In 1991, the United Somali Congress (USC) militias and clan warlords violently seized control of Mogadishu, Somalia. What followed was not just a military takeover but the deliberate destruction of Somalia’s future. The USC dismantled state institutions, ruined infrastructure, plundered systems and assets, and left the nation without the capacity to recover.
The devastation did not stop in Mogadishu. USC’s actions triggered a wave of killings, mass displacement, and indiscriminate destruction that spread across Somalia. Millions were uprooted from their homes, entire communities shattered, and the dream of a functioning Somali state collapsed. This deliberate wreckage marked Somalia as one of the world’s most glaring examples of state failure in modern history. The consequences were not confined to the capital but rippled through every city and region of the nation.
Mogadishu, once hailed as a proud African capital and cultural hub, descended into chaos. The city became synonymous with warlordism, violence, and organized crime. For decades, tribal militias and factional leaders turned the city into a battlefield, exploiting its people while denying them the peace and dignity they once enjoyed.
Even after years of international interventions and national reconstruction efforts, Somalia’s recovery has been repeatedly sabotaged by corrupt leadership. Among the most notorious figures is Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, a former civil war clerk turned politician, who squandered every chance to rebuild Mogadishu. Instead, he empowered militias and cronies through embezzlement, looting, exploitation, and wasteful spending—deliberately undermining the recovery of both the city and the Somali nation.
The tragedy of Mogadishu, and by extension Somalia, is not simply the legacy of the USC warlords of the 1990s but the ongoing betrayal by political elites who have weaponized clan loyalty, corruption, and international aid to deny their people a second chance at stability and prosperity.
If Somalia is ever to recover, it must confront this legacy of destruction and betrayal—both from warlords of the past and politicians of the present.
When I first compiled these essays into Talking Truth to Power, my purpose was simple: to memorialize the turbulent years of Somalia’s recent political history through independent critical analysis. What was written then, as commentary in real time, now reads like a record of warnings unheeded.
In 2025, the issues raised in these pages remain painfully relevant. Somalia’s federal experiment continues to falter, sabotaged from within by federal leaders who exploit clan identities for short-term power rather than building national institutions. The federal system, instead of evolving into a mechanism for cooperation and shared sovereignty, has become a battlefield of mistrust. The consequences are visible in the hollowing of governance, the erosion of public trust, and the weaponization of constitutional ambiguity.
Foreign interference, which I described years ago as “so many spearmen fighting over an ostrich,” has only deepened. Turkey, Qatar, the UAE, Ethiopia, and Kenya remain active players in Somalia’s politics—each pursuing strategic interests while Somalia itself remains fractured and vulnerable. Their money, weapons, and proxies have fueled division, leaving ordinary Somalis disillusioned and displaced.
At the same time, the Somali people are quietly voting with their feet. Cairo, Istanbul, Nairobi, Dubai, Kampala, and beyond now host growing Somali diasporas who left because of inflation, insecurity, and a sense that home offers little hope. This silent exodus, often overlooked in political debates, may prove one of the most significant shifts of our era: the loss of human capital and the quiet resignation of citizens who have ceased to believe in their state.
The essays in this volume—whether about Puntland’s lack of strategic vision, Mogadishu’s capture by foreign agendas, or the failures of leaders to rise above clan politics—stand as both analysis and indictment. They remind us that Somalia’s crises were neither sudden nor inevitable. They were cultivated by choices, by negligence, and by an elite class unwilling to learn from past mistakes.
Yet, there is still a lesson in these pages for the future. The Somali people have always shown resilience. SSC-Khatumo’s reassertion of political agency, Puntland’s insistence on federal rights, and civil voices demanding accountability are signs that the struggle for self-determination is not over. If anything, these scattered sparks point to the possibility of renewal—if only leaders can place principle above power, and citizens above clan.
This 2025 preface is not a republication of the book. It is a reminder that the fight to “talk truth to power” remains unfinished. My hope is that readers—whether students, diplomats, policymakers, or Somali citizens at home and abroad—will engage these writings not only as history, but as a challenge to act differently in the years ahead.
There are now rampant reports—too loud to ignore—that Somalis are quietly packing their bags, not to return home, but to flee once again. Cairo, Istanbul, Nairobi, Dubai, you name it—our people are going anywhere but here. And why wouldn’t they? Life in Somalia has been reduced to a nightmare of skyrocketing prices, runaway inflation, insecurity on every corner, fake schools with certificates for sale, and political fistfights between the Federal Government (FGS) and the Federal Member States (FMS).
This is no longer just a rumour—it is a reality visible in the empty houses of Mogadishu, the ghost towns of our provincial cities, and the endless queue of Somali passports at foreign embassies. Once upon a time, people returned to Somalia, believing in the promise of recovery. Today, they are leaving again—silently voting with their feet against a failed state.
What is worse than the exodus itself? The silence of those who claim to be leaders. Not a single public institution has dared to address this distressing trend. Not a word, not a plan, not even a hollow press release. Why? Because they are too busy looting aid budgets, counting clan seats, and scheming for the next power-sharing deal in Mogadishu’s political casino.
Let us be clear: this silent exodus is a referendum on Somali leadership. And the result is already in—total rejection. When citizens would rather sweat as dishwashers in Istanbul or squeeze into Nairobi’s slums than live in their own homeland, that is not migration. That is a vote of no confidence. Somalia is being emptied out, not by war this time, but by neglect, incompetence, and greed.
The ruling class must be held accountable. If leaders cannot stabilise the cost of living, then they should stop calling themselves leaders. If they cannot provide basic security, they should vacate their offices and let someone else try. If they cannot educate the next generation, then they are not building a country—they are dismantling it brick by brick. And if they cannot even lower the burden of utility bills, then at least create a public–partnership model to cut the costs and give ordinary families some breathing space.
WDM demands urgent intervention. Enough of the endless conferences in Nairobi hotels. Enough of the donor-funded charades. Enough of the finger-pointing between FGS and FMS. This is the hour for real statesmanship—if any still exists in this country. Subsidise food and fuel, restore security with iron resolve, invest in genuine education, cut the utility bills through public–partnership initiatives, and end the toxic, childish quarrels between federal leaders before Somalia becomes a land without people.
Somalia is bleeding. Its people are leaving. And its leaders are feasting. History will not forgive them, and neither will the people.
This article challenges selective historical narratives that portray Somaliland as uniquely victimized under Siad Barre and thus uniquely justified in pursuing unilateral secession from Somalia. By reconstructing a national timeline of repression and armed resistance, the study highlights the foundational role of the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), the first and most inclusive armed opposition to Barre’s regime. Drawing on scholarly and human rights sources, the analysis demonstrates that SSDF significantly weakened Barre before the United Somali Congress (USC) ousted him in 1991, and that Somali state violence targeted communities nationwide, not exclusively in Somaliland. The article also highlights an often-overlooked fact: SSDF financed and armed the Somali National Movement (SNM) during its formative years, even negotiating unification between the two fronts. The article argues that Somali fragmentation has been driven as much by historical distortions as by genuine grievances, and that federalism, exemplified by Puntland, provides a more inclusive framework than secession for addressing Somalia’s collective past.
Keywords: Somalia, Somaliland, SSDF, USC, SNM, Siad Barre, secession, federalism, Somali civil war
Introduction
Since Somaliland’s unilateral declaration of independence in May 1991, its proponents have sought to ground secession in a narrative of exceptional victimhood at the hands of Somalia’s central state. The argument is that the north suffered unique atrocities under Siad Barre’s regime, justifying permanent separation. While the suffering of Somalilanders was real and severe, this narrative omits critical facts: authoritarian repression was nationwide, and the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF)—not the Somali National Movement (SNM) or United Somali Congress (USC)—was the first and most inclusive armed opposition to the regime.
This article re-situates Somaliland’s experience within Somalia’s broader political trajectory. By emphasizing SSDF’s pioneering role—including its support of SNM in its early years—it challenges historical distortions and underscores the federalist alternative embodied by Puntland.
The 1969 Coup and Revolutionary Reforms
In October 1969, Major General Mohamed Siad Barre led a coup following the assassination of President Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke. The ousted civilian government was widely perceived as corrupt and clannish, dominated by a Majeerteen president and an Isaaq prime minister (Adam, 1994). The coup was welcomed nationwide, including in the northern regions.
The early years of the Supreme Revolutionary Council (1969–1974) witnessed progressive reforms: adoption of the Latin script in 1972, mass literacy campaigns, advances in women’s rights, and rhetorical campaigns against clannism (Lewis, 2002). These reforms initially created optimism, before the regime descended into authoritarianism.
The Ogaden War and the Rise of Opposition
Somalia’s defeat in the Ogaden War (1977–78) marked a turning point, weakening the regime and intensifying authoritarian control (Samatar, 1988). In response, opposition movements emerged, the earliest and most significant being the SSDF.
Founded in Ethiopia in 1978 by exiled officers after a failed coup, SSDF was remarkable for its inclusivity. It was chaired by Mustafe Haji Nur (Isaaq), with Omar Sterlin (Hawiye/Abgaal), once a mayor of Mogadishu, as vice-chairman, and later Mohamed Farah Jamaale (Hawiye/Habar Gidir) in leadership (Compagnon, 1992). While Majeerteen formed a strong base, SSDF’s outlook was pan-Somali, setting it apart from later clan-based movements such as SNM (Isaaq) and USC (Hawiye).
SSDF and the Formation of SNM
One of the most overlooked aspects of Somali opposition history is the relationship between SSDF and SNM. When SNM was formed in London and later based in Ethiopia in 1981, it faced acute resource shortages and organizational fragility. For roughly three years following SNM’s founding, SSDF supplied it with weapons, military hardware, and financial resources.
Moreover, SSDF leaders held negotiations with successive SNM chairmen—Ahmed Ismail Abdi “Duqsi,” Colonel Abdikadir “Koosaar,” and Yusuf Sheikh Ali Madar—seeking to unify the two fronts into a single armed opposition. Though these efforts failed, they illustrate that SSDF envisioned the Somali struggle as a collective national project rather than a set of regional or clan-based rebellions (Lefebvre, 1991).
This critical historical fact undermines claims that SNM’s struggle was wholly autonomous or exclusively grounded in northern exceptionalism.
SSDF’s Role in Weakening Barre
By the early 1980s, SSDF had already significantly weakened Siad Barre’s regime. Its insurgency drained resources, eroded military cohesion, and exposed the regime’s fragility (Laitin & Samatar, 1987). Mengistu Haile Mariam’s manipulation and sabotage of SSDF reduced its effectiveness, yet its campaigns in Mudug, Nugaal, and Galgaduud forced the regime into brutal retaliations, including destruction of wells and massacres of civilians (Human Rights Watch, 1990).
Later opposition movements built on these openings. The USC itself emerged as a splinter faction of SSDF, led by Hawiye leaders such as General Mohamed Farah Aidid (Menkhaus, 2003). Meanwhile, SNM, strengthened by earlier SSDF support, pursued its campaigns in the northwest.
Repression as a Nationwide Phenomenon
Contrary to secessionist claims, Siad Barre’s repression was not regionally isolated.
In the northeast, Majeerteen civilians were massacred, and vital wells destroyed during anti-SSDF campaigns (Human Rights Watch, 1990).
In the northwest, Hargeisa and Burco were bombarded in 1988 during SNM’s uprising (Africa Watch, 1990).
In the capital, Hawiye communities suffered massacres in 1989–1990 (Amnesty International, 1990).
Thus, state violence was systematic and nationwide, targeting communities wherever opposition movements emerged.
Collapse and Aftermath
By 1990, Siad Barre’s regime was mortally weakened by years of SSDF insurgency, combined with the intensified offensives of SNM and USC. In January 1991, the USC captured Mogadishu, forcing Barre into exile. In May of that year, SNM declared Somaliland’s unilateral re-independence.
Even after Barre’s fall, SSDF continued to defend Somali unity. When Aidid’s USC attempted to seize Galkayo, SSDF militias repelled them, safeguarding the northeast (Prunier, 1995). This resistance provided the foundation for Puntland’s creation in 1998, a federalist entity committed to Somali unity rather than secession (Hoehne, 2015).
Competing Futures
The post-Barre collapse produced divergent political trajectories:
Somaliland, rooted in SNM’s legacy, pursued secession.
Puntland, drawing on SSDF’s inclusive federalist vision, advanced unity through autonomy.
South/Central Somalia, dominated by USC splinters, descended into destructive warlordism.
Among these, Puntland’s federalist experiment represents the most inclusive response to Somalia’s shared history of repression.
Conclusion: The Unabated Political Trajectory
The historical distortions around Somaliland’s unilateral secession often ignore the deeper trajectory of Somali politics since 1969. From Siyad Barre’s initial reforms, through the rise of SSDF as an inclusive opposition movement, to its role in materially supporting SNM and weakening the regime before USC’s final push, the record shows a complex interplay of national unity efforts, factional rivalries, and external manipulation.
Yet this trajectory did not end with the collapse of Siyad Barre. The current federal system, established after the 2004 Transitional Federal Government, was meant to resolve Somalia’s governance crisis and balance federal autonomy with national unity. However, the reality has been far less promising. Today, Somalia’s political trajectory continues unabated under an ineffective federal system that is being sabotaged from within by its federal leaders. Instead of building inclusive institutions, these leaders have often entrenched clannism, weakened cooperation with federal member states, and undermined the very unity the federal system was designed to safeguard.
This ongoing dysfunction underscores the continuity of Somalia’s political crisis: a state oscillating between unity and fragmentation, with elites perpetuating the cycle of manipulation and sabotage. Understanding the true role of SSDF, SNM, USC, and their interactions provides not only a correction of the historical record but also a lens through which to interpret Somalia’s contemporary challenges under federalism.
References
Adam, H. M. (1994). Formation and recognition of new states: Somaliland in contrast to Eritrea. Review of African Political Economy, 21(59), 21–38.
Africa Watch. (1990). Somalia: A government at war with its own people: Testimonies about the killings and the conflict in the north. Human Rights Watch.
Amnesty International. (1990). Somalia: A long-term human rights crisis. London: Amnesty International.
Compagnon, D. (1992). Somali armed movements: The interplay of political entrepreneurship & clan-based factions. African Studies Review, 35(2), 85–108.
Hoehne, M. V. (2015). Between Somaliland and Puntland: Marginalization, militarization and conflicting political visions. Rift Valley Institute.
Human Rights Watch. (1990). Somalia: A government at war with its own people. New York: Human Rights Watch.
Laitin, D., & Samatar, S. (1987). Somalia: Nation in search of a state. Boulder: Westview Press.
Lefebvre, J. A. (1991). The Somali coup d’état of 1978 and the emergence of armed opposition. Journal of Modern African Studies, 29(2), 227–251.
