Sunday October 6, 2024
By Abdi Hafow Mohamed
Somalia’s millennials, the generation born on the eve of the collapse of the Siad Barre government, have lived their entire lives in conflict. For us, the only constant has been instability. We have waited for decades for a government that works, and when one finally began to emerge, so did our hopes for change. But that hope is now dimming, and we are left wondering: will anything ever change?
It’s not unreasonable to feel impatient with the slow pace of progress. In fact, it is more than justified. After all, what have we known but conflict, displacement, and broken promises? The hope that our generation would be the one to lead Somalia into a brighter future is fading fast. Yes, we hold elections every four or five years, but nothing seems to change. The more things shift, the more they stay the same. Francis Imbuga’s words from Betrayal in the City resonate deeply with us: "It was better while we waited. Now we have nothing to look forward to. We have killed our past and are busy killing our future."
We believed that federalism would be the solution to Somalia’s problems, but instead, it has deepened clan divisions and intensified competition. In Beledweyne, two clans on opposite sides of a river cannot cross over because of fear. Vehicles from the eastern side cannot cross to the west, and travelers must change vehicles to cross tribal boundaries. In Hiiraan, major tribes refuse to recognize the Hirshabelle state and have created a parallel entity. Everywhere you go in the federal states, there is tribal conflict, with no real reconciliation at the grassroots level.
It is easy to see why many in my generation are losing hope. We grew up as refugees, some of us in neighboring countries, only to return to a Somalia where accessing even basic government services depends on clan connections. Meritocracy is non-existent. How can we convince the next generation to focus on their education when they see officials with no formal schooling living in luxury after landing lucrative government posts? How do you tell a young Somali to keep studying when the system rewards nepotism, corruption, and connections over hard work?
I cannot forget the chilling footage I saw last September—Dr. Sakariye Cabdi Jaamac, a young doctor, was killed inside his health facility in Galkacyo as part of a tribal revenge killing. His death sent shockwaves through the young graduate doctors I knew. Many had plans to return to their villages and provide much-needed services, but after seeing how vulnerable they are in the face of tribal violence, who can blame them for reconsidering?
The government recently hired teachers across the country, a rare effort at national-scale reform. I met one of these teachers, a bright, hopeful man who was posted to a town with deep tribal conflicts. He now fears for his safety. What is the point of such initiatives if we do not first address the root causes of violence and division? Without proper reconciliation, every government project feels like putting the cart before the horse.
I remember being in Kismayo in October 2019 when the federal government suspended all flights to the city to prevent politicians from attending the inauguration of state president Ahmed Madoobe. While there, I met the family of a man who had suffered a spinal injury in a car accident. They needed to fly him to Mogadishu for surgery, but the flight ban left them stranded. The government’s decision, meant to curb political posturing, punished ordinary citizens like this family, who were caught in the crossfire of political games they had no part in. How can a government win the trust of its people when its actions directly harm them?
Somalia’s youth, over 70% of the population, are facing a critical juncture. Exclusion from politics, rampant unemployment, and a lack of meaningful opportunities are pushing them to the brink. The UNDP reports that the unemployment rate for young people aged 14-29 is a staggering 67%, one of the highest in the world. Over 60% of Somali youth express a desire to leave the country in search of better opportunities. Can we blame them?
I recently met Faatima Ali, a mother of two who was born in an IDP camp in Baidoa. She is one of the 3.9 million internally displaced Somalis who have only known life in camps. The only services she has ever seen come from humanitarian organizations. Every election cycle, Faatima watches with renewed hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be the one that changes her family’s future. But every time, her hope fades when nothing changes. How do we convince Faatima, and others like her, that there is any light at the end of this tunnel?
Or take Bilal, a 13-year-old student I met in Mogadishu. His classmates called him "the mayor" because of his leadership qualities. But in a system that allocates political power based on clan identity, Bilal’s dreams of becoming the mayor of Mogadishu are just that—dreams. The 4.5 power-sharing system ensures that talent and ambition are sidelined in favor of clan loyalty.
Most married millennials in Somalia live in rental homes, unable to afford land as prices skyrocket. The average salary in the formal sector ranges between $100 and $500, making property ownership a distant dream. Meanwhile, powerful government officials grab land meant for public use. For those of us who have worked hard, pursued education, and tried to build a better future, this reality is demoralizing.
How can we convince the next generation of Somalis to invest in this country when even those who defied the odds and achieved success end up becoming victims? How can we ask university graduates who spent 30 years in refugee camps, like those in Dadaab, to return and help rebuild Somalia, when they see stories like that of Abbas Abdullahi Sheikh Siraji? Siraji, a former refugee and Somalia’s youngest-ever minister, was shot dead by the bodyguards of another government official outside the Presidential Palace in Mogadishu. What message does this send to young Somalis?
The truth is, our impatience is not just understandable—it’s inevitable. Somalia’s future depends on its youth, yet we are repeatedly sidelined, silenced, or forgotten. Our generation is losing hope, not because we don’t care, but because we have been failed time and again by a system that values power over people, and clans over competence.
Don’t blame us for our frustration. Instead, ask what needs to change so that the youth of Somalia can finally believe in a future worth fighting for. If we don’t start listening to our youth and addressing the deep-rooted issues of tribalism, corruption, and exclusion, Somalia’s brightest days will remain trapped in a distant, unreachable future. And we cannot afford to wait any longer.
Abdi Hafow Mohamed
Abdi is a social researcher and humanitarian practitioner based in Mogadishu.
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