In their first press statement since sworn in, the new National Election Commission has announced that the constitutionally mandated presidential elections scheduled for November 13th will be delayed. The Commission stated that elections will be held in nine months starting on October 1st, and cited time, technical and financial constraints as the reason for the delaying.
Somaliland National Electrol Commission scheduled to conduct the Presidential Election in 9 months, starting 1st October 2022, as the current scheduled date of 13 Nov, 2022 is not viable due to time, technical and financial constrains.
— Somaliland National Electoral Commission (SLNEC) (@SLNECHQ) September 24, 2022
The selections, confirmation by parliament, and swearing-in of the new National Election Commissioners have dragged on for months and were completed on September 7th, 2022. The previous Election Commission, led by Mr. Abdirashid Riyoraac, dissolved following a dispute among the commissioners and an accusation of corruption that prompted an investigation by the Auditor General’s Office.
The opposition has accused President Bihi of orchestrating the disbandment of the election commission to ensure elections are not held on time. President Bihi has countered the opposition’s accusation that the delay was caused by opposition members of parliament who failed to confirm replacement commissioners.
The opposition parties of Waddani and UCID have welcomed the statement from the Election Commission, although they have in the past opposed presidential term extension and staged protests where at least six civilians were killed and scores injured. It is unclear if the argument of which election, presidential or national political parties, comes first is settled between the President and the leaders of the opposition parties.
President Bihi has argued that the new parties currently amid registration are the only ones eligible to take part in Presidential Elections, whereas the opposition parties have argued that the President is trying to eliminate the current opposition parties and that the presidential elections come first.
Earlier this week, Members of Parliament approved a motion to amend the election laws Number 91/2022 and Number 14. The amendment ratified the combination of presidential and political party elections where the presidential elections will be participated by Waddani, UCID, and the ruling party of Kulmiye and the other parallel election will decide which of the new or existing parties will qualify as a national political party. Somaliland law stipulates that only three political parties can exist for a term of ten years. It is unclear if the Senate and President will approve the proposed amendment to codify it into law.
The National Election Commission’s statement that it cannot hold the presidential elections on November 13th, 2022 paves the way for the Somaliland Senate, which has the constitutional power to extend the presidential term to start deliberation and approve term extension for President Muse Bihi Abdi. In the past, the Senate has ignored the extension period recommended by the Election Commission and has given past Presidents two-year term extensions. This will be the sixth time presidential elections are delayed in Somaliland.
Despite the normalization of election delays and pitched political disputes in election season, Somaliland has earned high praises for its ability to hold one-person, one-vote elections and peaceful transfers of power. It is unclear if the latest delays in presidential elections and continued political jostling will effect in its quest for international recognition.
On December 28, 2018, Turkey named its former Ambassador to Somalia Dr. Olgan Bekar as a Special Envoy for Somalia and Somaliland Talks. Thought the former Ambassador to Somalia has had limited contact with the Government of Somaliland especially President Bihi’s current administration, he known to be very comfortable in navigating the political scene in Mogadishu.
In this report, we are examining Turkey’s history in Somaliland and Somalia and their role as mediators in the past talks.
Dr. Olgan Bekar, Turkey’s Special Envoy for Somaliland – Somalia with President Muse Bihi Abdi
Turkey is not the only country interested to have Somaliland and Somalia get back to the negotiating table and reach some sort of a settlement.
The topic has come up during President Muse Bihi Abdi’s meeting with the Ethiopian Prime Minister in Addis Ababa this week though it is unclear the extent to which they discussed the subject or if any concrete steps to get the two sides talking were agreed upon.
Somaliland and Ethiopian leaders meeting in Addis Ababa
It is important to understand that various stake holders have different expected outcomes of such talks and Somaliland might be the odd man out as it seeks to gain an amicable completion of its divorce from Somalia.
According to statement from Somaliland Presidency following President Bihi’s meeting with the new envoy Dr. Bekar on February 9, The President informed Dr. Bekar and the Turkish delegation that since past talks has not yielded any results all future dialogue between Somaliland and Somalia must include the international community.
Sources from Somaliland’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation present in the meeting with the President and the Turkish delegation stated that President Bihi also informed the Turkish envoy that bringing a level of balance in how Turkey invests in Somalia and Somaliland is a good way to show Somaliland that Turkey is impartial and a friend to Somaliland.
To understand if Turkey can be an impartial and an honest broker on Somaliland and Somalia talks and its general standing in the world community, we have spoken to Mr. Michael Rubin who is a resident scholar at the American Enterprise Institute, where he researches Arab politics, the Gulf Cooperation Council, Iran, Iraq, the Kurds, terrorism, and Turkey.
President Bihi with Michael Rubin and Presidential Economic Advisor Dr. Osman Sh Ahmed
Somaliland Chronicle: Do you think it is wise for Somaliland to accept Turkey as a mediator in Somalia talks given the Turkish Gov support and massive investment in Somalia?
Mr. Rubin: Turkey does not have a track-record as an honest broker, and President Erdoğan has an ideological agenda which does not value Somaliland’s democracy and security. It is crucial to broaden any such mediation beyond a single country.
Somaliland Chronicle: In your latest article you wrote about Turkish support for terrorism and specifically for Al-Shabaab. What is Turkey’s reasoning for supporting Al-Shabaab?
Mr. Rubin: There is no single international definition of terrorism, and so Turkey often says it is combating terrorism, but denies groups like Al-Shabaab in Somalia or Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb in Mali are terrorists. Erdoğan’s goal is a more Islamist order. His fault, though, is confusing some Islamist movements with Islam itself.
Somaliland Chronicle: President Bihi recently met with a Turkish Envoy in charge of the Somaliland/Somalia talks, do you see any value in having Turkey to mediate or be part of those talks?
Mr. Rubin: Certainly, there is value in consultation with Turkey, as Turkey retains a diplomatic presence in both Somalia and Somaliland. President Bihi is correct, however, to seek a broader mediation rather than reliance on a single country.
As President Bihi informed the Turkish delegation, there is an imbalance in how Turkey provides and and invests in Somaliland and Somalia. Let’s break down what Turkey so far done in is to Somalia:
Turkey in Somalia
Security Influence
Turkey is Somalia’s true patron state, one of its most expensive efforts is to rebuild the Somali National Army from scratch and in its own image.
The largest military force in Somalia is of course AMISOM but Turkey’s military presence dwarfs that of any individual country in the AMISOM troops stationed in Somalia. In fact, Turkey’s largest military installation outside of Turkey is in Mogadishu.
Dr. Olgan Bekar with Somalia’s Prime Minister Hassan Khaire.
The 1.5 square mile Turkish military training installation is capable of churning out 1,500 fully trained and equipped soldiers at a time. This is according to Turkish and Somali sources familiar with the facility.
Below is a tweet from Turkish Embassy in Somalia showing images of Somali military personnel being trained in Turkey.
While Turkey rates as the 18th largest military in expenditure globally, it has a fledgling arms industry and rebuilding the Somali National Army represents a lucrative opportunity to supply it with the equipment it is manufacturing.
According to a recent VOA report, in what seems to be a clear violation of the United Nations Security Council’s weapons embargo on Somalia, Turkey has been supplying armament to units of the Somali National Army it has been training.
Public records show that Albayrak Group does not have a track record in managing world class ports, besides Mogadishu Port, it also manages and the Trabzon Port in the Black Sea on Turkey’s Northern border with Georgia.
Compared to Albayrak Group and the 2 ports it manages, DP World manages about 77 marine and inland terminals including Somaliland’s Berbera Port.
Other Turkish conglomerates such Enez-İnşaat and Kozuva Group are also active in Mogadishu.
Mogadishu’s Aden Abdulle Airport has been managed by a Kozuva subsidiery, Favori Airports LLC,since September 2013.
Mogadishu’s Aden Abdulle Airport
Here is the Somali Prime Minister Mr. Hassan Khaire thanking Qatar for funding road networks between Mogadishu, Afgoye and Jawhar and also thanking the Turkish Government, presumably Enez-İnşaat who according to him have “won” the contract to build said roads.
Turkey bills itself as Somalia’s rescuer and multiple visits by Erdoğan to Somalia especially in what is considered a relatively difficult time for the Somali people were designed to convey that exact message but economically, Turkey stands to gain more from Somalia and Mogadishu than it lets on.
Erdoğan and his wife in Mogadishu.
According to some estimates, the most profitable route in Turkish Airlines is the Mogadishu – Ankara route. And aside from the large visible projects, there are tens of thousands of Turkish citizens living and working in Mogadishu.
Getting involved in one of the least stable country in the world, Turkey is employing the concept of first mover advantage. This means less competition from the Chinese and other actors vying for influence in Africa.
Turkey heavy bet on Somalia and specifically Mogadishu is yielding economic results for Turkey beyond what Erdoğan has expected. In fact, Turkey’s largest embassy in the world is not where you would expect, like Washington DC, Brussels or Berlin, it is in Mogadishu, Somalia.
One of the most attractive features of Turkey’s patronage of Somalia is it is non-interference posture in Somalia’s domestic politics. It is worth nothing that Somalia ranked lowest in global corruption index and any country that is willing to look the other way is a welcome reprieve from the usual admonishment for President Farmajo’s weak administration.
Although this particular instance has been widely publicized by TIKA, Somaliland Chronicle has been unable to locate anything of note done in Somaliland either by Turkish Government or it is aid agency TIKA.
There are, however, multiple unfulfilled pledges by the Turkish Government in the past to help build roads in Somaliland according to multiple former and current Somaliland Government officials. None of these pledges have materialized.
One thing of note is that Turkey has been particularly adept in dangling a carrot of aid and development or simply inviting them to Istanbul on a whirlwind of meetings and tours to get them to buy into the importance of Somaliland and Somalia talks.
No other country has put so much effort to try to mediate Somaliland and Somalia as much as Turkey. In fact, this might be the only thing Turkey has done in Somaliland. There were many rounds of talks that hosted by the Turks in the past and personally supervised by President Erdoğan himself, unfortunately, these talks have been a disaster for Somaliland.
Turkey’s obsession with Somaliland is rooted in the simple fact that the rift between Gulf states of UAE and Saudi Arabia on one side and Qatar, Turkey and Iran on one side has been playing out in Somaliland and Somalia.
President of Somaliland HE Muse Bihi Abdi and DP World CEO Mr. Sultan Ahmed bin Sulayem
The United Arab Emirates base in Berbera and DP World managing the Port gives the UAE and its ally Saudi Arabia an advantage and a foothold in the strategic 850 kilometers of Red Sea coastline with a direct access to Bab Al-mandab.
Turkey and Qatar has been spending heavily in trying to unseat the Emirates from both the military base and the Berbera Port by mobilizing the Somali government to oppose these deals. Additionally, Turkey has been advancing particular talking points that have been seeping into public discourse in Somaliland such as the importance of Somaliland – Somalia talks, the ramifications of hosting a foreign army in Somaliland via the UAE base and the deterioration of service at the Berbera Port. These same exact talking points are parroted by many civil organizations and opposition parties in Somaliland.
Somaliland has repeatedly signaled it’s willingness to talk to Somalia but its demand for the international community including the United States, United Kingdom and the European Union to get involved and President Bihi’s impossible task for the Turks to raise their level of support for Somaliland to something comparable to Somalia’s almost guarantees that Turkey’s role will be a lot smaller in future dialogue between the two countries.
AFRICOM’s top commander came to Mogadishu to reassure Somalia. He left having delivered a warning instead.
Gen. Dagvin R.M. Anderson arrived in Mogadishu insisting America had “not turned its back” on Somalia. But beneath the reassurance was a warning Washington rarely delivers so openly: U.S. support has become conditional, patience is wearing thin, and Somalia’s political dysfunction may soon matter more than its battlefield gains.
— U.S. Embassy Mogadishu, Somalia (@US2SOMALIA) July 31, 2026
The headline isn’t that the United States is leaving Somalia. It’s that the general refused to promise it will stay.
The Quiet Threat Inside the Reassurance
Asked point-blank whether speculation about a U.S. withdrawal was true, Anderson pushed back — but not with the blanket reassurance Villa Somalia might have hoped for. He acknowledged that voices “in Washington and other parts of the country” are asking a pointed question: at what point does Somalia become independent and take care of these issues itself?
