Can the ONLF return to armed struggle?

The Ogaden National Liberation Front (ONLF), founded in Ethiopia’s Somali Region in 1984, stands as one of the oldest armed political movements in the Horn of Africa. For nearly four decades, it waged an armed struggle that ebbed and surged with the tides of politics and repression. The turning point came in 2018, when the ONLF signed a peace agreement with the Ethiopian government in Asmara, ending its armed campaign and opening the door to legal political participation within the Somali Region.

The agreement coincided with Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s early reform drive, an ambitious project to resolve long-standing conflicts, expand political freedoms, and foster coexistence through institutional reform. Yet that reform momentum faltered after the outbreak of the Tigray War, and the ONLF’s post-agreement trajectory failed to meet its expectations.

Within two years, the Front had withdrawn from both federal and regional elections, accusing the ruling Prosperity Party of manipulation and misconduct. It remained committed to peace but increasingly disillusioned with a process it saw as stacked against it.

Frustrations deepened as ONLF leaders accused both federal and regional authorities of violating the spirit of the Asmara Agreement. The group’s rhetoric began to echo the language of “historical injustices” suffered by Somali communities in Ethiopia — a shift that not only strained relations with Addis Ababa but also exposed widening internal divisions.

Those divisions came to a head last July, when a faction within the Front held its own internal election and declared Abdikarim Sheikh Muse as the new leader, a figure seen as close to the regional government. The ONLF’s official leadership denounced the move as state-engineered interference designed to fracture the movement.

Then came another flashpoint. The launch of the first phase of natural gas extraction in the Jehdin area last month reignited tensions between the Front and the government. The ONLF condemned the project as illegitimate and imposed without community consultation. More strikingly, its statement resurrected the language of the past — invoking “colonialism” and “the right to self-determination.” It was a rhetorical throwback to its insurgent years, raising the question of whether the group’s frustrations might once again take a violent turn.

The echoes are hard to miss. In 2007, ONLF fighters attacked a Chinese-run oil field in Obole, killing 74 workers, including Chinese nationals. The Front justified the raid as resistance to “internal colonial exploitation.” Today, even without explicit threats of violence, the ONLF’s rhetoric suggests that the grievances driving that era have not vanished.

Still, the political reality of the Somali Region is no longer the same. Regional President Mustafa Mohammed Omar dismisses any notion of renewed conflict, deriding the ONLF’s leaders as “never on the battlefield” and suggesting their influence has long waned. Indeed, the region, once synonymous with instability, has become one of Ethiopia’s few relatively calm territories, spared the insurgencies now plaguing other parts of the country.

That stability owes much to two developments: Abiy Ahmed’s early political openness, which relaxed the security grip and encouraged reconciliation, and the fall of Abdi Mohamud Omar (Abdi Illey), the former regional ruler whose repressive regime left deep scars. His ouster brought collective relief to residents who felt trapped between the central government’s heavy hand and the ONLF’s armed struggle.

Today, few in the Somali Region wish to revisit that climate of war. The regional government counts on this public fatigue with conflict as a buffer against the ONLF’s renewed defiance, and so far, that bet has held.

The ONLF, for its part, continues to claim the “legitimacy of the fight,” portraying itself as the true representative of Somali aspirations within Ethiopia. That claim rests on its decades-long armed struggle and early calls for self-determination. Yet its record tells a different story: after forty years, the Front has achieved few tangible gains, no lasting territorial influence, no significant political foothold, and limited social penetration.

Clan fragmentation remains the Front’s Achilles’ heel. It has failed to forge a unifying political identity beyond clan lines, a weakness that its opponents exploit to portray it as the mouthpiece of a single group. The ONLF’s own history under Abdi Illey’s rule only deepened this decline. His regime’s brutal counter-insurgency campaigns, including mass detentions and disappearances — most notoriously in Jail Ogaden — shattered the Front’s networks and morale. Some have likened his rule to that of Ramzan Kadyrov in Chechnya: a mix of ruthless control and “social engineering” designed to neuter dissent.

When Abiy Ahmed rose to power and sidelined the TPLF’s dominance in 2018, he lifted the terrorist designation on several armed groups, including the ONLF, inviting them into a new era of dialogue. The Asmara peace deal was part of that broader opening. When the ONLF entered the political arena, its limitations quickly surfaced. It failed to translate its symbolic legacy into real political influence, either regionally or nationally, and its decision to abstain from the first election only reinforced perceptions of organizational weakness.

Today, the balance of power is decisively against the ONLF. Even before disarmament, it was a depleted force. Entering politics only amplified internal fractures, as members previously drawn to the slogans of “free Somali Ogaden” departed its ranks, once they found themselves confronted with local struggles and clan bargaining. Its historic slogan of “freedom for the Somalis of Ethiopia” has lost potency, and its social base has eroded.

Leadership struggles further sap its strength. The departure of Admiral Mohamed Omar Osman in 2019, after more than two decades of centralized control, created a vacuum filled by competing factions. Many of the movement’s veteran fighters were dead or aged, and newcomers lacked the same ideological drive. The ONLF that once commanded loyalty through the language of liberation is now divided, unsure of its direction.

For these reasons, a full-scale return to war appears unlikely. The Front lacks the means, unity, and public support for another insurgency. At most, isolated cells could attempt limited sabotage or symbolic violence, particularly around strategic energy projects. Addis Ababa is aware of this risk but assesses it as low, instability in the Somali Region is the last thing Ethiopia’s overstretched state can afford.

Yet, the handling of the gas project carries serious implications. Mismanaging local grievances or excluding communities from revenue-sharing could rekindle resentment. The Somali Region is not merely an energy hub, it’s a frontier of Ethiopia’s security, economy, and regional diplomacy. Any perception of exploitation or neglect could hand the ONLF a new rhetorical lifeline, even if it cannot wage a real war.

Hence, the most worthwhile bet for Addis Ababa is not on the security grip alone, but on a new social contract that makes wealth a partnership, not a spark for conflict, through transparent resource governance that includes declared contracts, fair revenue sharing, participatory mechanisms, and direct investment in services and infrastructure.

The question, then, is not whether the ONLF can fight again — it likely cannot — but whether Ethiopia can govern in a way that removes the need for such movements to exist. The Front’s words may still echo with rebellion, but without justice and inclusion, even old slogans can find new life.