised. This allows governments and international bodies to operate without accountability, as their constituents receive carefully filtered information that aligns with predetermined policy positions.

Conclusion: Beyond the Split Screen

The split screen between Al Jazeera and Western media outlets represents more than editorial differences—it signals the collapse of a universal truth framework in global journalism. This division has profound implications for how conflicts are understood, remembered, and addressed through international mechanisms.

The solution lies not in pretending that perfect objectivity is possible, but in demanding transparency about perspectives, acknowledging biases, and consciously diversifying news sources. Audiences must become active media consumers who recognize that every network operates within particular geopolitical contexts and allegiances.

The true tragedy of the 21st century media landscape is not that different outlets offer different perspectives—this can be healthy—but that these differences have become so entrenched in power dynamics that some realities are systematically erased while others are amplified. The split screen does not merely show us different angles on the same event; it shows us how geography, power, and ideology determine which sufferings are rendered visible and which remain invisible to global audiences.

WDM Verdict:
The next time you see the split screen, recognize that you are not just watching different news channels—you are witnessing the fragmentation of global conscience itself. In this divided media landscape, the most radical act may be to consciously view both screens simultaneously, holding the tension between perspectives until a more complete picture emerges.

(WDM – Warsame Digital Media).

By Ismail H. Warsame – WDM Editorial Analysis, Qardho, Puntland

The Scene: A Heated Political Debate in Qardho

In the cool morning breeze of Qardho—a city where every tea stall doubles as a parliament in miniature—four men debated over shaah and canjeero. Their topic: the most tantalizing question in Somali politics today. Can Said Abdullahi Deni capture Villa Somalia in 2026?

The conversation was a microcosm of a nation weary of recycled elites and hollow slogans. Each man vied to sound the most politically astute, but by the end, one of them distilled the essence of Somali presidential politics with brutal clarity:

“A Somali president emerges from just two forces: a coalition of clans, and the collective hatred for the incumbent.”

The Two Keys to Villa Somalia

This formula has dictated Somali presidential elections with uncanny precision.

1. A Multi-Clan Coalition: A fragile alliance, stitched together from the raw arithmetic of clan, financed by secret, often questionable financial resources and the diaspora, and sealed by opportunistic promises.
2. The Rejection Mood: A powerful wave of resentment against the sitting president, often masquerading as a movement for reform.

There is no ideology. No substantive policy platform. Only clan arithmetic and anger.

In 2017, Mohamed Abdullahi Farmajo rode this wave of rejection against the establishment. By 2022, the pendulum had swung, and Hassan Sheikh Mohamud became the “least objectionable” alternative—a compromise chosen not for his vision, but because others were distrusted more.

The Somali political marketplace operates on a simple principle: it’s not about who can lead best, but who we hate least.

Deni’s Dilemma: A Coalition Too Thin, A Resentment Too Tepid

This is where Deni’s ambition meets a formidable wall.

1. The Coalition Factor: A House of Cards?

Deni’s core base—the Majerteen Darood—is politically savvy but numerically insufficient. His attempts to build bridges beyond Puntland have been perceived as transactional, not transformational. Still he has strong opposition within Puntland like traditional elders and rival politicians, some connected to DamulJadiid Team.

· The Dir remain psychologically anchored to Hawiye politics in Mogadishu, an almost insurmountable barrier.
· The Digil & Mirifle are pragmatic, their support swaying by whoever offers the most convincing promise of inclusion and tangible benefit.
· The Hawiye, particularly the powerful Damul Jadiid bloc, still view Deni as a northern challenger to Mogadishu’s political hegemony.

In short, Deni’s national coalition is brittle. In Somali politics, brittle coalitions don’t win Villa Somalia—they merely anoint the winner.

2. The Hatred Factor: An Unfocused Fury

The second key—the galvanizing hatred of the incumbent—also eludes him. Despite his administration’s shortcomings, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud retains a formidable defensive apparatus:

· The well-oiled and well-funded Damul Jadiid network.
· Enduring clan sympathy within Hawiye circles.
· The institutional leverage of incumbency over parliament, ministries, and the security organs that indirectly influence the electoral process.

Deni has failed to become the vessel for this anti-incumbent sentiment. His posture and closed door administration doesn’t even enjoy support with his own cabinet and members of the House —lacks the fire to ignite a national movement. To unseat a president in Somalia, one must weaponize national frustration and channel it through tribal calculus. Deni has mastered neither.

Puntland’s Paradox: A Power Base That Becomes a Cage

Deni’s greatest asset—his leadership of Somalia’s most stable federal member state—is also his most significant liability. While Puntland sees him as their champion, national politics penalizes strong regional identities. The unspoken rule of Somali federalism is clear: no powerful federal state can be allowed to dominate the center.

Unless Deni can perform a profound political metamorphosis—shedding the skin of “Garowe’s President” to emerge as “Somalia’s Compromise”—his ambitions will expire on the tarmac of Aden Adde International Airport, never reaching the gates of Villa Somalia.

2026: The Chessboard of the Familiar

The 2026 electoral landscape is unlikely to feature new players; rather, it will be a rearrangement of the same familiar pieces. Deni, Hassan Sheikh, Sheikh Sharif, among others, and perhaps a Gulf-backed wild card. The rules of the game, however, will remain immutable:

· The 4.5 formula will still set the board.
· A security-vetted parliament will still place the crown.
· The public will remain spectators in a play directed and funded by foreign embassies.

The only unknown is whether the nation’s desperation for change will be potent enough to disrupt the cycle—or if fragmentation will prevent a credible election altogether.

Conclusion: The Arithmetic of Ambition

Back at the Qardho breakfast table, the debate concluded with a final, piercing insight:

“Deni’s dream is not impossible. But Somalia is not ready for a man without potent enemies.”

In the theater of Somali politics, popularity is a fleeting sentiment—but focused resentment is a currency of power. Deni’s challenge is not to win a popularity contest, but to strategically cultivate the right enemies. Until he does, his path to the presidency will remain a mirage, shimmering just beyond the political deserts of Mogadishu.

—

WDM Verdict:
Said Abdullahi Deni is unconvincing national candidate. His coalition is narrow, his narrative undefined, and his opposition too polite. Barring a seismic shift that turns 2026 into a pure referendum on Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, Deni will likely be campaigning for political relevance, not the presidency.

By Ismail H. Warsame, WDM Political Desk

Bosaso’s streets, once again, echo with the sound of polished shoes and the rustle of diplomatic pleasantries. Another British convoy has materialized—the 3rd, or perhaps the fourth this year—each visit a masterclass in discretion. No communiqués,  only photo op with the President. Just a flurry of handshakes, closed doors, and the familiar, whispered lexicon of  “partnership.” In the absence of transparency, speculations are rife in Puntland that US Africom is seeking new relocation and real estate on the Gulf of Aden. Britain is always attached to whatever the Americans are doing in the world. To them, Bosaso is attractive now.

It appears London’s diplomatic corps has developed a curious fondness for discreet pilgrimages to Puntland. The official record lists their mission as “Assisting Puntland State in Countering ISIS, Partnership, and Stability.” Yet in the tea stalls and public squares, few are convinced. The talk is that ISIS is merely the convenient headline — a diplomatic fig leaf for deeper, undisclosed objectives. Both sides maintain a studied silence. Meanwhile, the perennial political theater between Garowe and Villa Somalia may well feature as a quiet subplot in these shadowy exchanges, viewed from Puntland’s vantage point.

One must ask: why the relentless secrecy? Puntlanders are no strangers to diplomacy; they simply possess a keen allergy to the scent of colonial nostalgia. The British arrive carrying the heavy baggage of a history written with pens sharper than any sword—from the cartographic surgery that created “Northern Protectorate” to tutoring Somalis in the art of signing away their own coasts. The ghost of Britain still walks the Horn, its offers of “assistance” forever footnoted with unspoken conditions.

