A moment of validation is also a moment of interrogation. As Somaliland steps onto the world stage, Somalilanders are asked to define Somaliland’s identity more clearly than ever before.

By Fundji Benedict | Contributor | Somaliland Chronicle

I stand at a crossroads of multiple identities—Jewish, East African, Afrikaner and Western—and I am shaped by the complexities of belonging to communities whose existence has been contested, denied, and hard-won. To inhabit multiple identities is to understand viscerally how identity can be both a source of profound meaning and a dangerous instrument of exclusion. It is to know that citizenship is never merely a legal status but a lived negotiation between self and community, between inherited narratives and chosen futures. It is also to recognize how easily identity politics can become a trap—a closed circuit of grievance and counter-grievance that blinds communities to their own internal fractures and obscures the obligations that come with belonging. This awareness compels attentiveness to Somaliland’s present moment. Israel’s recognition functions not merely as a diplomatic achievement but as a mirror—one that invites Somalilanders to engage in serious introspective analysis about who they are and who they wish to become. The reflection staring back is no longer that of a “would-be state” perpetually awaiting validation, but of an emerging recognized polity on the international stage. This shift demands a corresponding reconfiguration of identity: from the psychology of the unrecognized, defined by what is denied, to the psychology of the recognized, defined by what is built and what is owed. Somalilanders must now ask themselves not “Why won’t the world see us?” but rather “Now that the world is beginning to see us, what exactly will it find?”

For over three decades, Somaliland has existed in a peculiar limbo. Somalilanders have built a state—complete with elections, peaceful transfers of power, functioning institutions, and relative security—yet the world has refused to acknowledge what they have achieved. Western governments praised Somaliland’s “stability” in private while refusing recognition in public. The African Union invoked the sanctity of colonial borders while ignoring Somaliland’s democratic performance, and regional institutions quietly relied on its security record while denying it a pathway to the international community. Nobody was prepared to break ranks with the doctrine of Somalia’s territorial integrity. Israel’s recognition in 2025 shatters this frozen landscape. For the first time since Somaliland withdrew from the failed union in 1991, a militarily powerful, globally connected UN member state has treated Somaliland not as an internal Somali file to be “managed,” but as a subject of international politics in its own right. Somaliland has now become a partner capable of entering strategic alliances and shaping its own destiny. This is not merely a diplomatic victory; it is a moment of profound validation—but validation is also the beginning of a harder conversation. Recognition interrogates what has been built. It asks uncomfortable questions Somaliland has long postponed, questions that can no longer be avoided: What does it mean to be Somalilander? And are Somalilanders prepared to live up to the obligations that come with being seen?

The Identity Question: Louder But Also More Exposed

Before Israel’s recognition, Somalilander identity could remain, in certain respects, implicit and unexamined. The absence of external validation meant Somalilanders did not have to articulate with precision what their collective identity entailed. They knew they were different from the south. They knew they had suffered, reconciled, and built something worth preserving. But the boundaries of “Somalilander” could remain flexible—something everyone quietly defined in their own way. Recognition forces clarity. It acts like a loudspeaker for Somaliland identity, projecting onto the international stage what was previously an internal, quietly understood consensus: that the 1991 decision to rebuild within the old British Protectorate boundaries was legitimate, that three decades of peace-building and democratic governance have earned the right to statehood, that Somaliland is not just a “region” but a nation. But loudspeakers do more than amplify—they also expose. The label “Somalilander” can no longer remain what it has been for many: a flexible identity that everyone interprets privately. As political anthropologist Nina Caspersen (2012) observed in her study of unrecognized states, “Recognition forces internal reckoning with questions of membership, loyalty, and the permissible limits of dissent.” When a significant international actor affirms a territory’s existence as a state, its people must explain to themselves—and to their new partner—precisely what that existence means. Who exactly is included in this “we”? And on what terms—territorial residence, genealogical descent, political loyalty, or some combination?

