Mustafa Omer: the dissident who became president

Long before Mustafa Omer, commonly known by his nickname Cagjar, became president of the Somali Region, and a vocal critic of his predecessor Abdi Iley, he was a thorn in the side of Ethiopia’s intellectual elites, frequently challenging their narratives about Somali identity and the region’s history.

A striking example of this can be found in a 2010 article he published under the pseudonym Muktar M. Omer. In it, Mustafa directly challenged claims made by an Ethiopian professor, Siyoum Gelaye, who disputed an ONLF assertion that Ethiopia gained control over the Ogaden through late 19th-century annexation and conquest. The professor had even gone so far as to suggest that the Ogaden and—for that matter—the whole of Somalia “was one time part and parcel of Ethiopia’s territory.”

Mustafa dismissed the professor’s arguments as “fraught with fiction, half-truths, nostalgia, wishful thinking and dubious historical accounts.” In a biting rebuttal, he wrote:

“We only hear this from some sections of Ethiopian elites who relish in brewing delectable delusions for easy delights. To present unverified claims of Atse Yohannis—who did not even know where Shoa was, let alone Ogaden—as evidence that Ethiopia’s border extended to Somalia is sheer folly.” 

He mocked the professor’s comparison by recalling that Siyad Barre of Somalia once claimed present-day Adama (Nazret) belonged to Somalia, even giving it the Somali name Haadaame. “Shall we therefore negate,” Mustafa asked rhetorically, “King Yohannis’s claim with Siyad Barre’s and call it even?” For dramatic flair, he added, “if at all, Siyad Barre’s knowledge of geography was much more advanced than that of the king.”

The professor, he concluded, had mistaken folklore for history.

The Mustafa of that period could best be described, in a good way, as a Pen Tadaaqi: a fearless intellectual warrior wielding his pen like a sword. In the words of the Somali poet Hadraawi, he used his pen as an “unfailing friend” (saaxiib kal furan) to challenge stereotypes and dominant Abyssinian narratives about Somali identity.

In a follow-up essay, Mustafa sharpened his critique, branding Professor Siyoum and like-minded Ethiopian elites as intellectual cowards. “I called all those who continue to refuse to look into the fairy-tale history of Ethiopia with a fresh mindset,” he wrote, “intellectual cowards bereft of

genuine national sentiment, even for the Ethiopia they cry for. I say so again here and now, whatever chagrin I sow in their bleeding heart.”

From Aware to exile

Mustafa’s political awakening began well before these writings, during his time as an economics student at Addis Ababa University. There, he was already known for his eloquence and critical thinking—even as he grappled with an identity crisis. While he challenged the foundations of Ethiopian nationalism, many of his classmates considered him a “good Ethiopian,” largely because of his fluency in Amharic and his familiarity with the Ethiopian heartland and culture.

Understanding these early confrontations provides a window into the evolution of a man whose journey took him from Aware, in the north of the Somali state, to exile, and eventually back to Jigjiga as president.

Born in the early 1970s in the Somali Region, Mustafa completed his primary and intermediate education in Aware and completed his secondary education in the Hararge zone of the Somali region. He went on to earn a degree in economics from Addis Ababa University and later a master’s in Agricultural Economics from Imperial College London.

His career began as a teacher at Jigjiga’s Teachers’ Training College (TTC), where he eventually led as a deputy. He later served as deputy at the Somali Regional Education Office, during the period when Abdi Iley was emerging as head of the region’s security apparatus. Tensions between the two likely contributed to Mustafa’s departure from the regional administration and his shift to humanitarian work with Save the Children, Oxfam, and the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA).

By the mid-2000s, his outspokenness and political activism had placed him squarely in the crosshairs of both the regional leadership and the ruling TPLF (Tigray People’s Liberation Front). By 2007, under increasing threat, he was forced into exile.

Fighting from afar

While in exile, Mustafa took the TPLF to task. To understand the genesis of his disdain, it is essential to consider both the recent history of Ethiopia and the lived reality of the Somalis.

In 1991, the TPLF led a new ruling coalition that oversaw the fall of the Derg regime in Ethiopia. Once in power, they introduced a new constitution that established ethnic federalism and promised Ethiopia’s nations and nationalities greater autonomy and the right to self-determination. Yet despite these pledges, the Somali Region continued to suffer marginalisation and brutal crackdowns, particularly during counter-insurgency campaigns against the ONLF.