Lewis, I. M. (2002). A modern history of the Somali: Nation and state in the Horn of Africa (4th ed.). Athens, OH: Ohio University Press.
Menkhaus, K. (2003). State collapse in Somalia: Second thoughts. Review of African Political Economy, 30(97), 405–422.
Prunier, G. (1995). The Somali civil war. In The Rwanda crisis: History of a genocide (pp. 111–134). New York: Columbia University Press.
Samatar, A. I. (1988). The state and rural transformation in Northern Somalia, 1884–1986. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.
From Begging Bowl to Breadbasket: A Skills-First Path for Somalia’s Economy September 2025
Executive Summary
Somalia is a nation rich in resources but poor in applied skills. With Africa’s largest livestock herd, the continent’s longest coastline, significant mineral potential, fertile land, and emerging hydrocarbons, Somalia should be a regional breadbasket. Instead, it relies heavily on aid and remittances, with limited productive skills to leverage its wealth.
This brief outlines a five-year skills-first agenda targeting livestock, fisheries, construction, and extractives services. By prioritizing vocational training, employer-led standards, and outcome-based financing, Somalia can transition from aid dependence to a skills-driven economy.
The Challenge: A Wealthy Nation Behaving Poor
Livestock: ~7 million camels, 5 million cattle, 30 million goats, 14 million sheep—Somalia’s greatest export asset.
Fisheries: A 3,330 km coastline with underexploited tuna and pelagic stocks.
Minerals & Hydrocarbons: Uranium, iron ore, gypsum, and offshore oil exploration agreements underway.
Land: 70% classified as agricultural/pastoral land.
Yet Somalia imports food, suffers recurring famines, and remains donor-dependent. Vocational and technical education is almost absent:
Few accredited veterinary para-professional programs.
Little structured fisheries or marine training.
Construction trades lack certification, lowering safety and productivity.
Young people overwhelmingly seek NGO or office jobs instead of skilled work.
Bottom line: Somalia is rich in natural assets, but lacks the workforce to turn them into wealth.
Aid, Remittances, and the “Office Economy”
Remittances (20–25% of GDP) sustain families but reinforce consumption.
Foreign aid dominates the fiscal framework, but donor fatigue and cuts threaten stability.
NGO employment absorbs educated youth but distorts skills away from productive sectors.
Without vocational pathways, the economy orients toward aid-funded clerical jobs rather than livestock markets, fishery exports, or construction trades.
A Five-Year Skills-First Agenda (2026–2030)
1. Build a Skills Governance System
Establish a Somalia Skills Commission with employer-led sector skills councils.
Create a National Qualifications Framework (NQF) for trades and certifications.
2. Invest in Livestock Competitiveness
Train thousands of veterinary para-professionals, abattoir technicians, and cold-chain workers.
Modernize quarantine stations and introduce animal ID systems.
Promote HACCP/ISO standards in meat exports to Gulf markets.
3. Develop Fisheries Training Hubs
Establish 3 coastal training hubs (Bosaso, Mogadishu, Kismayo).
Train skippers, marine engineers, refrigeration technicians, and HACCP specialists.
Upgrade landing sites with ice, water, and hygiene facilities.
4. Professionalize Construction Trades
Require apprenticeships on all donor-funded and public works.
Certify masons, electricians, plumbers, HVAC technicians, and surveyors.
Enforce safety standards to lower accidents.
5. Prepare for Hydrocarbons & Minerals Responsibly
Focus first on transferable skills: HSE officers, welders, environmental technicians, logistics.
Publish contracts and data to ensure transparency and avoid “boom-bust” training.
Financing the Transition
Domestic revenue growth: allocate a fixed share to vocational training and labs.
Donor alignment: shift funding from clerical/NGO-heavy projects to TVET and applied skills.
Remittance leverage: offer matching schemes for apprentices to buy toolkits and equipment.
Results-based financing: pay training providers only for certifications, job placements, and retention.
Risks and Mitigation
Aid volatility: modular programs allow scaling up/down with available funds.
Security & climate shocks: mobile training units and drought-resilient fodder systems.
Elite capture: employer councils oversee standards and outcomes, not politicians.
Hype in extractives: skills focused on services useful across sectors.
Headline Targets by 2030
50,000 new certified workers in livestock, fisheries, construction, and maintenance.
30% increase in export livestock meeting international standards.
Tripled fish landings through Somali-managed vessels and certified landing sites.
25,000 apprentices trained in construction trades, reducing site accidents.
Conclusion
Somalia’s paradox is clear: immense wealth in resources, yet chronic dependence on aid. The answer is not more conferences or more clerks, but practical skills, vocational pathways, and employer-led standards.
A five-year, skills-first agenda—anchored in livestock, fisheries, construction, and extractives services—can turn Somalia’s begging bowl into a breadbasket.
Somalia must shift from “aid-fed” to “skills-led.”
Somalia is richly endowed—with one of Africa’s largest livestock herds, the longest mainland coastline on the continent, under-explored hydrocarbons and minerals, and significant agricultural potential. Yet the country’s growth model remains heavily tilted toward aid, remittances, and low-productivity services. This white paper diagnoses the structural reasons behind the paradox—particularly the chronic shortage of vocational, technical, and applied tertiary skills—and proposes a 5-year, skills-first transformation agenda focused on livestock value chains, fisheries, construction, and light manufacturing. The recommendations emphasize practical training, standards and certification, enabling regulation, targeted public investment, and results-based financing tied to jobs.
1) Context and Problem Statement
Somalia’s economy has grown on the back of agriculture and services, but remains exposed to climate shocks and volatile aid flows. In 2024 real GDP growth reached ~4.0%, supported by agriculture and livestock, yet the outlook is clouded by cuts to foreign aid. Remittances remain a critical lifeline (about a quarter of GDP in recent years), cushioning domestic demand but reinforcing a consumption-heavy, import-dependent structure. Domestic revenue mobilization is still among the lowest globally, limiting the state’s capacity to invest in productive skills and infrastructure.
At the same time, the education and training system undersupplies technicians, veterinary professionals, fisheries officers, master builders, machinists, welders, and maintenance technicians. While universities and some faculties exist, provision is fragmented and thin relative to need. Technical and vocational education and training (TVET) remains underdeveloped and weakly connected to employers, standards, and certification systems.
2) Somalia’s Resource Endowments (What’s on the Table)
2.1. Livestock
Livestock is Somalia’s largest economic asset, with recent estimates placing the national herd at ~7.1 million camels, 5.3 million cattle, 30.9 million goats, and 13.6 million sheep—driving exports and rural incomes when sanitary and trade conditions allow. In arid zones, camel production is especially important.
2.2. Fisheries and the Ocean Economy
Somalia has Africa’s longest mainland coastline—≈3,330 km—bordering rich upwelling systems that support tuna and other pelagics. FAO and IOTC documentation highlight considerable, still-underexploited potential within the EEZ, long constrained by governance, security, and limited domestic capacity for monitoring, control, and surveillance (MCS), as well as processing and cold-chain gaps.
2.3. Hydrocarbons
Somalia has moved to re-open offshore exploration. In March 2024, Somalia and Türkiye signed an inter-governmental cooperation agreement covering exploration and, upon discovery, development and production; Turkish Petroleum’s seismic vessel Oruç Reis was slated to conduct extensive 3D surveys. Earlier licensing initiatives and block delineation by national authorities also point to renewed investor interest. While commerciality remains unproven, upstream activity could be catalytic if transparently governed.
2.4. Minerals
Legacy geological work and UN/IAEA briefs list uranium, iron ore, tin, gypsum, bauxite, copper, salts, limestone and industrial minerals as prospective but largely unexploited, reflecting the long hiatus in systematic exploration and infrastructure deficits. Modern re-mapping and responsible, transparent licensing would be prerequisites to any development.
2.5. Arable and Pastoral Land
While only ~1.7–2% of land is classified as arable, agricultural land (including rangelands) covers roughly 70% of the territory, underscoring the centrality of climate-smart pastoralism, fodder systems, and water management rather than rain-fed cropping alone.
3) The Binding Constraint: A Missing Skills Ecosystem
The complaint that “everyone trains to be an office clerk or NGO staffer” exaggerates—but flags a real distortion. Somalia’s TVET system is fragmented; employer linkages, quality assurance, and competency standards are embryonic; and training finance rarely rewards job placement or productivity gains. Even where sector-specific faculties exist (e.g., veterinary medicine at Somali National University, Benadir University, Mogadishu University), scale and applied training infrastructure (clinics, demonstration farms, abattoir QA labs, mobile vet services) are insufficient for the national herd, export ambitions, and disease surveillance needs.
In fisheries, the bottlenecks are similar: few accredited programs in skipper training, marine engineering, cold-chain logistics, HACCP/ISO 22000, stock assessment, and MCS operations; weak paths for artisanal fishers to formalize and upskill; and limited processing skills for value addition (filleting, canning, fishmeal and fish oil, by-product utilization).
Construction—one of the largest urban employers—faces shortages of certified foremen, masons, electricians, plumbers, HVAC techs, survey technicians, and materials testers, keeping productivity and safety low and raising costs. Global TVET evidence underscores that competency-based standards and employer-designed curricula are essential to close such gaps.
4) Political Economy of Aid, Remittances, and “Office Economy”
Debt relief under HIPC and successive IMF reviews have improved macro-stability, but also spotlighted the risk of aid retrenchment. World Bank and IMF assessments warn that foreign-aid cuts are already dampening the growth outlook, while domestic revenues remain low by international standards. Remittances—estimated around 20–25% of GDP in recent years—sustain consumption but can crowd skilled labor into distribution and services rather than traded sectors if productive opportunities are scarce. NGO ecosystems deliver lifesaving aid, yet studies note capacity gaps and donor-driven priorities that may not align with building productive skills at scale. The net effect: a relatively large share of educated youth gravitates to donor projects and clerical services instead of technical trades.
5) What Success Could Look Like: Four Priority Value Chains
5.1. Livestock Health, Quality, and Market Access
Goal: Lift export earnings and pastoral incomes by upgrading animal health, fodder, finishing, and cold-chain. Critical skills: field epidemiology; veterinary paraprofessionals; HACCP/ISO 22000; abattoir QA; feed formulation; cold-chain maintenance; live-animal logistics. Rationale: Somalia’s herd scale offers comparative advantage, particularly in Gulf markets; camels and small ruminants command premium prices with reliable certification and handling.
5.2. Artisanal and Semi-Industrial Fisheries
Goal: Multiply domestic landings captured by Somali vessels and increase value-added processing. Critical skills: skipper and marine-engine training; MCS operators; HACCP; refrigeration and ice-plant technicians; by-product processing; SME management for landing sites.
5.3. Urban Construction and Materials
Goal: Raise productivity, safety, and standards in booming cities (Mogadishu, Hargeisa, Garowe, Kismayo, Bosaso). Critical skills: certified foremen; masonry/electrical/plumbing/HVAC; surveying; concrete/materials testing; prefab assembly; site safety; maintenance.
5.4. Hydrocarbon & Mineral Services (Foundational Stage)
Goal: Build domestic technical services to support exploration: environmental baseline, logistics, fabrication, and HSE—before any production decision. Critical skills: HSE officers; welders/rig mechanics; geotech and environmental technicians; lab techs; GIS; procurement; port logistics.
1. Create a Somalia Skills Commission (SSC) and National Qualifications Framework (NQF). Mandate sector skills councils (livestock, fisheries, construction, energy/minerals) to co-design competency standards, apprenticeship norms, and assessments tied to employer demand.
2. Scale “dual” TVET via Results-Based Financing (RBF). Public funds pay providers for verified outcomes: certifications earned, apprenticeships completed, and 6-/12-month job retention—differentially weighted toward priority trades and underserved regions. Global TVET reviews support outcome-linked finance to improve relevance and accountability.
3. Rebuild Veterinary and Fisheries Training Infrastructure.
Equip SNU/Benadir/MU vet faculties with field clinics, mobile vaccination units, abattoir QA labs, and disease surveillance linkages; certify veterinary paraprofessionals for last-mile services.
Establish three coastal Fisheries Training Hubs (e.g., Bosaso, Kismayo, Mogadishu) for skipper/engineer training, MCS, cold-chain maintenance, HACCP, and entrepreneurship.
4. National Apprenticeship Compact with Industry. Co-finance 25,000 apprenticeships in construction trades and maintenance over five years; require firms on public works to take apprentices and certify supervisors; embed site-safety standards.
5. Livestock Export Competitiveness Program. Modernize quarantine stations; introduce electronic animal ID and movement tracking in export corridors; expand fodder/finishing pilots; mainstream HACCP and animal-welfare standards in export abattoirs.
6. Fisheries MCS and Landing-Site Upgrades. Fund VMS/AIS integration, patrol capacity, and landing-site utilities (ice, water, electricity, hygiene); introduce transparent licensing/royalties; support co-management with fishing communities.
7. Transparency for Extractives (Pre-Production). Adopt open data for licensing, contracts, and seismic results; require local-content plans focused on transferable technical skills (HSE, welding, fabrication, logistics) rather than short-term clerical hires.
8. Align Public Finance with Skills. Protect training budgets against aid volatility by earmarking a share of growing domestic revenues; gradually shift from general budget support reliance toward domestic resource mobilization.
7) Financing and Governance
Macrofiscal space: Debt relief milestones widen access to concessional resources, but aid cuts require prioritization. Channel IDA and AfDB windows into skills infrastructure with RBF contracts and rigorous procurement.
Domestic revenues: Intensify tax digitalization and customs reforms that recently lifted collections; ring-fence a portion for TVET and sector labs.
Diaspora and remittances: Offer matched savings for toolkits, certification fees, and SME equipment for returning apprentices; leverage remittance corridors for skills finance.
Aid volatility: Design programs with tranche-based RBF and modular procurement so scaling can match cash flow.
Security and climate shocks: Prioritize mobile training delivery, drought-resilient fodder systems, and contingency apprenticeships linked to public works.
Capture and credential inflation: Keep employers in the driver’s seat via sector skills councils; publish pass rates and job outcomes by provider.
Extractives hype: Sequence skills toward horizontal services (HSE, maintenance, logistics) valuable beyond oil and minerals to avoid “boom-bust training.”
50,000 new nationally certified workers across veterinary para-professionals, fisheries, construction, and maintenance; 70% placed or self-employed at 12 months.
+30% increase in value-added livestock exports meeting HACCP/animal-welfare standards; >80% vaccination coverage in targeted corridors.
Tripled domestic fish landings handled through upgraded landing sites with HACCP certification; zero major MCS compliance gaps in pilot zones.
25,000 apprentices trained on public and donor-funded construction sites; measurable reductions in site accidents.