So, what is the true agenda this time? A “counter-terrorism partnership”? A “stabilization dialogue”? Or is it another elegantly drafted, invisible agreement, composed in the Queen’s English but translated in the corridors of Garowe as, “You assume the risk, we secure the interest”?

The people of Puntland are left in the dark, their view limited to the curated, polished images on social media. The state government in Garowe appears to overlook a fundamental principle: the public has a right to know what objectives foreign powers are pursuing on their soil and what is being pledged behind closed doors. Transparency is not a Western import; it is the very bedrock of public trust. Yet, in the halls of power, a culture of secrecy persists, treating statecraft as an exclusive affair for the initiated, rather than a matter of collective destiny.

Let us not forget the context: Britain wields the pen for Somalia at the UN Security Council. It is the architect of resolutions, the shaper of international perception, the subtle pilot of global policy towards our nation. This fact transforms every British handshake in Bosaso from a gesture of goodwill into an act of high-stakes politics. When the same hand that drafts the world’s verdict on Somalia begins frequenting Puntland’s shores, it is not paranoia to inquire: what narrative is being written about us, and who holds the power to edit it?

If His Majesty’s diplomats are here to lecture on the realities of SSC-Khaatumo, they should be reminded that Puntland requires no cartography lessons—it drafted the map of Somali federalism long before Mogadishu acknowledged its existence. And if the mission’s true aim is to gently nudge Puntland into acquiescing to Villa Somalia’s latest political fantasies, then we wish them luck—Puntland has endured two decades of such “luck” from the international community.

The rhythm of these visits is telling: a quiet arrival, hushed meetings, a void of transparency, and a swift departure—like a colonial-era specter clocking in for a modern-day assignment. Each exit leaves the same, lingering question hanging in the coastal air: What, precisely, was the purpose?

Perhaps it is time for Puntland’s leadership to cease treating foreign envoys as visiting royalty and start demanding that diplomacy serve the people, not just the diplomats. The era of governing by obfuscation is over—or, at the very least, its expiration date is long past due.

Until that day comes, Bosaso will continue to sweep its streets for mysterious motorcades, perfecting the art of pretending not to notice as another “friendly mission” descends from the skies, its purpose as unannounced as its arrival.

WDM Verdict: Britain never truly left Somalia; it simply upgraded its departure board to include direct flights to Bosaso.

WDM – Talking Truth to Power
(© Ismail H. Warsame / Warsame Digital Media)

By Ismail H.Warsame
Warsame Digital Media(WDM)

Somalia stands at a precipice, haunted by a single, unavoidable question: where do we go from here?

In the north, Puntland State—the federation’s last functioning polity—is concluding a grueling campaign against ISIS in the Cal-Miskaad ranges. The black flags have been torn down, but the war drums echo from the Calmadoow Mountains, where Al-Shabab’s shadow government still levies taxes, enforces its rule, and harvests the disillusioned and gemstones alike. This is the next battle, looming and unwon, pending the whims of distant patrons.

Those patrons, the United Arab Emirates and the United States, are now uncertain allies in a world fractured by new wars and economic tremors. Their commitment wavers with the potential next Donald J. Trump’s tweet, a figure who could erase yesterday’s pledges with such unpredictability. Should American aid vanish, Puntland’s soldiers may find themselves standing against the storm in little more than sandals and sheer will.

At home, Puntland’ democratic momentum has frozen. President Said Abdullahi Deni, rather than securing the legacy of his governance reforms, is captivated by the siren call of Villa Somalia in 2026. The ballot boxes in Garowe lie silent; the project of democracy is on indefinite hold.

Meanwhile, Villa Somalia is reaping the whirlwind of its own political arson. The “smart politics” of President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and his Damul-Jadiid cadre have proven to be a masterclass in miscalculation, exposing a dangerous cocktail of arrogance and ineptitude. The regime’s “stabilization mission” is now a bitter punchline in Mogadishu’s tea shops.

Its deliberate campaign to destabilize the federal member states has backfired spectacularly. The artificial “North East State,” concocted in Laascaanood, is unraveling like a cheap mat from Bakaaraha market. Its administrators issue decrees to extort local financial agencies to stay relevant. The parallel fantasy of a “New Jubaland” is another lit fuse—a scheme destined to fail, but only after further poisoning the well between Mogadishu and Kismayo.

As for Hirshabeelle, Galmudug, and Southwest, these are not states but subsidiaries, their leaders governing on borrowed legitimacy and donor stipends. The federal model has been hollowed out, mutated from a structure of governance into a network of patronage.

And through the cracks, Al-Shabab marches. They no longer infiltrate the capital; they operate with impunity. The city’s “most secure zones” like Godka Jilicoow, guarded by NISA and African Union forces, have become stages for public humiliation. Each blast is a stark reminder: Mogadishu is under a siege that its own government seems powerless to lift.

Inside the Halane compound, the diplomatic bubble where optimism is imported and reheated, the mood has curdled. The envoys who once championed the Damul-Jadiid “success story” now scramble to explain how their project became an obituary for functional federalism. Their talking points are exhausted; their credibility, bankrupt.

So, where do we go from here?

The answer will not be found in Mogadishu’s sterile conferences or the anodyne communiqués of donors. Somalia’s fate will be decided by its local realities, not imported slogans. Puntland and Jubaland now shoulder the crumbling pillars of the federation, even as the center collapses. Unless a surge of reason dispels the pyromania in Villa Somalia, the Union itself may not survive the next blaze.

This is the state of our union: fractured, fatigued, its future flickering faintly against the gathering dark. The ghosts of division are dancing, and the music is reaching a crescendo.

Welcome to the Somali paradox: a nation at war with its own reflection.

—

WDM Commentary:
This is not a prediction; it is a diagnosis. Somalia’s crisis is not an accident of fate, but the direct yield of calculated irresponsibility. Until a new ethos of leadership rises from the ashes of Mogadishu’s hubris, the next state of the union will read not as a warning, but as an autopsy.

© Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Qardho,Puntland
“Talking Truth to Power— One Editorial at a Time.”

By Ismail H. Warsame, WDM

In the glittering hall of white linen and bottled milk, men and women gather — not merely for a wedding, but for the continuation of an ancient Somali ritual: the binding of clans through marriage. Behind the laughter, the speeches, and the perfumed atmosphere lies a silent constitution — older than any written law — where kinship replaces contracts, and bloodlines define both politics and peace.

This was my second time in Qardho witnessing such a union — a spectacle that is part diplomacy, part social insurance, and part clan arithmetic. When a Somali marriage takes place, it is not simply two souls uniting. It is the quiet reshuffling of genealogical alliances; a recalibration of power between sub-clans that might tomorrow either share camels or fight over wells.

The event begins long before the guests arrive. It starts with negotiations, deliberations, and sometimes even historical reconciliations between elders who still remember who offended whose grandfather over a grazing patch or a political appointment. The bride’s hand, formally requested, becomes a symbol of truce — a peace pact in white fabric and henna, sealed not by written law, but by maternal lineage and whispered blessings.

In such ceremonies, men and women usually sit separately or attend in different sessions — men in formal daytime gatherings of speeches, blessings, and agreements; women in vibrant evening events of singing, dancing, and expressing the folklore prowess of Somali womanhood. The two sessions together complete the cultural circle: solemn diplomacy by day, joyful cultural continuity by night.

Yet beneath this noble gesture lies the irony of Somali society: the very ties that unite us are the same that divide us. The mothers whose names echo in every family tree are both peacemakers and progenitors of rivalry. Each birth is a celebration, but also a demographic declaration — another branch in the ever-expanding tree of sub-clans that fracture, multiply, and compete for prestige, land, and leadership.

