The invisible country

Last Saturday, Somaliland's president, Abdirahman Mohamed Abdilahi ‘Irro’, departed from Hargeisa’s Egal International Airport for Doha. This visit cannot be regarded as just another diplomatic stop; it is, in fact, a pivotal moment for a political entity that has spent more than three decades on the fringes of the international system, striving for—but consistently denied—official recognition. What makes this trip stand out is not only its timing but also its layered significance. It reflects Somaliland’s growing awareness of the need to diversify its partners and to enter political spaces that, until recently, seemed closed to it or might not be fruitful. Choosing Doha, with its significant diplomatic reach and strong track record in mediation, signals a newfound maturity in Hargeisa’s approach to smart regional engagement.  

Born from the ashes of Somalia’s collapse in the early 1990s, Somaliland is no longer merely a local experiment driven by the separatist ambitions of its founders. A complex and high-stakes geopolitical environment in the Red Sea has thrust questions about its future into the heart of key global conversations on trade and security. In April, the New York Times featured Somaliland’s bid for US support for its independence.  

The country’s political roots trace back to its first independence from British colonial rule on 26 June 1960. Fired by the nationalist fervour of the time, it voluntarily united with Somalia, which gained independence from Italian rule on 1 July that same year, forming a single state that was expected to be the first step on the way to a ‘Greater Somalia’—a unifying framework for all Somalis in the Horn. 

Initially, this nationalist project presented a liberationist vision that transcended local clan identities. However, it soon encountered robust opposition within an African international system that sanctified and sought to preserve colonially inherited borders, and it eventually collapsed under the weight of an overbearing, centralised military state led by Siad Barre who solve to resolve the question militarily. The failed 1977 invasion of Ethiopia is generally regarded in Somali historiography as the watershed moment when those expansionist ambitions began to appear out of reach, internal opposition emerged to Barre, and the regime grew increasingly violent and repressive. 

This led to widespread abuses, particularly in the north (present-day Somaliland), prompting a re-evaluation of its place in Somalia. Thus, Somaliland’s declaration of regained independence in 1991 in the city of Burco was not a secessionist act in the traditional sense, but a political response to the failure of a botched and well-thought-out project of integration. Somaliland has since stabilised and developed a strong sense of identity and statehood. This includes an awareness of its role in the Horn of Africa, its relations with neighbouring states, and its prospective position within the international system. 

The geopolitical position of Somaliland—overlooking the Gulf of Aden near the Bab al-Mandab Strait—is at the heart of these considerations for foreign policy makers in Hargeisa. Its location means that its interests intersect with global priorities on maritime security, amidst rising tensions in the Red Sea and the Horn of Africa’s transformation into an open arena of competition between regional and international powers. “The region itself is in great flux,” said Alan Boswell, the International Crisis Group’s Project Director for the Horn of Africa. “You have a number of countries not only in great crisis, but potentially existential crises and often significant conflict. But on top of that, you have considerable jockeying from powers—especially those from outside the continent—whether middle or great powers.”  

From this perspective, President Irro’s visit to Doha comes at a time when the United States and other Western powers are re-evaluating their security and logistical options in the region. This was evident in the visit of Africom’s commander to the Port of Berbera last month, which he described as a practical alternative to some traditional bases in Djibouti. However, this gradual openness to Somaliland does not necessarily imply that these powers are abandoning their stated commitments to “Somalia’s unity”—though it does suggest a growing pragmatism in dealing with realities on the ground as senior figures like Jim Risch, the chairman of the Senate foreign affairs committee, has been calling for.  

On the other hand, Doha—with its established expertise in unconventional diplomacy—appears to be a suitable choice for Somaliland. It could serve as a potential platform to reactivate negotiations with Mogadishu, or as a window allowing Somaliland to deepen its engagement with the regional system. The flexibility of Qatar’s foreign policy, evident in its experience with the Darfur, Djibouti and Somalia files, grants it a relative ability to open quiet communication channels and to avoid the sharp alignments or rigid decisions that hinder many initiatives. 

Somaliland is not a state by the standard of international recognition, but neither is it merely a secessionist entity awaiting a “sovereign favour”. It performs the functions of a state as a de facto reality. 

It is crucial to emphasise here that Somaliland is not, at least at this stage, seeking official recognition at any cost. Rather, it aspires to a gradual normalisation of its political reality—one that would allow it to build security and development partnerships, and to participate in regional and international cooperation frameworks in a way that does not directly clash with the international community’s stated positions, but which alleviates the burden of exclusion. 

Somaliland is not a state by the standard of international recognition, but neither is it merely a secessionist entity awaiting a “sovereign favour”. It performs the functions of a state as a de facto reality. Despite its absence from the international system, it has largely succeeded in building effective political and security institutions. Yet recognition, as we know, is not simply a legal matter; it reflects the pre-eminence of the concept of political sovereignty in an international system governed by and sensitive to those considerations. 

Somaliland is a state born twice: first, through independence from British rule; and second, when it refused to be drawn back into Somalia when the state collapsed in 1991. Nevertheless, it remains excluded from the international system. On this basis, Somaliland’s position as a state trapped in the grey zones of the international system becomes understandable. In short, it is an existing but invisible state—not because of a flaw in its structure or political project, but because it has neither piqued the interest of major powers, nor posed a threat or offered sufficient strategic value to serve as a bargaining chip in regional or global power dynamics. 