Then came the sharper line: continued American resourcing isn’t unconditional. If Somalia’s political dysfunction becomes the story instead of the counterterrorism gains, he warned, “it’s going to be very hard for us to continue to stay engaged.”
An AFRICOM commander rarely delivers that warning publicly. It framed everything else Anderson said in Mogadishu.
Washington Isn’t Just Talking — It’s Already Pulled a Plug
Anderson’s warning landed against a policy shift already underway. Weeks before his visit, Washington informed the African Union it would oppose continued UN logistical funding for AUSSOM — the roughly 12,000-strong force doing the ground-holding Anderson himself said Somalia still needs — beyond the end of this year. The mission’s budget has already absorbed a 25 percent cut, and UN officials have discussed the UN Support Office in Mogadishu closing by December 31, ending the AU’s role three years early.
As Washington questions the sustainability of Somalia’s security model, Turkey is moving the opposite direction. Ankara already runs Camp TURKSOM, its largest overseas base. It has locked in long-term security agreements with Mogadishu under a ten-year defense and economic framework signed in 2024. And in January 2026, it deployed F-16s to Somali soil for the first time. While the U.S. asks Somalia to assume more responsibility, Turkey is embedding itself deeper into Somalia’s security architecture.
That’s the vacuum Anderson’s sustainability talk is landing in.
Danab: Built, Handed Over, No Longer Washington’s to Sustain
Anderson’s proudest talking point was Danab, the commando force AFRICOM built into one of the continent’s most capable units. The framing was pointed: the U.S. built it, the U.S. handed it over, and sustaining it now falls to Somalia.
He went further, describing how ground the Danab and the Somali National Army once cleared along the Lower Shabelle — as far as Mubarak, during his own earlier tour with special operations — has since been lost and is being retaken a second time. His diagnosis: the political and security focus wandered elsewhere, and clearing ground without governance behind it just invites the fight to repeat.
The Unnamed Case for Somaliland
Buried in his answer about why Somalia matters strategically, Anderson made the geographic case Somaliland officials have pitched for years — key terrain, critical northern waterways, the entrance to East Africa — without naming Somaliland once.
On the politics, though, his answers deserve to be read separately rather than as one dodge.
Recognition is not his to give. Asked directly, Anderson repeated the standard line: U.S. policy remains the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the Federal Republic of Somalia. That answer was never going to be anything else — recognition is a State Department and White House call, and it’s the answer any interviewer walking in should have expected.
What makes that answer harder to read as routine is timing. Seven months earlier, Israel — the United States’ closest security partner in the region — became the first UN member state to formally recognize Somaliland. On December 26, 2025, Netanyahu and Somaliland President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdullahi signed a joint declaration establishing full diplomatic relations, explicitly framed as “in the spirit of the Abraham Accords.” Israel’s foreign minister followed with an official Hargeisa visit in January. The policy Anderson repeated now diverges from that of one of Washington’s closest regional security partners.
The base question is genuinely more his lane. Asked whether the U.S. plans to build a base in Somaliland, Anderson said there are no such plans. Combatant commanders rarely preview basing decisions in public; his answer therefore reveals little beyond the fact that no such decision has been announced.
That’s where President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s March 2025 letter to Donald Trump becomes relevant. In it, Mohamud offered Washington “exclusive operational control” of Baledogle airfield, Berbera’s port and airfield, and Bosaso’s port. Mohamud’s letter treated Berbera and Bosaso as though Mogadishu could offer them on the same terms as Baledogle. In practice, those facilities are administered by Somaliland and Puntland respectively, meaning any operational agreement would require engagement with those authorities — something Anderson had already done, having met Somaliland’s president, military leadership, and coast guard during his November 2025 visit to Hargeisa and Berbera.
Civilian Casualties: A Familiar Defense
On airstrikes and civilian harm, Anderson leaned on AFRICOM’s standard defense: every credible allegation gets investigated, mistakes have led to reparations, and no military invests more in avoiding civilian harm. He pivoted quickly to al-Shabaab’s own toll on civilians and its record of false claims against U.S. strikes.
The answer reflected AFRICOM’s long-standing public position. Whether it satisfies Somali critics is another question.
The Bottom Line
Anderson arrived in Mogadishu insisting the United States had “not turned its back” on Somalia. He left having acknowledged, more plainly than any senior American official has in years, that continued engagement now depends on what Somalia does next. Washington is still willing to invest. It is still willing to fight alongside its partner. But it is also openly asking how much longer it can justify doing so if political dysfunction continues.
“It’s going to be very hard for us to continue to stay engaged.”
That may prove to be the most consequential sentence uttered in Mogadishu all week. Its unclear if General Anderson will visit Somaliland following his trip to Mogadishu.
This analysis is based on an on-the-record interview with Gen. Dagvin R.M. Anderson, commander of U.S. Africa Command, conducted in Mogadishu. Anderson last visited Somaliland and Puntland in November 2025, as part of a separate trip through the region.
Dialysis patients protested Wednesday over broken machines and inflated supply costs; a suspiciously well-timed counter-showing of supportive patients followed within hours.
The health minister called the protest a foreign plot, then reversed course; Georgia licensing records show he is a respiratory therapist, not a physician.
Thursday’s damage-control visit by President Abdirahman “Irro” featured praise from patients and vague pledges — with the health minister and his director-general conspicuously absent.
A separate $400,000 MRI purchase remains at the seller’s premises; the ministry’s director-general defended the arrangement by citing a radiation risk that does not exist.
The hospital’s dysfunction, and its officials’ dubious credentials, predate this government — as does the opposition’s own record of neglect and, in KAAH’s chairman, a personal history of graft allegations dating to the Silanyo era.
The episode compounds a summer of eroding public trust, including a bungled tax rollout the government struggled to explain.
President Abdirahman “Irro”‘s real diplomatic win abroad — Israel’s historic recognition of Somaliland — does nothing for a patient rationing dialysis or a minister who faked his credentials; recognition raises the bar for domestic governance rather than excusing it.
It took the Somaliland government less than twenty-four hours to transform kidney patients from alleged agents of a foreign conspiracy into the grateful backdrop for a presidential hospital visit. The speed of that reversal, and what it reveals about how the government manages public crises, is the real story of this week’s dialysis controversy.
On Wednesday, dozens of dialysis patients — many visibly weak, some too exhausted to stand for long — gathered outside the Presidential Palace and the House of Representatives in Hargeisa. Their complaint was unremarkable by the standards of failing public hospitals everywhere: machines that do not work reliably, supplies priced above what the same items cost at a pharmacy down the road, and appeals to the Ministry of Health Development that had gone nowhere. One protester supplied the arithmetic: a needle that should cost 25,000 Somaliland shillings was being sold to them for 50,000, and a dialysis filter that should cost 6,000 shillings was going for 15,000 — inside the hospital meant to be treating them.
A second group of patients came forward almost immediately, disputing the complaint and praising the hospital’s care. The timing prompted widespread speculation that the second group’s appearance was intended to blunt the original protest before it gained traction. This publication cannot independently confirm that reading; it has not established who organized the second group, or whether it assembled on its own. But the readiness to suspect an official hand behind it says something about how little trust the government has banked with the public it serves.
What the Numbers Show
A detailed account circulating on social media, attributed to someone who says they worked in Hargeisa Group Hospital’s dialysis unit for six months, sets out the shortfall in clinical terms. Standard practice calls for dialysis patients to receive treatment three times a week, four hours a session — twelve hours weekly. According to the account, patients at the hospital are, at best, managing two sessions a week of roughly three hours each: about six hours, or half the protocol. The consequences described are not abstract — fluid and toxin buildup, swelling, an inability to eat or sleep, a slide toward what the writer calls a state “between life and death,” worsened by the absence of a nephrologist on staff at all. The same account lists what patients are left to buy themselves: dialyzer filters, gauze, syringes, infection medication, the anemia treatment Epoetin, sterile gloves, and wound dressings — the same categories of cost the protesting patients cited outside the Palace.
This publication cannot verify the author’s identity or employment history, and the account is testimony, not confirmed fact. But its specificity is not easily dismissed, and it closes with the question the government has yet to answer: given the clinical picture it describes, was the health minister’s “foreign agenda” framing a genuine misreading of a medical emergency, or something else.
The Minister’s response set the tone for what followed. Rather than address the substance, Hussein Bashir Hirsi told reporters the protest was “an organized program that is being pushed by foreigners,” naming journalists and poets as participants in a supposed plot to “disrupt the public and send patients to foreign countries.” Even Somaliland National TV, the state broadcaster, which carried the Minister’s remarks without challenge, could not help noting the oddity of the moment: by its own account, this appeared to be the first time impoverished patients complaining about their own medical treatment had been cast as instruments of a foreign hand. A minister of health, confronted by chronically ill patients asking for cheaper gauze and working machines, had reached instead for the language of subversion. In the same breath, he conceded the underlying complaint was real, announcing that dialysis and some supplies would now be free and that the unit’s leadership would be replaced with a doctor of the patients’ own choosing. The reversal sits uneasily beside the claim that the protest was principally a foreign-organized operation.
The political cost was immediate. The story dominated the news cycle within hours, with opposition figures and ordinary Somalilanders alike calling for the Minister’s resignation, along with that of the hospital’s leadership and the dialysis unit’s.
Thursday brought the government’s second move. President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdillahi “Irro” arrived at the hospital in person, a day after the protest began, in a scene familiar to anyone who has watched a Somaliland administration manage a scandal before. Notably absent from his side were the two officials most responsible for the week’s controversies: neither Minister Hirsi nor Director-General Ahmed Mahamoud Jama accompanied him into the ward. In their place was the Chief of Police — an unusual choice of company for a hospital visit, and one that did little to dispel the sense that this was damage control rather than inspection. Their absence is corroborated by the Presidency’s own account of the visit: a statement issued by spokesman Hussein Aadan Cige “Deyr” describes the President receiving his briefing from the hospital’s own director-general, and makes no mention of either the Health Minister or his ministry’s director-general attending at all. The President toured the dialysis ward, sat with patients, and, by the Presidency’s account, heard uniform praise for the very unit that, less than twenty-four hours earlier, patients had been too weak to stand in front of the Palace complaining about. Healthcare, the statement quotes him telling those gathered, is “a national duty,” with government bearing the greatest responsibility for ensuring it. “Many more kidney machines are coming — the government is committed to meeting the need,” President Abdirahman “Irro” told those gathered, a pledge the Presidency’s own statement echoed only in vaguer form afterward, promising “urgent” action on machines and supplies without a timeline or a figure attached. He then turned to the hospital’s own administrators, where his tone shifted to a warning — delivered privately to the people responsible rather than publicly to the people affected — that mismanagement and mistreatment of patients “will not be tolerated.”
The Presidency’s own statement described praise from patients, a promise of more machines, and a private warning to hospital administrators. It made no reference to the Minister’s allegation that the protest had been orchestrated by foreign actors.
The Man Behind the Title
One detail sharpens the sting of the Minister’s dismissal. Hussein Bashir Hirsi is publicly known, and refers to himself, as “Dr.” Hussein Bashir Hirsi. A search of the Georgia Composite Medical Board’s public license-verification system — the licensing authority in the U.S. state where Hirsi is credentialed — lists him under the name “Hersi, Hussein Bashir” with an expired license as a Respiratory Care Professional, number 7656. No Georgia physician license appears under his name. Respiratory therapy is a legitimate allied-health profession, but it is not medicine, and it carries none of the training, residency, or board examinations that the title “Doctor” commonly implies to the public he now serves as Somaliland’s senior-most health official.
None of this disqualifies Hirsi from ministerial office; plenty of health ministers, in plenty of countries, are not physicians. What it sharpens is a question of standing. A minister who does not appear to hold a physician’s license nevertheless stood before dialysis patients — people whose survival depends on functioning kidneys and honest information about their own care — and accused them of serving foreign interests rather than engaging with a legitimate complaint about pricing and equipment. The credential gap proves nothing about the truth of that accusation on its own. But it raises broader questions about transparency over professional credentials in senior public appointments, in a case where the same official’s judgment is otherwise at issue. This publication sent written questions to the Ministry of Health Development for this story; it had not received a response by the time of publication.
