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Dadaab: Playing Politics With the Lives of Somali Refugees in Kenya

7 min read.

Somali refugees in Kenya should not be held hostage by political disagreements between Mogadishu and Nairobi but must continue to enjoy Kenya’s protection as provided for under international law.

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Dadaab: Playing Politics With the Lives of Somali Refugees in Kenya

For several years now, Kenya has been demanding that the UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency, close the expansive Dadaab refugee complex in north-eastern Kenya, citing “national security threats”. Kenya has argued, without providing sufficient proof, that Dadaab, currently home to a population of 218,000 registered refugees who are mostly from Somalia, provides a “safe haven” and a recruitment ground for al-Shabaab, the al-Qaeda affiliate in Somalia that constantly carries out attacks inside Kenya. Threats to shut down have escalated each time the group has carried out attacks inside Kenya, such as following the Westgate Mall attack in 2013 and the Garissa University attack in 2015.

However, unlike previous calls, the latest call to close Dadaab that came in March 2021, was not triggered by any major security lapse but, rather, was politically motivated. It came at a time of strained relations between Kenya and Somalia. Kakuma refugee camp in Turkana County in north-western Kenya, is mostly home to South Sudanese refugees but also hosts a significant number of Somali refugees. Kakuma has not been included in previous calls for closure but now finds itself targeted for political expediency—to show that the process of closing the camps is above board and targets all refugees in Kenya and not only those from Somalia.

That the call is politically motivated can be deduced from the agreement reached between the UNHCR and the Kenyan government last April where alternative arrangements are foreseen that will enable refugees from the East African Community (EAC) to stay. This means that the South Sudanese will be able to remain while the Somali must leave.

Security threat

Accusing refugees of being a security threat and Dadaab the operational base from which the al-Shabaab launches its attacks inside Kenya is not based on any evidence. Or if there is any concrete evidence, the Kenyan government has not provided it.

Some observers accuse Kenyan leaders of scapegoating refugees even though it is the Kenyan government that has failed to come up with an effective and workable national security system. The government has also over the years failed to win over and build trust with its Muslim communities. Its counterterrorism campaign has been abusive, indiscriminately targeting and persecuting the Muslim population. Al-Shabab has used the anti-Muslim sentiment to whip up support inside Kenya.

Moreover, if indeed Dadaab is the problem, it is Kenya as the host nation, and not the UNHCR, that oversees security in the three camps that make up the Dadaab complex. The camps fall fully under the jurisdiction and laws of Kenya and, therefore, if the camps are insecure, it is because the Kenyan security apparatus has failed in its mission to securitise them.

The terrorist threat that Kenya faces is not a refugee problem — it is homegrown. Attacks inside Kenya have been carried out by Kenyan nationals, who make up the largest foreign group among al-Shabaab fighters. The Mpeketoni attacks of 2014 in Lamu County and the Dusit D2 attack of 2019 are a testament to the involvement of Kenyan nationals. In the Mpeketoni massacre, al-Shabaab exploited local politics and grievances to deploy both Somali and Kenyan fighters, the latter being recruited primarily from coastal communities. The terrorist cell that conducted the assault on Dusit D2 comprised Kenyan nationals recruited from across Kenya.

Jubaland and the maritime border dispute 

This latest demand by the Kenyan government to close Dadaab by June 2022 is politically motivated. Strained relations between Kenya and Somalia over the years have significantly deteriorated in the past year.

Mogadishu cut diplomatic ties with Nairobi in December 2020, accusing Kenya of interfering in Somalia’s internal affairs. The contention is over Kenya’s unwavering support for the Federal Member State of Jubaland — one of Somalia’s five semi-autonomous states — and its leader Ahmed “Madobe” Mohamed Islam. The Jubaland leadership is at loggerheads with the centre in Mogadishu, in particular over the control of the Gedo region of Somalia.