At the ceremony, I looked around the hall — rows of men in white, seated in careful symmetry, exchanging blessings and political gossip between sips of milk. This is the Somali parliament in its truest form — not in Villa Somalia, but here, under chandeliers and tribal memory. Every marriage is an unwritten treaty, every smile a signal of alignment, every whispered prayer a continuation of a 1,000-year clan contract.

When historians search for the roots of Somali political resilience — and its endless cycles of reconciliation and rupture — they should start not in Mogadishu’s corridors, but at these wedding tables. Here, the future is negotiated over bottles of milk and lineage, and every bride becomes a bridge between clans — or a border line drawn in beauty.

WDM Conclusion:
Marriage in Somali culture is the most stable political institution — an unspoken parliament of kinship. It binds us in peace, births our rivalries, and keeps our nation spinning in its familiar orbit of clan and connection.

© Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
City of Qardho, Karkaar Region

By Ismail H. Warsame, Qardho, Karkaar Region, Puntland

There was a time when Qardho’s air was thick with argument, debate, and political ferment — a city that never slept without a new controversy. From clan assemblies to student circles, from mosques to teashops, the voice of Qardho was the pulse of Puntland’s civic life. It was here that ideas clashed, policies were tested, and political currents were sensed before they reached Garowe. Qardho earned its reputation as the “City of Debates and Controversies,” where nothing passed unquestioned and no leader escaped scrutiny.

Today, something is changing. The once noisy crossroads of Puntland’s political thought is learning a new rhythm — that of quiet, cool calculation. The political tempest that once defined Qardho’s public squares has given way to reflective silence, economic pragmatism, and slow, deliberate planning. The city that once spoke loudly is now thinking deeply.

In recent years, Qardho has emerged as a learning hub — a city of affordable education, housing, and calm community life. Its universities, training centers, and private schools are drawing youth from across Puntland. This intellectual transformation is reshaping Qardho’s identity from a political battlefield to an academic haven. Yet, beneath this positive evolution lies a worrying trend: opportunity is slipping away faster than it is created.

Job scarcity has become the city’s quiet crisis. The very youth who animate Qardho’s new intellectual scene are also the ones boarding buses, flights, and ships — seeking work in Garowe, Bosaso, Mogadishu, and beyond. The irony is painful: a city known for nurturing brains now exports them. The debates have stopped not because the people have lost curiosity, but because they are too busy surviving.

Qardho’s streets, once echoing with political chants and intellectual arguments, now hum with the sound of construction — affordable housing projects, small shops, and the buzz of daily hustle. The city is learning to measure progress not in decibels of debate, but in bricks, books, and banknotes. It’s a quiet evolution, one that could either anchor its future or flatten its spirit.

The challenge now is to balance Qardho’s newfound calm with its old courage — to blend calculation with conviction. A city that stops talking risks becoming stagnant, but a city that only talks and never builds remains poor. Qardho must find the middle path: to build its economy without losing its voice, to nurture its youth without pushing them away, to remain the thinking heart of Puntland while securing a future for its sons and daughters.

The future of Qardho depends not on the silence of its streets, but on the smart, deliberate ideas that grow within them. The city that once led debates must now lead development — with the same passion, purpose, and courage that once made it the intellectual capital of Puntland.

WDM — Talking Truth to Power.

By Ismail H. Warsame
City of Qardho, Karkaar Region, Puntland

When a leader exhausts all logic, he resorts to decrees. When that leader is Firdhiye, the result is an economic suicide pact, imposed upon the already-battered families of Laascaanood.

In a move that would embarrass the most creative of Mogadishu’s financiers, the so-called Firdhiye Administration has demanded that local financial institutions and telecom-linked money transfer agencies surrender five million U.S. dollars. This sum, he claims, is to fund the phantom treasury of his “North East State” project. One must ask: does he mistake Laascaanood for a financial hub, or believe companies like Dahabshiil and Amal Express mint currency in their back offices?

Adding institutional insult to this economic injury, he has ordered these vital agencies to relocate their headquarters to Laascaanood. This presumes a world where global finance orbits his self-styled Ministry of Fiction. Not even Somaliland’s long-standing political campaign has staged such a theatrical and economically destructive farce.

This is not governance; it is a ransom note written in the language of authority. Shuttering remittance services is not statecraft—it is an act of economic terrorism against the most vulnerable. It is an assault on widows awaiting funds for rent, on orphans reliant on diaspora support for schooling, and on families depending on those transfers for mere sustenance. Firdhiye’s decree deliberately severs the primary economic lifeline that has sustained Laascaanood in its fragile recovery.

Who stands to gain from this collapse? Certainly not the people of SSC-Khaatumo, whose remittance-dependent economy now teeters on the brink. The only logical conclusion is that Firdhiye believes by bankrupting the city, the desperate diaspora will be coerced into funding his political fantasy.

Laascaanood’s struggle is being twisted into a tragic satire—a self-imposed siege where the would-be liberator becomes the chief architect of his people’s deprivation. The liberation Laascaanood urgently requires is from this very cycle of irrational leadership and economic sabotage.

True financial ecosystems are built on trust and stability, not on extortion and empty slogans. If reason prevails, remittance agencies must prioritize the people’s welfare over political pressure. Capital flees instability; it is not conjured by it.

WDM Verdict:
Firdhiye’s “North East State” resembles less a government and more an armed GoFundMe campaign, with the people of Laascaanood held as collateral.

WDM (Warsame Digital Media)
“Talking Truth to Power”

By Ismail H. Warsame, City of Qardho, Karkaar Region

In a fresh display of political blindness, a cluster of self-styled “Puntland opposition parties,” mostly operating from Mogadishu hotel lobbies and political backrooms, have voiced their opposition to the recent Puntland–Somaliland understanding on security cooperation. It is an unfortunate, though predictable, stance — one that exposes their detachment from Puntland’s ground realities and their quiet servitude to DamulJadiid’s shadow networks in Villa Somalia.

Let’s get this straight: Puntland’s leadership has the constitutional right and political maturity to engage with any neighboring administration — including Somaliland — on issues that directly affect the peace, stability, and economic lifeline of its people. Security coordination and mutual understanding between the two sides are not acts of betrayal; they are the very essence of responsible governance in a volatile region.

Those opposing this initiative from Mogadishu, however, are not thinking of Puntland’s interests. They are echoing the whispers of DamulJadiid operatives who have long sought to destabilize Puntland from afar, to weaken its institutions, and to create internal friction that could be exploited politically in Villa Somalia’s favor. These are the same cynical actors who inspired and funded the Aaran Jaan network that violently disrupted Garowe’s peace a few years ago.

Their motives are transparent. They thrive on chaos. They oppose anything that strengthens Puntland’s autonomy and legitimacy. In their narrow political calculus, peace and cooperation are threats to their political survival — because their only currency is confusion.

The Mogadishu-based “Puntland opposition” should be honest with the people: they are not fighting for democracy in Puntland; they are fighting for relevance in the capital. Their statements are not drafted in Garowe or Qardho; they are dictated by handlers in Villa Somalia who see Puntland’s stability as a political liability.

The people of Puntland are not fooled. They understand that coexistence with Somaliland, however complex, is a pragmatic necessity. Border communities, shared clans, trade routes, and the collective fight against terrorism demand coordination — not hostility. The Mogadishu opposition’s short-sightedness only confirms that they are far removed from the land they claim to represent.

Let it be said clearly: Puntland’s peace and progress will not be dictated from Mogadishu’s hotel corridors. The State of Puntland was founded on the principle of self-determination, negotiation, and local consensus — not on imported chaos.