A Second Procurement Question, and a Curious Explanation
A second allegation surfaced this week, concerning imaging rather than dialysis. Hargeisa Group Hospital paid $400,000 for a used MRI machine that has not moved: it remains installed at the seller’s original premises, a former private medical lab, with reports that the hospital is now also paying that seller rent to keep it there.
The Ministry has its own account of the delay. Minister Hirsi told Dawan, the state-run newspaper, that the MRI was a domestic purchase rather than an import, and that it remains at the site where it was bought while a permanent home is built — the same arrangement, he said, used for three newly acquired CT-scan machines, one already running in Borama, one under construction in Ceerigaabo, and one being installed in Berbera. He said the ministry has arranged transport for patients to and from the MRI, and that pricing is set below private rates, with patients unable to pay treated free of charge. If accurate, that explains why the machine has not relocated. It does not address whether the hospital is separately paying rent in the interim — a question the Ministry has not spoken to directly, and one worth putting to it plainly rather than assuming the worst in its silence.
What is not in dispute, and what the Ministry’s account does not resolve, is a separate exchange over the machine’s underlying technology. Asked by a reporter to explain the arrangement, Director-General Ahmed Mahamoud Jama said MRI machines emit powerful and unsafe radiation, and that the current site is equipped to contain it safely.
That explanation conflicts with established medical science. Magnetic resonance imaging uses magnetic fields and radio waves to produce diagnostic images; it carries none of the ionizing radiation exposure associated with X-ray or CT scanning, and requires none of the shielding those technologies mandate. This is not a matter of interpretation but a settled fact of the technology, one any administrator procuring imaging equipment should know before signing for it.
Either the Director-General misunderstood the technology his ministry purchased, or he offered an explanation inconsistent with established medical science, wagering that a reporter’s question would not be followed up on. Whatever the reason, the justification does not withstand scrutiny. The Ministry’s broader defense — that a permanent site is under construction, as with the CT-scan rollout — may ultimately prove sufficient. But the specific explanation Jama offered for why the machine remains at its current location does not.
A Pattern, Not an Incident
None of this occurs in a vacuum, and none of it is new. Hargeisa Group Hospital has drawn corruption and mismanagement reporting for years, under more than one government. In 2019, this publication reported that an incoming hospital director had inherited a $423,000 debt in unpaid electricity bills and medicine purchases from his predecessor, with staff pointing to the lavish lifestyles of hospital employees as evidence of graft they could not otherwise prove. In 2020, the hospital’s entire management team, save one holdover, was fired by presidential order following allegations of corruption and missing funds, after a string of patient deaths attributed to a lack of oxygen. Nor is the credentials problem confined to the current minister: this publication reported as far back as 2018 that the National Health Professionals Commission, the body responsible for licensing every doctor and health worker in Somaliland, was chaired for years by a veterinarian rather than a physician. The pattern predates President Abdirahman “Irro”, predates Hirsi, and predates this week’s headlines. What is new is who now presides over it.
That matters because President Irro campaigned explicitly on change, promising a break from the patronage and drift of the government he replaced; his Waddani party built its legitimacy on the claim that its officials would govern differently. The dialysis and MRI episodes complicate that promise directly — it is his own health minister making the foreign-agents accusation, and his own director-general offering an account of MRI technology that is simply false. The public shorthand for the wider problem, “G+1” — a reference to the ground-plus-one villas rising across Hargeisa’s newer neighborhoods, informal slang for wealth that officials’ salaries do not obviously explain — predates this government but has attached itself readily to Waddani figures now serving in it. Despite mounting calls for a cabinet reshuffle, the President has kept his government intact.
The silence of two figures stands out in particular. Khadar Hussein Abdi, once Waddani’s secretary-general and now Minister of the Presidency, spent his years in opposition publicly attacking then-President Muse Bihi Abdi over neglect of the same hospital, noting in circulating video clips that it sits barely 200 meters from the Presidential Palace — by his own estimate; the actual distance is somewhat greater — and yet was left to decay in plain sight. The current Minister of Information, Culture and National Guidance, Barkhad Jama Hersi Batun, arrested alongside Khadar Hussein Abdi in 2019 during a crackdown on Waddani’s leadership, made similar appeals from the opposition benches, delivering emotional accusations of malpractice against the Bihi government’s handling of the same institution. Neither man has said a word about this week’s crisis at the hospital now under his own party’s watch. The silence extended to the cabinet table: Mahmoud Hashi Abdi, chairman of the opposition KAAH party, noted that the Council of Ministers met the day after the protest and did not so much as raise the public’s complaint.
The opposition’s own response has been to capitalize on the moment rather than reckon with its record. Parties built from the remains of Muse Bihi Abdi’s Kulmiye-led government — the same government under which Hargeisa Group Hospital accumulated the 2019 debt scandal, the 2020 mass firings, and the oxygen-shortage deaths this publication documented at the time — have cast themselves as the patients’ champions this week. Kulmiye’s deputy chairman, Abdiqasiis Mohamed Samale, visited the hospital’s kidney department and personally pledged two dialysis machines, bringing the opposition’s combined pledges to three in a single day, against the government’s own vaguer promise of unspecified new equipment. Former Technology Minister Abdiweli Soufi, also of Kulmiye, was blunter: “The Waddani government has been in office a year and a half, and we still haven’t seen a single health facility they’ve opened.” The machines may well help patients in the near term, and desperate patients have little reason to refuse them. But the neglect that left Hargeisa Group Hospital short of working equipment did not begin when Waddani took office, and an opposition that nurtured the same starved system for years is not a credible messenger for the outrage it is now amplifying. Somalilanders are being asked to choose between a government that denies its failures and an opposition that inherited them and prefers amnesia to accountability.
Nor does the KAAH party offer cleaner hands. Its chairman, Mahmoud Hashi Abdi, is a veteran of the Silanyo era, when he held several ministerial portfolios in what critics still regard as Somaliland’s most patronage-riddled administration. As aviation minister, he oversaw the 2013 reconstruction of Hargeisa Airport’s runway, funded by a $10 million Kuwait Fund grant — a project this publication has since linked, through the officials who passed through it, to the patronage networks still surfacing in credential scandals at the Presidency a decade on. In the same post, he announced Somaliland’s 2013 agreement to jointly manage Somali airspace with Mogadishu, a deal critics at the time said conceded ground to the federal government’s claim of legal authority over airspace Somaliland considers its own. None of that disqualifies him from criticizing a cabinet that ignored sick patients; the criticism is fair regardless of who makes it. But it is a reminder that in Somaliland’s political class, today’s loudest critic of corruption is often yesterday’s practitioner of it — and a public asked to trust these messengers would do well to count its fingers after shaking their hands.
A Wider Well of Discontent
The dialysis and MRI episodes are not free-standing scandals; they are the latest entries in a longer ledger of public frustration with the government of President Abdirahman “Irro”. The dialysis controversy also landed against a backdrop of declining public confidence following the government’s troubled rollout of a new Goods and Services Tax this summer — confusion over the levy forced officials to postpone its implementation from July 11 to August 1, and reportedly required enlisting social-media influencers to explain it to the public — reinforcing an impression that officials respond to criticism reactively rather than transparently.
A government already fending off suspicion over G+1 villas and unexplained official wealth, and already struggling to explain a tax rollout it could not clearly communicate to its own public, was always going to be read uncharitably the moment its health minister accused sick citizens of serving a foreign agenda. The episode may not be the deepest wound in President Abdirahman “Irro”‘s governing record, and it may not even be the most costly one this month. But it is the most visible, because it involves people whose suffering cannot be explained away with a hospital tour and a photograph.
Recognition Abroad, Reckoning at Home
President Abdirahman “Irro”‘s government has undeniably secured significant diplomatic gains, most notably Israel’s formal recognition of Somaliland’s independence on December 26, 2025 — a first for any Somaliland leader — along with a meeting with Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and an invitation to the World Economic Forum in Davos. Those achievements deserve acknowledgment, and the 63.92% of voters who elected him in a landslide in November 2024 gave him a real mandate to pursue them. But foreign-policy success cannot substitute for competent domestic governance. Recognition abroad raises, rather than lowers, the standard by which a government is judged at home — and a minister who does not appear to hold a physician’s license in the jurisdiction where he is credentialed, a director-general who cannot distinguish an MRI from an X-ray, and patients rationing their own dialysis time are not the record of a government that has earned the benefit of the doubt.
The government can replace the head of a dialysis unit. It can purchase more machines. It can promise better oversight.
Trust is harder to replace.
On Wednesday, patients believed the only way to be heard was to leave their hospital and protest outside the Presidential Palace. On Thursday, the government returned to the hospital with cameras. Whether it returns with lasting reform will determine whether this week’s photographs become evidence of accountability — or merely another entry in Somaliland’s long archive of political damage control.
Imagine a single private company holding every lever of government in its hands — shaping decisions, subverting the rule of law to fleece Somaliland, and quietly absorbing state institutions into its own machinery through deception and bribes. That is no longer a hypothetical in Somaliland, a country that has craved diplomatic recognition since 1991.
Many Somalilanders increasingly fear that this is precisely what has happened. At the center of those concerns is Dahabshiil — also known as “Dhiigshiil” — Somaliland’s largest financial and telecommunications conglomerate. Its rise from a small grocery business in Burao to one of the Horn of Africa’s largest enterprises is, by any measure, a remarkable business success. But commercial success does not place any company above public accountability.
Founder Mohamed Said Duale entered the remittance business in the 1980s, serving Somali migrant workers across the Gulf. When the United States shut down the rival Al-Barakat network after the September 11 attacks over terrorism-financing allegations, Dahabshiil expanded rapidly to fill the vacuum. Critics argue that this growing economic power was gradually converted into political influence — first through campaign financing for the Kulmiye party, and later through close relationships with successive administrations, including that of current President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdullahi “Cirro.”
Perhaps the most alarming development involves the Guurti, Somaliland’s House of Elders — a stabilizing institution long relied on for oversight during national crises, and one of the few checks capable of resisting political or commercial influence, provided it stays independent.
That’s why the recent selection of its leadership deserves scrutiny. After chairman Suleiman Aden resigned for health reasons, Muse Abdi Dualeh — a cousin of Dahabshiil founder Mohamed Said Duale — was chosen to succeed him. Several outlets have alleged the process was shaped by bribery and pressure to secure the post for a relative of the founder. Those allegations remain unproven, but if true, they’d suggest Somaliland’s final constitutional safeguard has itself become vulnerable to private influence.
The years following Kulmiye’s 2010 election victory remain especially contested. As President Ahmed Mohamed “Silanyo’s” health declined, critics say individuals with close Dahabshiil ties exercised outsized influence over government decision-making, blurring the boundary between private interest and public office. Among those frequently named is Hersi Hassan, a former Dahabshiil employee and relative of the founder, who now chairs the ruling Waddani party.
Over the past decade, journalists, opposition figures, former officials, and civil society activists have accused Dahabshiil of systematically extracting public wealth through political influence and the abuse of state power. If accurate, these allegations would represent one of the largest transfers of public assets into private hands in Somaliland’s history. Critics point to the transfer of valuable public land — including the former Traffic Police headquarters and colonial-era government buildings in the Shacab area — without competitive bidding or public disclosure. They also cite the handover of Hargeisa’s electricity utility, serving some 250,000 customers, to a Dahabshiil affiliate later rebranded Sompower, through what critics describe as a noncompetitive process. Consumers subsequently faced rising electricity prices, alongside unanswered questions about a reported $40 million World Bank-funded energy project.
Additional accusations include the construction of a fuel storage facility in Berbera without the required safety permits, an attempted seizure of the Berbera Cement Factory — blocked only after intervention by Sahel clan elders — and coordinated currency hoarding that critics say amounted to manipulation of the Somaliland shilling. If proven, the latter would rank among the most serious economic abuses in the country’s history.
