Somalia: The Flag Still Waves, But the Nation Does Not Stand

OP-ED — Last night, the blue flag with the white star fluttered over city squares and windswept alleyways. Patriotic songs echoed from loudspeakers in the Somali capital. In Hargeisa, the streets were quieter, cautious. In Garowe, it was a celebration full of preoccupation — the kind of festivity where people smile politely, but deep down wonder where their country is going. Sixty-five years ago, on this very night, Somalis said goodbye to colonialism. They believed they had entered a new age — a united, dignified, independent republic.

But if you looked closely into the eyes of the young people gathered in Mogadishu and Garowe — even those dancing — you could see it: a kind of emptiness. Behind the songs and lights, the unspoken question remains: What has all of this brought us?

July 1st, 1960. The day the British Protectorate of Somaliland and the UN-Trust Territory of Somalia came together and formed the Somali Republic. It was a union born of optimism and urgency — no coercion, no war, just a  agreement signed in good faith between two newly freed peoples.

For a brief moment, it worked. A civilian government with a constitution, an elected president, and a functioning parliament. Somalia was praised as a model African democracy. But beneath the surface, the state was cracking. Tribal affiliations dictated votes. Corruption seeped in. The 1969 elections deepened these fractures. Then came the trigger: President Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke was assassinated in Las Anod — an act that shocked the nation and left a dangerous power vacuum.

Within two weeks, General Mohamed Siad Barre seized power in a bloodless coup. He called it a “Revolution.” Many believed him.

Barre’s military regime lasted 21 years. He built roads, sent students abroad, and promoted a nationalist identity. But he also ruled with fear. He imprisoned, silenced, and exiled dissent. His intelligence service could turn neighbor against neighbor. By the time his regime collapsed in 1991, Somalia was fractured beyond recognition.

That collapse was not just of a government — it was the rupture of the very idea of Somalia. Civil war tore through the streets of Mogadishu. Warlords took over. Aid workers fled. The world watched as one of Africa’s brightest post-independence hopes descended into famine, anarchy, and chaos.

And then, as if to seal the wound, Somaliland — the very region that helped birth the Somali Republic — declared its independence in 1991. For over 30 years, it has remained apart. Stable. Organized. Democratic, even. But still unrecognized by the world. The dream of 1960, of unity and shared destiny, died quietly that year, and no one held a funeral.

What followed in the South was a carousel of misgovernance. The Islamic Courts rose and briefly restored order — only to be crushed by foreign-backed militias. From that rubble emerged Al-Shabaab, an insurgency that still terrorizes the country and prevents it from breathing freely.

Donors came. Billions were pledged. Conference after conference was held in Nairobi, Djibouti, Istanbul, London. Peace plans, blueprints, roadmaps. And yet the federal government that was eventually established became little more than a paper authority. The president ruled within a compound. Peacekeeping troops guarded institutions that could barely function.

And now, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud is back. He was elected once. Failed. Came back again — and this time, many believe he’s doing worse. He’s tinkering with the constitution. Imposing a disputed electoral framework. Alienating federal member states. Stirring conflicts he promised to heal.

He is not alone in this blame. Somalia’s elite — across governments, across time — have failed. The culture of leadership in Somalia has become one of impunity without performance, of power without responsibility, of diplomacy without direction.

Meanwhile, Somalia’s youth — its largest demographic — are left stranded. Educated but unemployed. Connected to the world but exiled from it. Every year, thousands risk death at sea, hoping for a life with dignity far from the land of their birth. Others fall into the grip of violence, extremism, or addiction.

So what does this anniversary really mean?

If independence was meant to bring dignity, sovereignty, and progress, what do we call a state that has lost territory, lost time, and nearly lost itself?

The flag still waves. The ceremonies still happen. The speeches are still read. But symbolism alone cannot feed a nation — nor can it fool a generation that knows the difference between memory and meaning.

Somalia needs more than remembrance. It needs repair. Constitutional respect. Honest leadership. Electoral justice. A generational reset — one that doesn’t just romanticize the past, but fights for a future that reflects the ideals of that brave July day in 1960.

Because if we’re not willing to protect the dream we inherited, then someone will come along and rewrite it.

Mohamad Abdirahman Mohamad (Farole)- A Somali political leader and current Minister of Environment in Puntland