10) Conclusion
Somalia is not “poor” in assets; it is underserved in capabilities. A skills-first strategy—rooted in the country’s natural endowments and executed through employer-led standards, outcome-based financing, and transparent governance—can flip the economy from aid-reliant consumption to export-driven production. The agenda above is pragmatic, sequenced, and measurable. With consistent execution, Somalia can replace the “begging bowl” narrative with one of earned income, certification, and competitiveness.
By Ismail H. Warsame, PhD Candidate, McGill University, Montreal, Canada
Table of Contents
1. Abstract
2. Introduction
3. Historical Context of Somali State Fragility
4. The Garowe Debate: An Ethnographic Vignette
5. Civic Education in Theory and Practice
6. The Somali Case: Civic Collapse and Informal Substitutes
7. Consequences of Civic Deficits for Somali Federalism
Figure 1. Conceptual Model of Civic Deficit and State Fragility in Somalia
8. International Actors and the Civic Question in Somalia
9. Civic Education as Nation-Building: Pathways Forward for Somalia
10. Conclusions and Recommendations
11. References
Abstract
Somalia’s three-decade state crisis is often attributed to clan conflict, foreign intervention, or elite predation. This dissertation argues, however, that beneath these explanations lies a less explored but critical factor: the collapse of civic education and the erosion of shared societal values. Drawing on an ethnographic vignette from Garowe, complemented by historical analysis and theoretical framing, this study examines how deficits in civic education have undermined Somali federalism, exacerbated clan dominance, and hindered democratic participation. While acknowledging the limitations of its evidence base, the study advances a model of “civic deficit” as a driver of state fragility. It also considers counter-arguments about causality, explores indigenous civic traditions, and assesses the challenges of implementing civic education in a fragmented polity. The conclusion outlines pathways for a Somali-specific civic curriculum that synthesizes clan, Islamic, and modern state identities, positioning civic education as an indispensable tool for nation-building.
1. Introduction
Where did Somalia’s troubles begin? In a Garowe internet café, students and teachers debated whether the country’s crisis began with Aden Adde’s refusal to let Western powers explore Somali resources, or with the Arta Conference of 2000. Yet the true answer, this dissertation argues, is deeper: Somalia faltered when it abandoned civic education and the cultivation of societal values.
This dissertation explores the link between civic deficits and state fragility in Somalia. It does so through historical analysis, ethnographic observation, and theoretical engagement with civic education. It proposes that civic collapse was both a cause and a consequence of state failure, producing a vicious cycle that continues to undermine federalism today.
2. Historical Context of Somali State Fragility
Somalia’s postcolonial trajectory was shaped by missed opportunities. The democratic optimism of the 1960s collapsed under military dictatorship, while Siad Barre’s regime manipulated clan loyalties even as it modernized education. The state’s implosion in 1991 produced decades of civil war, fragmentation, and warlordism.
Most scholarship focuses on clan conflict, war economies, and foreign interventions. Yet hidden in the background was the slow erosion of civic identity. The collapse of public education removed the institutional base for cultivating civic virtues. What emerged instead was a generation socialized through war, displacement, and fragmented authority, devoid of the shared civic reference points necessary for statehood.
3. The Garowe Debate: An Ethnographic Vignette
In 2024, inside a Garowe café filled with young men and women hunched over laptops, a debate raged: when did Somalia’s troubles begin? One declared Aden Adde was to blame; another insisted the Arta Conference was the turning point. For ninety minutes, opinions clashed. Yet none raised the issue of civic education or the values once taught in schools and homes.
This vignette is evocative, but it is not exhaustive. It reflects discourse in Garowe — a city in Puntland that has enjoyed relative stability compared to Mogadishu or Beledweyne. As such, the vignette is best read as an illustrative microcosm rather than a comprehensive account. Broader ethnographic work across Somalia would be needed to generalize its findings. Nonetheless, it crystallizes the gap this dissertation addresses: the invisibility of civic education in Somali public debates.
4. Civic Education in Theory and Practice
Civic education refers to the cultivation of the knowledge, skills, and values necessary for democratic participation and national belonging. In many societies, it is taught through schools, media, and public rituals.
In Somalia, however, the term must be defined carefully. A distinctly Somali civic education would need to engage three intersecting domains:
1. Clan identity (qabiil) – the enduring basis of belonging and loyalty.
2. Islamic principles – the moral compass of Somali society.
3. Modern citizenship – the constitutional ideal of equal participation in a federal state.
A viable framework would weave these strands into a Religious-Civic Synthesis, aligning Qur’anic ethics, Somali customary values, and constitutional principles. Anything less risks alienation.
5. The Somali Case: Civic Collapse and Informal Substitutes
The 1991 collapse destroyed formal civic education, but informal mechanisms persisted. Poetry (maanso) continued to teach moral lessons; clan assemblies (shir) provided forums for deliberation; Qur’anic schools (dugsi) instilled ethical discipline.
Yet these forms, while vital, were insufficient for national integration. They nurtured strong local identities but failed to scale upward into a cohesive civic consciousness. Somalis became civic-rich locally but civic-poor nationally.
This tension helps explain why federalism remains fragile: without a unifying civic narrative, political identity defaults to clan, not state.
6. Consequences of Civic Deficits for Somali Federalism
Civic deficits have several consequences:
Weak Institutions – Laws are contested not on civic grounds but on clan allegiances.
Dominance of Clan Politics – Federal institutions are arenas of clan competition, not citizen representation.
Fragile Federalism – Lacking civic glue, federal states oscillate between autonomy and secession.
This relationship can be visualized through a conceptual model (Figure 1), which traces how the erosion of civic education cascades into institutional weakness, clan dominance, and ultimately state fragility.
A note of caution is necessary: civic decline may not be the sole cause. One could argue that state collapse made civic education impossible, making it an effect rather than a cause. The more accurate interpretation is cyclical: state collapse and civic decline reinforce one another in a vicious loop.
Figure 1. Conceptual Model of Civic Deficit and State Fragility in Somalia (Author’s elaboration)
7. International Actors and the Civic Question in Somalia
Donors and external actors have heavily invested in Somalia’s state-building: elections, constitutions, and federal negotiations. Yet they have largely ignored the civic dimension, assuming that technical institutions could substitute for civic trust.
International NGOs occasionally sponsor civic programs, but these are sporadic, donor-driven, and rarely adapted to Somali realities. Moreover, civic education framed as “secular” often provokes resistance from religious constituencies, inadvertently fueling suspicion rather than legitimacy.
8. Civic Education as Nation-Building: Pathways Forward for Somalia
Rebuilding Somalia requires civic education that is contextually grounded and practically feasible. Recommendations include:
1. Curriculum Development – Design a national framework that integrates clan, Islamic, and modern civic values.
2. Religious-Civic Integration – Partner with religious leaders to legitimize civic teaching within Qur’anic frameworks.
3. Regional Flexibility – Allow federal member states to tailor curricula within a national framework.
4. Phased Implementation – Begin in stable regions, while developing contingency models for insecure zones.
5. Community Participation – Civic education should not only be top-down (schools) but also bottom-up (local assemblies, poetry, radio).
Practical challenges remain. Al-Shabaab will resist any civic initiative. Regional autonomy complicates curriculum design. Teachers need retraining, and resources are scarce. Yet these hurdles should not deter reform; they underscore the need for sequencing, creativity, and political will.
9. Conclusions and Recommendations
Somalia’s fragility cannot be explained by clan politics alone. Beneath the surface lies a civic vacuum — a deficit of shared values and educational foundations that could bind citizens to the state.
This dissertation makes four contributions:
1. It identifies civic deficit as a key driver of Somali state fragility.
2. It demonstrates how informal civic forms persisted but failed to scale to the national level.
3. It situates the Somali case within global debates on civic education, showing the need for contextual adaptation.
4. It offers a framework for a Somali-specific civic curriculum that integrates clan, Islam, and citizenship.
Future research should broaden ethnographic evidence beyond Garowe, test the cyclical causality model more rigorously, and explore the politics of implementing civic education in insecure zones.
In sum, without civic education, federalism in Somalia will remain fragile scaffolding on a hollow foundation. With it, however, Somalia may yet build a durable state.
References
Ahmed, I. I. (1999). The Heritage of War and State Collapse in Somalia and Somaliland: Local-level Effects, External Interventions and Reconstruction. Third World Quarterly, 20(1), 113–127.
Ali, A. (2015). Clan, Religion, and the Failure of Somali State Reconstruction. African Affairs, 114(456), 1–23.
Barakat, S. (2010). Understanding Somali Identity: Tradition, Religion, and Modernity. Conflict Studies Quarterly, 8, 45–67.
Elmi, A. A. (2010). Understanding the Somalia Conflagration: Identity, Political Islam and Peacebuilding. Pluto Press.
Lewis, I. M. (2008). Understanding Somalia and Somaliland: Culture, History, Society. Columbia University Press.
Samatar, A. I. (2016). The Dialectics of Piracy in Somalia: Historical Materialism and Globalization. Review of African Political Economy, 43(150), 23–41.
UNESCO. (2011). Civic Education and Peacebuilding in Post-Conflict Societies. Paris: UNESCO.
In a bustling internet café in Garowe, where the hum of modems competes with the aroma of overpriced coffee, a grand debate unfolded. University students furrowed brows at screens, teachers of intermediate and high schools gestured wildly, and one man, fingers dancing on a laptop, solemnly declared: “It all began with Aden Adde!” Why, you ask? Because the late president apparently snubbed the Western nations’ delicate offer to exploit Somalia’s untapped resources. The audacity!
Before the echo of that bombshell faded, another voice chimed in, armed with a memory stick of “facts”: “No, no, it was the Arta Somali Conference of 2000 in Djibouti. Clearly.” The debate swirled like a cyclone, each participant more confident than the last, one hour… two hours… a mere 90 minutes of intellectual gladiatorial combat, punctuated by the occasional sip of lukewarm cappuccino.
And there I sat, observing this scholarly wrestling match, silently wondering if anyone noticed the elephant in the room: Somalia’s problem didn’t start with Aden Adde’s foreign policy snub, nor with a fancy conference in Djibouti. No, dear patriots of Garowe café! The real culprit was much less glamorous: the day we tossed aside civic education and let societal values wander off like lost camels in the desert.
Ah yes, who needs history, geography, or ethics when we can blame past presidents and international conferences? Let the debates rage, my friends, for the real problem is simpler than any of your laptops can compute: an entire society that forgot how to be civilized.
Democracy, we are told, is about choice, accountability, and the consent of the governed. In Somalia, however, democracy is considered an imported disease—like coronavirus—something that only afflicts foreigners with passports and embassies in Mogadishu. The Somali cure? Clan conferences under an acacia tree, where warlords sip camel milk and agree that the only vote worth casting is for the man with the largest militia, loudest insults, or deepest pocket lined with qat leaves.
Federalism was meant to be the antidote, a fragile attempt to distribute power and stop the endless parade of strongmen with delusions of being Somali Gaddafis. Yet, in the Somali imagination, federalism is not about checks and balances—it is about checks from donors and balances in offshore accounts. Federalism exists only on PowerPoint slides in foreign-funded workshops where “leaders” nod politely, collect per diems, and then return home to declare: “There is only one leader, me.”
And here’s the real absurdity: When was the last time, SOMALIS—government, opposition, civil activists, intellectuals—sat around a table or even under a tree, inside their own country, and engaged in civil, constructive dialogue to deal with the critical issues facing their motherland? The answer is brutal: never. Instead, the Somali political class packs its bags for Djibouti, Nairobi, Embagathi, Addis Ababa—anywhere but Mogadishu. There, in five-star hotels, enemies and opportunists of Somalia line up to offer “mediation,” a euphemism for divide-and-rule. The irony is thicker than Mogadishu dust: Somalis must fly abroad to learn how to quarrel politely, while foreign waiters serve them cappuccinos.
So the question remains: Are Somalis hardwired to kneel before a strongman? Judging by history, the answer is depressingly clear. The national pastime has never been football—it has been applauding the tyrant until the tyrant’s helicopter takes off in flames. Then, as tradition dictates, the people quickly recalibrate to praise the next man with a big voice, a bigger stomach, and the promise of “rebuilding Somalia.” The cycle continues: clap, collapse, repeat.
Ask any Somali elder about democracy, and you’ll hear a sermon about how it cannot work in a country where every man believes himself a president-in-waiting. The ballot box is mistrusted, not because it is foreign, but because it cannot be stuffed with clan loyalty. Better a dictator who “keeps the peace” than a parliament of a thousand egos arguing over which camel track constitutes a border.
The irony? Those same Somalis will fly to America, Europe, or even Nairobi and enjoy democracy like a five-star hotel buffet. They will cast votes, demand their rights, sue the government, and send long Facebook rants about human rights violations back home. Yet when it comes to Somalia, democracy is suddenly “un-Islamic, un-Somali, and unworkable.”
What this reveals is not an allergy to democracy but an addiction to the theater of power. The Somali psyche respects the man who can shout the loudest, imprison rivals, and distribute patronage like wedding sweets. Federalism, in their eyes, is weakness; consensus is cowardice; compromise is betrayal. The Somali strongman is celebrated not despite his tyranny, but because of it. He embodies order in a society terrified of its own chaos.
So let’s be honest: Somalia is not a democracy-in-waiting. It is a democracy-refusing experiment where ballots are replaced by bullets, parliaments by palaces, and constitutions by clan constitutions. Federalism is not respected because it threatens the only thing Somalis still worship: power without responsibility.
Maybe, just maybe, Somalia is not “behind” on the road to democracy. Maybe Somalia is on a different road entirely—the eternal highway of Strongman Rule, where the destination is always the same: ruins, regret, and another strongman promising salvation.
“HSM: A President or Just the Hawiye Tribal Chairman?”
In Mogadishu’s marble palace, the man in the chair still believes the Somali state is his clan’s chessboard. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, the self-proclaimed “national reconciler,” has spent two terms proving that he is nothing more than a tribal bookkeeper—counting how many Darood heads he can keep out of Villa Somalia’s banquet hall.
During his first season of Villa sitcom, he flopped spectacularly at stopping Jubaland, a Darood-dominated federal member state, from surfacing. Furious that the “wrong clan” had managed to organize itself, Mohamud scribbled together two artificial states—Hirshabelle (a half-baked wedding between Hiraan and Shabelle) and Galmudug (the constitutional miscarriage of central Somalia). These were intended to be anti-Darood sandbags, stacked hurriedly to block Jubaland’s rise.