These concerns are not rumor alone. In 2019, Freedom House reported that Somaliland’s Public Accounts Committee had uncovered widespread misuse of government funds during the Silanyo administration and had formally requested an investigation by the attorney general. None followed. Instead, committee chairman Nasir Ali Shire — who had publicly questioned Dahabshiil’s land acquisitions — was removed from his post by the Speaker of Parliament. To many observers, the message was unmistakable: exposing alleged corruption carried greater political risk than investigating it.
Whether any of these allegations could ultimately be substantiated in court is a matter for investigators, not opinion writers. But the volume, consistency, and persistence of the claims — combined with documented institutional failures to examine them — demand far more than official silence.
The appropriate response is neither rumor nor denial — it is independent investigation. The government should establish a credible commission empowered to examine public land transfers, government contracts, donor-funded projects, election interference, and currency manipulation. Its findings should be made public, and prosecutions should follow wherever evidence leads.
But I remain skeptical that the current Waddani administration will initiate such an investigation against a company so deeply intertwined with Somaliland’s political establishment. If the government refuses to act, peaceful civic pressure — including a voluntary consumer boycott of Dahabshiil’s businesses — becomes one of the few remaining courses of action open to citizens. Such a boycott would not be a declaration of guilt. It would be a demand for transparency and equal justice under the law.
Ultimately, this is no longer a debate about one corporation. It is a debate about whether Somaliland remains a republic governed by law, or gradually becomes a state where economic power determines political power — as it did for the Gupta family in South Africa. An independent investigation would either clear Dahabshiil’s name or expose wrongdoing where it exists. Either outcome would strengthen Somaliland’s democracy. Refusing to investigate accomplishes only one thing: it teaches citizens that power, not justice, decides who is held accountable. That is how state capture succeeds — not in one dramatic moment, but one unanswered allegation at a time.
Somaliland’s patriots did not fight, and did not die, for a nation that could be quietly auctioned off to whoever controls the money-transfer market. The Guurti does not belong to Dahabshiil. The government does not belong to Dahabshiil. The republic does not belong to Dahabshiil. Somaliland belongs to its people — and it is time its government proved it believes that.
About the Author
Ali-Guban Mohamed is a political analyst specializing in Horn of Africa politics and security, and the founder and editor of Gubanmedia.com, a site dedicated to news, analysis, and commentary on the region.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
Somaliland launched a new institute in May 2026 dedicated to advancing international recognition, and it was a step to add expertise and intensify efforts to gain recognition by an institution solely dedicated for that purpose. The question now is whether the institute’s focus matches the political realities that actually decide recognition.
The Somaliland Recognition and Independence Institute was inaugurated by Somaliland President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdullahi in Hargeisa. The goal is to professionalise and deepen the efforts to gain recognition by launching a dedicated institute for that sole purpose, an institute that brings together the best and brightest from the legal community, academia, diplomats and advocates.
The Institute’s Goals and Focus Areas
The institute intends to document Somaliland’s history and national struggle, strengthen and present the legal arguments for recognition, and pursue justice and reparations for historical crimes like the Isaaq genocide and injustices committed against Somaliland and its people. It also aims to coordinate and support efforts by a global network of more than two thousand international supporters described as “friends of Somaliland,” bringing together academics, legal experts, diplomats and advocates.
The institute can also play a practical supporting role in advocacy abroad. While the core legal case for recognition is already well researched, it can organise workshops and produce clear materials that equip the network of roughly two thousand friends of Somaliland to present the case more effectively.
The institute represents a clear institutional advance as they enable specialists to dedicate all their time and research to advance recognition to complement the government’s efforts. And the involvement of experienced figures such as Sir Gavin Williamson as chairman and Jason McCue as director adds credibility and access through their networks that would otherwise be harder to obtain. To give you an idea, Sir Gavin Williamson is an experienced British politician who has served as Chief Whip of his party, he served as Secretary of State for Defence and Secretary of State for Education, and Jason McCue is an acclaimed British human rights lawyer and international justice campaigner who has previously acted as a Presidential Envoy for Somaliland.
Is the Strong Legal Focus of the Institute the Right Focus to Advance Recognition?
The case for (re)recognition of Somaliland is from both a legal and historic perspective arguably among the strongest cases of any entity seeking (re)recognition today. First of all Somaliland meets the gold standard in international law regarding statehood, the Montevideo convention criteria; it has a permanent population, it has a clear defined territory based on the borders of the former British Somaliland Protectorate, it has a stable and functioning government. And it has the capacity to enter into international relations. It maintains many diplomatic relations, Hargeisa is home to many diplomatic liaison offices, and it has its first official embassy and ambassador in Israel.
Furthermore in 1960 Somaliland briefly existed as an independent state recognised by approximately thirty-five countries before entering a union with Somalia that was never properly ratified. As an indigenous people, Somalilanders hold the right to self-determination under the UN Charter. The African Union’s own 2005 Fact-Finding Mission to Somaliland described the case as “historically unique” and “self-justified in African political history.”
What sets Somaliland especially apart from every other territory currently seeking diplomatic recognition, including South Ossetia, Abkhazia and Western Sahara, is this combination: a period of internationally recognised independent statehood, followed by a union that the African Union’s own fact-finding mission concluded was never ratified. None of these other cases has ever held recognised independent statehood in the first place, let alone a documented finding that a subsequent union was unratified. The distinction is not one of ordering, but of ingredients: these elements are missing from their cases altogether and make the case for recognition by Somaliland stand out globally.
But diplomatic recognition is not primarily a legal question. It is fundamentally a political decision made by governments based on political arguments mostly. Leaders weigh national interests (it is very much transactional based on what is in it for a country), alliances like ties to Somalia, great-power competition, and domestic political calculations, including the fear of setting precedents in countries that themselves face separatist or secessionist movements. And despite the fact that Somaliland is not a secessionist entity but a restored independent state, those political concerns still influence decision-makers.
A good example of how politics determine recognition, not legal arguments, is Kosovo. Kosovo received major-power political backing during and after a war against Serbia, particularly from the United States and much of NATO, and now has upwards of 100 recognitions worldwide, depending on the source. Kosovo didn’t win those recognitions based on their legal case, but simply because enough major world powers backed its independence.
In contrast, entities such as South Ossetia, Abkhazia and Western Sahara remain largely unrecognised despite their own claims, because the political calculus has not shifted in their favour. This is because politics dominate decisions about recognition; legal arguments are merely used to support a case, they do not determine the outcome.
Given this reality, the institute’s current heavy public emphasis toward strengthening and presenting the legal arguments for recognition seems out of touch with what drives recognition. The political and strategic dimensions that actually move governments remain quite underdeveloped in the publicly described mandate.
A Much Needed Course Correction
Because recognition is primarily a political decision, several concrete areas remain underdeveloped and would strengthen the institute’s ability to influence recognition.
First, systematic profiling of countries who could be open to recognition is needed. This should examine not only general friendliness to Somaliland and openness to recognition, but also their alliances, opposing interests, incentives, and the larger regional and global power-competition dynamics in which they operate. This way the institute can determine which countries are most promising when it comes to recognition and which countries are for now not a realistic option. This prevents using resources to court countries that have no intention whatsoever to recognise Somaliland and enables the government to focus on the most promising countries. Profiling, however, is only the starting point; each promising country then needs its own tailored strategy, since no single approach fits all. Some governments may be prepared to move relatively quickly to formal recognition. For most, recognition is more likely to emerge from a gradual process of deepening economic or security ties until the relationship reaches a point where formal recognition becomes the logical next step.
Somaliland’s own experience illustrates the difference. Relations with the United Arab Emirates developed over years: early contacts grew into major investments in Berbera port, now a state of the art deep sea port run by DP World under a long-term concession worth up to $442 million, as reported by Reuters, followed by investment in power, airport upgrades, and a planned railway link to Ethiopia. The UAE now accepts Somaliland passports and its visa system lists Somaliland as a country like any other recognised country, there are direct flights between the UAE and Somaliland, and the UAE maintains a military presence. It is a deep relationship that amounts now to a form of soft recognition, stopping just short of the formal kind. Israel took a shorter path: after a relatively short period of negotiations recognition came first, on 26 December 2025, and after recognition launched cooperation in water, agriculture, healthcare, business and security, including training Somaliland’s special forces, as confirmed by Somaliland’s Defence Minister to Reuters. Two countries who followed two very different pathways. This is where the institute can add real value: profiling candidates, then designing country-specific strategies matched to each partner’s interests, comfort level and political sensitivities.
Second, the institute and its vast network can organise multi-level engagement with political decision-makers, opinion leaders, media and policy influencers in the most promising countries. This is essential as recognition is advanced by the people who shape policy and influence it. The institute can support their global network with targeted workshops: it can offer media training for advocates in the press, and lobbying and policy-brief drafting for those actively lobbying in political circles. It can also draw on its own profiling work to supply advocates and diaspora professionals with country-specific messaging and briefings.
Third, clear strategies are needed to counter opposing campaigns and even anticipate them so the institute’s network and the government can be prepared for that, particularly those mounted by Somalia, so Somaliland’s narrative isn’t left undefended. Responses can range from media campaigns and lobbying to a deliberate sequencing strategy: prioritising bilateral, country-to-country recognitions first, while avoiding international forums where Somalia and its allies could engineer a visible diplomatic loss. By focusing on bilateral recognitions and building a critical mass of recognitions, Somaliland can accumulate concrete wins; only once that critical mass exists does it become safer to engage multilateral institutions, where existing recognitions outweigh opposition. In parallel, the institute can monitor the arguments used by opposing campaigns and supply rapid-response briefings the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and supporters can deploy.
Fourth, Somaliland should define its own interests and red lines on economic, security and governance questions that may arise in any future recognition-related discussions. Because recognition usually involves negotiations that touch on both countries’ interests, entering such conversations unprepared risks a bad deal.
Fifth, mechanisms to track and convert existing operational and practical relationships into formal political recognition over time would turn day-to-day engagement into lasting results.
Equally important is the question of local ownership. The international leadership brings valuable stature and experience. At the same time, well-intentioned outsiders can miss certain domestic and regional sensitivities, historical nuances and the informal dynamics that shape relations in the Horn of Africa and neighbouring regions. A practical middle path is to preserve the international expertise while pairing it with Somalilanders in co-chair and comparable positions at every level. This ensures that local knowledge and national interest are integrated and prevents blind spots.
Finally, the institute should be designed to complement, not compete with, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Ministry already carries out important diplomatic work and has been building professional capacity, including through its own diplomatic training programmes. The institute can usefully serve as an advanced expertise and talent centre that develops specialised knowledge on priority regions and aspects of recognition strategy, then feeds that capacity back into the Ministry.
Conclusion
The Somaliland Recognition and Independence Institute is a positive institutional development. Its strengths in documentation, justice work, international networking and the practical equipping of supporters are real. To maximise its contribution, however, its centre of gravity needs to reflect the nature of the decision it seeks to influence.
Recognition is driven primarily by political calculations and political actors. Legal and historical work remain important, but the legal case itself is already well established and researched, and the institute’s current focus misses the fact that politics drive recognition. A clearer and greater focus on the political dimensions, combined with structural pairing of international expertise and Somalilander leadership at all levels, and close complementarity with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, would better equip the institute to advance Somaliland’s national interest in a sustained and effective manner.
The foundation has been laid. The real test is whether the institute will now refocus itself toward the political arena where recognition is actually decided.
About the Author
Brian McDonald, a columnist and geopolitical analyst who spent years in the Middle East, Singapore, Eastern and Southern Africa. He posts in various publications on current events. Mr. McDonald holds an MA in global governance, politics and security and is postgrad at the Defense studies department of Kings College London.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
Just days ago, a Norwegian football supporter drew sharp criticism for refusing to join the rhythmic rowing cheer that swept through the stadium stands. To many football fans, his solitary resistance looked absurd. I could not help but laugh because it perfectly captured what it feels like to be a Somalilander attempting to step outside the all-encompassing pull of tribalism: one lone dissenter amid a roaring crowd, the ultimate contrarian.
In the dusty streets of Hargeisa and across Togdheer, Sool, Sanaag, Awdal, and Sahil, a young Somalilander today navigates life not merely as a citizen of Somaliland but as a member of a specific qabiil, a clan whose genealogy stretches back generations. Clan affiliation often shapes access to jobs, dispute resolution through mag (blood compensation), political endorsements, and informal welfare. This is not primordial harmony. It is the product of history, particularly British indirect colonial rule, which took pre-existing kinship networks and transformed them into instruments of administration, patronage, and political competition.
