Tuesday June 24, 2025
By Bashir M. Sheikh-Ali
In the grand theater of international law and politics, sovereignty and nationhood are often treated as interchangeable concepts. Yet history and practice reveal they are not. The Westphalian system, widely regarded as the foundation of modern state sovereignty, presupposes more than borders and flags. It rests on the existence of a shared political community—a nation. Without that foundation, sovereignty becomes a hollow shell, a legal fiction vulnerable to internal disintegration and external manipulation. Somalia illustrates the risks of sovereignty without nationhood. Its borders may be internationally recognized, but its deep internal divisions and the absence of a cohesive national identity render its sovereignty fragile, even performative.
To understand why nationhood matters, it is important to first distinguish it from the idea of the state. A state refers to the structure of governance—institutions that control territory, collect taxes, enforce laws, and represent the country in international affairs. A nation, on the other hand, is something less visible but more powerful. It is a shared sense of identity among a people, built on common values, history, language, or simply the belief that they belong to one political community. In the best cases, the nation and the state reinforce each other. People recognize themselves in the state, and the state, in turn, serves as a vessel for their collective aspirations. In Somalia, this connection has never fully taken shape. The state exists, at least on paper, but the nation does not. In a previous essay,[1] I described this disconnect as a civic gap—a population unfamiliar with the functions and responsibilities of government. This essay looks at the same condition through a different lens: the absence of nationhood. The two are closely linked. Without a sense of nationhood, citizens have little reason to see the state as their own. And without civic understanding, the idea of belonging to a nation becomes abstract, even meaningless. The result is a vicious cycle: a population that struggles to understand or engage the state, and a state that struggles to unify the nation.
To see where these ideas come from, we need to revisit the origins of the modern state system. The Peace of Westphalia in 1648 is often cited as the starting point for the idea of sovereignty. It introduced the principle that states should be free to govern within their own borders without interference. But that early form of sovereignty was not grounded in the will of the people. It was a deal struck by monarchs, dukes, and princes who, exhausted from religious wars, agreed to respect each other’s authority within fixed boundaries. In that world, whoever held power through inheritance, conquest, or negotiation was accepted as the legitimate ruler. The people themselves had no say in the matter. Sovereignty belonged to rulers, not to nations.
Over time, however, this model began to change. The Enlightenment, followed by the French Revolution, challenged the idea that sovereignty could rest solely with monarchs. The French revolutionaries introduced a radical new principle: that legitimate political authority must come from the people. This gave rise to the concept of the nation-state, where sovereignty is not just control over territory, but the expression of a collective identity. In the modern order, the state must not only govern effectively, but also represent a people who see themselves as a nation—with shared values, a common destiny, and mutual recognition of political authority.
Thus, while the 1648 settlement gave us the legal form of sovereignty, the civic idea of nationhood gave it modern substance. A state today is expected not merely to control land, but to speak and act on behalf of a national community. Where that nation does not exist, the foundations of sovereignty remain brittle, no matter how strong the legal claim is. The French Revolution gave powerful expression to this idea of the nation as a civic body—one defined not by ethnicity or tribe, but by common institutions, equal citizenship, and a shared commitment to the republic. It was an active project, not a passive inheritance. People became citizens through participation, education, and political inclusion.
From this worldview emerged the modern idea of the nation-state: a political entity where state institutions are rooted in national consciousness, and where sovereignty is both a legal and moral claim to self-rule. The state acts in the name of the nation, and the nation expresses itself through the institutions of the state. This model has proven remarkably durable across contexts, even where ethnic, linguistic, or religious divisions are strong. What matters is not homogeneity but cohesion—a sense that people, despite their differences, belong to a shared civic order.
Somalia’s tragedy is that it has never fully developed such a sense of nationhood. While Somalis share language, religion, and cultural practices, these have not translated into a cohesive political identity. Clans remain the primary unit of loyalty, protection, and social organization. The state, when it exists, is often seen not as a neutral arbiter or collective good, but as an instrument of domination by one clan or coalition over others. Institutions are frequently captured, not constructed. Their survival depends less on public trust than on elite bargains, patronage networks, and international support.
This disconnect between formal structures and lived realities has a deep history and roots. Colonial rule in both British and Italian Somaliland deliberately fragmented Somali communities, co-opting clan elders and distorting traditional authority structures. Rather than cultivating national unity, colonial administrators relied on clan sovereignty as a tool of indirect rule. Post-independence leaders inherited a divided institutional landscape and failed to forge a compelling national project. Somali nationalism in the 1960s was oriented outward, with a focus on uniting Somali people across colonial borders, rather than inward on building a unified civic identity. That irredentist vision animated early state rhetoric and military campaigns but failed to consolidate institutions or strengthen internal cohesion.
When those territorial ambitions failed through military defeat, diplomatic isolation, and geopolitical pressure, Somalia was left with neither an expanded homeland nor a resilient state. Instead, it turned inward. The authoritarian regime of Siad Barre, which briefly tried to suppress clan identities in the name of socialist nationalism, ultimately fell back on clannism as a tool for survival. By the time the regime collapsed in 1991, state institutions were weak, fragmented, and mistrusted. The vacuum was filled by militias, warlords, and informal networks of authority. The clan became both shield and sword.