When that circus failed to satisfy his clan arithmetic, Hassan Sheikh dusted off the script from Mohamed “the naïve” Farmaajo, his predecessor who mistook dismantling federalism for statesmanship. Mohamud, instead of correcting Farmaajo’s constitutional vandalism, doubled down on it with tribal relish. His campaign? Harass Puntland and Jubaland—because nothing screams “national unity” like targeting presumably Darood federal states for extinction.
And when even that effort stumbled on the rock-hard resilience of Garowe and Kismayo, Hassan Sheikh went for the nuclear option: invent another Galmudug clone for an unsuspecting Darood subclan constituency, the Dhulbahante clan to fight off Puntland state. Forget the Constitution, forget federalism, forget the state-building project—what matters is blocking Puntland at all costs, even if Somalia itself burns in the process.
In his twisted tribal doctrine, “nation-building” equals Darood dismantling, and constitutional law equals whatever satisfies Beesha Hawiye and his accomplice: His cousins-in-arms and family members. He waves the flag of Somalia, but the reality is uglier: Hassan Sheikh isn’t a president; he’s the chairman of a clan militia disguised as a government.
History will not remember him as a unifier, a peacemaker, or even a competent politician. It will remember him as the man who tried to shrink Somalia into a Mogadishu-sized clan fiefdom, and failed—again and again.
In the freshly carpeted chamber of the North East State of Somalia’s Parliament—where microphones squeak louder than the MPs’ brains—a solemn debate unfolded. The Speaker, that great traffic officer of Somali politics, banged the gavel and declared:
Translation: We are lost, gentlemen. Open the floor for confusion.
The first honourable member, a man with a voice borrowed from BBC Somali Service, rose gallantly:
“Mr Speaker, our political and economic options are dire. We have difficult decisions to make.”
The House clapped politely, mostly because clapping covered the fact that no one understood what “dire” meant.
A rival MP leapt up, wagging his finger as though he was disciplining goats:
“Mr Speaker, I must remind the Honourable Member that what he speaks of are the tasks of the executive branch. We are legislators, not fishermen, not port-builders, not ministers.”
Translation: We only chew qat and shout Point of Order, nothing else.
But another MP, tired of watching Puntland and Villa Somalia turn their parliaments into echo chambers, insisted:
“Mr Speaker, although we are a legislative assembly, we can’t afford to become a rubber stamp! We must set priorities:
1. Recognition by Central Government of North East State.
2. Reconciliation with Puntland.
3. Acquiring a seaport—we are landlocked!”
The chamber gasped. The word “seaport” was treated as if he had invoked jinn. Acquiring a seaport without even owning a single fishing boat? It was like a nomad demanding an airport while his camel starves.
Finally, the wisest elder MP, who had spent 20 years losing elections but never giving up qat chewing, rose with his final truth bomb:
“Mr Speaker, let us not kid ourselves. We are part of the 4.5 clan formula. We have our share through Puntland. We must know our political constituency.”
Translation: Stop dreaming of sovereignty. Stick to your quota like a good child.
And so the debate ended, not with a resolution, not with a plan, but with the same Somali parliamentary tradition: chaos, laughter, and adjournment for tea. The only “option” agreed upon was that the Speaker’s microphone needed replacing.
Thus, the North East Parliament proved once again the eternal Somali principle: parliaments do not govern, they perform stand-up comedy at the nation’s expense.
Once upon a time, Mogadishu produced the Union of Islamic Courts (UIC)—a legal innovation so “brilliant” it collapsed faster than a mud hut in the Gu rainy season. Like all great Somali experiments in governance, the UIC was born out of high ideals, khat-fueled debates, and an unshakable faith in recycling old warlords under new titles. Its unintended consequence? The birth of a rebellious teenager called Al-Shabab, who took the family name but never came back for family dinners.
Who is the Mother of Al-Shabab?
The question is not whether Al-Shabab came from the UIC womb—it is whether Mogadishu’s political class still pays child support. If UIC was the mother, then Damul-Jadid was surely the doting uncle, always sneaking the child candy and ideological bedtime stories. Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, then a middle-class academic entrepreneur turned militia sponsor, stood shoulder to shoulder with the Al-Shabab maternity ward, making sure the baby was born strong enough to one day terrorize the entire Somali state.
But let us not forget the SIMAD College Tragedy of 2006. Instead of graduation gowns, bright-eyed students were handed rusty rifles and packed into trucks for the Baydhaba front line—Somalia’s version of a compulsory internship. The Ethiopian army and the TFG gave them their performance evaluation in the form of heavy artillery, and like every unpaid intern, they were discarded and unaccounted for. The crime was never registered, and accountability was sent to the same graveyard as the missing students.
The President’s Amnesia
Fast forward to today, and President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud parades around Villa Somalia as if history began only after his second term swearing-in ceremony. He speaks of “fighting Al-Shabab” with a straight face, while skeptics whisper: “But weren’t you their classmate, neighbor, and at one point, tactical ally?” The irony is thicker than Mogadishu dust: the very man who once outsourced young blood to Al-Shabab’s apprenticeship program now claims to be Somalia’s top anti-terrorist general.
The President’s speeches against Al-Shabab are like a father publicly condemning truancy while secretly buying his delinquent son new sneakers. Everyone claps politely, but the street remembers who funded the bus rides to Baydhaba. Until Hassan Sheikh produces receipts for those lost SIMAD students, his anti-terror campaign remains less about eradicating Al-Shabab and more about editing Wikipedia pages.
A Country That Forgets Too Easily
Somalia’s tragedy is not merely Al-Shabab’s existence, but the collective amnesia that allows perpetrators to rebrand as saviors. Warlords become ministers, extremists become reformists, and sponsors of student militias become “His Excellency.” Meanwhile, the bodies of the unaccounted still echo in the silence of Baydhaba fields.
Perhaps the biggest unintended consequence of the UIC was not just Al-Shabab, but also the normalization of Somali political recycling. Yesterday’s rebel is today’s president, today’s president is tomorrow’s exile, and tomorrow’s exile will return as a peace negotiator sponsored by the UN. And the cycle spins on—slicker than a khat dealer’s tongue.
The Burden of Proof
Until President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud can answer for the Baydhaba students, until he can acknowledge Damul-Jadid’s role in Al-Shabab’s teenage years, and until Mogadishu stops pretending history began last week, every anti-terror campaign out of Villa Somalia will remain suspect.
As for the rest of us, we are left to watch this tragicomedy unfold—another episode in Somalia’s long-running soap opera: “UIC: The Mother That Ate Her Children.”
Once upon a time, American sanctions were supposed to be the magic wand of empire. You point, you punish, and a foreign government trembles into submission. Cuba? Starved. Iraq? Crippled. Iran? Crushed. That was the Washington fantasy. But the 21st century is not the 1990s—and now the magic wand has snapped in the sorcerer’s hand.
Take Venezuela: America’s sanctions were meant to suffocate the oil state into regime change. Instead, the patient didn’t die—it found a Chinese doctor with endless pockets and a taste for oil. Beijing swooped in, oil-for-loans in hand, bypassing the almighty dollar and wiring life support into Caracas. Result? Venezuela may be limping, but it is still standing. China got the energy it craved. And the U.S. got nothing—except the bitter taste of sanctions blowing back like a shotgun fired backwards.
And Venezuela is no isolated mishap. Russia was supposed to collapse under sanctions after Ukraine. Remember the predictions of a “ruble in rubble”? Instead, the ruble wobbled, then stabilized; Moscow rerouted oil and gas eastward, strengthening its axis with China, India, and the so-called “Global South.” The sanctions hurt Europe far more than Russia—German factories paying triple for energy, while Moscow laughed its way into yuan settlements and BRICS expansion.
Everywhere Washington swings the sanctions hammer, cracks appear not in its enemies but in its own global dominance. Iran found new partners in Beijing; Africa, long treated as a sanctions playground, now courts Russian and Chinese investment without Washington’s permission slip. The “rules-based order” has become a punchline, a club where the U.S. writes the rules and everyone else stops showing up.
The deeper truth is this: sanctions were supposed to keep the unipolar moment alive, but instead they have accelerated its funeral. By weaponizing the dollar, America forced the world to search for alternatives—and alternatives they have found. Yuan-denominated oil, BRICS currency talks, barter systems, parallel banking networks: the architecture of a multipolar order is being built brick by brick, financed ironically by the failures of American policy.
So yes, Washington still loves to preach about “sanctioning rogue states.” But the rogues are adapting, and the empire is eroding. What was meant as punishment has become an apprenticeship in resilience for America’s rivals. While the U.S. ties itself in knots of overreach, Beijing and Moscow stroll into the gaps with oil contracts, infrastructure deals, and no sermons attached.
The end result? The sanctions regime is no longer a weapon of power—it is the obituary notice of U.S. hegemony. Washington wanted to crush Venezuela, Russia, Iran, and beyond. Instead, it taught them how to survive without it. That is not strategy—it’s suicide by arrogance.
In the gilded salons of Garowe, where the curtains are heavier than the policy papers, the Puntland administration has discovered a new form of governance: sitting still, looking serious, and ensuring that not a single note is ever written down.
Look carefully at the photo. Not a pen. Not a notebook. Not even the humble biro stolen from a hotel reception desk. Instead, the honorable gentlemen and ladies of Puntland State sit like wax statues in a Somali Madame Tussauds, staring ahead as though waiting for Allah Himself to record the minutes.
The governorate of Puntland has apparently abolished the primitive practice of “note-taking” in favor of a new model called Memory Governance™. The theory is simple: if you remember the meeting later, it was important; if you forget, it probably wasn’t.
But here lies the tragicomedy: the man in the blue suit with the tie patterned like Mogadishu pavements nods sagely, while the one in the red tie leans back as if calculating how much of his stomach tax revenue could cover. Yet no one dares break the sacred silence by pulling out a notebook. For in Puntland, the first person to take notes becomes the secretary, and nobody wants that cursed job.
Even the women on the other side of the room, draped in colorful hijabs, sit calmly, clutching their handbags like they might contain the lost archives of Puntland State—hidden there since 1998. If only one brave soul would unzip and pull out a pen!
In the middle, His Excellency sits between the Somali flag and the Puntland flag, two cloth witnesses to this administrative theatre, presiding over what might be the most unrecorded meeting in Somali political history. Generations from now, scholars will debate what was said here—because nobody wrote it down.
Until then, Puntland continues to govern through the oral tradition of nodding heads and folded hands, while the minutes of every meeting evaporate.
“All the Lies Fit to Print” WDM Special Edition: The Decline of the American Empire
EMPIRE ROTS IN PUBLIC
Washington once strutted as “Leader of the Free World.” Now it’s a bankrupt landlord, shaking down its own tenants.
“America First means Allies Last.” — Donald Trump, Tariff Messiah
NATO — WORLD’S MOST EXPENSIVE CLOWN SHOW
Macron: “Brain Dead.”
Freirich Merz: “Do we still have tanks?”
Stamer: “I’ll be Churchill once my AI speechwriter finishes the draft.”
NATO WhatsApp group leaks:
POLAND: “RUSSIA IS COMING!!”
FRANCE: “I’m leaving this chat.”
USA: “PAY 5% OR DIE.
GAZA GENOCIDE — MADE IN USA
Hospitals bombed, children starved, rubble funded by Washington. Trump calls it “support for Israel’s right to defend itself.” nods. Ursula von der Leyen cries in Tel Aviv (on cue).
“Rules-Based Order means we make the rules, and you follow the orders.” — State Department, off the record
UKRAINE — BLOOD ATM FOR NATO
Weapons delivered on layaway. Europe pays, Ukraine bleeds, America profits. Macron sends speeches, Britain sends PowerPoint, Germany sends… condolences.
DOLLAR DYING, ELVIS STYLE
The dollar still sings, but bloated and sweating in Vegas. BRICS plan funeral playlist.
“Don’t worry, the dollar will last forever.” — Treasury official, moments before converting savings to gold
IMF + WORLD BANK = USELESS PRIESTS OF DEBT
Africa yawns, Latin America walks away, Asia borrows from China. The sermons continue, but the pews are empty.
SIDEBAR: EUROPE — AMERICA’S NERVOUS COLONY
Macron dreams “strategic autonomy” every night. Wakes up in NATO’s bed every morning.
Freirich transforms Germany into an economic hospice.
Keir Stamer still thinks the UK is an empire. No one told him it’s a food bank.
PAX AMERICANA → POX AMERICANA
Rome had gladiators. Spain had conquistadors. Britain had gunboats. America? Tariffs on Canada. Bombs on Gaza. Lectures no one listens to.
The Empire’s obituary writes itself: Not a glorious collapse — a tragicomedy, live-streamed.
A new international monetary system was forged by delegates from forty-four nations in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, in July 1944. Delegates to the conference agreed to establish the International Monetary Fund and what became the World Bank Group. The system of currency convertibility that emerged from Bretton Woods lasted until 1971.
The United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference was held in July 1944 at the Mount Washington Hotel in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, where delegates from forty-four nations created a new international monetary system known as the Bretton Woods system. These countries saw the opportunity for a new international system after World War II that would draw on the lessons of the previous gold standards and the experience of the Great Depression and provide for postwar reconstruction. It was an unprecedented cooperative effort for nations that had been setting up barriers between their economies for more than a decade.
They sought to create a system that would not only avoid the rigidity of previous international monetary systems, but would also address the lack of cooperation among the countries on those systems. The classic gold standard had been abandoned after World War I. In the interwar period, governments not only undertook competitive devaluations but also set up restrictive trade policies that worsened the Great Depression.
Those at Bretton Woods envisioned an international monetary system that would ensure exchange rate stability, prevent competitive devaluations, and promote economic growth. Although all participants agreed on the goals of the new system, plans to implement them differed. To reach a collective agreement was an enormous international undertaking. Preparation began more than two years before the conference, and financial experts held countless bilateral and multilateral meetings to arrive at a common approach. While the principal responsibility for international economic policy lies with the Treasury Department in the United States, the Federal Reserve participated by offering advice and counsel on the new system.1 The primary designers of the new system were John Maynard Keynes, adviser to the British Treasury, and Harry Dexter White, the chief international economist at the Treasury Department.
Keynes, one of the most influential economists of the time (and arguably still today), called for the creation of a large institution with the resources and authority to step in when imbalances occur. This approach was consistent with his belief that public institutions should be able to intervene in times of crises. The Keynes plan envisioned a global central bank called the Clearing Union. This bank would issue a new international currency, the “bancor,” which would be used to settle international imbalances. Keynes proposed raising funds of $26 million for the Clearing Union. Each country would receive a limited line of credit that would prevent it from running a balance of payments deficit, but each country would also be discouraged from running surpluses by having to remit excess bancor to the Clearing Union. The plan reflected Keynes’s concerns about the global postwar economy. He assumed the United States would experience another depression, causing other countries to run a balance-of-payments deficit and forcing them to choose between domestic stability and exchange rate stability.