Most Somalilanders live with multiple, overlapping identities. They are Somali in language, culture, and family networks that stretch across borders. They are Muslim in faith and daily practice. They belong to specific clans and sub-clans with deep obligations and protective ties. They are residents of particular regions—Awdal, Togdheer, Sanaag, Sool—with distinct histories and relationships to Hargeisa’s authority. They are woven into diaspora networks connecting them to relatives in Nairobi, Dubai, London, Minneapolis. The political identity “Somalilander” sits atop these other identifications—sometimes harmoniously, sometimes in tension. As Mark Bradbury documented in his landmark study Becoming Somaliland (2008), Somaliland’s national identity was forged through specific experiences: the Isaaq genocide of 1988–1991, the shir peace conferences that established shared narratives of suffering, reconciliation, and collective self-determination (most notably the 1993 Borama conference), the slow work of building institutions from the ruins of state collapse, and the everyday experience of relative safety compared to the chaos many associate with the south. Somalilander identity was not inherited; it was actively constructed through political processes. But not everyone experienced these decades identically. In Hargeisa and the northwest heartland, “Somalilander” identity often feels confident and primary—closely linked to collective memory of survival and reconstruction. In some eastern areas, the same label can carry more ambivalence: people may acknowledge Hargeisa’s authority while maintaining strong genealogical, economic, and emotional ties to Puntland or wider Somali networks. External recognition doesn’t erase these differences; it rearranges their hierarchy, inviting Somalilanders to continue that construction with higher stakes and a watching world, and demanding that “Somalilander” becomes the name that matters most when it conflicts with other loyalties.

Let there be honesty about the challenge before Somaliland. Somaliland identity can simultaneously unite and divide; its political order rests upon a delicate balance between the national project and the clan identities that underpin social organization. It unites when it offers a powerful collective story: Somalilanders survived genocide, chose peace, and built something more orderly than what they left behind—now the world is beginning to acknowledge their sacrifice. The state claims to transcend clan; this narrative can soften tensions by giving people a larger “we” to belong to and by creating pride in what a small nation has achieved against difficult odds. Yet clan remains the fundamental unit of political calculation, resource distribution, and conflict resolution. This tension has been documented extensively; it is not a secret, nor should it be a source of shame. It is simply how Somaliland society functions. External recognition—particularly recognition that brings strategic partnerships and resource flows—risks disturbing this balance. The partnership with Israel promises economic investment, security cooperation, and diplomatic advocacy. All of these benefits must be distributed. And distribution, in Somaliland’s context, means navigating clan expectations and ensuring that no group feels excluded from the fruits of recognition. Israel’s recognition accelerates the tempo. It forces what might be called “definitional closure”: the ambiguity that once allowed accommodation of diverse perspectives without explicit choices can no longer be sustained. And we know that the same identity divides when its boundaries are drawn too hard and too fast—especially in contested regions, among those whose wartime experiences differed, or among people who still feel deeply connected to wider Somali identity. In places like Sool and parts of Sanaag, where populations maintain complex relationships to both Somaliland and Puntland, an intensified nationalism from Hargeisa can feel imposed rather than chosen. The risk is clear: if the partnership is perceived as benefiting some clans at the expense of others, it will generate resentment rather than unity. If Somalilander identity is narrowed rather than broadened—defined by one history and one clan’s suffering rather than by shared citizenship—the very cohesion that makes Somaliland attractive as a partner will erode.

The question before Somaliland is existential: Will “Somalilander” become a civic identity that any resident can grow into while keeping other attachments? Or will it narrow into a genealogical identity that privileges those whose families suffered most directly in the 1988–1991 violence? As political scientist Michael Walls (2014) framed it in his study of Somaliland’s political transition: “Can Somaliland transition from an ethnic nationalism defined by descent and rooted in specific clan histories to a civic nationalism defined by territorial residence and shared political values?” The answer is not predetermined. Somaliland has always contained elements of both. It depends on the choices Somaliland makes right now—how the nation uses this moment of visibility and which direction it decides to move.