To Mustafa, the TPLF embodied authoritarianism masked by a shallow form of ethnic inclusion. The federal system, in his view, was never a genuine commitment but rather a tool for control.

This contradiction fuelled Mustafa’s disillusionment. In his essays, he described the TPLF as the greatest source of suffering for Somalis in modern history, stating:

“The Ethiopia that was and continues to be instrumental in messing up Somalia in the last two decades is the Ethiopia of TPLF. No Ethiopian ruler has inflicted more pain on Somalis than Meles Zenawi. No Ethiopian ruler has killed more Somalis in the Somali Region of Ethiopia than Zenawi. No Ethiopian ruler in history has impaired the psyche and political soul of Somalis more than the TPLF.”

To Mustafa, the TPLF embodied authoritarianism masked by a shallow form of ethnic inclusion. The federal system, in his view, was never a genuine commitment but rather a tool of control. While it granted the regions token political rights, it ignored widespread abuses and systemic neglect in the hinterland. Unsurprisingly, those in power labelled him a national security threat.

His activism would cost him dearly: his brother was tortured and killed, his uncle disappeared, and his family faced constant intimidation.

Grappling with identity

Despite his misgivings about the TPLF’s abuses, Mustafa’s early writings reveal a man torn by questions of identity, nationalism and belonging. He admired the ONLF’s resistance, calling it “the pride of most Somalis.” Yet he did not fully support its secessionist aims. Instead, he argued that its struggle should culminate in some form of reunification with Somalia, the motherland, under a negotiated arrangement. In his earlier writings, Mustafa described the ONLF as “a stage, an important half-comma—never a full stop.”

At the same time, he also envisioned a viable political future for Somalis within Ethiopia. He rejected what he called a “fixation with historical muddle”: the endless debates over maps and myths. For him, the more urgent task was building alliances among Ethiopia’s oppressed groups, regardless of ethnicity, and fostering forward-looking conversations about coexistence.

In both private conversations with me and in public essays, Mustafa often called for cross-ethnic alliances, particularly among Somalis, Amharas and Oromos. Such alliances, he believed, could help dismantle the TPLF regime and build a new Ethiopia where diverse nations could coexist.

His evolving thoughts then—on the ONLF, the TPLF-led state, the contested narratives of Somali identity, and the meaning of Ethiopian citizenship—would later shape the political choices he made as president.

Rise to Power

Mustafa shifted from opposition figure to head of the Somali Region in August 2018.

That summer, Ethiopia’s political crisis reached its climax. Protests and instability forced the resignation of Abdi Iley, the long-serving president of the Somali Region. Amid the uncertainty, Somali elders, civil society figures and activists gathered in Addis Ababa to press for a new beginning.

Mustafa was their choice. Ethiopia’s newly installed prime minister, Abiy Ahmed, obliged.

His appointment as acting president marked more than a change in leadership; it was the culmination of decades of struggle.

In Dulqabow, a villa perched on a mountain overlooking Jigjiga, Mustafa assumed control of a region crippled by discord, unrest and repression. The TPLF was no more. Their patron—the man who had once sent chills down many spines—sat behind bars in an Addis Ababa jail.

His appointment as acting president marked more than a change in leadership; it was the culmination of decades of struggle. He was a man forced into exile, who had fought oppression with words, and paid a heavy personal price for his convictions. His journey offers a rare glimpse of how conviction, intellect and resilience can shape not just a man’s destiny, but the future of an entire region.

Yet, after seven years in power, it is fair to ask: how does the pen that once cut through myths and authoritarian narratives serve in the messy realm of governance? Has power moderated his views? Has he stood by his core beliefs, or bent to the will of politics? How do others—supporters and critics alike—judge his time in office? And what of his character and leadership style?

The very system Mustafa had once described as “phony federalism” and “authoritarianism cloaked in inclusive rhetoric” now dictated how he must lead.

When a pen Tadaaqi must govern

The ascent of Mustafa from exiled dissident to president of the Somali Region was, for many, the embodiment of long-awaited change. A man once branded a “national security threat” was now tasked with securing a region.

But governance is no essay. And power, once acquired, rarely permits the purity of earlier convictions.

The very system Mustafa had once described as “phony federalism” and “authoritarianism cloaked in inclusive rhetoric” now dictated how he must lead. He was no longer merely a pen-wielding Tadaaqi, a fearless intellectual warrior. He was a political figure bound by budgets, bureaucracy, political factions and the compromises of coalition-building.