White’s plan for a new institution was one of more limited powers and resources. It reflected the concerns that much of the financial resources of the Clearing Union envisioned by Keynes would be used to buy American goods, resulting in the United States holding the majority of bancor. White proposed a new monetary institution called the Stabilization Fund. Rather than issue a new currency, it would be funded with a finite pool of national currencies and gold of $5 million that would effectively limit the supply of reserve credit.
The plan adopted at Bretton Woods resembled the White plan with some concessions in response to Keynes’s concerns. A clause was added in case a country ran a balance of payments surplus and its currency became scarce in world trade. The fund could ration that currency and authorize limited imports from the surplus country. In addition, the total resources for the fund were raised from $5 million to $8.5 million.
The Mount Washington Hotel, White Mts., N.H. (Photo: Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Collection, LC-D4-19762)
The 730 delegates at Bretton Woods agreed to establish two new institutions. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) would monitor exchange rates and lend reserve currencies to nations with balance-of-payments deficits. The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, now known as the World Bank Group, was responsible for providing financial assistance for the reconstruction after World War II and the economic development of less developed countries.
The IMF came into formal existence in December 1945, when its first twenty-nine member countries signed its Articles of Agreement. The countries agreed to keep their currencies fixed but adjustable (within a 1 percent band) to the dollar, and the dollar was fixed to gold at $35 an ounce. To this day, when a country joins the IMF, it receives a quota based on its relative position in the world economy, which determines how much it contributes to the fund.
In 1958, the Bretton Woods system became fully functional as currencies became convertible. Countries settled international balances in dollars, and US dollars were convertible to gold at a fixed exchange rate of $35 an ounce. The United States had the responsibility of keeping the price of gold fixed and had to adjust the supply of dollars to maintain confidence in future gold convertibility. The Bretton Woods system was in place until persistent US balance-of-payments deficits led to foreign-held dollars exceeding the US gold stock, implying that the United States could not fulfill its obligation to redeem dollars for gold at the official price. In 1971, President Richard Nixon ended the dollar’s convertibility to gold.
Bernstein, Edward. “Reflections on Bretton Woods.” In The International Monetary System: Forty Years After Bretton Woods, 15-20. Boston: Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, May 1984.
Bordo, Michael D. “Gold Standard.” In The Concise Encyclopedia of Economics. Library of Economics and Liberty. Article published 2008.
Eichengreen, Barry. Exorbitant Privilege: The Rise and Fall of the Dollar and the Future of the International Monetary System. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011.
Kenen, Peter. “Bretton Woods System.” In The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics, Second Edition, edited by Steven N. Durlauf and Lawrence E. Blume. Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.
Patinkin, Don. “Keynes, John Maynard (1883-1946).” In The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics, Second Edition, edited by Steven N. Durlauf and Lawrence E. Blume. Palgrave Macmillan, 2008.
Professor Abdiwahaab Sheikh Abdisamad has once again proven that there are professors, and then there are performers masquerading as professors. When Puntland’s gallant forces were sweating blood in the rugged caves of the Cal Miskaad Mountains to flush out ISIS militants, the professor sat comfortably on TV panels dismissing the battle as nothing more than “Deni’s propaganda.”
This is not just ignorance—it is a crime against truth. To belittle the frontline soldiers who face suicide bombers and landmines, who bury comrades in the unforgiving mountains, is to spit on their graves. Puntland is not inventing ISIS; the bullets, the casualties, and the martyrs are real. But in the professor’s world, reality is negotiable—especially when it comes wrapped in clan prejudice and political cynicism.
And then comes the shadow of his own story. In 2022, when he was kidnapped in Nairobi under mysterious circumstances, the professor emerged from captivity in silence. Not a word about who kidnapped him, why, or under whose payroll the thugs operated. A man who cannot expose his own kidnappers is suddenly brave enough to expose Puntland’s anti-terror campaign as “propaganda.” How convenient. How hollow. How suspicious.
One wonders: Who bankrolls the professor’s tongue? For whose agenda is he sharpening his chalk of clan arithmetic? Because this is no longer academic critique—this is political mercenarism dressed in a professor’s gown. He lectures not from books, but from a script written elsewhere.
Somalis know this breed too well: the “television professors” who serve as court jesters for Mogadishu’s villa politics, who throw mud at those fighting real battles while they perform empty intellectual acrobatics for the cameras. Puntland bleeds, soldiers die, mothers mourn—but the professor prefers cheap soundbites over solidarity.
If truth had a conscience, Professor Abdiwahaab would be standing with those fighting ISIS, not mocking them. If integrity had a place in his dictionary, he would expose his kidnappers before lecturing Puntland about terrorism. Instead, he chooses the coward’s path: silence when his life is threatened, noise when brave men defend their land.
The Somali public deserves to ask: Is this man a professor of knowledge—or a professor of sabotage?
Somali politics is now reduced to stand-up comedy. Not the witty, clever sort of comedy—but the type that makes you choke on your shaah because you can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or book the next flight out of Aden Adde Airport.
In one corner, President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud plays the role of tribal comedian-in-chief. His latest “joke” to Prime Minister Hamse’s Ahmed Nur Uleex went like this:
“The bad guys of Hawiye kicked you Darood out of Mogadishu with Siyad Barre. Now let the good boys of Hawiye rule you.”
Cue nervous laughter.
If Somalia’s bloody civil war is now a punchline, then the man at Villa Somalia is the MC of a dark comedy club where no one asked to buy a ticket. Jokes about mass displacement, clan-driven purges, and the bones of Mogadishu’s rubble don’t usually get laughs—but in the world of clan-state politics, they count as presidential banter.
Meanwhile, former Interior Minister Abdikarim Hussein, with his trademark arrogance, took his turn at the mic to bash the Murursade clan. He expected applause for the insult. Instead, President Hassan Sheikh—this time channeling his inner tribal referee—jumped in to defend Murursade, reminding everyone that Murursade “played an important role when General Siyad Barre was being chased out of Mogadishu.”
Translation: Yes, they helped burn down the house, so they deserve a seat at the table while we argue over the ashes.
This is the political circus Somalia is trapped in: rulers exchanging clan jokes like it’s open mic night, where history’s bloodiest tragedies are reduced to inside jokes between political elites. Today’s insult is tomorrow’s defense, all depending on which faction needs stroking.
The tragedy? Somalia’s statecraft has become little more than clan-memory karaoke, where leaders sing old war ballads in new tones. The people starve, the roads rot, the soldiers block highways demanding unpaid salaries—but in Villa Somalia, the entertainment program continues.
If there is one lesson here, it’s that our politicians no longer govern—they perform. They juggle clan grievances, toss around tribal jokes, and pretend it’s leadership. And as long as the audience keeps clapping, the comedy club will never close.
The story of https://martisoorhotel.com/ in Garowe, Puntland State, is more than the tale of a business venture. It represents a journey of resilience, adaptation, and the slow but steady construction of professional standards in a context where modern service industries remain fragile and underdeveloped. The hotel’s history, as recounted by its owners, reveals not only the entrepreneurial spirit that drives local investment but also the immense difficulties of operating in an environment with scarce skilled labor, poor infrastructure, and minimal institutional support. In many ways, Martisoor Hotel is a symbol of the struggle to establish quality-driven businesses in Somalia’s emerging economy.
The Challenge of Building in a Fragile Context
When the owners of Martisoor Hotel embarked on their dream of building a premium hospitality establishment in Garowe, they were aware that the task ahead would not be easy. Construction itself posed enormous challenges. Skilled labor, the backbone of any quality building project, was either nonexistent locally or so limited that it was unreliable. This meant that much of the work either had to be carried out by non-native laborers, who came with their own sets of difficulties, or through costly imports of expertise from abroad. The frustration was not simply about availability; it was also about work ethic and quality standards, both of which were inconsistent at best.
The situation forced the owners into a series of hard choices. Should they continue to rely on external workers who were expensive and often disconnected from the cultural environment of Garowe? Or should they attempt to train a local workforce that lacked the initial skills and expertise but carried the promise of long-term sustainability? Both paths were fraught with risk, and the dilemma highlighted the deeper structural issues faced by business owners in Somalia’s post-conflict context.
Daily Struggles in Operation
Even after the hotel’s physical structure was completed, running it became another battlefront. On one evening early in the hotel’s operations, one of the owners, Mohamed Abdinur, expressed his frustration at a seemingly simple issue: the smell of food and smoke escaping the kitchen. What appeared minor to a customer was, in fact, emblematic of the systemic difficulties faced by the hotel. As Mohamed explained, “Everything in this country has to be imported. If an equipment breaks, we have to import from Dubai.” This dependence on external supply chains meant that the hotel was vulnerable to delays, high costs, and operational breakdowns at even the smallest mishap.
In the restaurant and kitchen, matters were even more complicated. Abdihodan, another owner of Martisoor, recalls vividly the early days when wastage of food items like fruits and vegetables was rampant. Local cooks, untrained in professional standards, lacked knowledge of hygiene, efficiency, and food safety. Cross-contamination was likely, as the same utensils were used for different raw foods. Hygiene protocols—so fundamental to hospitality—were not yet part of the local culinary culture. For customers, this translated into dissatisfaction, long waiting times, and inconsistent service, all of which threatened the reputation of a hotel aspiring to be “premium” in an unforgiving market.
The Turning Point: Asking the Right Questions
Faced with these frustrations, Abdihodan refused to surrender to circumstance. Instead, he began asking what he described as “hard questions.” Why were customers unhappy, and what could be done about it? How could waste be reduced when every kilogram of imported produce was precious? What would it take to introduce quality control measures that matched international hospitality standards? How could staff be motivated, trained, and organized so that efficiency became part of the daily rhythm of the hotel?
These questions became the foundation of Martisoor’s transformation. The decision to invest in training local workers was not only a business strategy but also a social contribution. By training local cooks, waiters, cleaners, and maintenance staff, the hotel slowly built a team capable of managing daily operations without constant reliance on foreign labor. In doing so, it planted the seeds of a local professional culture in hospitality—something previously absent in Garowe. Training was not only about skills but also about instilling discipline, hygiene, and respect for service quality.
From Struggle to Success
Years later, the story of Martisoor Hotel has taken a different turn. Sitting inside the hotel today, Abdihodan proudly notes that the earlier challenges have largely been resolved. The smoke in the kitchen no longer troubles customers; equipment is better managed; wastage has been significantly reduced; and food preparation meets the expectations of guests, both local and international. Trained workers now run the hotel with confidence, and customer satisfaction has become the norm rather than the exception.
The hotel’s success did not come from external aid or foreign expertise, but from the deliberate decision to nurture and invest in local talent. In a country where unemployment is high and youth often migrate abroad for opportunities, Martisoor Hotel has demonstrated that local capacity can be built, and that training can transform unskilled labor into professional service providers. This approach not only strengthened the business but also contributed to the wider economic and social fabric of Garowe.
A Symbol of Resilience and Local Development
The unique story of Martisoor Hotel is more than a tale of one business—it is a lesson in resilience and adaptability for the wider Somali private sector. It shows that quality service and professionalism are not imported commodities; they can be cultivated locally with patience, vision, and investment. The hotel’s journey from chaos to order, from dissatisfaction to customer loyalty, is an inspiring example for other entrepreneurs who may be discouraged by Somalia’s difficult business environment.
In many respects, Martisoor Hotel is a microcosm of Somalia’s broader struggle for state-building and economic recovery. Just as the country has had to rebuild its institutions, reestablish rule of law, and create a functioning civil service, so too did Martisoor have to build a professional culture from scratch. The lesson is clear: success requires not only resources but also persistence, creativity, and a belief in the potential of local people.
Conclusion
The story of Martisoor Hotel in Garowe stands as a testament to determination in the face of adversity. What began as a daunting experiment—building and running a premium hotel in a fragile and underdeveloped environment—has turned into a symbol of what can be achieved through persistence, problem-solving, and local capacity building. For its owners, the journey has been filled with frustration, setbacks, and countless lessons. For Puntland, however, Martisoor Hotel represents something larger: a living example of how businesses can thrive, professional standards can be established, and local communities can rise to meet the demands of a modern economy.
To effectively advocate for asymmetrical federalism, leveraging its resources and historical political strength, Puntland State has to follow these structured recommendations: 1. Historical and Political Contextualization 2. Legal and Constitutional Frameworks 3. Resource Management and Economic Arguments 4. Coalition Building and Diplomacy 5. Education and Advocacy Strategies 6. Addressing Challenges 7. Strategic Messaging Key Examples […]
“The Emirati ‘Puntland Project’: Somali and Colombian Mercenaries Between Sudan and the Horn of Africa” by Ammar AlAraki (August 17, 2025):
A Review
Strengths of the Document
Timely and Politically Relevant
The piece connects developments in Sudan’s war (RSF vs. SAF) with wider Horn of Africa dynamics, especially Puntland’s role.
It situates the UAE as a central external actor with a consistent playbook: financing mercenaries, destabilizing fragile states, and manufacturing proxies.
Investigative Value
Names specific Somali casualties from Bosaso, grounding the story in verifiable human details rather than vague allegations.
References satellite imagery analysis (Nyala airport, drones) to support claims of Emirati military involvement.
Identifies recruitment numbers (two Somali contingents: 320 and 670) and Colombian involvement, which enhances credibility.
Analytical Depth
Links the RSF model in Sudan to a “Puntland experiment”, drawing parallels between Hemeti’s militia and President Said Abdullahi Deni’s foreign-funded security structures.
Raises broader implications for proxy warfare, sovereignty erosion, and youth commodification.
Strong framing with memorable phrases: “engineering chaos and manufacturing proxies,” “open mercenary market.”
Weaknesses / Gaps
Source Limitations
The primary evidence rests heavily on Brown Land News, an independent but little-known platform. Without triangulation (UN reports, major media, academic studies), skeptics may dismiss it as speculative.
The Somali Press reference on Deni’s remarks feels only tangentially connected to the mercenary issue.
Lack of Hard Evidence on Puntland Government Complicity
While Bosaso is highlighted as a logistical hub, the text does not prove direct Puntland state sanction or Deni’s involvement.
The leap from “casualties from Bosaso” to “Puntland authorities complicit” risks overextension unless more documentation is provided.
Geopolitical Context Could Be Expanded
The report underplays Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Turkey/Qatar’s competing roles in Somalia and Sudan. Focusing only on UAE may oversimplify the proxy landscape.
Colombia’s mercenaries are mentioned but not fully contextualized (Why Colombians? Previous UAE use of ex-Colombian soldiers in Yemen could have been detailed).
Map Inclusion
While the Britannica map provides regional grounding, it feels under-integrated into the narrative (more visual-analytical commentary on troop movements or ports would strengthen it).