Yet, at the heart of the chronic paradoxes in the Somali question, the narrative of Greater Somalia occasionally resurfaces, not as a realistic political project, but as a form of ideologized nostalgia that invokes history to avoid tackling present challenges and deadlocks. This dream, which encompasses the Ethiopian Ogaden, the Kenyan Northern Frontier District, Djibouti, and Somaliland, is, as Benedict Anderson described it in his critique of the idea of nationalism, an imagined project that draws on a false nostalgia and grants a sense of identity, while lacking the requisite conditions for political action on that basis. Invoking the narrative of “Greater Somalia,” as envisioned by Somali nationalist parties in the mid-20th century, is not much different – in its poeticism and impossibility – from the dream of Arab unity in Gamal Abdel Nasser's experience: a captivating rhetorical project which noble in its intentions, but impossible in implementation and politics.  

The era of redrawing maps by force is long over. What remains today is the challenge of confronting the realities of the post-colonial state with political pragmatism. Djibouti will not return to a greater Somali entity, nor will the Ogaden secede from Ethiopia, nor will northern Kenya rise up against Nairobi. The same applies to Somaliland, which has, for over three decades, pursued a different path. Even more striking is the fact that many Somalis—within the boundaries of the Somali federal authority—do not live under effective state control, nor do they necessarily aspire to. So why should Somaliland, with its entirely distinct trajectory, be expected to return to the fold of a state that is itself still struggling to maintain even its formal structure? 

And here lies the deeper paradox: the existing state in Somalia has become an external shell, lacking internal sovereign substance. As Alex de Waal described it, it is a “graveyard” for externally driven state-building efforts. It is a state that produces transitional governments every four years under the supervision of the international community, guarded by foreign forces and multinational missions. Meanwhile, the interior is fragmented into warring clan-based cantons, concealed beneath the rhetoric of federalism. Yet, despite this functional fragility, the state has enjoyed international legitimacy—bestowed since 2013—as a security partner in the war against jihadist movements. 

In contrast, Somaliland is asked to wait, understand, and get used to disappointment. Mogadishu lacks a political project to reclaim Somaliland, yet paradoxically, it retains the right to object to Somaliland's external agreements. Meanwhile, negotiations and talks have continued since 2012 in endless cycles from London to Istanbul, from Addis Ababa to Djibouti, and then to Abu Dhabi without a single workable agreement or a negotiating framework that respects minimum realism. Each round of negotiation presumes, in advance, that the conflict is merely an administrative dispute between a rebellious region and a central state, whereas, at its core, it is a historical conflict between two distinct political projects. Two opposing narratives, neither of which recognizes the legitimacy of the other; Mogadishu insists on the idea of “reclaiming the returned region,” while Hargeisa insists on the rhetoric of “restored independence.” This fundamental contradiction transforms negotiations into what Jürgen Habermas described as dialogue without mutual recognition, lacking the conditions for rational communication. It's not a search for a settlement, but a structural practice that reproduces mutual denial in negotiation 

That said, what is most striking – and perhaps most embarrassing – is the behaviour and worn-out rhetoric of Hargeisa’s ruling elite, who, for over three decades, have continued to sell the narrative of imminent recognition, as though the international community simply needs to hear Somaliland’s story once more in order to reconsider Mogadishu’s legitimacy. This elite has not only mastered the art of self-deception but practised it so consistently that it has hardened into a pattern of political fantasy. 

The result is that Somaliland – which possesses little to bargain with beyond its stability – remains on the margins of the international stage. In a world that rewards those who threaten and fears those with tools of disruption, entities that do not provoke concern are quietly sidelined. 

Directed inward, their rhetoric is well-crafted, mobilising, and emotionally charged; but when turned outward, they are often left standing awkwardly, lacking a coherent narrative or meaningful tools of negotiation. They content themselves with diplomatic photo opportunities, only to return home repeating tired choruses like: “our partners showed interest,” “we opened important channels,” or “recognition is just around the corner.” These phrases serve more to simulate diplomatic activity than to reflect any tangible progress. 

The result is that Somaliland – which possesses little to bargain with beyond its stability – remains on the margins of the international stage. In a world that rewards those who threaten and fears those with tools of disruption, entities that do not provoke concern are quietly sidelined. Yet stability is not without value; it represents an opportunity not yet seized. Somaliland, which has weathered decades of turmoil without an international safety net, has yet to translate that survival into a strategic negotiating asset. Its true challenge today is not the pursuit of recognition per se, but the transformation of itself into a strategic necessity – particularly in relation to the Red Sea, maritime routes, and supply chains in the Horn of Africa. 

This gamble becomes all the more urgent in the context of a fragmenting Horn. From Ethiopia, whose peripheries are fraying, to war-torn Sudan and isolated Eritrea, the surrounding states offer little by way of a viable model. In contrast, Somaliland stands not just as an exception, but as a demonstration of an alternative path: state-building without international patronage or foreign tutelage. 

At the international level, principles no longer guide the tools of engagement; instead, interventions are driven by the weight of interests and their place on the strategic map. The region as a whole – including Somalia – is no longer a priority. Only shipping lanes and energy corridors continue to attract attention, and even then, this interest is pursued through security frameworks rather than political ones. 

Thus, Somaliland finds itself facing real opportunities, yet lacking the corrective story or diplomatic strategy needed to capitalise on them. Hopes are now pinned on bilateral visits, military delegations, and security briefings – such as Washington’s growing interest in Berbera as a potential alternative to Djibouti. The visit of Africom’s commander to Somaliland arguably carried more weight than President Irro’s recent diplomatic tour of neighbouring capitals: the latter may open protocol doors, but offers no path to recognition, while the former, though stopping short of formal recognition, treats Somaliland as a de facto actor. 

Somaliland no longer needs to appeal for sympathy; it must impose itself as a necessity on international agendas, making its absence costlier than its inclusion in regional calculations. Unless Hargeisa becomes a permanent fixture on the region’s strategic map, its diplomacy risks continuing to drift in a void – returning from world capitals without the identification papers that could translate its political existence into recognised statehood.