His “unfailing friend” now served a different purpose—one that tested his character and leadership.

Ask his allies, and they will paint a picture of a humble, no-frills leader who is accessible, principled and allergic to strongman theatrics. “Mustafa is known to be a humble person,” one confidant said. “Someone who is, for the irony of the word, never presidential.”

His supporters argue that under his leadership, the Somali Region saw a decisive break from the repressive rule of his predecessor. To them, detentions decreased, free speech widened and civil society began to breathe again.

Their favourite cliché? Isbaddelka ka hor—a phrase that translates as “before the change,” connoting the subtler “before we came to power.” It colours every statement they utter, a kind of bismillah that jumpstarts their claims.

But that is only half the story.

Criticism and contradictions

His critics, however, paint a different picture: that of a calculating tactician who, once in power, centralised decision-making and leaned heavily on a small inner circle. One opponent put it bluntly:

“Mustafa embodied the spirit of defiance against authoritarianism, speaking truth to power with remarkable courage. In office, however, he has at times replicated the very patterns he once denounced. Where he once championed inclusivity, he now presides over exclusionary restructurings that stir resentment.”

Others accuse him of manufacturing divisions to consolidate authority. “He governs through conflict,” said one analyst. “He squandered a historic opportunity to build lasting institutions,” lamented another. A particularly sharp critique charged that “governance, instead of being a platform for unity, is too frequently wielded as an instrument of control.”

An instructive case is his handling of the ONLF. After Mustafa assumed office in 2018, the movement signed a ceasefire and sought to integrate its fighters into civilian politics. Today, however, the ONLF remains fractured. A controversial ONLF Congress held in May 2025, recognized by the Ethiopian National Electoral Board, appointed Abdikarim Sheikh Muse (Qalbidhagax) as leader. To many, this was a move orchestrated by Mustafa’s administration, exploiting clan rivalries to weaken the ONLF.

Mustafa’s treatment of the ONLF illustrates a larger pattern in his politics. Rather than eliminating opponents outright, Mustafa prefers to fragment, absorb, and manage them. Former rebels were brought into the bureaucracy, often in symbolic posts, while their organizational strength was deliberately diluted. 

Abdirahman Mahdi (Maaday), the head of the rival faction, accused Mustafa and the federal government of undermining their 2018 agreement. “They back people who claim to have ousted us,” Maaday complained, “then tell both sides to reconcile.” Mustafa, for his part, dismissed the claims as unfounded, arguing that any grievances should be addressed through federal channels.

To Mustafa, these manoeuvres were not betrayal but realpolitik—messy, necessary and pragmatic. Ultimately, the movement he once called “the pride of most Somalis” degenerated into squabbling factions. For him, though, the ONLF was always a stage—a half-comma, never a full stop.

His treatment of the ONLF illustrates a larger pattern in his politics. Rather than eliminating opponents outright, Mustafa prefers to fragment, absorb and manage them. Former rebels were brought into the bureaucracy, often in symbolic posts, while their organisational strength was deliberately diluted.

Critics argue this “divide-and-co-opt” approach prevents the emergence of strong political alternatives, leaving the region dependent on Mustafa’s balancing act. Supporters counter that dismantling insurgent legacies was essential to stabilise the Somali Region, and that a fragmented ONLF is less dangerous than a unified one with secessionist ambitions.

In this way, the ONLF episode becomes more than a single dispute; it is emblematic of how Mustafa governs: weakening centres of rival power while keeping the door open to negotiation and integration. It is a strategy born of exile and survival, but one that risks leaving behind a political landscape defined less by institutions than by Mustafa’s personal manoeuvring.

Still, his approach to the ONLF reflects a broader challenge: the persistence of clan politics. Although Mustafa condemns clannism as a toxic force, his administration has often reinforced it. A telling example came this summer with a controversial restructuring, when new woredas and municipalities were created across the Somali Region. Officially justified as a means of improving services or redressing historical inequities, most observers saw clan arithmetic as the decisive factor. In some zones, new districts were approved only after elders mobilised along lineage lines.

The fallout was immediate. Where clans secured new councils, there were celebrations; where they did not, protests erupted. In Dhanaan Woreda of the Shebelle Zone, for example, tensions turned deadly after the naming of Burqayar council, leading to the death of a pregnant woman at the hands of security forces.

These disputes expose the double bind Mustafa faces. Publicly, he denounces clannism as corrosive to Somali politics. In practice, his administration relies on it to shore up authority. The paradox is stark: though he condemns clan politics, his policies often reproduce the same patronage and exclusionary patterns as his predecessor, entrenching the very divisions he vowed to overcome.