Overall Assessment
Impact: This document is a hard-hitting investigative piece that exposes an under-reported Emirati project linking Somalia, Sudan, and Colombia in a mercenary network.
Credibility: Moderately strong but still vulnerable to criticism due to reliance on a single independent news source and limited corroborating data.
Analytical Value: High. It draws important parallels between RSF structures and Puntland’s externally financed forces, raising alarms about future destabilization across the Horn.
Usefulness: Excellent for policy analysts, researchers, and journalists examining UAE foreign policy, mercenary warfare, and Somali politics.
✅ Verdict: The piece is an important but preliminary exposé. It successfully frames the Emirati “Puntland Project” as part of a broader proxy warfare strategy but requires further corroboration, comparative analysis, and cross-referencing to achieve maximum impact and withstand scrutiny.
By WDM — Published November 17, 2024 In Somalia, the concept of “Nomadia”—a fusion of pastoral democracy and modern statecraft—was meant to provide a governance model grounded in both tradition and effective civil administration. However, reality has fallen far short of our aspirations. Today, institutions are largely dysfunctional, serving symbolic roles while power has become […]
Somali culture pretends to be Islamic, but the truth is raw and ugly: it is shackled by tribe and family. The supposed “collective good” is a fragile mirage, shattered every time clan interest is invoked. Religion, that mighty moral compass elsewhere, in Somalia is reduced to a thin layer of paint covering tribal cracks. When fairness collides with tribal allegiance, fairness dies. Even Al-Shabab, with its fiery slogans of puritan Islam, bends its knees before the tribal altar.
Clan: Somalia’s True Constitution
Forget constitutions, parliaments, or federal charters. The real Somali constitution is written in blood and bone (Lewis, 1994). Kinship defines identity, guarantees protection, and dictates justice.
Security comes not from state institutions, but from diya-paying groups, who avenge or pay blood-compensation for crimes.
Justice is not blind but tribal, arbitrated by elders under the xeer, where guilt and innocence are calculated against lineage loyalties.
Identity is not citizenship but clan membership, where “Somaliness” itself fractures into hostile sub-clan silos.
This structure is older, stronger, and deadlier than any Somali state. It ensures that the nation remains a hostage to its own genealogy. As Menkhaus (2006) argues, attempts to build a modern state collapse because every state project becomes just another weapon for clan dominance.
Religion: Sacred but Subservient
Islam is the universal Somali faith, but in politics it plays second fiddle. When survival, land, or political power are at stake, religion is downgraded to decoration.
Somali elites invoke Islam when they want legitimacy, but behind the curtain, every decision is filtered through clan arithmetic. Even the revered Sufi brotherhoods of the past were entangled in clan rivalries (Samatar, 1992). The Somali civil war proved this hierarchy once and for all: mosques multiplied, preachers multiplied, but justice and fairness disappeared.
Somalis shout “Islam” on their lips, but whisper “clan” in their hearts. Every administration in Somalia—past and present, national or regional—has proven itself nothing more than a family business masquerading as a government. From Siyad Barre’s military dictatorship to today’s fragile federal states, the pattern is the same: clan first, country last. The only fleeting exception came during 1960–1969, when the Somali Youth League (SYL) tried to impose an anti-tribal political order. That brief decade remains a rare pause in the relentless march of clannism that continues to cripple Somalia. However, the current level of nepotism and cronyism is unprecedented in history.
Al-Shabab: Tribalism Wearing a Turban
Al-Shabab sells itself as a force to erase tribalism under Sharia. Nonsense. The group thrives only because it negotiates with the very tribal structures it condemns.
Recruitment: Fighters join through clan networks, and elders act as brokers.
Governance: Clan representation is carefully balanced inside Al-Shabab’s leadership.
Survival: When disputes arise, the group bows to clan elders or risks annihilation (International Crisis Group, 2019).
This is the great Somali paradox: even the most fanatical Islamist insurgency cannot escape clan gravity. The gun may be draped in black flags, but its trigger finger still points where the clan dictates.
The Somali Dilemma: A Nation Devouring Itself
What does this mean? Somalia is trapped.
1. Statehood remains a fantasy, because the state is never national; it is always clan property.
2. Fairness is a joke, because justice serves only the tribe, never the citizen.
3. Religion is neutered, because tribalism amputates Islam’s universal principles and shrinks them into clan bargaining chips.
The Somali body-politic is cannibalistic. Every attempt at nationhood is consumed by the tribal stomach. No constitution, no peace accord, no international intervention has broken the iron law of lineage.
Conclusion
Somali culture is not merely influenced by tribalism—it is suffocated by it. Family and clan remain the alpha and omega of identity, while religion is tolerated only when it does not interfere with lineage loyalty. Even Al-Shabab, waving the banner of Islam, cannot break free from the chains of clan.
This is Somalia’s curse: a people who pray in Islam five times daily but prostrate to the tribe six times daily. Until this hierarchy is reversed—until Somalis learn to treat the collective goods above the clan—the state will remain a hollow carcass, the nation a battlefield of cousins, and religion a mask for tribal greed.
References
Lewis, I. M. (1994). Blood and Bone: The Call of Kinship in Somali Society. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press.
Menkhaus, K. (2006). “Governance without Government in Somalia: Spoilers, State Building, and the Politics of Coping.” International Security, 31(3), 74–106.
Samatar, A. I. (1992). “Destruction of State and Society in Somalia: Beyond the Tribal Convention.” Journal of Modern African Studies, 30(4), 625–641.
International Crisis Group. (2019). Al-Shabaab Five Years After Westgate: Still a Menace in East Africa. Nairobi/Brussels: ICG.
When the army takes to the highway, it is not war—it is hunger on parade. Mutinous Puntland soldiers, unpaid and ignored, now declare the nation’s busiest roads as their new battleground. Checkpoints rise like mushrooms, not out of strategy, but out of despair. Guns are pointed not at enemies, but at commuters. The road becomes a cashbox, and the rifle becomes a receipt.
Traffic stretches for miles. Truckers curse. Families wait in sweltering heat. Vegetables rot before reaching markets, medicine never arrives on time, and the economy clogs up like a sick man’s arteries. All because leaders thought loyalty could be maintained with speeches instead of salaries.
This is the Puntland paradox: soldiers without pay, leaders without authority, people without movement. No delegation of power, no functional chain of command, no coherent state. Just a crumbling road network where sovereignty is reduced to the barrel of a gun and the endless question at every checkpoint: “Halkee lacag taa laa?”
Instead of defending borders, the army now defends empty stomachs. Instead of building the state, it dismantles it one roadblock at a time. Puntland is not dismembered by Somaliland, nor Mogadishu, nor foreign conspiracies—but by its own unpaid soldiers, turning highways into hostages.
And when a government cannot guarantee the free movement of goods and people, it ceases to be a government. It becomes just another bystander in its own collapse.
A long highway, jammed with trucks, donkey carts, and buses, stuck in endless gridlock.
At the center, ragged Puntland soldiers in mismatched uniforms set up makeshift checkpoints with sandbags and rusty barrels.
One soldier holds up a STOP sign with “SALARY” written across it.
Another soldier collects money from frustrated drivers, while behind him a billboard reads: “Welcome to Puntland – Where the Road Belongs to the Hungry.”
In the background, government officials are seen hiding inside a palace, looking out the window with binoculars, pretending they see nothing.
Deni is shown in the front row, wearing an oversized suit that doesn’t fit, smiling nervously while trying to polish his image. Behind him, the elders stand stiff like cardboard cutouts, lifeless props for the PR exercise.
In the background, a giant Puntland map hangs on the wall — but pieces of it are falling off like puzzle parts: Sool and Buuhoodle already missing, Sanaag cracked down the middle, Haylaan dangling by a thread.
On the ground, scavenger vultures labeled “Somaliland” and “SSC-Khatumo” peck at the fallen regions.
Deni is holding a broom, trying to sweep the disappearing map fragments under a carpet labeled “Closed Door Politics”.
A speech bubble from Deni: “See? Puntland is united and strong… as long as you don’t look at the map.”
The Somali Republic, once proudly stitched together by camel milk and poetry, has now been digitally dismembered by TikTok dances and clan hashtags. Social media didn’t just kill the family; it embalmed it with filters and buried it under viral skits where the new Somali proverb is: “If it’s not livestreamed, it didn’t happen.”
Forget reconciliation—Somalis now specialize in mutual annihilation as a national sport, each clan sharpening its hashtags like spears. Politics has degenerated into a blood feud fought on Facebook comment sections, where warriors armed with broken English and ALL CAPS do more damage than Kalashnikovs ever did.
Extremists? Oh, they’re thriving. Why not, when the government outsourced the war against them to wishful thinking and empty donor conferences in Nairobi hotels? Meanwhile, the only serious battles Somalis fight are over diaspora remittances and who gets to dominate TikTok’s daily clan-bashing session.
Strategic resources? Foreign vultures are already circling the Somali coast, sniffing the oil, the fish, and the geopolitics, while locals are too busy trending: “#MyTribeIsBetter.” The country is being carved up like a sacrificial goat, only this time the guests are outsiders, and Somalis are the ones serving the meat with a smile.
And yet, while all this unfolds, Somalis themselves are like partygoers in a burning house—arguing over who owns the living room while the roof caves in.
The truth is harsh: Somalia is not just being destroyed from outside—it is being hollowed from within. Not by bombs, but by memes. Not by colonizers, but by self-inflicted division. Not by dictators, but by an army of dancing robots who forgot that survival requires more than Wi-Fi.
Welcome to Somalia 2.0: irreconcilable, incoherent, and irretrievably entertained.
Ambassador Larry André’s piece is a thoughtful, sober, and experience-driven analysis of one of the Horn of Africa’s most contentious political issues: the status of Somaliland. Drawing on decades of diplomatic engagement in Somalia, Djibouti, and the wider region, André calls for a measured and fact-based U.S. policy review at a time when advocacy for Somaliland recognition is growing louder in Washington.
1. Pragmatism Over Idealism André avoids simplistic solutions. He carefully outlines three U.S. policy options—status quo, liaison office in Hargeisa, or full recognition of Somaliland—and persuasively argues for the middle ground of opening a U.S. office in Hargeisa under Mogadishu’s embassy framework. This cautious approach reflects both regional realities and U.S. strategic interests.
2. Deep Regional Context Unlike many Western commentaries on Somaliland, André situates the issue within the complex clan dynamics of the Somali people, emphasizing that clan loyalties often outweigh national ones. His acknowledgment that the Isaaq overwhelmingly drive Somaliland independence while other clans (Dir, Darod) remain ambivalent is particularly important—and often overlooked.
3. Balanced Consideration of Facts The article highlights uncomfortable truths on both sides. For example, André notes Somaliland’s stronger governance and stability compared to southern Somalia, but also its intolerance of pro-unionist voices, illustrated by President Bihi’s blunt admission about jailing “traitors.” Similarly, he dismisses unproven allegations about Somaliland collusion with al-Shabaab, while recognizing that Somaliland’s security partly benefits from international efforts in southern Somalia.
4. Comparative Insights The discussion of federalism models (Canada–Quebec, UK–Scotland, Tanzania–Zanzibar) adds intellectual weight, suggesting creative constitutional arrangements as alternatives to either secession or forced unity.
Weaknesses of the Article
1. Limited Somali Voices While André emphasizes consultation, the essay still largely reflects a diplomat’s top-down perspective. More engagement with grassroots Somali perspectives beyond political elites and business leader would have enriched the analysis.
2. Underplaying External Geopolitics Although he briefly mentions Turkey, the UAE, and rival powers, the piece could have more fully assessed how great-power competition (China, Gulf states, Western powers) intersects with Somaliland’s recognition question, especially regarding Berbera port and Red Sea security.
3. Ambiguity on U.S. Interests André stresses “do no harm” and regional stability, but is less clear on what concrete U.S. interests—counterterrorism, maritime security, great-power competition—would ultimately drive Washington’s decision.
Overall Assessment
This is an enlightening, cautious, and authoritative contribution to the Somaliland debate. Its greatest strength lies in tempering passionate advocacy with historical perspective, lived diplomatic experience, and a clear warning against reckless unilateralism. By urging a process rooted in consultation, facts, and creative federalist thinking, André positions himself as a voice of prudence in a debate often dominated by emotion and lobby-driven arguments.
The article does not settle the Somaliland question—but it is not meant to. Instead, it provides a framework for responsible deliberation, reminding U.S. policymakers that decisions made in Washington can carry unintended, and possibly explosive, consequences in Hargeisa, Mogadishu, and beyond.
Verdict: A must-read for anyone serious about Somali politics, U.S. Africa policy, or the geopolitics of the Horn.
Coined by political scientists Henry Farrell and Abraham L. Newman, the term refers to the strategic leveraging of global economic networks—like finance, supply chains, and communication systems—to exert coercive pressure on other states. This isn’t traditional military force, but control via chokepoints or surveillance-like power in the global economic architecture .
Chokepoint effect — Dominant players can restrict or penalize access to critical network hubs.
Panopticon effect — They can monitor and observe others’ activities through embedded informational structures .
U.S. Economic Power as a Weapon
Financial Coercion
The United States has weaponized its dominance in global finance—primarily through:
The U.S. dollar’s centrality in foreign exchange and global reserves.
Influence over SWIFT and financial messaging systems.
Its role in global debt issuance .
These tools enable economically punitive measures—like sanctions—without firing a weapon .
Trade and Manufacturing Limitations
However, the U.S.’s coercive capacity in trade is more limited:
China dominates manufacturing and critical materials, granting it leverage in areas like rare earths, lithium, cobalt, and semiconductors .
U.S. export restrictions—e.g., on chipmaking technologies—have prompted retaliatory supply controls from China, highlighting mutual vulnerabilities .
China’s Strategic Countermeasures
Unlike the U.S., whose sanctions tend to have legal justification, China employs more opaque, politically motivated coercion. This includes:
Trade restrictions or boycotts following political slights—e.g., countries meeting with the Dalai Lama.
Private sector compliance or self-censorship (companies removing content or apologizing to avoid Chinese backlash).
Tourism bans, restrictive trade practices, and market access limits .
This strategy shapes behavior by creating a mental environment of deference—discouraging criticism of China due to fear of economic repercussions .
Global Impacts and Responses
Risk of Fragmentation
Continuous economic coercion risks destabilizing the global economic order.
Sanctions can backfire: countries may seek alternatives, fragmenting global systems.
Scholars note resemblances to the interwar era—sanctions undermining cooperation and security .
Regulatory vs. Abolitionist Approaches
Regulatory Mode: Proposes legal/ethical frameworks to minimize humanitarian harm from economic coercion (akin to laws of armed conflict).