Jean-François Bayart’s seminal concept of the “politics of the belly” captures the essence of this system. Postcolonial governance often revolves around accumulation, clientelism, and the distribution of resources through kinship networks. In Somaliland, clan became the primary channel for this process. What began as an adaptive social organization in a stateless pastoral society was rigidified, politicized, and eventually weaponized under empire, then inherited and amplified afterward. The result is a system that provided short-term order but has proven chronically incapable of building an inclusive, meritocratic modern state.
Pre-Colonial Realities: Adaptive Order, Not Utopia
Before the British arrived, society in what is now Somaliland operated through a segmentary lineage system. Clans and sub-clans formed fluid but powerful corporate groups bound by patrilineal descent. The most functional unit was the mag-paying group, consisting of a few hundred to a few thousand men descended from a common ancestor within four to eight generations who collectively bore responsibility for mag, traditionally one hundred camels for homicide.
Anthropologist I.M. Lewis, in his classic A Pastoral Democracy (1961), described this arrangement as a “pastoral democracy” in which elders (oday) mediated disputes through xeer, customary contracts and precedents enforced by consensus in shir assemblies. Clans served as a social safety net in a harsh nomadic environment. They provided mutual insurance against drought, livestock loss, and violence, offered collective defence, and created mechanisms to transform revenge cycles into compensation.
Authority was decentralized and constrained by consensus, yet inherently limited in scale and vulnerable to feuds when obligations overwhelmed groups. Emerging Y-DNA and haplogroup studies further illuminate the picture by showing that many Somaliland clans share deep common paternal lineages, pointing to substantial shared ancestry and historical fluidity in group formation through alliances, absorption, and social genealogies rather than purely unbroken biological descent. Clan identities have long contained constructed and adaptive elements.
This was not tribalism as a modern political pathology. It was kinship functioning as governance in the absence of alternatives.
The Colonial Forge: British Indirect Rule and the Institutionalization of Clan
British engagement began with treaties in the 1880s, signed with clan leaders and existing sultanates amid strategic interests in the Gulf of Aden. The territory became the British Somaliland Protectorate. While sultanates and chiefly roles predated the British, colonial administrators formalized, salaried, and bureaucratized them. They recognized or appointed Aqils at multiple grades, paid stipends, and granted them roles as intermediaries, judges, and revenue collectors.
The British did not invent clans, nor did they create clan loyalty. They did something more consequential. They transformed flexible kinship structures into administrative and political institutions. Clan territories became administrative units. Grazing rights and disputes were adjudicated through clan channels. Economic interactions were routed through clan leaders. Clan evolved from a primarily social and jural identity into a political identity tied to state benefits and access to authority.
Mahmood Mamdani’s framework in Citizen and Subject (1996) is particularly illuminating. Indirect rule created what he termed “decentralized despotism.” Native authorities enforced customary law with colonial backing, freezing and formalizing social categories that had once been more fluid. The British excelled at using existing systems because it minimized costs and resistance while embedding long-term fragmentation.
Colonialism lit the fuse, but subsequent generations inherited the incentives and continued feeding the fire.
Post-Colonial Mutation: From Safety Net to Enduring Political Logic
The clientelist dynamic of the “politics of the belly” persisted and adapted in Somaliland. Clan affiliation continued to function as a de facto form of identification for political participation, access to positions, and informal support systems. The mag mechanism remained in use as a parallel system of compensation and collective responsibility.
In earlier times, elders were often more willing to acknowledge fault within their own group, saying something akin to, “Our son was wrong,” in order to resolve disputes peacefully and preserve collective honour. In the post-colonial era this became far less common. More recently, many tribal elders have come to function more like criminal defence lawyers, defending their clansmen at all costs, even when guilt is obvious or admitted. This shift has entrenched a mentality in which clan loyalty supersedes social cohesion and national unity, a mindset that has been exported and, in some cases, intensified within the Somaliland diaspora.
One feels this dynamic acutely in everyday discourse. Even constructive criticism of public figures is often filtered through a tribal lens, forcing one to consider an individual’s lineage before offering genuine observations. Well-meaning analysis risks being misconstrued as a tribal attack, regardless of intent.
The costs are profound.
Talented young Somalilanders increasingly lose faith in merit. Businesses become less competitive because appointments and opportunities often reward networks over ability. Public institutions remain weak because every major decision is interpreted through clan arithmetic. Investors hesitate because political stability appears dependent on informal understandings rather than predictable rules and institutions. National unity suffers because citizens frequently perceive one another as competing constituencies rather than partners in a common project. The same divisions are then reproduced within diaspora communities, limiting our collective influence and capacity for coordinated action abroad.
Elections and public office illustrate the pattern clearly. Candidates build support through clan elders and networks. Voting frequently follows lineage lines. Power-sharing arrangements and appointments often reflect clan calculations. The Guurti institutionalizes customary authority, an inheritance of the colonial decision to govern through recognized traditional leaders.
A system built upon clan as the primary political currency struggles to produce broad trust, merit-based selection, and impersonal institutions. It rewards loyalty to the group over competence. It turns public allocations into zero-sum contests. It perpetuates informal mechanisms in place of universal systems. This is how Somaliland repeatedly finds itself with institutions that struggle to attract and retain the most capable people and cabinets selected primarily on the basis of clan balancing rather than merit.
Women and minorities often find themselves disadvantaged within these arrangements, while citizens outside powerful networks frequently experience the state less as an impartial institution and more as an arena of negotiated group interests.
Somalilanders rightly take pride in their clan identities. Yet what many celebrate is not an untouched ancient inheritance but a system that was significantly rigidified and politicized during the colonial period.
Where Do We Go From Here?
Tribalism in this form does not scale to the demands of contemporary governance. It can sustain localized order, but it cannot reliably produce the impersonal rule of law, national cohesion, and economic dynamism required for a sovereign state to flourish.
Breaking this cycle does not require abolishing clans. It requires changing the role they play.
Public appointments should be governed by transparent qualifications and merit-based criteria. Schools should teach a shared national civic identity, and drill civic responsibility into students. Reliable public services and stronger local government must gradually reduce dependence on informal networks. Professional associations, civic organizations, sports clubs, and community initiatives should deliberately encourage cooperation across lineage boundaries as with the naming of Hargeisa’s neighborhoods. Customary mechanisms may continue to play valuable social and cultural roles, but the functions of the modern state must increasingly be exercised through formal and impartial institutions.
Somaliland can draw inspiration from societies that successfully transitioned away from dominant tribal logics. In several Gulf Arab states, sustained prosperity and robust public services have allowed citizens to rely increasingly on the state rather than clan elders for security, welfare, and opportunity. Traditional identities remain important, but they no longer function as the primary operating system of governance. Similar patterns have emerged in other formerly segmented societies that invested heavily in education, infrastructure, and impartial institutions.
The tragedy of Somaliland is not that it has clans. Nearly every society on earth began with kinship loyalties. The tragedy is that we have mistaken those loyalties for a permanent political destiny.
Our ancestors built clan structures because they had no state. We have a state, imperfect but real, because previous generations chose cooperation over division. The question confronting Somaliland today is whether we will continue organizing ourselves primarily as descendants of distant ancestors or finally begin acting as citizens of a common republic.
History explains how we arrived here. It does not dictate where we must go next.
If we genuinely believe Somaliland deserves full international recognition as a modern democratic republic, then we must first recognize one another as fellow citizens and not recognize one another as members of competing clans.
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About the Author
Mr. Aar Kaiser is an Associate Editor at Somaliland Chronicle.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
On January 17, 2013, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton stood beside Somalian President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud and formally recognized Somalia’s Federal Government. This was a decision made days before she left office. It ended more than two decades of estrangement since the collapse of the Siad Barre regime. It was billed as a diplomatic milestone. It was closer to a parting photo op.
Nothing about Somalia in 2012 suggested the country had turned a corner. Decades of civil war, famine, piracy, and al-Shabaab’s insurgency had left it in pieces. The political settlement that preceded recognition was a clan bargain by 200-odd unelected civilians in a hangar, not a transformation. Meanwhile, next door, Somaliland had spent two decades quietly doing the things states are supposed to do: holding competitive elections, transferring power peacefully, keeping the peace. Washington looked at both and bet billions on Mogadishu. America is still finding out what that bet cost, leading to the decision to wind down funding for AUSSOM and related missions.
That history is worth remembering now. On July 8, 2026, at Tel Aviv University, Rahm Emanuel (former Chicago mayor, former Obama chief of staff, and a man weighing a 2028 presidential run) used his moment on stage to make a joke. Quoting his grandmother, he told the audience: “You lost Europe, you lost America, and you picked up Somaliland; such a deal.” The line landed. The room laughed.
It is a good line. It is also a cheap one. Somaliland is home to more than six million people who survived genocide, fought a brutal war, buried their dead, and spent three decades building functioning institutions without the international recognition routinely extended elsewhere. To reduce that achievement to “you picked up Somaliland” is not clever. It treats an entire people’s struggle for self-determination as a throwaway line.
Somaliland is not a punchline. It is a coastline on the Bab el-Mandeb. Nearly a tenth of global seaborne trade and a large share of the world’s energy shipments pass through that strait. This is arguably more strategically vital than Hormuz now that Washington’s arrangement with Tehran has left Iran freer to explore adventurism in the region. Somaliland controls a long stretch of that coastline and sits on mineral and rare-earth deposits the West is scrambling to secure elsewhere. This is not a nation asking for charity. It is a nation of roughly 6.5 million people (pro-American, pro-Israel, functionally democratic) offering a partnership most of the Horn of Africa cannot. American officials have taken it seriously enough to show up: AFRICOM commander Gen. Dagvin Anderson visited Somaliland on November 26, 2025.
Set that against 2013. Hillary Clinton had this same choice in front of her (a stable, self-governing partner with a functioning coastline, versus a fractured state run by limited clan consensus) and she chose the fractured state, with billions of American taxpayer dollars behind it. Nobody in Emanuel’s party has been asked to defend that decision in the years since. His grandmother has a line about Somaliland recognition; the Democratic establishment does not have one about Mogadishu. Emanuel did not stop at the joke. He told the Tel Aviv audience that unconditional U.S. backing has “produced a prime minister who has presumed that his strategic interest would incur no political costs.” He called Israel a “territorial pariah,” and floated cutting American subsidies to Israel’s defense budget along with sanctions on Israeli politicians who back settler violence. He is entitled to that critique, and to make it in Tel Aviv rather than avoid the region altogether. But mocking Jerusalem for finding new friends while offering no account of why Washington sank its credibility into Somalia thirteen years ago is not strategic seriousness. It is a man testing applause lines for a primary.
Emanuel wants credit for centrism while his applause lines do the work of his party’s loudest anti-Israel flank for him. That is not moderation. That is outsourcing the punchline and keeping the podium.
When Israel recognized Somaliland (a move that may have encouraged other peace initiatives such as the recent trilateral agreement with Lebanon), the Palestinian Authority’s foreign ministry did not just object. It framed the move as cover for something sinister, warning it was designed to displace Palestinians from Gaza onto Somaliland’s coast. Emanuel, in that same Tel Aviv speech, echoed these sentiments by pushing for more conditions on Israel, more accommodation of Palestinian grievances, less benefit of the doubt for Jerusalem’s strategic decisions. He never mentions Somaliland by name. He does not have to. His posture (assume the worst motive, treat every Israeli gain as a scheme rather than a strategy) is the same one the PA led with when it rejected the recognition outright. The overlap is not merely a talking point from his potential running mates Tlaib or Omar. It is a shared instinct: reflexive suspicion of Israel acting in its own interest, dressed up as principle.
The through-line is not hard to see. Israel’s recognition of Somaliland (like the Abraham Accords before it) is an attempt to widen the circle of states willing to work with it, on the strength of shared interests rather than legacy alliances. Hillary Clinton’s recognition of Somalia was the opposite: a legacy call, made on the way out the door, that spent American money and credibility on the weaker bet. If Emanuel wants to talk about who has picked a bad partner in the Horn of Africa, his own party (and the American taxpayer) has thirteen years of receipts.