WDM Verdict:
The Puntland opposition operating from Mogadishu has lost both political compass and credibility. Their hostility toward Puntland–Somaliland cooperation mirrors the same destructive mindset that once unleashed Aaran Jaan’s violence in Garowe. Puntland will continue to talk, negotiate, and cooperate for the sake of peace — with or without their approval.

© WDM – Warsame Digital Media, 2025
“Talking Truth to Power.”

Warm greetings from the great traditional city of Qardho, in the heart of Karkaar Region, Puntland — a land of history, courage, and enduring Somali resilience.
Arriving here this afternoon, I am once again reminded that Qardho is not just a city — it is the living symbol of Puntland’s spirit and the heartbeat of Somali self-determination.

Stay tuned to WDM for truth-driven analysis and fearless commentary from the ground — unfiltered, unapologetic, and always committed to reality.

Ismail H. Warsame
Founder, Warsame Digital Media (WDM)

Dear Esteemed WDM Readers,

At Warsame Digital Media (WDM), we don’t write to please. We write to awaken. Every essay, editorial, and academic paper published here is a mirror held to the Somali soul — reflecting the unfiltered reality of our politics, our personality, and our fractured national psyche. What you read on these pages is not fiction, not propaganda, but a reality check on where Somalia stands and where it is heading.

For students of Somali Studies, historians of our turbulent past, and analysts of our uncertain future, these writings are not mere commentaries — they are living documents of a nation still struggling to understand itself. Each article challenges the comfort of denial, exposing the deep contradictions within Somali leadership, society, and self-perception.

But truth-telling comes at a price. WDM survives not on advertisements or political patronage, but on your participation, your intellectual engagement, and your generosity. If you believe that independent Somali thought must be preserved, nurtured, and amplified — then join us.

Contribute your ideas. Comment with courage. Subscribe and share. Donate to sustain this Somali-led platform for truth and national reflection.

Let’s build together a culture where honesty replaces hypocrisy, and knowledge overcomes ignorance.

With appreciation and resolve,
Ismail H. Warsame
Founder & Chief Editor, Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Talking Truth to Power — One Article at a Time

By Ismail H. Warsame

In a rare moment of political sobriety, President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and Jubaland leader Ahmed Mohamed Islam “Madoobe” sat across from each other in Kismayo yesterday — a meeting many in Somalia’s fractured political scene never thought possible. Yet, instead of welcoming this bold act of dialogue, much of the public chatter — the “political noise machine” of Mogadishu — has chosen to focus on what might have gone wrong, rather than what finally went right.

This meeting, however brief, represents something profoundly important in Somali politics: the courage to talk amidst mutual suspicion and political exhaustion. It is easy to wage wars of words from Mogadishu podiums or clan-based press briefings. It is far harder to sit down face-to-face in a region where power, loyalty, and geography are all contested. Whoever enabled this encounter deserves recognition — for in Somalia, dialogue itself is an act of defiance against the politics of perpetual stalemate.

But make no mistake: the test begins now.

President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has often been accused — with justification — of treating federalism as an inconvenience rather than a constitutional reality. His administration’s flirtation with the idea of a so-called “New Jubaland,” or attempts to carve out a “North East State” to rival Puntland, would not only destroy the fragile trust earned in Kismayo but would ignite the very tensions he claims to be resolving.

Let it be clear: you cannot unify Somalia by dismantling the federal foundation upon which its fragile peace rests. Any attempt by Villa Somalia to engineer parallel administrations or divide existing federal states from within will backfire politically and strategically. It will not weaken regional leaders — it will strengthen their legitimacy, uniting their constituencies against what they will see as naked centralist aggression.

Moreover, such reckless political experiments — creating new Jubaland, new North East State, or any other artificial constructs — will not create peace or prosperity. Instead, they will turn Somalia into an ungovernable mosaic of fiefdoms, where every faction declares its own “statehood,” and where the authority of the federal government becomes nothing more than a hollow echo. This path leads not to unity, but to the unraveling of Somalia as we know it.

President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud must also understand that the issue at hand is far bigger than Ahmed Madoobe’s political legitimacy in Kismayo. It is not about who controls Jubaland’s port or commands local loyalty — it is about Somalia’s very survival as a state. Every move from Villa Somalia today echoes across the fragile federal system. A single miscalculated decision can either pave the way for a more cohesive federation — or accelerate Somalia’s descent into irreversible fragmentation.

The Kismayo meeting was therefore not just another handshake; it was a test of statesmanship. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has been given an opportunity to rise above the politics of vengeance and vindication. If he chooses dialogue over division, and genuine federal partnership over administrative manipulation, history might finally remember him as the man who learned from his own mistakes.

But if he returns to Mogadishu with the old mindset of domination — hiding behind the rhetoric of “reform” while scheming to create a New Jubaland or North East State — then this fleeting moment of hope will turn into yet another episode of Somalia’s tragic political déjà vu.

In the end, the path forward is simple but steep: talk more, interfere less, and respect the federal equation. Somalia does not need another federal member state in crisis; it needs a federal president who understands the value of coexistence.

For once, let dialogue mean more than damage control.

——–

WDM Conclusion:
The Kismayo meeting should not be dismissed as political theater. It is a mirror showing the possibility of reconciliation — if only the actors involved resist the temptation to break it. Somalia’s survival depends not on creating new states, but on respecting the ones that already exist.

— Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
“Talking Truth to Power.”

By Ismail H. Warsame, WDM Founder

Introduction: The Echo of Old Wounds

In the current uproar surrounding Puntland–Somaliland “security cooperation,” one hears not so much the clash of political logic as the tremor of old psychological fears. Laascaanood’s anxiety is not rooted in facts or tangible concessions but in the emotional residue of betrayal, marginalization, and historical trauma. The real problem is not that Garowe and Hargeisa talk—it’s that Laascaanood has never fully trusted anyone to talk on its behalf without suspicion of being sold out.

When history is weaponized by insecurity, perception becomes reality. The current leadership in Laascaanood, particularly figures like Firdhiye, mistake dialogue for compromise and cooperation for conspiracy. Yet the truth is far less dramatic and far more strategic: mutual understanding—no matter between whom—is always in the collective interest of the Somali people.

Historical Context: When Abdullahi Yusuf and Egal Talked

The unease we see today is not new. During the formative years of Puntland, when the late Abdullahi Yusuf engaged in discussions with Somaliland’s Mohamed Haji Ibrahim Egal, Puntland’s own vice president from SSC territory, Mohamed Abdi Hashi, objected. His words were striking:

“We don’t mind when you talk with leaders of Hawiye, but you must talk to the leaders of Isaaq through us.”

This wasn’t a political demand—it was a psychological reflex. It revealed a deep-seated insecurity that SSC’s agency could be bypassed, that others could determine its fate behind closed doors. It is an emotional scar from decades of marginalization—first under northern domination, then southern neglect.

Laascaanood’s fear, therefore, is a memory, not a policy. It’s the aftertaste of exclusion, not an objective assessment of current realities.

The Fallacy of Firdhiye’s Politics

Firdhiye’s rhetoric is historically shortsighted. His worldview is trapped in the narrow confines of clan sentiment rather than strategic foresight. By portraying every cross-border understanding as a “betrayal of SSC,” he inadvertently isolates his constituency from the broader currents of Somali politics.

He fails to understand that communication between Puntland and Somaliland is not about surrender; it’s about stability. It’s about preventing further bloodshed in a region where every gunshot echoes across multiple states and every misunderstanding can spiral into conflict.

The politics of paranoia is not leadership—it’s insecurity dressed in extremist clothing.