Abolitionist Mode: Rejects economic coercion outright, especially unilateral measures that undermine sovereignty .
Multilateral and Collective Resilience
Solid strategies to resist coercion include:
Diversifying trade partners and supply chains.
Strengthening legal/regulatory frameworks (e.g., the EU’s ACI).
Coordinated responses through institutions like the G7, WTO, OECD, or ad-hoc coalitions .
Key Takeaways
1. Global economic networks now serve as instruments of power, beyond just trade and finance—encompassing communication technology, supply chains, and messaging systems.
2. Both the U.S. and China weaponize interdependence—but in different ways:
The U.S. uses transparent, legally justified leverage via finance and sanctions.
China uses less transparent coercion tied to political objectives and market control.
3. Overusing coercive economic tools risks fragmenting globalization, reducing system resilience and multiplied vulnerability.
4. The path forward should blend regulation and cooperation, leveraging alliances, legal safeguards, trade diversification, and institutional reform to restore stability and limit coercion’s destructive capacity.
Donald Trump, once again, summoned European leaders to the White House as if he were a circus master calling his performers to line up for the evening show. This time the star attraction was President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine, reluctantly standing beside Trump in what looked like a family portrait of a very dysfunctional household.
Trump, notorious for turning high-stakes geopolitics into cheap reality TV, avoided repeating last February’s debacle with Zelensky—not out of wisdom, but out of sheer self-interest. Two reasons drove him this time:
First, Trump needed to show Vladimir Putin that he has “control” over Zelensky. To Trump, Ukraine is not a sovereign nation, not a battlefield of survival, not a bleeding edge of European security—it is just a bargaining chip, a poker card to trade away slices of Ukrainian territory in exchange for Russian favors. He dreams of calling Putin on live television and boasting: “Look Vlad, I made your boy sit down quietly. Where’s my deal?”
Second, Trump’s everlasting obsession: the Nobel Peace Prize. Obama got one for breathing air in the Oval Office, and that burns Trump’s ego daily like acid. He wants the same, even if it means auctioning Ukraine’s sovereignty on the Nobel Committee’s altar. “Nobel Prize! Nobel Prize!” is Trump’s mantra—he craves it like a toddler screaming for candy in a supermarket.
But Europe is not fooled. Macron, Scholz, Rutte, Meloni, and the rest flew in not to humor Trump but to chain themselves around Zelensky. They know the game: if Ukraine falls, Russia won’t stop at Kyiv—it will march to Warsaw, Berlin, Paris, and maybe even Brussels. Trump may play diplomat, but Europeans know he is dangling Ukraine as bait while sharpening the knife under the table.
The tragicomic scene at the White House was clear:
Trump puffing his chest, grinning like a salesman desperate to close a deal.
Zelensky, trapped in a photo-op he didn’t want, surrounded by allies who looked more like bodyguards shielding him from Trump than partners in peace.
European leaders, smiling stiffly for cameras while whispering in each other’s ears: “God save us if this maniac sells Ukraine to Moscow.”
History will remember this summit not as diplomacy but as a pawn shop negotiation where Trump tried to trade Ukrainian land for personal glory. Europe left Washington more worried than when they arrived—because the real threat is not only Russia’s tanks, but also Trump’s hunger for applause, prizes, and Putin’s approval.
Trump wants to be crowned peacemaker. Instead, he looks like a desperate broker selling Europe’s security for a Nobel medal.
It was in April 2000, on the eve of the Arta Conference (May 2, 2000), when I transited through Egal International Airport in Hargeisa on my way to Bosaso, Puntland. I had flown in from London via Djibouti to visit my family. At the time, I was serving as Chief of Staff in the Puntland Presidency. Relations between Somaliland and Puntland were tense, and I was not at ease in the airport’s transit hall.
After two uneasy hours of waiting, I was relieved when boarding was announced for the small propeller plane to Bosaso. When I chose to pass through Hargeisa, I assumed—correctly, I thought—that no one would recognize me there. And even if they did, I trusted in the historical camaraderie once shared between the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF) and the Somali National Movement (SNM) against Siyad Barre’s dictatorship. In the back of my mind, I also hoped my maternal lineage—my grandmother, Ayeeyo Dhoofa, hailed from a dominant Isaaq clan—might shield me from any misfortune while transiting through Somaliland.
While waiting for my flight, I exchanged US dollars for Somaliland shillings. The sight of cash in my hands drew a stream of airport staff, each asking for shaxaad (handouts). When I offered them Somaliland shillings, they scoffed: “This is not real money. We want dollars. War ninyahow, dhabcaalsanidaa ma Majeertayn baa tahay?” (“Are you Majeertayn—how can you be so mean?”).
Onboard, I was seated next to a jovial businessman from Hargeisa, bound for Dubai via Bosaso. I will call him Dahir (not his real name). After casual introductions—where I kept my official position discreet—he suddenly asked me: “War nimankii Dhulbahante iiga warran?” (“Tell me about the Dhulbahante in Puntland.”).
Puzzled, I asked him to clarify. He explained that many Dhulbahante had left Somaliland because they were constantly stigmatized as Faqash. In gatherings, someone might casually mutter “War Faqash baa joogta” (“The Faqash are here”), forcing others to apologize profusely: “We didn’t mean you, cousin!” But the damage was done—the Dhulbahante felt alienated and unsafe.
Looking back, I doubt Dahir grasped the deeper reason why Dhulbahante and Warsangeli chose to co-found Puntland. It was not merely about insults; it was about survival in the absence of a functioning central government, and in the face of atrocities committed by both USC and SNM—atrocities denied to this day by their leaders. Denial of clan cleansing remains the greatest obstacle to reconciliation and rebuilding trust among Somali clans.
The Meaning of “Faqash”
Faqash became one of the most notorious codenames for human rights abuses in Somaliland’s northwest regions after the collapse of the Somali central state. Originally, northerners used it to describe conscripted soldiers from Somalia’s inter-river farming communities, imitating the sound of their marching boots. Under SNM, the word morphed into a weaponized label for Darood clan cleansing.
Prof. Lidwien Kapteijns, in her authoritative book Clan Cleansing in Somalia: The Ruinous Years of 1991–1992, details the codenames used during the civil war to legitimize mass violence: Looma-ooyaan (“No one sheds tears for them”), Lahaystayaal (“hostages”), Kacaan-diid (“anti-revolutionary”), Haraadi (“remnants of the old government”), among others. Each term stripped individuals of protection, marking them as fair game for abuse, dispossession, rape, and murder.
Targeting the Majeerteen
In Siyad Barre’s regime, labels like Kacaan-diid, Dib-u-socod, Daba-dhilif, and Haraadi were used primarily against the Majeerteen sub-clan of Darood. This was no accident—it was a deliberate political project. Barre recognized that the Majeerteen had the numbers, resources, history of self-governance, and leadership potential to challenge his absolute rule. From the first day of his coup, he sought to marginalize them, purge them from government, and turn the rest of Somalia’s clan system against them.
Once branded, a Majeerteen lost all rights of citizenship and became vulnerable to dispossession, abuse, or even the theft of his wife. Disturbingly, even Somalia’s educated class embraced Barre’s propaganda. To this day, any Majeerteen political ambition must confront that toxic legacy.
The “Mujaahidiin” That Became Mooryaan
Both SNM and USC called their militias Mujaahidiin (“holy fighters”). But when Siyad Barre fell on January 26, 1991, law and order collapsed. These “fighters” degenerated into Mooryaan—bandits who looted, raped, and massacred, particularly in Mogadishu, Gaalkacyo, Kismayo, Brava, and Baydhabo.
In their twisted hierarchy, rank was measured not by military discipline but by body count: tobanle (ten kills), kontonle (fifty kills), boqolle (a hundred kills). Many still roam Mogadishu, traumatized, unrehabilitated, and unfit for soldiering—yet celebrated by some as “pioneers of victory over Darood.”
Other Codenames of Horror
Looma-ooyaan: The unprotected, the abandoned—usually non-Hawiye individuals left in Mogadishu. If killed, no one would mourn them. This chilling mindset explains the fate of figures like singer Saado Ali Warsame and General Xayd.
Lahaystayaal: Minorities like the Reer Hamar and Bravanese, reduced to hostages, extorted for ransom, their women taken.
Dib-u-socod, Daba-dhilif, Haraadi: Political labels of dehumanization used to erase citizenship rights.
Prof. Kapteijns’ work remains the most meticulous study of this era, but even it cannot capture the full vocabulary of cruelty Somalis invented to justify barbarism.
The Unfinished Reckoning
The greatest tragedy is not only what happened during those years, but the continuing denial. Political elites who presided over clan cleansing still refuse to acknowledge it. Without truth-telling, reconciliation remains impossible. Without reconciliation, Somalia’s very survival as a nation is imperiled.
That, more than anything, is the looming tragedy still waiting for us.
Let us pray
Ismail H. Warsame WardheerNews Contributor ismailwarsame@gmail.com @ismailwarsame
Donald J. Trump didn’t just inherit bankruptcy filings, bad casinos, and failed steaks — he inherited the biggest file cabinet of filth in American politics: Jeffrey Epstein’s little black book. Except this time, the “filing cabinet” wasn’t for keeping records — it was for keeping politicians on a leash.
(c) WDM copyright 2025
The Epstein Files — that forbidden archive of power, sex, and compromise — are still suppressed. Who killed them? Who has them in a vault? My suspicion: three men keep the keys to Trump’s deepest nightmares — Trump himself, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Vladimir Putin.
Yes, you heard it. The “art of the deal” was never about real estate. It was about Trump bargaining with his own scandals. Netanyahu and Putin play the oldest game in global politics: blackmail as foreign policy. Every time Trump pretends he’s the strongman in the room, just know two men keep their thumbs pressing down on his bloated ego: one from Moscow, the other from Tel Aviv.
And the evidence? Look no further than the Christopher Steele Dossier and the Robert Mueller Investigation. Both launched like rockets, both fizzled out mid-air. Why? Because to expose Trump’s kompromat is to expose the entire global establishment that swam in Epstein’s sewer. Washington, London, Moscow, Tel Aviv — they all dipped their hands in that poisoned pool. And Trump, rather than being the master manipulator, is the dirtbag pawn — the one too obscene to let the truth out, because if he sinks, the whole rotten elite goes down with him.
So, Trump suppresses the Epstein files not out of loyalty to anyone, but out of survival instinct. He knows Netanyahu whispers: “I know what you did in the penthouse.” Putin smirks: “I have the tapes.” And Trump, that hollow clown, rants about witch hunts while living every day in the dungeon of his own secrets.
The Epstein Files aren’t just a scandal. They are the nuclear button of political blackmail. And Trump, instead of draining the swamp, became the swamp’s dirtiest, most useful crocodile.
It is no longer about Ukraine’s sovereignty, democracy, or the blood of its fallen. It is about real estate. Trump and Putin appear ready to redraw borders like brokers at a Manhattan property show. The Kremlin brings the tanks, Trump brings the signatures, and Ukraine? Ukraine brings the land.
President Volodymyr Zelensky, once a comedian on stage, is now cast in the cruelest skit of history: to stand before Trump in the White House, under chandeliers and cameras, while being told that his country must be partitioned to “end the war.” A forced peace, a coerced surrender, wrapped in the language of “deal-making.”
The irony is poisonous. Trump, who claims “America First,” now wants Ukraine Last — reduced, carved, parceled out like a bankrupt casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk. Putin, smiling like a fox fattened on global cowardice, couldn’t have asked for a better partner than a man who confuses foreign policy with property flipping.
Europe watches with clenched jaws. Leaders in Paris, Berlin, Warsaw — all know that the “Ukraine question” is not Ukrainian alone, but European to the bone. A partitioned Ukraine is a destabilized Europe, an open door to Russian expansion, and a betrayal of every European value paraded in Brussels conferences. Yet Europe dithers. Their support for Zelensky “depends” — depends on whether he bows or breaks in Washington. Europe, which should lead, is once again waiting on Washington’s mood swings.
Trump sees Ukraine as a bargaining chip for his red-carpet friendship with Putin, a stage-prop for his “I alone can make peace” narrative. But peace built on partition is not peace; it is a funeral dressed up as a treaty. It is Yalta revisited — Churchill and Roosevelt in 1945 giving Stalin half of Europe. Except now it is Trump, with no cigar, handing Putin what his armies could not win outright.
Zelensky faces an impossible test. To stand up to Trump is to risk isolation. To give in is to betray not only Ukraine but the idea of Europe itself. History’s burden now rests on his shoulders: resist being strong-armed in Washington, or watch his country auctioned off at the geopolitical bazaar.
Make no mistake: Ukraine is not Trump’s to sell, not Putin’s to buy, not Europe’s to delay. It is Europe’s frontline, democracy’s trench. And if Zelensky bows to pressure, the next partitioned country will not be across the Black Sea — it will be in the heart of Europe.
Puntland stands today at the edge of its own manufactured abyss. The supposed “stable” state in Somalia’s chaos, the self-branded “island of relative peace,” is now no more than a shaky raft patched together with old clan deals, fading loyalties, and the last drops of remittance dollars. At the center of this mess looms the biggest question no one dares to answer: what happens to Puntland’s 66-member legislature when half of its foundations are crumbling beneath it?
Let’s start with the facts no one in Garowe’s political salons wants to admit out loud: SSC-Khatumo is gone. Dhulbahante elders have slammed the door shut on Garowe’s pretensions. They do not want to send delegates to a Puntland House that legislates in their name. Yet Puntland’s entire arithmetic of legitimacy—the sacred number of 66—was built on their inclusion. Without SSC, the house is not just incomplete, it is illegitimate. Puntland’s legislature is becoming a parliament of ghosts, haunted by missing seats and empty loyalties.
And who is left to fill the vacuum? Certainly not the voters. The much-trumpeted democratization project, with its glittering promises of universal suffrage, is dead—buried without ceremony by a leadership that decided Garowe is not enough of a throne, that only Villa Somalia’s golden chair is worthy of ambition. Said Abdullahi Deni’s eyes are fixed on Mogadishu’s spoils, and in the process, he has left Puntland’s democratization to rot in the graveyard of broken promises. Elections in Puntland remain a hereditary lottery, reserved for those with the right bloodline and the right clan balance. Universal suffrage? A cruel joke in a state where even universal electricity and clean water are luxuries.
Meanwhile, the ground beneath Puntland burns. In the mountains of Bari and Sanaag, ISIS and Al-Shabaab are not hiding—they are nesting, multiplying, embedding themselves into the crevices of Puntland’s fragile society. The security forces are underpaid, demoralized, and busy guarding checkpoints where they shake down starving traders instead of fighting terrorists. And while Garowe politicians debate the sacred “number 66,” the real masters of the eastern mountains are carrying out recruitment drives among unemployed youth whose only alternatives are migration, piracy, or militancy.