He can keep the joke. But before the next one, someone should ask him: was Hillary’s recognition of a failed state any better?
About the Author
Mr. Aar Kaiser is an Associate Editor at Somaliland Chronicle.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
When Waddani came to power, Somaliland’s citizens hoped for a new era of honest leadership. People were tired of corruption, broken promises, and politics controlled by clan favoritism. The party promised no more election delays, stronger institutions, and credible governance.
But reality was very different. Election deadlines were missed again and again, each time explained away by “logistical issues” or “political negotiations.” Over time, citizens stopped believing in the process. Elections became bargaining chips for elites instead of a democratic right.
The Borama riots showed how fragile state authority had become. What started as local grievances quickly turned into violent unrest. The government’s confused response deepened anger instead of calming it. Even national celebrations like 18 May, once a proud symbol of unity, lost their meaning as attendance and enthusiasm declined.
Most worrying was the government’s reliance on social media mobs. Decisions were made based on online outrage rather than consultation or policy analysis. Ministers feared hashtags more than constitutional obligations. Governance became reactive, chaotic, and performative.
Foreign observers who once praised Somaliland’s resilience now saw paralysis. Waddani promised to be different from Kulmiye, but it repeated the same failures, leaving the country adrift.
Clanism and Party Betrayal
Waddani promised inclusivity and meritocracy. Instead, clan politics returned as the main principle of governance. Loyal party members who had supported Waddani for over fifteen years were sidelined, replaced by opportunists from Kulmiye.
Appointments were made to appease clan elders rather than to reward competence. Ministries became bargaining chips. Women’s representation remained below 3%, a clear sign of broken promises.
The party fractured internally, with decisions contested along clan lines instead of merit. By welcoming failed Kulmiye officials, Waddani betrayed its base and undermined its credibility. Citizens who voted for change saw the same faces and the same dysfunction.
A government built on clanism cannot deliver unity. Waddani’s drift into appeasement left Somaliland weaker and more divided.
Kulmiye’s Ghosts Inside Waddani
Instead of building a new political culture, Waddani opened its doors to the very figures it once opposed. Former Kulmiye officials, rejected by voters, were given positions of influence.
This recycling of defeat destroyed credibility. Loyal cadres were abandoned, opportunists rewarded. Policies remained incoherent, corruption unchecked, and governance dictated by clan calculations.
Citizens no longer saw Waddani as a party of change. It became Kulmiye in new clothes, blurring the line between opposition and government. Instead of challenging the status quo, Waddani reinforced it.
Economic Mismanagement and Corruption
The economy was supposed to be Waddani’s chance to prove competence. Instead, corruption flourished. Public funds were stolen, symbolized by the infamous “G+1” houses. Ministries operated like private estates, contracts awarded through nepotism.
Inflation eroded wages, unemployment disillusioned youth, and inequality widened. Fuel prices fluctuated without explanation, tax burdens fell unevenly, and infrastructure investment stagnated.
International confidence collapsed. Donors and investors saw a government paralyzed by corruption and mismanagement. Somaliland’s economic potential was wasted, leaving citizens betrayed and impoverished.
Social Sector Failures
Somaliland’s social fabric, once its greatest strength, began to unravel. The Borama riots exposed the government’s inability to manage grievances. The decline of 18 May celebrations revealed a collapse of national pride.
Youth, promised opportunity, faced unemployment and exclusion. Women remained marginalized. Cultural life suffered as book fairs and festivals were restricted or politicized.
Social trust eroded, communities felt abandoned, and national pride diminished. Waddani promised unity but delivered division.
Administrative Collapse
Ministries operated without accountability. Budgets were mismanaged, audits ignored, and the civil service politicized. Appointments were based on loyalty rather than competence.
Contradictory decisions fluctuating fuel prices, bans on cultural events revealed incoherence. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs collapsed into dysfunction, damaging Somaliland’s international reputation.
Civil servants were demoralized, services delayed, and bureaucracy paralyzed. Once praised for resilience, Somaliland now appeared trapped in dysfunction.
Foreign Affairs in Disarray
Foreign policy collapsed into miscalculation. Recognition of Israel alienated Somaliland from the Muslim world and provoked outrage. Alliances with the UAE and Israel in Berbera made Somaliland a target for Houthis and extremists.
Instead of building bridges, Waddani burned them. Diplomacy became improvisation, leaving Somaliland isolated and vulnerable. The dream of recognition was pushed further away.
Security Sector Vulnerabilities
Somaliland’s stability was compromised by reckless alliances. Neutrality, once its shield, was abandoned. Internally, security forces were politicized, appointments dictated by clan favoritism.
The Borama riots revealed weaknesses in capacity and legitimacy. Citizens saw forces deployed selectively, deepening divisions. Trust eroded, neutrality lost, and Somaliland became vulnerable both internally and externally.
The Ruined Legacy
Across every sector, Waddani faltered. Governance collapsed, clanism deepened, corruption flourished, social unity eroded, administration paralyzed, foreign policy miscalculated, and security compromised. Citizens who placed their trust in reform were betrayed.
With President Abdirahman Irro expected to run again, the chances of Chairman Hersi Ali Haji Hassan becoming the next candidate are thin. His record left him politically isolated, distrusted by loyalists, and remembered as the leader who turned Waddani into the new Kulmiye.
Somaliland deserved better. Instead, it received regression. Until reform is reclaimed, Waddani’s legacy will remain one of betrayal and collapse.
Conclusion: Reform and Cabinet Reshuffle
Somaliland’s experience under Waddani shows that reshuffling a cabinet without reshaping its foundations is meaningless. The recent reshuffle was presented as reform, but it simply rearranged faces while leaving dysfunction intact. Appointments continued to reflect clan appeasement rather than competence, and loyal cadres remained sidelined.
True reform requires more than cosmetic changes. It demands rebuilding institutions, empowering merit over clan, and restoring accountability. A government cannot regain credibility by recycling failed officials; it must chart a new course rooted in principle and inclusivity.
The reshuffle highlighted the urgency of this transformation. Somaliland deserves a government that listens to its people, protects its unity, and builds a future of justice and opportunity. Reform must be structural, not superficial. It must tackle corruption at its roots, empower women and youth, professionalize the civil service, and restore neutrality in foreign and security policy.
Only by embracing genuine reform can Somaliland repair its broken compass. The path forward is clear: dismantle clan favoritism, end opportunism, and build institutions that serve the people rather than elites. Until that vision is embraced, the compass will remain broken, and Somaliland will continue to drift.
About the Author
Mr. Harir Yasin – Journalist and Political Analyst. He can be reached at hariryasin2[at]gmail.com
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
The two-day weekend has become the global standard, yet Somaliland stands nearly alone in maintaining a single weekly day of rest. Only Djibouti, Iran, Somalia, and Libya currently observe a Friday-only weekend. Nearly every other country, including almost all Muslim-majority nations, has concluded that five days of work followed by two days of rest better serves workers, families, businesses, and the broader economy.
My conviction that Somaliland should join them was not born in an economics textbook. It came while standing in some of the most breathtaking landscapes our country has to offer.
On one of the many occasions when I had the great fortune of witnessing the pristine beauty of Gudmo Biyo Cas, I found myself wondering why every Somalilander has not enjoyed this privilege. On some of these trips I was travelling with then Minister of Employment, Family and Social Affairs, Hon. Alhan Mohamed Jama. I advised her that she should pursue the creation of a two-day weekend in cabinet so that everyone else could experience the sights we had just witnessed.
I felt the same sense of awe while travelling from Hargeisa to Erigavo via the coastal route, passing Ceel Daraad, Takhaida, Shalacow, Dabqadood, Xiis, and Maydh. The feeling returned during a memorable overnight stay in Ceel Sheekh, a weekend getaway to Bulxaar from Hargeisa, and an overnight trip with friends to the stunning Gacan Libaax Mountains, among many other journeys I was fortunate to experience while living in Somaliland.
These places possess such extraordinary natural beauty that they would attract thousands of weekend visitors if they were located almost anywhere else in the world. Yet in Somaliland, the average citizen has only a single day off each week.
Raised in Canada, I have experienced firsthand what a true weekend makes possible. During the winter, two days off make ski trips to the mountains a normal part of life. In the summer, they allow families to go camping or glamping, head to the beach, explore provincial and national parks, enjoy cottage country, and travel across the country for short getaways. Canadians routinely spend weekends discovering new places, visiting friends and relatives in other cities, or simply escaping into nature before returning home refreshed for the workweek. That rhythm of life exists because people have sufficient time to both travel and recover.
By contrast, in Somaliland, that precious single day rarely permits anything beyond the immediate demands of daily life. Embarking on a meaningful adventure is largely impossible. Instead, families are often limited to going out for dinner, taking the children to a local play spot, shopping, catching up on household responsibilities, pursuing a hobby, or simply recovering from an exhausting workweek.
This is not merely a question of leisure. It is a question of economic policy.
The modern two-day weekend emerged in 1926 when Henry Ford closed his factories on Saturdays and Sundays, recognizing that rested workers were more productive and that leisure time encouraged consumer spending. During the decades that followed, industrialized nations steadily adopted the five-day workweek as both economic evidence and worker welfare pointed in the same direction.
China provides one of the strongest examples of this evolution. In 1995, it became one of the last major economies to abandon the six-day workweek and adopt a nationwide five-day schedule. The reform was designed not only to improve workers’ quality of life but also to stimulate domestic consumption and tourism. It was later reinforced through the introduction of Golden Week holidays, which transformed domestic travel into one of the world’s largest tourism markets. Since 1995, China’s economy has expanded from roughly US$735 billion to well over US$18 trillion. Hundreds of millions of people entered the middle class, while the services, retail, and tourism sectors experienced extraordinary growth. Although many reforms contributed to China’s economic rise, the standardized two-day weekend became an important part of building a modern consumer economy.
The same principle has guided reforms across the Muslim world. Saudi Arabia, a nation with deep religious traditions, changed its weekend in 2013, moving from Thursday-Friday to Friday-Saturday. The royal decree explicitly cited the need to align with international business cycles, increase overlap with global trading partners, and capture lost economic opportunities while fully preserving Friday as the principal day of worship.
Somaliland now has the opportunity to follow this well-established path. Adopting a Friday-Saturday weekend would deliver measurable gains in workforce health, productivity, domestic tourism, money circulation, youth employment, and national cohesion, all while respecting the sanctity of Friday prayers. It would also further distinguish Somaliland from Somalia through another practical institutional reform.
The benefits of a two-day weekend are not theoretical. Across decades and continents, countries that standardized weekly rest consistently experienced tangible improvements. By the middle of the twentieth century, most industrialized nations had embraced the five-day workweek. The reasoning was straightforward: workers who recover properly return sharper, make fewer mistakes, and sustain higher levels of productivity over time. Chronic fatigue from insufficient rest undermines performance, a reality repeatedly confirmed by modern research.
More recent experiments reinforce the same conclusion. When Microsoft Japan tested a four-day workweek, productivity increased by 40 percent. Similar trials in the United Kingdom, Iceland, and other countries have consistently found lower absenteeism, stronger morale, and improved productivity. While these studies examine an even shorter workweek, they reinforce the same foundational principle: adequate weekly rest is not a luxury. It is a productivity multiplier.
The economic effects extend far beyond the workplace. A two-day weekend creates opportunities for short domestic trips, family outings, dining out, shopping, and local entertainment. Around the world, domestic tourism generates trillions of dollars in annual spending and supports millions of jobs. Countries with strong weekend cultures develop vibrant hospitality, transportation, retail, and tourism sectors. Students and part-time workers fill weekend shifts in cafés, restaurants, markets, hotels, and tourist attractions, gaining valuable income and work experience while helping businesses expand their operating hours profitably.
These lessons are particularly relevant to Somaliland.
Somaliland’s economy has been built on resilience. Livestock exports, remittances, and the strategic Berbera Port remain the backbone of economic activity. Through its partnership with DP World, Berbera Port and its surrounding economic zone have undergone significant expansion, creating thousands of jobs and contributing substantially to national economic growth. An emerging services sector and a young, rapidly growing population provide additional foundations for future prosperity. Yet despite possessing remarkable natural and historical attractions, domestic tourism remains largely untapped.