Since then, Somalia has been stuck in a condition of permanent transition. Various efforts to rebuild national governance, from the Arta process to the current federal arrangements, have failed to address the fundamental absence of national cohesion. Many Somalis see the 4.5 power-sharing formula, which was originally introduced as a temporary measure to promote inclusion, as something that has gradually hardened into a system of clan entitlements. From the public’s perspective, ministries exist not for coherent policy implementation but to reflect negotiated clan balances. Parliamentary seats are widely perceived to be the result of elite bargaining rather than open democratic choice. Public service roles are often believed to hinge more on lineage than on qualifications. To many, the state feels less like a unified government and more like a patchwork of clan-based allocations, with leaders acting as stewards of their group’s share rather than national representatives.
This model may offer a sense of short-term stability, but over time it undermines the building of a strong and cohesive state. It makes it difficult for national institutions to grow in ways that inspire trust across clan lines. Authority becomes dispersed, and accountability is often unclear. Officials may feel more answerable to their immediate constituencies than to national responsibilities. Practices that benefit one’s group can be seen as acceptable, even when they compromise broader integrity. Efforts to reform the system are often viewed with suspicion, especially if they are seen as upsetting existing balances. In such a setting, the state struggles to serve as a unifying institution. It risks being seen not as a common good, but as a collection of competing interests.
The irony is that Somalis overwhelmingly identify as Somali. In contrast to many African countries, Somalia has a high degree of linguistic and cultural homogeneity. But this shared identity has not translated into civic solidarity. The idea of Somalia as a nation remains shallow because national belonging has never been institutionally cultivated. Schools, courts, legislatures, and media, which are key tools for building civic identity and nationhood, have remained underdeveloped, politicized, or bypassed. Citizenship is not experienced as a set of rights and duties within a shared political community. It is experienced, when at all, as a transactional relationship mediated through kinship and proximity to power.
This leaves Somalia vulnerable on two fronts. Internally, the absence of nationhood undermines legitimacy. Citizens do not see the state as representing their interests. Governance is perceived as an extractive exercise, focused on who controls what rather than who serves whom. Externally, the absence of nationhood weakens sovereignty. In the Westphalian model, sovereignty presumes internal coherence. A state must be able to govern its territory, represent its population, and act on behalf of the national interest. Somalia struggles on all three counts. Its governance is fragmented, its population is politically segmented, and its national interest is often contested or outsourced.
These vulnerabilities are not lost on foreign actors. In the current geopolitical moment, with growing competition in the Horn of Africa, Somalia’s institutional weakness makes it an appealing target for influence or capture. Foreign military bases, commercial deals, and diplomatic agreements are increasingly struck without national consensus. External actors exploit regional divisions, bypass federal authorities, and partner with subnational entities. This undermines the idea of a unitary foreign policy and fragments Somalia’s external posture. It also reinforces internal divisions, as regions and political factions align themselves with different foreign patrons.
This dynamic creates a dangerous feedback loop. Weak institutions invite foreign interference. Foreign interference exacerbates internal fragmentation. Fragmentation further erodes the possibility of building national institutions. Over time, sovereignty becomes less a protective shield and more a performative gesture. Somalia is treated as a sovereign equal in diplomatic forums, but the substance of sovereignty, including internal legitimacy, coherent representation, and the capacity to act, is missing.
Breaking this cycle requires more than administrative reform. It requires a national awakening—a deliberate project to build a civic identity that transcends clan, region, and lineage. This does not mean erasing traditional identities. It means integrating them into a broader civic framework. It means creating institutions that reward merit, serve the public interest, and instill a sense of collective belonging. It means investing in education systems that teach not only skills but citizenship. It means building courts that are fair, legislatures that are representative, and executive branches that are accountable.
This is not a romantic aspiration. Other countries have done it under equally difficult circumstances. France, in the wake of the revolution, was a fractured society. But through education, institution-building, and civic inclusion, it constructed a durable national identity. Indonesia, a multi-ethnic archipelago, built civic nationalism through shared symbols, inclusive governance, and national investment. Rwanda, after the genocide, deliberately fostered national unity as a central policy objective. None of these examples is perfect, but they show that nationhood can be built—it is not only inherited.
For Somalia, the road ahead must begin with a clear recognition: sovereignty without nationhood is a shell. It may provide legal recognition and access to diplomatic forums, but it does not guarantee legitimacy, stability, or development. Without a nation in which people believe in the state, participate in its governance, and see themselves reflected in its institutions, sovereignty will remain shallow. Somalia will continue to be governed through elite bargains, manipulated by external actors, and held back by internal mistrust.
The stakes could not be higher. A Somalia that continues down its current path will remain vulnerable to secessionism, authoritarianism, and predation. But a Somalia that changes course and invests in nationhood, builds institutions of inclusion, cultivates civic identity, and places the citizen at the center of governance can reimagine its future. It can turn its remarkable cultural homogeneity into a strength. It can transform its youthful population into an engine of innovation. It can reclaim its sovereignty, not just as a legal principle, but as a lived reality.
The first step is to stop mistaking statehood for nationhood, and sovereignty for legitimacy. The second is to begin the hard work of building a nation in which all Somalis, regardless of lineage or region, can see themselves.
The author is a Somali-American lawyer based in Nairobi. The views expressed in this op-ed are his own and do not reflect those of any organization with which he may be affiliated. He can be reached at bsali@yahoo.com.
Notes and References
[2] https://arabic.hiiraan.com/op4/2025/may/201521/somalia_s_future_starts_in_the_minds_of_its_citizens.aspx.