Greater Somalia(s): the fragmented dream

The drive to realise the Greater Somalia project was an effort to reverse and remedy the effects of the Somali colonial experience, which, though unrealistic, was once seen by many as a cause worth struggling for. 

There are few academic rock stars. In the mid-1980s, the respected French editor and historian Pierre Nora found himself basking in a rare form of glory that propelled him to a position of leadership across the globe, as the pioneering figure of an interdisciplinary framework that extended far beyond the field of history. Nora’s authorship of Les Lieux de Mémoire (1984-1992) provided tools for a new way of viewing the world. While focused on dissecting the French construction of national identity and collective colonial memory, the Frenchman laid the foundation for understanding the roots and dynamics behind the solidification of symbols and physical spaces that had been embedded and resolutely upheld by the state as markers of national identity. 

In the newly independent countries of the postcolonial world, the meanings of symbols and stories, many of which were conceived on the go, had complex implications. Across Africa, this predicament, at best, allowed leaders to gloss over deep-rooted issues under the new national flag. At worst, it fostered political conditions in which specific ethnic groups, the military, or other factions tended to centralise power and govern with one hand on the trigger. The long-standing tragedies of the Congo, Biafra, and Sudan are just some of the episodes that continue to shape the African political landscape today. These legacies are crucial to understanding the nation-building process. 

In the case of Somalia, the partition of the three historical territories—perceived to have been ceded to their regional counterparts in the Horn of Africa, namely, parts of Ethiopia and Kenya, along with the entire territory of what is now recognised as Djibouti—defined the scope of Greater Somalia (or Somaliweyn). While the independence process heralded the reunification of British and Italian Somaliland—respectively, the north and the south—the failure to “recoup” the lost territories and incorporate ethnic Somalis living under foreign rule into the republic left a bittersweet taint in Mogadishu’s regional outlook. 

The presidential appointment of Aden Abdulle Osman, a lifelong proponent of the nationalist Somali cause, ruled out any possibility of a balanced foreign policy or a cautious, long-term diplomatic strategy. Instead, Mogadishu aggressively sought to address the colonial legacies that dominated the Somali national psyche. In a speech at the first summit of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU), Osman proclaimed to the newly independent African leaders a sentiment that would come to define Somalia for decades: “the concept of nationhood is profoundly felt by all Somalis… a nation in every sense of the word.” This declaration was, by design, a call to arms. Any process that neglected the emotional aspirations of ethnic Somalis living outside the republic was inherently undemocratic, and any force obstructing Somali reunification was “public enemy number one”. 

The presidential appointment of Aden Abdulle Osman, a lifelong proponent of the nationalist Somali cause, ruled out any possibility of a balanced foreign policy or a cautious, long-term diplomatic strategy.  

In the eyes of the OAU, the colonial borders were to be maintained and the grievances of those who drew the shortest straws did not warrant opening Pandora’s box. Hussein Abdilahi Bulhan, a Somali Fanonian scholar, wrote about the impact the partition had on Somalis: “Earlier generations of Somalis regarded the alien assault and partition not only an end of an era but a proof that the last days of the world were imminent.” Somali culture, once human-centered, he continues, “gave way to an obsession with death and doom.”  

Once the political class in Mogadishu realised that their continental peers had turned a blind eye to their appeals, they resorted to their limited capacity for covert action along the borderlands—a strategy that underscored their deep belief in clandestine operations and the potential of such actors to shift the geopolitical odds in the nascent republic’s favour. 

Hussein Abdilahi Bulhan, a Somali Fanonian scholar, wrote about the impact the partition had on Somalis: “Earlier generations of Somalis regarded the alien assault and partition not only an end of an era but a proof that the last days of the world were imminent.”  

Although financial resources were scarce, Osman’s government understood they could rely on the often underestimated power of emotion and belief in the possibility of reunification. As a result, the republic extended funding, training, and arms to ethnic Somalis organised into shifta groups operating around the Kenyan frontier, as well as the Front de Libération de la Côte des Somalis in Djibouti (formerly French Somaliland). It is worth noting that both areas were still heavily influenced by colonial powers, with Djibouti remaining fully under French control. Largely because of this, Osman’s successor, President Egal, sought to officially restore relations with French-controlled Djibouti and Jomo Kenyatta’s Kenya in 1968—a move that wound down efforts to reunite “Greater Somalia”. 

The real focus, however, was the Ethiopian border, home to the largest Somali population, the most significant territory, and the most cherished lieu de mémoire (site of memory). Its prominence was baked into the national historiography, as figures like Sayyid Abdulle Hassan and Ahmed Gurey, famous for fighting Ethiopia, were elevated to national heroes. This focus was reaffirmed by the two major conflicts that erupted under Osman in 1964, followed by a full-scale war under Siad Barre in 1977. Somalia never invaded Djibouti or the Northern Frontier District in Kenya despite having claims to both territories.  

The real focus, however, was the Ethiopian border, home to the largest Somali population, the most significant territory, and the most cherished lieu de mémoire (site of memory) 

This divergence is just one example of the many fissures in what is often perceived as a monolithic ‘Greater Somalia’. While the actions of the state undoubtedly served as the driving force in efforts to realise the dream of reunification, the state’s position inevitably shifted throughout the period between independence and the Ogaden war of 1977–1978, the pinnacle of irredentist ambition. These shifts were influenced by the republic’s capacity to engage in both covert and overt action, the international political climate, and levels of domestic support. 