Imagine the difference that a guaranteed Saturday off would make. It would eventually create the possibility of long weekends, something virtually unheard of in Somaliland today, and allow many more Somalilanders to experience places such as Gudmo Biyo Cas that I have been fortunate enough to visit. Port operations, logistics, government institutions, and private businesses all benefit from employees who are properly rested. In a developing economy where many people work six long days each week, accumulated fatigue inevitably reduces efficiency and increases costly mistakes. A proper weekend allows workers to recover physically and mentally, strengthening productivity across critical sectors, including Berbera’s expanding trade corridor to Ethiopia and beyond.
A Friday-Saturday weekend fundamentally changes that calculation. Short trips to the coast, excursions into the mountains, visits to Laas Geel, or overnight stays in places such as Ceel Sheekh become realistic. Families spend money on transport, restaurants, accommodation, guides, and local businesses. That money circulates throughout the economy. Restaurants become busier, guesthouses attract more customers, transportation services expand, and new small businesses emerge.
As demand for weekend travel grows, so too would the need for improved domestic transportation. Regular coach services, shuttle operators, rental vehicles, and eventually city-hopper flights connecting Hargeisa with Berbera, Erigavo, Borama, Las Anod, and other destinations could become commercially viable. Easier domestic travel would do more than stimulate tourism. It would allow families separated by distance to visit one another more often, strengthen ties between Somaliland’s regions, and foster a greater sense of national unity by making it easier for citizens to experience the country beyond their own hometowns.
Around the world, domestic tourism has repeatedly proven to be a powerful engine of local economic development because weekend travel keeps spending within the country, supports transportation networks, and strengthens communities.
Young people also stand to benefit. Students and other young Somalilanders would gain greater access to part-time employment in hospitality, retail, and tourism. In a country with a youthful population and ambitions for economic diversification, this means more than additional income. It provides valuable work experience, entrepreneurial opportunities, and a stronger stake in a growing leisure economy.
As Somaliland continues strengthening its role through the Berbera Corridor, engagement with global partners, and participation in regional trade initiatives, adopting a standard Friday-Saturday weekend would also reduce unnecessary friction in trade, finance, diplomacy, and business. Many international partners already operate on Friday-Saturday or Saturday-Sunday schedules. Greater overlap creates smoother communication, faster transactions, and improved commercial coordination.
The case for reform extends beyond economics.
Two days of weekly rest strengthen families and communities. Due to the widespread use of qat among many men in Somaliland, Thursday evenings are often devoted to chewing qat, followed by much of Friday being lost to fatigue or recovery. This leaves less meaningful time for families to spend together. A second day of rest gives parents more quality time with their children, creates greater opportunities for community activities, and allows citizens to explore their country’s remarkable natural and historical heritage. Shared experiences strengthen both national pride and social cohesion.
Importantly, Somaliland can adopt a Friday-Saturday weekend without compromising the religious significance of Friday. Saudi Arabia demonstrated that this balance is entirely achievable. Implementation could be phased, with government institutions leading the transition while encouraging private-sector adoption through incentives or practical guidelines. Since many businesses already close or operate reduced hours on Friday, adding Saturday simply extends an existing pattern rather than creating an entirely new one.
The costs of maintaining the status quo are significant. Continuing with a one-day weekend limits human potential and constrains precisely those sectors, including tourism, transportation, services, and trade facilitation, that offer Somaliland its greatest opportunities for diversified and sustainable growth. Somaliland has repeatedly demonstrated its ability to build strong institutions and pursue pragmatic reforms despite extraordinary challenges. Joining the overwhelming global consensus on the two-day weekend would not represent imitation. It would represent strategic modernization grounded in decades of international experience.
The evidence is overwhelming. Across cultures, political systems, and levels of economic development, nations have concluded that a two-day weekend is not merely an employee benefit but an investment in productivity, stronger families, vibrant local economies, domestic tourism, and long-term prosperity.
One day, I hope Somaliland’s city-slickers will finish work on Thursday, head home, and set off with their families in their own vehicles. I hope they will pray Friday prayer in a different town, experience the sights and sounds of unfamiliar places, and wake on Saturday to explore even more before returning home in the evening. I hope families from every corner of Somaliland will also be able to board short domestic flights or travel by road simply to spend a weekend together. Those journeys would not merely create memories. They would strengthen businesses, support jobs, deepen national unity, and allow Somalilanders to discover the beauty of the country they call home.
A simple policy reform, one additional day of rest, can unlock higher productivity, stronger local businesses, greater opportunities for young people, and a deeper appreciation of Somaliland’s extraordinary natural and cultural heritage. The world embraced this transition decades ago. Somaliland should not be one of the last places left behind.
About the Author
Mr. Aar Kaiser is an Associate Editor at Somaliland Chronicle.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
By his own account, Somalia’s president keeps turning Israel away — a weakened suitor, refused on principle — while warning that Somaliland’s recognition is a “trap.” His government’s own lobbying filings in Washington tell a different story. This week, that trap is expected to open an embassy in Jerusalem.
In a recent interview, Somalia’s President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud said it plainly, and more than once: Israel has approached his government repeatedly to establish relations, and Somalia has refused.
He was careful not to cast Israel as an enemy. Somalia has been a state for sixty-six years, he said, and “there has never been a single day when we and Israel have exchanged aggression.” Somalia does not deny Israel’s statehood — it is a UN member — and Mohamud endorsed a two-state outcome in plain terms: let Israel “become a state,” and “let these other people also settle down, let them become a state on their own land,” a position he called the view of “most of the world.” There is, he said, “no animosity… to the point of killing each other.” Somalia’s objection is one of principle — “part of it is religious and faith-based, and part of it is humanitarian and concerns human rights” — and of timing: “the time has not come” for relations.
What he described next is the part worth dwelling on. By his account, Israel approached from weakness. It had “entered wars” and “felt a threat,” and concluded that “part of the our land could reduce its threats” — and on that basis “approached us, the Somali government, several times in the past,” asking to establish relations. Many African states already maintain ties with Israel, he allowed; Somalia, repeatedly courted, declined.
It is a flattering inversion: Somalia the coveted prize, Israel the embattled suitor seeking relief on Somali soil. There is nothing hedged about it. The trouble is that Somalia’s own paper trail in Washington describes a government doing the knocking.
What the Filings Show
Under FARA, Somalia’s Embassy in Washington retained the lobbying firm BGR Government Affairs in December 2024, in a contract reported at $600,000. BGR’s supplemental statement, filed in July 2025, records repeated outreach to senior U.S. officials through spring 2025 — among them National Security Council Africa director Brendan McNamara and senior staff on the Senate Foreign Relations and House Foreign Affairs committees. The stated subject was an “Abraham Accords agreement.”
Subsequent reporting on the file goes further. Media outlets that reviewed the records report the overture was conditional: Mogadishu signalled it would consider formal ties with Israel under the Accords if Washington and Israel withheld recognition from Somaliland. A separate claim — that Somalia later urged Israel to reverse its recognition in exchange for signing on and granting access to military bases — rests on allegation rather than the filings, and should be read that way. Somalia’s government has not publicly addressed the records.
Even on the documented record alone, the filings sharply complicate Mohamud’s portrayal of Somalia as a government that rejected engagement with Israel on principle. A refusal grounded in faith and human rights is hard to reconcile with a paid campaign, mounted in the same window, to secure the very agreement that refusal supposedly forbids. Somalia’s government has not publicly addressed the filings.
The Public Fury, the Private Pitch
The claim of principled distance is hardest to reconcile with how Somalia reacted when Israel recognised Somaliland on 26 December 2025. The response was not quiet diplomacy but national fury. Within days, tens of thousands filled streets and stadiums across the country — a clergy-led rally at Mogadishu Stadium, with further protests in Mogadishu and other cities — waving Somali and Palestinian flags, stepping on images of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and chanting against the division of their country. Mohamud flew to Istanbul to stand beside President Erdogan, branded the recognition illegal, and vowed to confront any Israeli forces that might arrive. Somalia forced an emergency session of the UN Security Council; the African Union convened an emergency ministerial meeting and its peace and security council demanded the recognition’s “immediate revocation”; more than twenty states, the Arab League and the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation lined up to condemn it. In April 2026, after Israel moved to appoint its first ambassador to Hargeisa, Somalia’s ambassador to Ethiopia and the African Union, Abdullahi Warfa, warned in a social-media post that any state interfering in Somalia’s sovereignty could face “restrictions” on access to the Bab el-Mandeb Strait. The remark, widely read as aimed at Israel, was not an official policy declaration — and Mogadishu had no means to act on it in any case. Somalia does not border the Bab el-Mandeb, whose shores belong to Djibouti, Eritrea and Yemen. The long, strategically valuable coastline in proximity to the strait — roughly 850 kilometres along the Gulf of Aden, anchored by the port of Berbera — belongs not to Somalia but to Somaliland, the very territory Mogadishu claims and was purporting to defend, and the asset that draws Israel’s interest in the first place. Somalia itself fronts the open Gulf of Aden and Indian Ocean, has no navy, and sees even its own waters policed largely by foreign forces. The Somali press dismissed the warning as rhetoric.
The defiance is also personal. Asked whether Israel’s powerful influence gives him pause, the Somali President answered with a chuckle that he is unafraid — all the more so, he said, when someone is trying to divide his country — and reached for the language of sacrifice, invoking the many sons Somalia has lost in defense of its homeland. It is rousing material, pitched to a domestic audience already primed by the protests. It also cuts against his own script. A leader who has just explained that force was “removed from the agenda,” and that Somalia “cannot enter that proxy war,” reaches the moment the cameras settle on him for the martyr’s register — a nation unafraid to bleed — the very martial posture he claims to have set aside.
That is the public posture: protests, flags, an emergency Security Council session, a regional condemnation campaign — all on grounds of religious and humanitarian principle. It is hard to reconcile with what Somalia’s own agents were doing in Washington months earlier. A government that spent that period courting the Abraham Accords did not, on the evidence, hold the settled objection to them that its public response implied.
Taking Somaliland Back by Force
The same interview contains a second disclosure. Asked about the territory he calls “the north,” Mohamud framed Somalia’s choices as a binary: force, or dialogue and persuasion. Force, he said, was “what brought things to this point,” and so it was set aside. By his own account, the option Somalia weighed and then “removed from the agenda” was to “consult among itself and cooperate with whoever it can cooperate with to use force on that land” — to assemble outside partners to retake Somaliland by arms.
He never says whose force “brought things to this point,” and the omission does quiet work. If he means the campaign that severed Somaliland to begin with — the Siad Barre regime’s destruction of Hargeisa and the slaughter of Isaaq civilians in the late 1980s, widely described by scholars and human-rights organisations as the Isaaq genocide — he is conceding that it was Mogadishu’s own violence that created the separation, and the grounds on which Somaliland restored the independence it briefly held in 1960. If he means the recent fighting in Las Anod, he folds his own government’s role into the same indictment. Either way, the hand he leaves unnamed is Mogadishu’s, not Hargeisa’s.
The more revealing point is what the framing says about the path he chose. In his account, force and dialogue were not opposites in purpose — they were two routes to one destination: the “northern territory” recognised as part of Somalia. Dialogue won out as “the best interest,” not because it pointed anywhere different. That answers a question that shadowed every round of Somalia–Somaliland talks. Hargeisa entered them insisting they were a negotiation between two states over the terms of a separation already 34 years old. Mohamud’s own words indicate Mogadishu never accepted that premise: dialogue was reunification by gentler means — persuasion in place of coercion, but with the same object. The talks were never a route to recognising Somaliland’s independence; they were a way to end it without a war. The misalignment was foundational. The two sides were never negotiating the same thing.
“A Trap,” He Says
On Somaliland’s recognition, the interview turns from history to warning. Somalia must stay out of any confrontation over Israel, Mohamud argued — “there is no political benefit in it for us” — even as, he conceded, “the general public… want Somalia to look at Israel as the enemy,” a pressure he likened to the politics of “many Gulf countries.” Somalia, he said, “cannot enter that proxy war.”
