Table of Contents
For more than three decades, Somaliland’s leaders and diaspora networks have pressed the case for international recognition. Their narrative has shifted with the times: In the 1990s, Somaliland was cast as an “oasis of peace” compared to warlord-ravaged Mogadishu; in the 2000s, as an “island of democracy”; and more recently, as America’s potential “strategic partner” in the Red Sea. These storylines have been skillfully told.
Yet the reality in Washington is different: recognition is not on the horizon, since narratives alone cannot substitute for the fundamental requirements of statehood such as broad legitimacy, territorial consensus, and international alignment. The story of Somaliland is in many ways a narrative born of grievance. When the territories known as British Somaliland and Italian Somaliland united in 1960, northern leaders like Mohamed Haji Ibrahim Egal were at the forefront. Yet power soon concentrated in the south, fueling resentment. The 1969 coup that ousted Egal deepened the imbalance. In the 1980s, the military regime committed atrocities against Isaaq communities during its war with rebel movements. The suffering was real, and it left deep scars.
From that trauma grew a political narrative: Somaliland was once sovereign, “made a mistake” by joining, and “regained independence” in 1991. Over the past thirty years, this view has been reinforced through schools, media, and political discourse, especially among younger generations in Somaliland. For many, it became a deeply held belief. Yet for most Somalis, over 80 percent of whom were not even born during the dictatorship, this remains a political story, not a shared memory. It is also a historical irony: none of Somalia’s recent presidents ever served in the military regime, while every Somaliland president did, often as senior officials or officers. Nevertheless, in public debate, responsibility for that era is often directed southward, even though repression was experienced across the country.
Occasionally, Somaliland’s recognition campaign generates buzz, fueled by lobbyists, sympathetic commentators, and online campaigns. But U.S. foreign policy is not shaped by hashtags. It is the product of careful review by the Pentagon, State Department, intelligence agencies, and the National Security Council. Each time, the conclusion is the same: the costs of recognition far outweigh the benefits. For more than thirty years, across Republican and Democratic administrations, U.S. policy has been consistent: Somalia’s unity must be preserved. This was reaffirmed even during the Ethiopia–Somaliland Memorandum of Understanding, when Addis Ababa and Hargeisa claimed they would trade “sea access for recognition.” Washington immediately rejected it. The reason was clear, undermining Somalia’s territorial integrity would fracture African Union consensus, weaken international law, and hand extremists the nationalist grievance they seek.
Somaliland’s advocates argue that Berbera is the “golden key” for U.S. strategy in the Red Sea. Yet access to Somali facilities is already available. Mogadishu has offered Berbera, Baledogle, and Bosaso for U.S. use, no recognition required. The United States also operates Camp Lemonier in Djibouti, its only permanent base in Africa, less than 300 kilometers away and already equipped with the personnel, aircraft, and radar to cover the entire Horn. For that reason, the Berbera debate is best understood as a manufactured issue, sustained more by lobbying and online amplification than by strategic necessity. In reality, Berbera adds little that Djibouti and existing Somali facilities do not already provide.
The costs of recognition, meanwhile, would be severe. An African backlash is inevitable, since the African Union stands firmly against redrawing colonial borders. Regional instability would also follow, with Red Sea security coordination disrupted at a critical time. On top of that, counterterrorism cooperation would be at risk, as recognition would rupture U.S.–Somali efforts against al-Shabaab and ISIS. For Washington, the calculus is simple. Non-recognition preserves access and partnerships at zero cost. Recognition would disrupt alliances, isolate Mogadishu, and generate new security headaches. With larger crises on the agenda such as Gaza, Iran, and the Sahel, the United States is not likely to expend capital on symbolism.
Somaliland’s persistence reflects grievances that remain unresolved. But persistence does not guarantee inevitability. Canada endured fifty years of separatist agitation in Quebec, including a near-win in 1995, yet held the country together through compromise. Somalia needs its own path: decentralization, power-sharing, and reform that reduce the appeal of secession.
Washington’s role has been steady: encourage Somali reconciliation, strengthen federal institutions, and support local governance where people live. This is not hostility to Somaliland, but realism about what recognition would cost.
Bottom line: Recognition of Somaliland is not on the horizon. History, law, African consensus, and U.S. interests all point in the same direction, Somalia’s sovereignty and unity remain the safer, cheaper, and more strategic choice. The Berbera “card” is more social-media hype than policy reality, a debate amplified for relevance, not born of necessity. Washington knows it, and so do serious policymakers.