In the gaps left by the state, various grassroots actors emerged across the regional frontiers, their loyalties unwavering in their determination to liberate and reunite their homeland. This external pressure was something Mogadishu struggled to manage, a challenge conveyed to the Oval Office by Osman’s successor, Ibrahim Egal, in 1967. 

In the Ogaden, the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF) benefited from Mogadishu’s patronage in the early 1960s, a time when the group’s political goals aligned closely with those of the republic. However, in its efforts to secure international support for its push to claim the Ogaden, Mogadishu often downplayed the principle of self-determination which might mean offering a choice. Continued support for guerrilla actions was also seen as counterproductive in diplomatic circles. The swift dismantling of the WSLF leadership, along with careful efforts to placate insurgents, illustrates the real-time dynamics of competing visions of Greater Somalia, a crucial aspect of the nationalist dichotomy. 

For the ordinary Somali, the dream of reunification was deeply emotional and central to their engagement with everyday politics, fuelled by a collective colonial memory of what the Somali nation was once believed to be, and tied to their vision of what it could become. In the borderlands, the decades-long struggle to reclaim lost territories was viewed as a genuine anti-colonial movement, rooted both in their lived experiences of hardship and in their fight to reject the imposition of foreign identities on ethnic Somali communities. Meanwhile, the state’s political course gradually evolved into a sanitised, concession-based, pragmatic set of foreign policies—a painstaking approach that stood in direct opposition to the aspirations of many actors with a vested interest in a Greater Somalia. 

For the ordinary Somali, the dream of reunification was deeply emotional and central to their engagement with everyday politics, fuelled by a collective colonial memory of what the Somali nation was once believed to be, and tied to their vision of what it could become. 

The concept of Greater Somalia played a variety of important roles for those outside the Somali borders. The reverberations of Somali policy were felt most acutely by its neighbours, Kenya and Ethiopia, which viewed Somalia as a major security concern. Drawn together in response to a restless Somali neighbour, Jomo Kenyatta and Haile Selassie signed a mutual defence pact in 1964 which is still in place today. However, it was His Imperial Majesty, Haille Selassie, who successfully managed to internationalise regional tensions, setting the stage for Barre’s westward invasion of Ethiopia in the summer of 1977. 

Selassie’s emphasis on the Somali threat during his communications with the Oval Office secured Addis Ababa military assistance amounting to $240 million—nearly half of all military aid sent to the continent between 1953 and 1974. Barre’s decision to align with the Kremlin, solidified by the 1974 Treaty of Friendship and Co-operation, ensured that the arms race in the Horn of Africa was heading towards war. Selassie’s particularly close relationship with President Nixon allowed him to exaggerate the Mogadishu “boogeyman”, a warning Washington heeded as a counterbalance to Barre’s troubling foreign policy. During a meeting with Somalia’s acting foreign minister, Hussein Abdulkadir Kassim, Henry Kissinger once complained about the fact that Somalia consistently opposed the US on almost all issues. “We can't be wrong all the time. The law of averages does not work that way”, Kissinger told Kassim.  

Yet, as Nixon’s time in office—and, unbeknownst to Selassie, his own reign—drew to a close in 1973, the odds of the reunification project had improved prompting Siad Barre to roll the dice with a military invasion during a moment of Ethiopian instability and turbulence.  

Furthermore, the mission to actualise a Somaliweyn was deeply rooted in a language centred on identity. The origins of the Somali claim lay in highlighting the shared characteristics of ethnic brethren scattered across the region, as a way to challenge the artificial borders. “We speak the same language... share the same creed, culture, and traditions. How can we regard our brothers as foreigners?” asked Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke, a shortlived president, in 1962. The daunting task of securing international support was inevitably going to lead Mogadishu’s diplomats towards the Arab states, whose petrodollars would go a long way in bolstering Somalia’s weak coffers. 

The 1973 oil crisis served as a political event that enhanced Saudi Arabia’s position on the world stage—an opportune and profitable development for Mogadishu. Barre’s government found itself inducted into the Arab League in 1974 and sought to explore the extent to which this new relationship could support Somalia’s enduring national dream. Barre’s appeals to Saudi Arabia underscored the distinctly Islamic nature of the impending conflict, tapping into the historical religious dynamics often associated with the multi-faceted relationship between Somali Muslims and the Christian-led Ethiopian monarchy. However, it was the strategic positioning of the Somali conflict as one that would simultaneously serve King Faisal’s vow to fight “zionism, communism, and colonialism” on all fronts that emboldened Mogadishu to take autonomous action when the moment was ripe.  

Barre’s government found itself inducted into the Arab League in 1974 and sought to explore the extent to which this new relationship could support Somalia’s enduring national dream. 

Such positioning speaks to the Horn of Africa’s elevation as one of the key contested global political arenas by the decade’s end and the intersection of the reunification project with external agendas that would come to define the nation’s trajectory. 

The aftermath of the Ogaden war set Somalia on a national course that ultimately led to civil war and unrest.  

However, the pan-nationalist dream that occupied every administration for almost twenty years has remained largely under-explored in historical studies. Reducing the concept of ‘Greater Somalia’ to a monolithic label is not only inaccurate but also deeply uncomfortable in its delegitimization of the efforts undertaken by grassroots actors in their attempts to redraw the inherited colonial borders. In the immediate post-independence era, the pan-Somali dream was seen as legitimate, aiming to set a precedent across the Global South by reworking colonial borders to align with the wishes of all peoples. In hindsight, such ambition might seem disconnected from reality, but it is important to recognise that these political objectives arose during a time of total and unbridled change. The drive to realise the Greater Somalia project was also a push to legitimise the Somali colonial experience, a quest that millions believed was worth fighting for.