Understanding Why This Partnership Is Possible

Many observers—particularly in the West and in Israel itself—will wonder how a Muslim-majority society can align with the Jewish state. The question reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of who Somalilanders are. Islam in Somaliland is not the political Islam of the Muslim Brotherhood nor the militant Salafism of extremist movements, nor is it the identity politics of diaspora communities in European cities. Somaliland’s Islam arrived centuries ago through trade across the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden. It mixed with Cushitic languages, pastoral ways of life, Sufi orders, poetry, and clan customs. Religious authority has traditionally resided with local shaykhs and Sufi brotherhoods whose legitimacy derives from lineage, learning, and spiritual charisma—not from transnational ideological movements.

The great anthropologist I.M. Lewis, who spent decades studying Somali society, documented how Islam among Somalis is embedded within clan structures, customary law, and pastoral livelihoods. Religion provides moral vocabulary and ritual structure; it does not override the authority of elders or the obligations of xeer. This is why Somalilanders can be deeply devout and, at the same time, relaxed about local culture—why one may find Quran recitation alongside traditional songs at weddings, and respect for saints alongside formal prayers. This traditionalist orientation creates a natural distance from political Islam. Movements like Al-Shabaab represent departures from, not continuations of, Somaliland’s religious heritage. Their project—the replacement of clan and customary authority with a textualist, universalist Islamic order—directly contradicts the embedded, particularist Islam that has shaped Somaliland society for centuries. Israelis and Western observers who assume “all Muslims are the same” miss almost everything that matters about Somaliland. If they want to build a real partnership, they must learn to see Somalilanders as they are: an East African people with their own religious culture, shaped by local tradition and long experience of living within their own social fabric—not copies of what outsiders fear on their screens.

Two Democracies That Understand Each Other

The deeper foundation of this partnership is not merely strategic; it is experiential. Both Israel and Somaliland are democracies created and maintained in profoundly hostile environments. Israel built and defended a pluralist system under repeated wars, terrorism, and delegitimization campaigns that questioned its very right to exist. Somaliland, after the mass violence of the late 1980s and the collapse of the Somali state, built a hybrid democratic order from below—through clan conferences, local peace pacts, and gradual institutionalization of parties, elections, and peaceful transfers of power. Each has lived with denial. Israel faces movements and narratives that refuse to treat it as a legitimate state. Somaliland faces international structures that insist on treating it as a “region” of a failed union it left in 1991. The African Union invokes the principle of inherited colonial borders to deny Somaliland’s claim—the same principle that should, by rights, affirm it, since Somaliland is simply reasserting the boundaries of the former British Somaliland Protectorate.

In this light, recognition is not a simple geopolitical transaction. It is an act of mutual validation between two societies that have had to prove, repeatedly, that they are more than the negation projected onto them. This shared experience creates the possibility for something rare in international relations: a partnership grounded in genuine mutual respect rather than the familiar template of patron and client.

Not a Gift, But a Contract: The Obligations Both Parties Bear

Some see the Israel relationship as Somaliland finally getting a powerful patron. That is a misreading. This is not a patron-client relationship where a weak state secures backing from a strong power, nor is it a one-sided gift or charity. As Sarah Phillips demonstrated in her essential book When There Was No Aid (2020), Somaliland has consistently resisted dependency relationships. The country rebuilt itself without international support, and that self-reliance created a political culture that demands accountability from partners, not just gratitude. The Israel–Somaliland partnership is better understood as a bilateral social contract—a negotiated framework where both sides assume explicit, enforceable obligations. It is about mutual commitments and shared risk.

