Hiiraan Online

Sunday June 1, 2025
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Mogadishu – In a nation scarred by decades of civil war, stained by endemic corruption, and haunted by generational injustice, the long-awaited establishment of Somalia’s Independent Human Rights Commission arrives as a moment of historic gravity. It is not a ceremonial appointment; it is a constitutional calling—a litmus test for national integrity and the conscience of the state.

Mandated by the Provisional Constitution, this commission is designed not to decorate governance, but to defend the dignity of the Somali people. It is meant to replace the role of the UN Independent Human Rights Expert and reclaim the nation’s sovereign responsibility to uphold human rights. And yet, from its earliest steps, this commission appears perilously close to betrayal.

For over twenty years—since the birth of the Transitional Federal Government in 2004—Somalia’s ruling class has eluded this duty. This was not oversight—it was a strategy of suppression. Cold, calculated, and brutal. The prolonged absence of a human rights body was not a bureaucratic omission; it was a deliberate firewall erected by the ruling elite to shield their survival at the expense of the people’s suffering. A genuine commission would have detonated the very foundations of their rule—unmasking a system sustained by unchecked theft, repression without resistance, and the ruthless abuse of power camouflaged in the rhetoric of federalism and the illusion of clan consensus.

It would have cracked open the sealed vault of impunity where unchecked power thrives, victims are silenced, and institutions serve preservation—not justice. They did not fear failure—they feared exposure and accountability.

Now, under the pretense of progress, the selection process has begun. But far from being an open call to serve justice, it has become a covert weapon to preserve power. Shielded from public scrutiny, controlled by political brokers, and stripped of merit, the process threatens to birth a commission designed not to confront impunity, but to consecrate it.

The Ministry of Women and Human Rights Development, entrusted by the Constitution to lead this process, has been quietly sidelined. In its place, the presence of Villa Somalia has grown increasingly assertive—not in support, but in command. This is no longer national stewardship; it is central orchestration. What should have been a transparent, inclusive process now risks becoming a tightly choreographed exercise in exclusion and manipulation.

Such acts not only erode the integrity of the commission but risk delegitimizing it in the eyes of the Somali public and federal member states—transforming what should have been a beacon of justice into yet another national institution perceived as a political extension of the ruling circle. At a time when trust in state institutions is already fragile, this approach threatens to fracture confidence further and undermine the very foundation of national cohesion the commission was meant to reinforce.

Credible accounts indicate that highly qualified, principled candidates have been quietly excluded—not due to shortcomings, but because of their integrity and proven independence. Their merit became their liability. Their credibility, their disqualification. What is taking place is not a competitive selection—it is a quiet disfigurement of a constitutional process, reducing a sacred institution to a stage-managed charade unworthy of public trust.

This is the quiet repurposing of a human rights body into a political shield—a tool designed not to protect the people, but to neutralize dissent, mute civil society, silence independent media, reward corruption, and whitewash violations. It is repression disguised as reform—draped in constitutional language and moral deceit.

Human rights work in Somalia is not a performative gesture. It is perilous, principled, and painfully necessary. It requires individuals of unquestionable courage, those who have walked beside victims, spoken uncomfortable truths, and borne the cost of standing upright in a crooked system. It cannot, and must not, be entrusted to the hands of the very architects of silence and suppression.

Somalia bleeds from the wounds of decades of unresolved injustices—and the weaponization of the last hope, the Human Rights Commission, adds cargoes of burdens to that injustice. Already, the journalists are harassed, detained, and killed with impunity. Women and children endure unspoken horrors. Political detainees die in silence. Aid is diverted from the hungry into the hands of the corrupt and those complicit in violence. These are not incidental failures. These are the fruits of deliberate neglect, of a state-engineered protection for power, not for people.

Somalia does not need another hollow institution. It needs a commission forged in truth, built on principle, and shielded from authority’s reach. A commission that can investigate without fear, report without distortion, and defend without compromise is the least the Somali people can accept.

If this commission is captured—politically, personally, or clan-wise—it will not merely be ineffective; it will become a dangerous device in the dirty political games of the country. It will launder injustice. It will embolden abusers. It will preach rights while practicing repression. It will deepen the wounds it was meant to heal.

This is not a bureaucratic appointment. It is a moral reckoning. The selection committee stands at a crossroads: either serve the nation’s wounded conscience or stain its future with complicity. They are accountable not to authority, but to the people—and to history. Somalia is not lacking in principled minds; it is rich with brave defenders of justice whose lives embody the struggle for dignity. This commission must reflect their spirit—not political survival. Its legitimacy will hinge on one test: was it built on truth or tailored for control? 

This commission still holds the promise to become a turning point—but only if it is built on trust, not control. What’s at stake is more than an institution; it is the direction of the nation’s conscience. If it is shaped by pressure and quiet deals, it may struggle to earn the recognition it needs—from the people, from the regions, from the international community and from the future.

There is still time to choose a different path—one that favours principle over position, and long-term legitimacy over short-term political gains. Somalia cannot afford another institution that looks the part but fails the purpose. This must be a commission that stands—firmly, independently, and unmistakably—for the people.

This moment is irreversible. The government will either build a lighthouse of accountability that steadies the nation’s path—or erect a monument to impunity that darkens the horizon for generations to come. And both history and the people are watching.