Puntland’s Strategic Rationality

Puntland’s leadership, past and present, has recognized one immutable fact: sustainable peace requires talking to everyone—including rivals. Abdullahi Yusuf understood this when he negotiated with both the Hawiye and the Isaaq leadership. Said Abdullahi Deni knows this when he maintains dialogue even with adversaries.

True leadership is not about pandering to fears but about managing them. Puntland’s talks with Somaliland—whether over security coordination, border stability, or trade routes—do not negate SSC interests; they safeguard them. Because a stable northern frontier is in Puntland’s interest, and therefore in SSC’s interest too.

The Bigger Picture: Dialogue as Security

Somalia’s tragedy is that every conversation is treated as conspiracy and every handshake as surrender. The country’s disintegration into clan fiefdoms has turned politics into psychological warfare. But dialogue—especially between Puntland and Somaliland—is not betrayal; it is the essence of statecraft.

If Laascaanood truly seeks autonomy, it must transcend its paranoia. It must learn that influence is not preserved by emotional veto but by strategic engagement. Real power lies in shaping conversations, not in silencing them.

Conclusion: Healing the Psychological Faultline

The Laascaanood dilemma is a symptom of a deeper Somali condition—the inability to separate emotion from interest, fear from strategy. What Abdullahi Yusuf understood, and what SSC leaders have yet to grasp, is that politics is not about perpetual grievance but about building bridges that outlast the emotions of the day.

Laascaanood’s fears are understandable, but they must not dictate policy. The wounds of history will not heal through isolation but through honest, mutual understanding. Puntland and Somaliland talking is not a threat—it is therapy for a fractured homeland.

WDM COMMENTARY:
Somalis must learn to replace suspicion with strategy. When Puntland and Somaliland engage, SSC should not retreat into psychological trenches—it should join the table with confidence, not fear.

By Ismail H. Warsame | WDM Analysis

1. Introduction: The Danger of Historical Simplification

The digital age has democratized history-telling but also weaponized misinformation. Social media platforms like X (formerly Twitter) have turned complex historical debates into viral narratives built on partial truths and populist outrage. One such case is the viral thread by @LtKhalifa, which purports to expose the “corruption and failures” of Somalia’s first civilian government under President Aden Abdulle Osman (Aden Adde) between 1960 and 1969. The thread, citing alleged “CIA declassified documents,” claims that the Somali Republic received over $330 million in foreign aid—equivalent to $3 billion today—yet achieved nothing tangible in national infrastructure or governance.

While emotionally compelling, this narrative commits several logical fallacies, relies on unverifiable evidence, and distorts the historical context of a newly independent African state navigating postcolonial chaos and Cold War geopolitics.

2. The Fallacy of the “CIA Declassified” Evidence

The most eye-catching claim in the thread is that “CIA declassified documents” show that Aden Adde’s civilian government “took $330 million in aid.” This statement raises immediate red flags:

1. No source citation or document link is provided. The CIA’s CREST archive contains thousands of declassified documents on Somalia, yet none confirm this figure. Without citation, the claim remains anecdotal hearsay masquerading as evidence.

2. The figure itself—$330 million in the 1960s—is implausibly high. At independence, Somalia’s annual GDP was under $100 million, and total U.S. and U.N. aid combined during that decade did not exceed $150 million. To allege that Aden Adde alone “took” this sum is historically inaccurate and economically illogical.

3. The inflation-adjusted conversion (“$330 million equals $3 billion today”) is also methodologically flawed. Using the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics CPI calculator, $330 million in 1965 equals roughly $3.3 billion today—but this assumes the original number was accurate, which it was not.

This misuse of “CIA” branding is a rhetorical trick often found in conspiracy or pseudo-academic narratives—invoking institutional authority to lend credibility to otherwise baseless assertions.

3. The Infrastructure Myth: “No Road Between Hargeisa and Berbera”

Another major claim is that “despite massive aid, Aden Adde failed to build a deep-water port for Mogadishu, and there wasn’t even a road between Hargeisa and Berbera.”

This too collapses under scrutiny:

Mogadishu already had a functioning port built and expanded during Italian administration in the 1950s. What Somalia lacked was a second deep-water port in the north—something that came later under Chinese-Somali cooperation during the 1970s.

The Hargeisa-Berbera road existed as a colonial-era route. It was unpaved but functional for livestock and trade. The later Chinese reconstruction (1972–1974) upgraded it—not built it from scratch.

The Aden Adde administration did prioritize education, civil service development, and agriculture, laying institutional groundwork rather than vanity infrastructure projects.

To claim “there wasn’t even a road” is a factual distortion typical of ahistorical social media narratives that equate “development” only with concrete and steel, ignoring institutional and administrative capacity-building.

4. The Corruption Narrative: Moralizing Without Evidence

The thread describes the Aden Adde era as “largely unpopular” and “rampantly corrupt.” Again, no documentation supports this sweeping indictment. In fact, comparative political studies (see: I.M. Lewis, A Modern History of the Somali, 2002; Abdi Ismail Samatar, The State and Rural Transformation in Northern Somalia, 1989) indicate the opposite:

Somalia’s first decade was remarkably democratic for its time. The 1967 peaceful transfer of power from Aden Adde to Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke was the first voluntary handover between civilian presidents in independent Africa.

The corruption that did exist—patronage, clan favoritism, and weak bureaucracy—was typical of postcolonial African states but not systemic looting. Somalia’s bureaucracy was small, donor-dependent, and largely transparent under international supervision.

The “unpopularity” claim ignores that Aden Adde lost a democratic election, not a coup. His defeat reflected political pluralism, not popular rebellion.

The moral absolutism of the thread—portraying Aden Adde’s government as a failed kleptocracy—collapses under historical evidence and scholarly consensus.

5. Misreading the Political Economy of the 1960s

The 1960s Somali economy was aid-dependent but not aid-wasteful. The problem was structural dependence, not theft. Key realities include:

Somalia inherited two incompatible colonial economies—British pastoralist north and Italian agrarian south—without fiscal or infrastructural integration.

Foreign aid was fragmented across Cold War lines: Italy, the U.S., the USSR, and China all funded competing projects, creating institutional incoherence, not enrichment.

The government had no sovereign control over customs, ports, or central banking until the late 1960s. Blaming Aden Adde for lack of modern infrastructure is akin to blaming a toddler for not running.

These nuances vanish in the thread’s simplistic cause-effect logic: “Aden Adde got aid → Aden Adde failed → therefore he was corrupt.” This is the post hoc fallacy—assuming correlation equals causation.

6. The Colonial Comparison Fallacy

The author also claims that “livestock and agricultural exports had to be shipped from the south to Berbera,” implying economic paralysis. This argument confuses colonial logistics with postcolonial neglect.

Berbera was historically the British export port for northern Somali livestock—its dominance persisted due to geography, not Aden Adde’s failure.

Somalia’s southern exports (bananas, sugar, hides) were shipped from Mogadishu and Kismayo, which were already operational ports.

The infrastructural imbalance between north and south was colonial inheritance, not corruption.

This reasoning exemplifies the anachronism fallacy—judging a 1960s African republic by 21st-century standards of infrastructure, and then concluding “failure” where structural constraints existed.

7. The Narrative of Neglect and the Myth of “Strongman Efficiency”

Threads like Lt. Khalifa’s often set up a contrast: Aden Adde’s “weak democracy” versus Siyad Barre’s “strong state.” This is an old fallacy that romanticizes authoritarian modernization while vilifying pluralist governance.

Yes, Barre built roads, ports, and factories—but through coercion, centralization, and Soviet funding, not national economic strength.

Aden Adde, in contrast, respected civil liberties, elections, and parliament, choosing institutional integrity over industrial showmanship.