But genuine partnership means genuine obligation. Both Somaliland and Israel must fulfil responsibilities if this relationship is to endure. Israel framed its recognition around Somaliland being a “reliable and responsible partner” with functioning democratic institutions. That creates performative pressure: Somaliland must continuously demonstrate it meets the standards that justified international partnership. Scholars like Nicholas Eubank have shown that Somaliland’s institutional strength derives in part from reliance on domestic taxation rather than external rents; dependence on the latter tends to weaken accountability. The partnership with Israel will introduce new resource flows. Somaliland has an obligation to ensure these do not corrode the foundations that made it attractive in the first place. Concretely, that means protecting electoral integrity, maintaining press freedom, ensuring peaceful power transfers, and preventing security cooperation from becoming a tool of repression. Any backsliding here doesn’t just damage Somaliland’s democracy—it provides ammunition to critics who argue that recognition props up authoritarian clients. As Nina Caspersen (2012) warned in her study of unrecognized states: “Recognition partnerships that prioritize security over governance can inadvertently empower authoritarian tendencies.”

Dominik Balthasar’s research (2013) on Somaliland’s political economy showed that the social contract depends on citizens believing state elites serve collective interests, not private gain. That means transparency about this partnership. Somalilanders have a right to know what security arrangements are being negotiated, what economic concessions are on the table, how benefits will be distributed across regions and clans, and whether there are agreements that could entangle Somaliland in conflicts it did not choose. Opaque deals risk fueling exactly the kind of clan suspicions and conspiracy theories that have destabilized Somali politics elsewhere. This partnership must be publicly debated, not presented as a fait accompli. Major agreements affecting sovereignty and security must be subjected to genuine public deliberation—not concluded in backrooms without parliamentary approval. Somaliland’s legitimacy derives from its consultative traditions. Abandoning them would contradict the very identity Somalilanders are asking the world to recognise. Somaliland cannot afford to become what Hagmann and Höhne (2009) call a “passive platform for extra-regional power projection.” Yes, Somaliland has the right to security partnerships. But any Israeli military or intelligence presence must remain clearly bounded in scope and duration, defensive in character, not offensive infrastructure for wider regional wars, and consistent with Somaliland’s own security doctrine, not dictated by external priorities.

Here’s an uncomfortable truth: Israel took significant political risks by recognizing Somaliland. The Arab League condemned it, the African Union rejected it, Somalia severed diplomatic ties with Israel, and key regional actors threatened consequences. Israel chose to stand with a small, unrecognized African democracy when the easier path was to maintain relationships with larger, recognized states. That creates what might be called a “reciprocity obligation.” It doesn’t mean Somaliland must agree with every Israeli policy—legitimate criticism of any government’s actions is normal politics. But it does mean rejecting antisemitic rhetoric that denies Israel’s right to exist or demonizes Jews as a people, distinguishing clearly between policy criticism and dehumanization, and pushing back when Somaliland’s struggle is hijacked by others to justify targeting Jewish civilians. For a society that survived genocide, this carries particular moral weight. Somalilanders know what it means when a people is dehumanized and marked for elimination. The nation cannot, in good conscience, let its cause be used to rationalize doing that to others.

Israel’s first obligation is to treat Somaliland as what Balthasar (2013) calls “equal partners in asymmetric relations.” Yes, there is a power differential, but it does not erase Somaliland’s ultimate authority over its own territory and political choices. This means genuine consultation on security and economic projects, no unilateral decisions that could drag Somaliland into conflicts without its consent, and no leverage to dictate Somaliland’s internal politics or election outcomes. Somaliland built its state from below, through clan conferences and negotiated consensus, and fiercely protects that sovereignty. Any perception that Israel treats Somaliland as a client rather than a partner will generate serious domestic backlash.

While security cooperation may dominate headlines, Israel’s deeper obligation is to help Somaliland build what Sarah Phillips (2020) calls “resilience in everyday life.” That means sharing expertise in areas that matter to ordinary Somalilanders: desalination technology, drought-resistant agriculture, and aquifer management; telemedicine linking Somaliland hospitals to Israeli specialists and training programs; drip irrigation, climate adaptation, and sustainable pastoralism; digital infrastructure and cybersecurity for rural areas. If Somalilanders experience this partnership mainly through military presence and port arrangements—with little visible improvement in daily life—it will become politically unsustainable. As Balthasar (2013) observed: “Partnerships perceived as primarily extractive generate populist backlash.” People need to see and feel the benefits.