From there he made his central claim about the recognition itself: that it is not real. Israel’s recognition of Somaliland “is not an existing recognition,” he said — “very, very mistaken and distorted.” Somaliland has gone unrecognised for more than thirty years, he argued, and this changes nothing: “this is not recognition either. It is a trap; it is a small trap.” A “very, very big problem could come out of it,” he warned, and “some of its manifestations are appearing” already.
In one passage, its translation uncertain, he appears to suggest that Israel, having been rebuffed by Mogadishu, turned instead to “the representatives who are here today” — Somaliland’s officials — and that this is “how they came to recognise it.” If that reading holds, it folds his two stories into one: the approach he says Somalia refused on principle became, in his telling, the recognition he now dismisses as a snare. Either way the rhetorical purpose is plain — to tell Somalilanders that what looks like a historic breakthrough is bait.
And This Week, in Jerusalem
The claim that the recognition is fake faces an awkward test this week. Somaliland’s President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdullahi — “Irro” — is expected in Israel between 15 and 17 June, according to Israeli and regional media, to formally open Somaliland’s embassy in Jerusalem and carry forward its accession to the Abraham Accords, the step Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu confirmed on 30 January. An investment forum convened with Israel’s Foreign Ministry is set for 17 June at the Dan Tel Aviv, where Irro is to lead a delegation pitching deals across agriculture, mining, energy, infrastructure and financial services.
A recognition that produces an embassy, an ambassador and a head-of-state visit to Jerusalem is not easily described as “not existing.” Neither the Somaliland presidency nor the Israeli government had publicly confirmed the visit’s full schedule at the time of writing, and dates may shift — but the trajectory is not the one Mohamud’s “small trap” was meant to describe.
The Throughline
Strip away the framing and the interview offers more than a denial. Mohamud accepts Israel’s statehood and a two-state outcome, says Israel came to him from weakness and was refused on principle, warns his own public against a proxy war, and tells Somalilanders their recognition is a trap. Running beneath all of it is a single thread the record keeps snagging: the principled refusal is hard to square with a paid campaign in Washington to join the Abraham Accords; the patient “dialogue” with Somaliland was, by his own framing, reunification by gentler means; and the recognition he calls fake becomes, this week, an embassy in Jerusalem.
For 34 years Somaliland has been told its sovereignty is Mogadishu’s to grant or withhold, by a government that calls the Accords a betrayal in public and chased them in private. The neighbour it is trying to block walks through the door Somalia could not open.
In the charged discourse surrounding the Horn of Africa, a seemingly minor terminological choice carries profound implications. Referring to citizens of the Republic of Somalia as “Somalian” rather than “Somali” is not mere pedantry. It is a deliberate act of clarity that rejects the ethno-expansionist ideology lurking behind the blanket use of “Somali.” “Somali” rightly describes an ethnic group whose presence spans multiple borders. “Somalian,” by contrast, denotes nationality tied to a specific state. Insisting on the latter for nationals of Somalia is essential for safeguarding minority rights, respecting territorial realities, and preventing the kind of conflicts that have already scarred the region.
The very name “Somalia” itself exposes the selective outrage over “Somalian.” Italian explorer Luigi Robecchi-Bricchetti and other European cartographers in the late 19th century popularized the term for territories under Italian influence, formalized as Somalia Italiana. The post-independence state name emerged from similarly external and contingent forces. The 1960 union between the former British Somaliland and Italian Trust Territory created the Somali Republic, yet the Act of Union was never properly ratified, making it a fragile political arrangement rather than a solid legal foundation. Somalilanders had no meaningful voice in adopting “Somalia” or “Somali Republic” as overarching labels. When Siad Barre seized power in 1969 and proclaimed the Somali Democratic Republic, the nomenclature became further entangled with dictatorial centralization. That republic is now defunct. Somaliland withdrew in 1991, citing the unratified union, and reasserted its separate sovereignty as a distinct country. The name “Somalia” was thus imposed without full consent from what is now Somaliland and sustained under authoritarian rule. Using “Somalian” today is no more colonial than retaining “Somalia” itself. Critics who accept one while rejecting the other reveal their true priority: preserving an expansive ethnic narrative over precise civic identity.
English dictionaries and common usage have long accepted “Somalian” as a legitimate demonym, following the standard pattern for nations ending in “-ia” such as Australian, Nigerian, Zambian, or Malaysian. U.S. President Donald Trump, among many public figures, has employed “Somalian” when discussing nationals or immigrants from Somalia, particularly in contexts involving policy or diaspora communities in places like Minnesota. This usage is straightforward and uncontroversial in everyday Anglophone discourse. The loudest opposition comes not from linguists but from those aligned with Pan-Somalism, the ideology that seeks to blur state lines in favor of ethnic solidarity. Dissent is strongest among ethnic Somali expansionist voices, pro-Somalia expansionism separatists in Somalia’s neighbouring countries, and those uneasy with Somaliland’s re-independence.
Somalia’s demographic reality further demands this distinction. The country is not 100 percent ethnically Somali. Reliable estimates place non-ethnic-Somali minorities at 15 to 33 percent of the population, with UN OCHA’s 2002 assessment suggesting they comprised roughly one-third at the time. The Somalian Bantu (Jareerweyne, Gosha, or Mushunguli speakers), the largest minority, number between one million and potentially two million, roughly 15 to 20 percent or more, concentrated in the fertile riverine areas of the Jubba and Shabelle valleys. These communities descend primarily from East African agriculturalists, including those brought as slaves in the 19th century from what is now Tanzania and Mozambique. They maintain distinct Bantu languages (such as Mushunguli or Zigula variants), alongside Somalian dialects like Maay, and preserve unique cultural traditions.
The Somalian Benadiri (Reer Xamar, including Bravanese), a coastal mercantile group with historical roots in Arab, Persian, and Swahili influences, number around 500,000 or more according to recent assessments, though their pre-civil war presence in places like Mogadishu was far larger. Somalian Bajuni fishing communities along the southern coast and islands represent another distinct Swahili-influenced group with smaller but significant numbers. Somalian occupational caste groups such as the Gaboye (also known as Midgan or Madhiban), Tumal (blacksmiths), and Yibir/Yibro (ritual specialists) collectively form a substantial segment historically estimated in the hundreds of thousands, often living as artisans and service providers barred from full social integration. Smaller communities such as the Eyle, Galgala, and others add further diversity.
Historical and ongoing records document severe oppression across these groups. Somalian Bantu communities have endured land dispossession and seizures, especially during the Barre era and civil war, alongside derogatory labeling as “jareer” (curly-haired), forced labor, rape, killings, and bonded servitude by majority clans. Somalian Benadiri populations faced targeted violence, mass displacement, and property looting during the 1990s collapse, with many fleeing as refugees; those remaining often operate under precarious conditions with limited redress. Somalian occupational castes suffer deep-seated caste-like discrimination, including prohibitions on intermarriage, exclusion from political and economic opportunities, verbal abuse, and social ostracism encapsulated in sayings like “no one will weep for you.” Across minorities, patterns include underrepresentation in governance (relegated to the “0.5” share under the 4.5 clan formula), unequal access to aid and services, forced evictions from IDP camps, sexual violence against women, and pressure to assimilate into dominant clan identities for survival. Many have been compelled to adopt a “Somali” label despite retaining distinct languages, customs, and ancestries. Calling every citizen “Somali” erases these realities and imposes a homogenizing ethnic cloak that serves majority-clan interests. “Somalian” offers a civic umbrella that respects difference rather than erasing it, much like “Nigerian” or “Kenyan” accommodates pluralism within those states.
At the heart of the terminological debate lies Pan-Somalism, or Greater Somalia ideology. The Somali flag’s five-pointed star symbolizes the dream of uniting all ethnic Somali territories: those in the Republic of Somalia, Somaliland, Djibouti, Ethiopia’s Ogaden region, and Kenya’s northeastern province. Yet Somalia never owned or administered most of these areas. They remained under Ethiopian, Kenyan, French (later independent Djiboutian), or Somaliland control. Pan-Somalism therefore represents straightforward expansionism, not legitimate reclamation. Ethnic Somalis inhabit territories across at least five countries, but this demographic fact does not confer ownership or override sovereign borders. Somaliland exists again today as a separate country, geographically positioned west of the Federal Republic of Somalia.
The 1960 union’s unratified and ultimately failed nature exposed the fragility of this project from the start. Somaliland’s 1991 withdrawal underscored that the “Somali Republic” was never a fully consensual entity. Post-independence governments nevertheless embedded expansionist goals in policy and rhetoric, pursuing unification “by legal and peaceful means” that quickly turned violent. The Shifta War (1963-1967) in Kenya’s North Eastern Province saw Somali secessionists, backed from Mogadishu, engage Kenyan forces in a brutal conflict that killed thousands and led to harsh “protected villages” policies. The 1977-1978 Ogaden War proved even more catastrophic: Somali forces invaded Ethiopian territory under the Somali Democratic Republic banner, resulting in up to 60,000 deaths, massive displacement, and eventual defeat after Soviet and Cuban intervention. These were not defensive struggles but expansionist gambles enabled by the conflation of ethnicity with state identity.
Continued interchangeable use of “Somali” for both people and state normalizes the dangerous idea that international borders are illegitimate wherever ethnic Somalis live. It feeds the very ideology that produced those wars. “Somalian,” by severing the ethnic-state link, affirms the Federal Republic of Somalia as one bounded polity among others. It respects Somaliland’s separate existence as a distinct country, as well as the sovereignty of Kenya, Ethiopia, and Djibouti, protects minority identities within Somalia’s borders, and denies implicit justification for future adventurism against neighbors. Somalilanders and communities in the other four countries correctly view the ethnic blanket term as a political tool for absorption rather than peaceful coexistence.
Scholars of nationalism have long understood how ethnonyms become weapons of power. Benedict Anderson’s concept of imagined communities and Rogers Brubaker’s work on ethnicity highlight how such labels can manufacture solidarity for political ends. In the Somali context, the ethnic label has justified internal clan dominance and external claims alike. Forcing Somalian Bantu, Somalian Benadiri, Somalian occupational castes, and other minorities into a singular “Somali” identity mirrors assimilationist projects that weaken pluralism elsewhere. A civic term like “Somalian” better aligns with federalist aspirations, minority protections, and the African Union’s uti possidetis principle, which upholds colonial-era borders to avert endless redrawing of maps through force.
Practical usage by leaders like President Trump demonstrates that “Somalian” functions effectively in policy and diaspora discussions, where nationality, not pan-ethnic loyalty, drives decisions on immigration, security, and integration. Academic and journalistic writing on the Horn of Africa should follow suit: reserve “ethnic Somali” for the transnational group and employ “Somalian” for Somalian nationals. This precision honors historical facts, including the Italian colonial roots of the state name and the dictatorial imprint of the defunct Somali Democratic Republic, without pretending the nomenclature sprang from pure indigenous consensus.
The stakes could not be clearer. In a region still recovering from decades of instability, language shapes thought and policy. Embracing “Somalian” for nationals of Somalia does not diminish ethnic Somali heritage or culture. It simply refuses to let that heritage swallow state boundaries, minority rights, and the hard-won autonomy of Somaliland. It rejects the expansionist fantasy that has already cost tens of thousands of lives in the Shifta and Ogaden wars and threatens to ignite more.
Commentators, scholars, and diplomats have a responsibility to choose words carefully. “Somalian” is accurate, attested, and neutral. Adopting the incorrect blanket usage of “Somali” for all nationals of Somalia is not a kind accommodation to ethnic sensitivities; it inadvertently promotes the oppression of non-ethnic-Somali Somalians by erasing their distinct identities and fuels Somalian expansionism by reinforcing the very ethno-nationalist ideology that justifies territorial claims on neighboring states. Its rejection therefore serves one primary constituency: those still wedded to Greater Somalia dreams. For everyone else committed to stability, pluralism, and truth, the choice is straightforward. It is time to retire the conflation that fuels division and adopt the term that reflects reality on the ground. The Federal Republic of Somalia is home to Somalians, not an ethnic monolith with license to expand.
About the Author
Mr. @1960Lander, is an Associate Editor at Somaliland Chronicle.
Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff.