To label him a failure because he didn’t “build a port” is to misunderstand governance itself. State legitimacy is built not just with cement, but with law, participation, and accountability—qualities Aden Adde’s administration embodied before being overthrown by militarism in 1969.

8. The Modern Impulse to Rewrite History

The popularity of such threads reveals more about contemporary Somali disillusionment than about 1960s reality. Young Somalis, alienated by current corruption and statelessness, project their anger backward, seeking villains in history to explain the present.

But revisionism without rigor is intellectual escapism. It replaces historical inquiry with digital tribalism—simplifying the past to validate current political or clan loyalties. The invocation of “CIA documents,” “billions lost,” and “failed leaders” without evidence is a form of historical populism: emotionally satisfying but empirically hollow.

9. Conclusion: History as a Discipline, Not a Battlefield

Somalia’s First Republic (1960–1969) was not perfect—it was messy, experimental, and constrained. Yet it remains the most democratic and law-abiding era in Somali history. Its leaders were flawed human beings, but not thieves of billions.

The Lt. Khalifa thread fails as history because it substitutes moral outrage for analysis and rumor for evidence. History cannot be rewritten through viral indignation; it must be reclaimed through documentation, context, and humility before facts.

As WDM has long argued: Without historical literacy, a nation becomes prisoner of its myths.

References

Lewis, I. M. A Modern History of the Somali: Nation and State in the Horn of Africa. 4th ed. Athens: Ohio University Press, 2002.

Samatar, Abdi Ismail. The State and Rural Transformation in Northern Somalia, 1884–1986. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989.

Laitin, David D., and Said S. Samatar. Somalia: Nation in Search of a State. Boulder: Westview Press, 1987.

CIA CREST Archives. “Somalia—Economic and Political Situation Reports, 1961–1968.” Accessed 2025.

United Nations Economic Commission for Africa. Annual Economic Report on Somalia, 1964–1968. Addis Ababa: UNECA.

By Ismail H. Warsame

In Somali politics, déjà vu is not a coincidence—it’s a governing principle. What you saw yesterday, you’ll see again tomorrow, only with a new set of tired faces pretending to be reformers. The script is older than the Somali Republic itself: clans quarrel, politicians pretend, donors pay, and the people pray.

Two constants define this endless political rerun: Clan and Conflict. Everything else is decorative chaos. Add in the chronic mistrust of politicians and public institutions—born in the ashes of civil war—and you get the perfect Somali cocktail: flattery, fraud, and failure served with a sprinkle of false hope.

Now comes Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, the self-appointed “smartest politician” Banadir ever exported. He thought he could charm Ahmed Madoobe with the same tired tricks he used on Sheikh Sharif and Abdul-Aziz “Laftegreen.” But Kismayo wasn’t fooled. Ahmed Madoobe, the survivor-in-chief of Somali power plays, smiled politely while keeping his political dagger under the table.

Hassan Sheikh had to cut short his trip—a premature evacuation of ego. It turns out that Jubaland’s political chessboard doesn’t play by Mogadishu’s recycled scripts. He discovered, perhaps too late, that his usual combination of clan manipulation and sweet talk only works north of Afgooye.

And so, the Cycle of Stupidity continues:

1. The President overestimates himself.

2. The regions resist.

3. Talks collapse.

4. Donors issue statements.

5. Everyone pretends progress was made.

No surprises. No lessons learned. Just the eternal Somali loop of power without purpose—where the past is never past, and the future is always yesterday.

WDM: Talking Truth to Power

Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, Ahmed Madoobe, Said Abdullahi Deni and Abdirahman Irro represent the fluid Somali character.

By Ismail H. Warsame

Abstract

This paper explores the paradoxical nature of Somali political and social behavior through the lens of history, identity, and clannism. It argues that the unpredictable alliances and betrayals that define Somali politics are not mere political opportunism, but deeply rooted in the social structure and survival mechanisms of a pastoral society. The central thesis posits that the permanence of clannism, rather than ideology or religion, defines Somali identity and continues to shape its volatile political landscape. The essay examines historical precedents, social anthropology, and political developments to demonstrate how this “fluidity of loyalty” has both sustained and sabotaged the Somali state.

1. Introduction: The Enigma of the Somali Psyche

Somalis have long fascinated scholars, colonial administrators, and political observers for their capacity to shift alliances, reconcile mortal enemies, and reengage in conflict without lasting institutional memory. The paradox of Somali personality lies in this “elasticity of enmity”—a quality that renders yesterday’s enemy an ally today, and tomorrow, a sworn adversary again. This cyclical behavioral pattern, often misinterpreted as political immaturity, in fact, reflects the pastoral logic of survival in an environment where fluidity of loyalty was a strategy for adaptation rather than betrayal.

As I. M. Lewis observes, Somali society is “highly segmentary, egalitarian, and unstable in its political balance” (Lewis 1994, 17). This instability is not an accident of modernity but a structural inheritance of nomadic life. The Somali political personality remains shaped by this anthropology of shifting solidarities—a pattern that modern institutions have failed to discipline or transcend.

2. Clannism as the Permanent Political Identity

Clannism is not merely a social affiliation in Somali life; it is the primary lens of reality. From kinship systems to political representation, economic exchange, and even religious allegiance, clan identity remains the ultimate arbiter. In the words of Abdi Ismail Samatar, “the clan is the only durable political institution that survived both colonial rule and state collapse” (Samatar 1992, 639).

Foreign powers and Somali politicians alike have exploited this permanence. During the colonial partition of the Somali territories, both British and Italian administrators relied on clan rivalries to pacify resistance movements. After independence, Somali leaders continued this practice—repackaging clannism under nationalist rhetoric while reproducing its divisive logic.

The collapse of the Somali state in 1991 exposed this permanent fault line. The central government, deprived of nationalist legitimacy, fragmented along clan lines, producing warlord fiefdoms. As Alex de Waal notes, the Somali civil war became a “clanized anarchy” in which the pursuit of security was inseparable from the assertion of lineage (de Waal 1996, 114).

3. The Political Utility of Unpredictability

Somali unpredictability is not entirely irrational. In a political culture where fixed alliances can be fatal, fluidity becomes a rational survival mechanism. This dynamic explains the shifting coalitions in Somali politics—from the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF) and Somali National Movement (SNM) aligning with Ethiopia in the 1980s against Siad Barre, to Puntland’s fluctuating relations with Mogadishu.

The Somali elite often manipulate this unpredictability to sustain personal or clan power. As Menkhaus (2014) argues, Somali politics functions as a “permanent negotiation,” where no agreement is binding beyond its immediate utility. In this sense, the “Somali personality” mirrors the pastoralist ethos: mobility, pragmatism, and opportunism are virtues in a volatile environment.

4. Irreversible Damage and the Failure of Institutionalization

The repeated exploitation of clan divisions has eroded the moral fabric and collective trust necessary for state-building. Federalism, designed to balance clan interests, has instead institutionalized them. The 4.5 power-sharing formula, intended as a temporary measure, ossified clan identity into constitutional architecture. As a result, political allegiance to the Somali nation remains weaker than allegiance to the clan.

This structural dilemma makes the Somali political crisis not merely a failure of leadership but a failure of social cohesion. Once trust is privatized along kin lines, the national project becomes permanently compromised. The damage, as the thesis of this paper contends, may be irreversible without a radical reimagination of Somali identity beyond clan calculus.

5. Conclusion

The unpredictable character of the Somali personality, long perceived as a defect, is in fact a mirror of the society’s adaptive genius—a legacy of nomadic survival transposed into the modern state. Yet, when exploited by cynical elites and external powers, this fluidity becomes a weapon of self-destruction. Somalia’s tragedy lies in the transformation of a cultural virtue into a political vice. Unless the Somali polity finds a moral equilibrium between clan identity and civic nationalism, the cycle of unpredictable alliances and betrayals will remain its defining curse.

Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, Ahmed Madoobe, Said Abdullahi Deni, and Abdirahman Irro embody this paradox. Their politics of shifting alliances, pragmatic recalibrations, and strategic betrayals are not aberrations but reflections of the national psyche itself. Unless Somalia discovers a moral equilibrium that reconciles clan loyalty with civic nationalism, the cycle of unpredictable alliances and betrayals will remain its defining curse—and perhaps its enduring mirror.

Bibliography

de Waal, Alex. “Contemporary Warfare in Africa: Changing Contexts, Changing Strategies.” IDS Bulletin 27, no. 3 (1996): 6–17.

Lewis, I. M. Blood and Bone: The Call of Kinship in Somali Society. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1994.

Menkhaus, Ken. “State Failure, State-Building, and Prospects for a ‘Functional Failed State’ in Somalia.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 656, no. 1 (2014): 154–172.

Samatar, Abdi Ismail. “Destruction of State and Society in Somalia: Beyond the Tribal Convention.” Journal of Modern African Studies 30, no. 4 (1992): 625–641.

Samatar, Ahmed I. The Somali Challenge: From Catastrophe to Renewal? Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1992.

WDM EDITORIAL SATIRE
By Ismail H. Warsame, WDM

The Federal Illusion: Mogadishu’s Mirage Factory

For three decades, Mogadishu has been selling Somalis a dream called “federalism” disengeniously while dismantling it from within—serving a half-cooked meal cold and salted with clan manipulation It was meant to heal the wounds of dictatorship and balance of power between center and periphery. Instead, it became a political snake oil sold by Villa Somalia to keep its rent-collecting machine alive.

Centralists in Mogadishu never believed in federalism; they merely tolerated it until the “right moment” to strangle it. But in doing so, they’ve destroyed their only bridge to national unity. Puntland and Somaliland will never crawl back into the belly of Mogadishu’s centralist monster. The more Mogadishu resists devolution, the closer Somalia drifts toward confederalism—not as theory, but as survival.

Confederalism: Somalia’s Unwritten Constitution

Confederalism is not imported from Brussels or Washington. It is embedded in Somali social DNA. Before colonial borders, Somalis organized around clan confederacies: the Hawiye Confederacy, the Dir Confederacy, the Digil and Mirifle Confederacy, the Darood Confederacy. These were not centralized kingdoms but organic power-sharing unions—where autonomy and consensus coexisted.

So when modern politicians chant “national unity” while begging foreign donors to fund it, they are defying history. Somalis have never been governed by command from one center. Even the late Siyad Barre, with tanks, torture, and Soviet backing, failed to centralize this restless nation. What makes today’s recycled elites think they can?

Puntland and Somaliland: The Unfolding Reality

Whether Mogadishu likes it or not, the map of Somali governance has already redrawn itself. Puntland is practically a functioning republic within a dysfunctional federation. Somaliland, though politically estranged, has demonstrated what local governance can look like—warts and all. Together, these two entities embody a new Somali logic: self-rule before symbolism.

Even if tomorrow’s president of Somalia hails from Garowe, Galkayo, or even Hargeisa, the old unitary state will not resurrect. Once sovereignty is shared, it cannot be re-centralized. That door is permanently closed. The best Mogadishu can hope for is a confederal arrangement—a loose partnership of equals sharing defense, currency, and diplomacy, but not subordination.The Way Forward: Accepting Somali Reality

The Way Forward: Accepting Somali Reality

The writing is on the wall, written in both Somali history and current political geography. Confederalism is not secession—it’s the only realistic bridge between unity and autonomy. Those clinging to the fantasy of a centralized Somali state are clinging to a ghost.

The question is not whether Somalia should move toward confederalism—it already is. The question is whether Mogadishu’s elites will accept it peacefully or resist until the system collapses again.

Federalism was a compromise. Confederalism is destiny. The sooner the political class in Villa Somalia accepts this, the better for the survival of what remains of the Somali Republic.

—

WDM STAMP:
“Truth doesn’t destroy nations. Denial does.” – WDM.

Somali politics has long been a theater of the absurd, but the latest act—featuring Puntland’s Said Abdullahi Deni and Jubaland’s Ahmed Madoobe—plays less like a strategic alliance and more like a mismatched sitcom. The scene is set: two rivals compelled to share a stage not by shared vision or belief in a greater Somalia, but by the unifying pressure of Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s Damul Jadiid regime.

Deni, the perennial aspirant, still chases the Villa Somalia mirage with the desperation of a man dying of thirst. The sting of 2022, when Madoobe abandoned him at the political altar, remains fresh. Yet in Somali politics, betrayal is the coin of the realm. Now, Deni has no choice but to place his bets on the very man who shattered his ambitions. The smile he offers Madoobe is not one of friendship, but of grim resignation—the look of a gambler who knows the dice are loaded but rolls them all the same.

Across the table, Ahmed Madoobe operates in pure survival mode. He has perfected the art of outlasting regimes without committing to a single, meaningful principle. His alliances are like sandcastles on the shores of Kismaayo: meticulously built at high tide, only to be washed away by the morning sun. Is he reliable? He is steadfast only in his own self-interest. To allies and adversaries alike, he is a political mirage—shimmering with promise from a distance, dissolving into nothing upon approach.

Presiding over this spectacle from Villa Somalia is Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, a leader slowly and publicly deflating. By May 2026, he will not be a symbol of authority but an empty vessel, hissing with the last gasps of influence. His legacy is already settling as a fine dust of governance failures, corruption, and the hollow projects of Damul Jadiid. Even his traditional Hawiye base is fractured, leaving him isolated and exposed.

What is most striking amid this political circus is the profound vacuum at its center. Somalia’s battered governance has no credible successor waiting in the wings. The Deni-Madoobe pact is not a roadmap to a better future; it is a detour into the politics of mutual necessity. It is the politics of “for now,” a temporary ceasefire in a war of all against all.

The Somali people deserve visionaries, but they are perpetually handed gamblers, opportunists, and fading icons. The only certainty is that this alliance will end as all such arrangements in Somalia do: with concealed knives beneath the table, polished smiles for the cameras, and history repeating itself in a farce of forgotten promises.

WDM Verdict: This is not the birth of a coalition. It is the sight of two political fossils huddling for warmth against the cold wind of public discontent, while the Damul Jadiid regime implodes from the vacuum of its own failed leadership.

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In Puntland, the career ladder has just two rungs: the one you stand on, and the one you fantasize about from the bottom.

Take the young man from Laascaanood. He didn’t make headlines for founding a company or winning a seat in parliament. His news was quieter, more tragic. He abandoned his job at the Horn Petrol Station in Garowe—a position that, in its stability, was already the envy of many—to chase the shimmering promise of Oman. He was sold a vision of the Gulf desert as a land of greater opportunity than Puntland’s dusty roadside kiosks.

His career progression was not what his family pictured when they bid him farewell at the bus station. Instead of climbing a corporate ladder, he was handed a stick and assigned to herd camels across sun-scorched plains. Then, fate added a cruel twist: a diabetes diagnosis, unimpressed by his foreign visa, took a violent turn. The blunt herding stick of his new life became a “pointed objective,” and his health, fragile to begin with, shattered. The result was the unthinkable: the amputation of his lower leg.

The irony is a physical blow. A man who once fueled the engines of Puntland at the Horn Petrol Station now cannot walk without assistance. This is more than a personal tragedy; it is a political verdict on a system that has spectacularly failed its people.