The economic downturn has turned into a freefall. The air-money system—this Ponzi scheme masquerading as a financial sector—remains the fragile lifeline. Hard cash is gone. Bank deposits are fiction. A technical glitch in the Golis or Somtel servers could freeze the entire state into panic. The few wealthy elites are already transferring what’s left of their fortunes abroad, buying real estate in Nairobi and Dubai, while ordinary Puntlanders quietly vanish—boarding boats to Yemen, braving deserts to Libya, or taking the long road to Europe.
Urban centers are shrinking. Drive through Garowe, and you’ll feel the difference—the bustle of markets is gone, the chatter of young people replaced by silence and empty tea shops. Poverty and unemployment have reached levels that would once have sparked rebellion, but today only fuel quiet despair. Puntland is bleeding people as fast as it is bleeding legitimacy.
And yet, the political class continues its performance: the 66 seats must remain 66, even if half the members come from thin air. Empty chairs can still be counted. Ghost MPs can still vote. Legitimacy can still be fabricated with ink and stamps. This is Puntland’s political genius: to govern nothing and pretend it is something.
The tragedy is not that Puntland is collapsing. The tragedy is that it is collapsing quietly, with no drama, no great battle, no revolution—just a slow leak of people, of money, of legitimacy, of hope. By the time anyone wakes up, Puntland’s legislature will no longer represent its people but only its absence. A state of shadows, a parliament of ghosts, legislating in the name of a population that has already fled.
When nations speak of economic growth, they refer to tangible progress — industries rising, entrepreneurship thriving, banks expanding capital, and treasuries enforcing stability. Puntland, however, is not a nation of production but of illusion — a fragile bubble inflated by air-money.
Here, in the so-called “stable state of Somalia,” there is no hard cash. There is no meaningful bank deposit system. No treasury. No fiscal control. Puntland’s economy is a digital mirage: numbers on a screen, vulnerable to a technical glitch, a wire cut, or a corporate whim from Golis, Somtel, or MyCash.
What happens when the system collapses for a day? Shops close. Food markets freeze. Salaries vanish. Panic erupts. Families cannot buy a sack of rice or a cup of tea. Life halts — suspended in the invisible cloud of Djibouti’s servers, where the actual money resides, far from Puntland’s reach.
This is not an economy; this is gambling with survival. Mogadishu, with all its corruption and clan feuds, at least enforces some limits on mobile-money. Hargeisa, with its Somaliland experiment, maintains central control. But Puntland — supposedly the veteran of Somali federalism — is running headlong into disaster, surrendering its economy to foreign-controlled telecom giants without oversight, without regulation, without thought.
The erosion of entrepreneurship is clear: who dares to build industry when every shilling is trapped in air-money accounts? Brain drain accelerates — youth flee to escape economic paralysis. Capital flees. What remains is dependency, imported food, imported fuel, imported everything — paid for by digital air that could vanish in a second.
A single software glitch could unleash famine. A banking freeze in Djibouti could bring down Puntland overnight. And yet, leaders sit idle, dreaming of Villa Somalia power games, while their house is on fire.
Puntland’s economy is not fragile. It is suicidal. Built on sand dunes that shift with the desert wind, it waits for the inevitable collapse. When that collapse comes, there will be no bailout, no safety net, no treasury — only hunger, chaos, and regret.
WDM warns: a state without control of its own money is not a state at all. Puntland today is not managing an economy. It is mismanaging a countdown to disaster.
When you read WDM, ask yourself a simple question: Did you pay for it? No. You didn’t. And yet you act like some silent saint, reading in the shadows, lips sealed, hands idle, eyes pretending to be innocent. What is this hypocrisy? You don’t pay, you don’t comment, you don’t share—yet you soak up the fire like a sponge and walk away as if you did WDM a favor by glancing through a few paragraphs.
Do you think WDM survives on your silence? Do you imagine that truth spreads itself without readers lifting a finger? This is the tragedy: our readers are like the Somali opposition—loud in private whispers, invisible in public stance. They consume, they nod in agreement, but when it comes to showing support, they fold like a cheap umbrella in the wind.
This isn’t gratitude, it’s graveyard silence. You read enlightening essays, yet you don’t light a single candle of reaction, not even a flicker of a “like,” not even the courage of a simple share. You read, you smile secretly, and then you lock it up in your head like contraband.
What is your measure of gratitude? To scroll by? To act as if WDM is writing into a void? Do you think knowledge grows stronger by being hidden under your mattress? The enemies of truth celebrate when readers are cowards. Non-participation is their victory.
Reading without engagement is like going to a wedding, eating the food, and sneaking out without clapping for the bride and groom. Worse still, it is like attending a funeral, sitting silently, and refusing to say “Innaa Lillaahi.” What kind of audience is that?
WDM writes. You read. But truth is not a one-way street. If you believe silence is neutrality, you are mistaken. Silence is complicity with ignorance. Silence is betrayal of the very enlightenment you just consumed.
So here is the challenge: break the chains of mute readership. If you can’t pay, at least react. If you can’t contribute, at least share. If you can’t fight, at least stand up and clap. WDM doesn’t ask for your blood, only your finger on the “share” button.
Remember: reading in silence doesn’t make you a thinker—it makes you a ghost.
Didn’t WDM warn you before? Didn’t we tell you that the United States respects only nuclear deterrent, not human rights, not international law, not the suffering of small nations? Welcome to the Alaska Summit — America’s diplomatic theatre where Trump’s megaphone threats dissolved into a Hollywood handshake with Putin.
Trump had promised “consequences” if Russia dared defy him. Consequences? Yes — for Ukraine. The Russian army marches, the world watches, and Trump rolls out the red carpet. A salute, a smile, and a handshake — the ceremony of surrender dressed up as diplomacy.
This was no summit. It was a political striptease — Washington exposing its impotence, Moscow flexing its nuclear chest hair. Ukraine, the bleeding victim, wasn’t even allowed in the room. Peace talks without the war’s primary casualty — a joke so cruel it deserves its own category in international comedy festivals.
And what did Trump offer? Gratitude. Gratitude to Putin for showing up, as if the Russian President had gifted him Alaska back. It was Helsinki 2.0 — only colder, faker, and more humiliating.
WDM says it plainly: America only negotiates when faced with nuclear teeth. Without nukes, you are treated like a mosquito — swatted, ignored, or lectured. With nukes, you are ushered in with trumpets, champagne, and flattery. That is the world order exposed in Alaska: power respects only annihilation.
The Alaska Summit will be remembered not as a breakthrough, but as a capitulation in broad daylight. It was the day Ukraine was erased from its own war, the day US threats turned into a public grovel, the day Trump proved once again that his foreign policy is a reality TV episode with Putin as the producer.
So let’s not call it diplomacy. Let’s call it what it is: Nuclear Blackmail Incorporated, doing business as “Peace Summits.”
It is either in the news or slithering through Mogadishu’s rumour mills — President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has done what all corrupt power brokers eventually do when faced with noisy opposition: he bought them. Not through persuasion, not through policy, but with the oldest currency in Somali politics — cash in briefcases, land titles in dusty folders, and hollow promises of ministerial chairs.
The so-called Mogadishu opposition — those who once roared like lions in front of microphones — have now been reduced to house cats purring on the lap of Villa Somalia. The revolutionary fire that once burned in their speeches has been extinguished by envelopes and title deeds. Their once-defiant slogans now sound like whispers of gratitude.
WDM warned about these men long ago. We told you their principles were not rooted in ideology or patriotism but in opportunity cost. We said their loyalty was not to the people but to the highest bidder. We told you that Somali politics has perfected the art of turning opponents into waiters at the presidential table. Now, it has happened — live and unashamed — before your eyes.
What does this mean for Somalia? It means the so-called democratic checks and balances have been reduced to cheque and balance transfers. It means the opposition’s “political struggle” was never about state-building, justice, or accountability — it was a long and tedious job interview for government posts. It means Hassan Sheikh has bought himself a choir of praise singers dressed up as reformists.
Villa Somalia, once the symbol of Somalia’s fragile hopes, is now the largest livestock market in the Horn — except here, the cattle walk in wearing suits and come out chewing their cud of privilege. And as for the Mogadishu streets, they are quieter now, not because the people are happy, but because their “leaders” have traded protest placards for personal benefits.
In the end, WDM’s prophecy stands vindicated: Somalia does not have an opposition. Somalia has a waiting list.
International diplomacy is supposed to be a dignified ballet — polite, precise, and subtle. What we have here is more like a drunken wedding dance: a Senator from a superpower openly scribbling to his President, “Hey boss, let’s break up Somalia — should be fun!” while the Somali ambassador writes back, “Dear Mr. Trump, we love your joint strikes and your friendship, please don’t forget we are a steadfast partner.”
One letter is a sledgehammer to the sovereignty of a so-called ally, the other is a thank-you note for the sledgehammer.
Let’s be clear: Ted Cruz isn’t just “expressing an opinion” — he is lobbying his own President to dismantle another UN-member state, in writing, on official U.S. Senate letterhead, dated and signed like a high school permission slip. This isn’t a side whisper in a diplomatic corridor — it’s a neon sign reading: We hereby invite chaos to the Horn of Africa.
And the Somali Embassy’s reply? No outrage. No calling it a violation of the UN Charter. No telling Washington that meddling in Somalia’s internal affairs is unacceptable. Instead, they’re busy praising joint drone strikes like a client praising his barber: “Twenty strikes this year, sir, even better than last year!” The elephant in the room — an American Senator calling for Somalia’s dismemberment — is politely ignored like an unpaid bar bill.
This is the problem with modern African diplomacy: When a superpower steps on your neck, you thank them for polishing their boots. Somalia’s so-called “steadfast partnership” reads less like a defense of sovereignty and more like an audition for “Best Loyal Sidekick” in a Hollywood war movie.
If international law were a living person, it would have choked on its coffee reading these two letters. One openly undermines a sovereign state; the other avoids saying anything that might be construed as standing up for itself. The result? The message to Washington is loud and clear: Somalia won’t even raise its voice when you carve it up.
The art of diplomacy used to be about protecting national interests. Now, it’s about making sure your colonial babysitter doesn’t get offended when you cry — so you don’t cry at all.
Said Abdullahi Deni was elected to lead Puntland State — a fragile, strategic territory balancing on the knife-edge between resilience and collapse. Instead, he has turned Puntland into his personal political launchpad for the coveted Villa Somalia seat, leaving his own state exposed to the very dangers he swore to protect it from.
As he redirects resources, attention, and state machinery toward his second presidential run in Mogadishu, Deni leaves Puntland to the mercy of ISIS cells in the mountains, Al-Shabab infiltration in rural districts, and an economy bleeding out from neglect and mismanagement. The man who vowed to defend Puntland’s unity has allowed SSC to be bartered away to Mogadishu power brokers and Somaliland’s secessionists, even striking quiet understandings with Abdirahman Ciro while Puntland’s eastern flank disintegrates. Sanaag and Haylaan came perilously close to falling under the banner of a so-called “North East State,” a separatist fantasy that grew in the cracks of Deni’s political absenteeism.
Deni is a master of policies that never see daylight. Announcements are made with fanfare, projects are launched on paper, then buried in the dust of unkept promises. He governs from behind closed doors, shutting out Puntland’s brightest thinkers, civil society voices, and diaspora expertise. In his mind, consultation is weakness, intellectual challenge is disrespect, and elders — the backbone of Puntland’s traditional legitimacy — are simply props to be discarded when inconvenient.
His leadership has taken on the character of a family business franchise — opaque, insular, and insulated from accountability. When he travels abroad, the “official delegation” is often his immediate family, while qualified state officials are left at home to watch the news like everyone else. The state’s resources are now tools for his personal vendetta against Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, as if political revenge were a developmental policy.
Meanwhile, Puntland’s infrastructure — especially in Mudugh — has deteriorated to a level that borders on abandonment. Roads crumble, port stagnates, and no functional system exists to regulate the quality of goods entering the market. From toxic foodstuffs to counterfeit medicines, the absence of quality control is a silent killer stalking Puntland’s population. The health sector has withered into a skeletal institution, underfunded, mismanaged, and incapable of meeting even basic standards.
Deni has yet to grasp the simple truth that governance is not a one-man show. A state leader must juggle multiple priorities — security, economy, diplomacy, social cohesion — all at once. His style is the opposite: monofocused, vindictive, and allergic to scrutiny. He presides over a Puntland increasingly fragmented, disillusioned, and exposed to existential threats.
If Puntland falls further into disarray, history will not remember Deni as the leader who tried and failed — it will remember him as the man who walked away from his post in broad daylight, leaving the gates open for every wolf at Puntland’s borders.
They say Somalia’s youth are the future of the nation. True — but they never tell you this future comes with no arrival date. “You aren’t the future, you are the present, do not be misled by older politicians”, Said Nuradin Aden Dirie, in a speech to the gathering in Martisoor Hall tonight.
The numbers don’t lie: 75% of Somalis are youth. The majority. The muscle. The energy. The ones who should be driving state-building. But instead, they’re treated like free campaign posters and disposable labor for warlord-turned-politicians.
Every speech is the same recycled nonsense:
“The youth are the backbone of the nation.” Yes, and Somalia has been walking with a broken back since the Civil War.
Politicians love the youth’s naivety and inexperience — perfect qualities for a loyal servant. Some lucky ones break through the unemployment wall, not because of talent or hard work, but through nepotism. Their reward? To serve as obedient houseboys and tea-bearers for the same ex-militia leaders who once looted their parents’ homes.
In Mogadishu, “youth empowerment” means giving a microphone to a 25-year-old who reads a speech written by a 70-year-old ex-warlord wearing imported Italian shoes. In Garowe, it’s football caps with Puntland X Anniversary painted — as if polyester hat can fix corruption. In Hargeisa, it’s telling graduates to “be patient” while every government job goes to the ruling party’s nephews.
Meanwhile, the real state-building work — the cleaning of streets, the running of small schools, the starting of businesses — happens quietly in neighborhoods and villages, far from donor-funded workshops and ministerial selfies. No one cuts a ribbon for those youth. No one calls Al Jazeera to report on them.
And still, the myth continues: youth are the “leaders of tomorrow.” But tomorrow is always postponed. And the bus to the future? Still stuck in the mud, while the ministers drive past in stolen Land Cruisers yelling, “Your turn is coming!”
If Somalia truly valued its youth, they wouldn’t be the permanent audience to state-building — they’d be the ones writing the script. Until then, the politicians will keep clapping for them on stage while robbing them backstage.
Warsame Policy & Media Network (WAPMEN) 
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