Israel has pledged to advocate for broader recognition of Somaliland, including potential inclusion in Abraham Accords frameworks. That advocacy is important and appreciated, but it must be realistic. Israel cannot single-handedly deliver US or EU recognition. Over-promising creates expectations that lead to disillusionment when progress is slower than hoped. What Israel can do is help Somaliland craft evidence-based arguments for recognition—documenting governance performance, security contributions, and economic viability—and support it in multilateral forums without reducing it to a pawn in Israel–Arab League rivalry. As Israeli security presence grows in the Red Sea–Gulf of Aden through access to Somaliland’s territory, Israel assumes an obligation to proportionality and restraint. Escalatory strikes, opaque covert operations, or actions that endanger civilian shipping could destabilize the very maritime routes both countries depend on. Moreover, if Israel champions Somaliland’s right to self-defense and statehood, it must be consistent in how it addresses other contested states—so support for Somaliland does not appear purely transactional.

Recognition Is a Mirror, Not a Trophy

Israel’s recognition is not the end of a journey—it is the beginning of a harder one. For three decades, Somaliland lived in international invisibility. That invisibility allowed a form of productive ambiguity: the nation could be many things to many people, accommodating internal differences without forcing hard choices. Now Somaliland is visible. And visibility demands clarity. Recognition holds up a mirror. It shows what has been built: a small democracy that survived genocide, chose peace through shir rather than revenge through war, and maintained relative order while neighbors struggled. That is genuinely remarkable, and the world is finally acknowledging it.

But the mirror also shows fractures: contested eastern regions, tensions between clan and state authority, debates about who belongs and on what terms, gaps between Hargeisa’s services and people’s needs in distant areas. Recognition doesn’t resolve these tensions—it amplifies them. It raises the stakes of inclusion and exclusion. It creates new resources that could either bridge divides or deepen them. It forces Somaliland to decide what the nation actually means. The partnership with Israel comes with real obligations on both sides. It is a bilateral contract, not a gift. Somaliland owes sustained democratic performance, transparency, regional responsibility, and moral consistency. Israel owes respect for sovereignty, investment in human development, realistic advocacy, and operational restraint. If both sides honor these commitments, this partnership can become a model—proving that small democracies built under existential pressure can find each other across religious and regional divides, choosing alliance based on shared values rather than inherited enmities.

But ultimately, the most important obligation is the one Somaliland owes itself. The nation must decide: Is “Somalilander” a welcoming tent with room for all the country’s people—Isaaq and Harti, Gadabursi and Dir, northwest and east, those who fought from the beginning and those who joined later, those who are certain and those who remain ambivalent? Or is it a fenced compound that leaves some of Somaliland’s own standing outside the gate, their belonging always questioned, their loyalty always suspect? Recognition forces this choice. How Somaliland answers will determine not only whether the partnership with Israel succeeds, but what kind of nation Somaliland becomes. As Mark Bradbury wrote in 2008, foreseeing this moment: “Somaliland’s ultimate challenge is not gaining recognition, but ensuring that recognition, when it comes, strengthens rather than shatters the delicate social contracts that made it possible.” That challenge is no longer hypothetical. It is now. The choice is for Somalilanders to make. May they choose wisely. May they choose inclusively. May they prove that a small nation can be recognized without becoming smaller in spirit.

This article draws on scholarly research including Mark Bradbury (2008), Nina Caspersen (2012), Dominik Balthasar (2013), Michael Walls (2009, 2014), Pegg and Kolstø (2015), Sarah Phillips (2020), Abdurahman Abdullahi “Baadiyow” (2011), Terje Østebø (2012), Olivier Roy (2004) and Jocelyne Cesari (2004)

About the Author

Dr Fundji Benedict, CEO, lvs-foundation.org

Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect the opinions, or viewpoints of Somaliland Chronicle, and its staff. 

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