The Mirage Economy

Let’s be clear: in Puntland today, meaningful work is as mythical as a forest in the Haud. The Horn Petrol Station was not a dream job, but it was a lifeline—it meant work, bread, and a shred of dignity. Yet, the potent myth of Gulf wealth lured him away. His “promotion” abroad saw him demoted from petroleum attendant to camel attendant. This is the inevitable result when a society exports its human capital like a raw commodity, having failed to build the industries to employ it at home.

Our elites dine on stories of oil concessions and donor conferences, their prosperity propped up by diaspora remittances. Meanwhile, the common man is trapped in a devil’s choice: pump petrol at Horn Petrol or polish camel hooves abroad. The very leaders who vacation in Dubai malls leave their citizens to tend livestock in the deserts those malls overlook.

State-Sponsored Ignorance

To blame this tragedy solely on one man’s poor choice is to miss the point entirely. This was a systemic failure, a case of state-sponsored ignorance.

It is the ignorance of leaders who see vocational training as an expense, not an investment. It is the ignorance of policymakers who treat remittances as an economic strategy rather than a symptom of failure. It is the ignorance of a society that applauds politicians for building villas in Garowe while its youth are building a resume of servitude overseas.

Our protagonist from Laascaanood was a product of this system. He was ignorant of his own value, of his rights, of the very concept that his nation owed him a future. He left his pump at Horn Petrol believing the mirage was real, and he paid for that belief with his leg.

The Final, Bitter Punchline

And so we arrive at the satirical punchline, so absurd it borders on parody: Puntland’s economy is so barren that losing a limb in a Omani camel pen can be framed as a step up from a job at the Horn Petrol Station. This is the theater of the absurd we now call normal.

If Puntland cannot—or will not—forge a real economy for its youth, this exodus will not just continue; it will define us. We are not exporting engineers, doctors, or innovators. We are exporting desperate men, and what we get back in return are the amputees of our own collective neglect.

—

Based on a true story.

  October 4, 2025 

WDM SATIRE

The West has perfected a new export commodity: its own criminals.

When once upon a time Europe exported philosophy, democracy, and industrial technology, today it exports convicted felons – all nicely packaged with “Somali-Swedish” or “African-American immigrant” labels. The United States, under policies promoted by the Trump administration, is now a leader in this field, actively negotiating deals with African nations to accept “third-country” deportees . Sweden, the so-called land of Nobel Prizes and neutrality, has become the Nobel laureate of deportation hypocrisy.

Instead of investing in rehabilitation or bearing the full cost of incarceration for its own societal dregs, the West now treats Africa like a dumping ground for toxic waste. Except this time the waste breathes, steals, and kills. The rhetoric is flowery – “third-country deportation,” “security cooperation,” and removing “uniquely barbaric monsters” from American soil . But peel the diplomatic wrapping paper, and you find something uglier: a form of human trafficking in reverse, a practice that echoes the dynamics of “waste neocolonialism,” where environmental burdens are shifted onto the Global South .

Poverty as Landfill

Why Somalia? Why Eswatini? Because poverty and political vulnerability make it easy. Fragile states and desperate leaderships are presented with a “carrot and stick” approach by Western powers . As one analyst noted, some African governments agree to receive convicted deportees as a “goodwill gesture, aiming to improve US ties and be in Trump’s good books” . Western governments engage in “robust high-level engagements,” and then load a “Special Plane” with hardened criminals for delivery. Somalia and Eswatini get more instability and more gang wars, while Washington and Stockholm get cleaner streets, lower prison bills, and applause from their far-right echo chambers.

This practice is not accidental; it is a systemic feature. It mirrors the “hypocrisy of the Western aid regime,” where governments that officially promote human rights simultaneously support and engage in policies that undermine the sovereignty and safety of African nations . The very countries expressing outrage at regional security collaborations are the ones offloading their security problems onto the same region .

Nordic Hypocrisy Meets African Complicity

What we are watching is not just deportation. It is a joint-venture between Western hypocrisy and African complicity. It is a marriage of convenience between smug bureaucrats in Washington and officials in Mogadishu or Mbabane. The U.S. waves the flag of the “rule of law,” claiming deportees “received due process and had a final order of removal from an immigration judge” , while critics argue the receiving nations are betraying their citizens’ right to security. In Eswatini, opposition leaders have denounced the move as making their country a “criminal dumpsite” and an abuse of national sovereignty .

A Grim Satire of “Aid”

Aid used to be (in theory) for schools, clinics, and roads. Today, it can include budget lines for dumping criminals. Development cooperation is being reduced to crime outsourcing. While the U.S. insists it offers no financial reward for accepting deportees , the broader system of aid and engagement creates powerful incentives. Somalia gets killers and a broken social order, while Eswatini, with its prisons already operating at over 170% capacity, is forced to house foreign criminals . Meanwhile, officials fly to Geneva to lecture about “partnerships for peace.”

WDM Final Word

When citizens of Somalia or Eswatini are forced to live with foreign-trained, Western-naturalized gangsters disguised as “returnees” or “third-country nationals,” one must ask: what kind of sovereignty is this? What kind of leadership trades its people’s safety for geopolitical goodwill?

This is not merely deportation. It is neo-colonial waste management, a direct parallel to the export of hazardous electronic and plastic waste to the developing world . And the garbage, tragically, is human.

Sweden–Somalia Secret Deal: When Transparency Died in Stockholm and Mogadishu

Ekot has dropped a political bombshell that neither Stockholm nor Mogadishu can sweep under the carpet. For all the talk of “transparency” and “accountability,” the Swedish government cut a 100 million kronor secret deal with the Somali Prime Minister’s Office—a deal tied directly to the forced deportation of Somali citizens, including convicted criminals, from Sweden.

“Former Minister Johan Forssell stood in December 2023 boasting about “efficiency and transparency” in aid reform. One week earlier, his government signed off on a backroom arrangement that reeks of hypocrisy. This was not aid. This was a ransom payment—a crude exchange: money for migrants.”

Somali Complicity: Leaders for Sale

Breaking news from WDM sources confirms that Prime Minister Hamse Abdi Barre, his Director General Jamaal Guutaale, and his close adviser Ahmed Dahir (Uleex) were central to this shady deportation scheme. Somalia’s fragile sovereignty was auctioned off for cash, while Mogadishu officials enriched themselves under the cover of “UNDP partnership.”

The Somali public was kept in the dark because exposure would have destroyed the regime’s credibility at home. Instead, Somali leaders quietly signed away dignity, turning deported Somalis into bargaining chips for political rent.

Swedish Hypocrisy: Transparency Betrayed

Swedish Foreign Ministry and Sida staff were ordered to keep the deal secret. Freedom of Information requests were blocked, documents were systematically masked, and silence was enforced. For a government that lectures the world about democracy, this is a shameful betrayal.

Sweden’s global brand as a beacon of open, principled aid is now in tatters. What credibility remains when aid is reduced to a political bribe to keep deportees out of Stockholm’s suburbs?

The Dirty Alliance

This deal illustrates the corruption of both elites:

In Mogadishu: leaders who sell sovereignty for cash.

In Stockholm: politicians who lie to their people while using aid to outsource domestic political headaches.

Both sides hoped secrecy would protect them. Ekot has proven them wrong

The Unanswered Questions

Who in Somalia personally pocketed this money?

What was UNDP’s role in sanitizing the transaction?

Why is Minister Benjamin Dousa now pretending “there was no formal agreement”?

Why are Swedish officials still unnamed and unaccountable?

Final Word

This is not migration policy. This is human trafficking in diplomatic clothing.
This is not aid. This is political bribery dressed as development cooperation.

Sweden and Somalia have both betrayed their people. One sold transparency, the other sold sovereignty. The victims are ordinary Somalis—treated as commodities in a cynical marketplace of political expediency.

WDM calls for full exposure of all officials, Somali and Swedish alike, involved in this shameful bargain.