Just as clan arithmetic narrows his regional choices, dependence on Addis Ababa constrains his federal stance. Perhaps the most damaging charge is that Mustafa has become too closely aligned with the centre. Critics ask: if he is truly a reformist rooted in Somali identity, why does he remain largely silent when federal policies harm Somali interests? They point to muted responses during clashes with the Afar and Oromo regions as proof of excessive caution, if not outright subservience.

The calculation, however, is more complicated. The Somali Region remains heavily dependent on federal transfers for its budget, security and legitimacy. Open confrontation with Addis Ababa could easily jeopardise not only Mustafa’s presidency but also the fragile stability of the region itself. His critics see silence; his defenders see pragmatism. The truth may lie somewhere in between: it appears Mustafa has chosen accommodation over defiance, betting that incremental gains secured through federal goodwill might outweigh the risks of open confrontation.

This posture also reflects the paradox of Ethiopia’s ethnic federalism. The same system that promises autonomy ties regions tightly to the federal centre through finance, security and patronage. Mustafa’s alignment with Addis, then, is not merely personal weakness but a symptom of structural constraint. In this sense, his story is not simply about the Somali Region but about the limits of Ethiopia’s political experiment itself.

A silver lining may be found in recent developments: for the first time, the administration has been able to generate most of its budget through local taxation and internal mechanisms. If this leads to genuine financial independence, ties to the federal government may weaken.

Finally, there is frustration with his leadership style. Admirers call him intellectually restless; detractors describe him as over-analytical, debating every issue—even when the stakes are minor. What once served him well as a dissident—sharp rhetoric and relentless critique—can sometimes undermine the pragmatism required in governance. In a region where decisions often demand speed and clarity, this intellectual style can be as much a liability as a strength.

Catching strays

Despite the aforementioned criticisms, if there’s one area in which Mustafa’s critics and allies agree, it is that his record on human rights and the freedom of expression under his leadership improved. There’s general consensus that things are much better now than in the past.

But concerns remain. As one analyst put it, “while some reforms were introduced in his early days, the trajectory has bent toward restriction rather than expansion… people speak less freely, organize less openly, and trust less deeply.”

However, the general feeling is that people feel freer now and can go on with their business – as long as they don’t cross over into government business. Arbitrary arrests, often followed by releases, of activists and journalists – for example, of Abdi Barud, Ibrahim Abdulkadir, Ahmed Awga and Sh. Mohamed Adan Hassan (Aar Banaan Dagey) – doesn’t bode well for this narrative. Nor are the restrictions faced by many youths whose cameras and equipment are confiscated.

For its part, the government doesn’t see political opposition that is policy-driven, making its response difficult. As one insider put it:

“Dissent and opposition figures are mostly lone wolves driven by individual interests. That makes any response to them from the government as incoherent… if the opposition doesn’t have an agenda or issue-based politics to challenge the government, equally the government doesn’t have much to try to shape its critics.”

Legacy in the balance

And so, Mustafa’s legacy remains in flux.

To some, he is the dissident who dared to reimagine Ethiopia, proving that Somalis could claim both dignity and citizenship. To others, he is yet another politician who, when confronted with the machinery of the state, compromised more than he transformed.

he is a reformer constrained by federal pressure, regional instability and the calculus of political survival.

Yet even his harshest critics concede this: Mustafa defies easy categorisation. He remains unpredictable, unwilling to fully surrender to the logic of power. That, in itself, is rare.

A fair reading of the man, then—one that integrates both the aspirations he embodies and the real consequences of his rule, encompassing what his supporters admire and what his critics condemn—might be this: he is a reformer constrained by federal pressure, regional instability and the calculus of political survival.

For those of us who knew him before he was president, the same rebellious spirit still flickers. He is still Tadaaqi—arm-wielder. Perhaps less romantic, more tempered, but no less defiant. When people ask about him, we say: “argue with him at your own peril.”

His greatest challenge was never simply replacing a dictator. It was proving that ideas—complex, uncomfortable, defiant ideas—could endure in the arena of governance. Whether the pen Tadaaqi can still wield his sword while wearing the crown remains the defining question of his presidency.

• This article has been updated to accurately reflect Mustafe’s position at Jigjiga Teachers’ Training College (TTC) and to correct earlier inaccuracies regarding his educational background.