Kenya has supported Jubaland in this dispute, allegedly hosting Jubaland militias inside its territory in Mandera County that which have been carrying out attacks on federal government of Somalia troop positions in the Gedo town of Beled Hawa on the Kenya-Somalia border. Dozens of people including many civilians have been killed in clashes between Jubaland-backed forces and the federal government troops.

Relations between the two countries have been worsened by the bitter maritime boundary dispute that has played out at the International Court of Justice (ICJ).

The latest call to close Dadaab is believed to have been largely triggered by the case at the Hague-based court, whose judgement was delivered on 12 October.  The court ruled largely in favour of Somalia, awarding it most of the disputed territory. In a statement, Kenya’s President Uhuru Kenyatta said, “At the outset, Kenya wishes to indicate that it rejects in totality and does not recognize the findings in the decision.” The dispute stems from a disagreement over the trajectory to be taken in the delimitation of the two countries’ maritime border in the Indian Ocean. Somalia filed the case at the Hague in 2014.  However, Kenya has from the beginning preferred and actively pushed for the matter to be settled out of court, either through bilateral negotiations with Somalia or through third-party mediation such as the African Union.

Kenya views Somalia as an ungrateful neighbour given all the support it has received in the many years the country has been in turmoil. Kenya has hosted hundreds of thousands of Somali refugees for three decades, played a leading role in numerous efforts to bring peace in Somalia by hosting peace talks to reconcile Somalis, and the Kenyan military, as part of the African Union Mission in Somalia, AMISOM, has sacrificed a lot and helped liberate towns and cities. Kenya feels all these efforts have not been appreciated by Somalia, which in the spirit of good neighbourliness should have given negotiation more time instead of going to court. In March, on the day of the hearing, when both sides were due to present their arguments, Kenya boycotted the court proceedings at the 11th hour. The court ruled that in determining the case, it would use prior submissions and written evidence provided by Kenya. Thus, the Kenyan government’s latest demand to close Dadaab is seen as retaliation against Somalia for insisting on pursuing the case at the International Court of Justice (ICJ).

Nowhere safe to return to

Closing Dadaab by June 2022 as Kenya has insisted to the UNHCR, is not practical and will not allow the dignified return of refugees. Three decades after the total collapse of the state in Somalia, conditions have not changed much, war is still raging, the country is still in turmoil and many parts of Somalia are still unsafe. Much of the south of the country, where most of the refugees in Dadaab come from, remains chronically insecure and is largely under the control of al-Shabaab. Furthermore, the risk of some of the returning youth being recruited into al-Shabaab is real.

A programme of assisted voluntary repatriation has been underway in Dadaab since 2014, after the governments of Kenya and Somalia signed a tripartite agreement together with the UNHCR in 2013. By June 2021, around 85,000 refugees had returned to Somalia under the programme, mainly to major cities in southern Somalia such as Kismayo, Mogadishu and Baidoa. However, the programme has turned out to be complicated; human rights groups have termed it as far from voluntary, saying that return is fuelled by fear and misinformation. 

Many refugees living in Dadaab who were interviewed by Human Rights Watch said that they had agreed to return because they feared Kenya would force them out if they stayed. Most of those who were repatriated returned in 2016 at a time when pressure from the Kenyan government was at its highest, with uncertainty surrounding the future of Dadaab after Kenya disbanded its Department of Refugee Affairs (DRA) and halted the registration of new refugees.

Many of the repatriated ended up in camps for internally displaced persons (IDPs) within Somalia, with access to fewer resources and a more dangerous security situation. Somalia has a large population of 2.9 million IDPs  scattered across hundreds of camps in major towns and cities who have been displaced by conflict, violence and natural disasters. The IDPs are not well catered for. They live in precarious conditions, crowded in slums in temporary or sub-standard housing with very limited or no access to basic services such as education, basic healthcare, clean water and sanitation. Thousands of those who were assisted to return through the voluntary repatriation programme have since returned to Dadaab after they found conditions in Somalia unbearable. They have ended up undocumented in Dadaab after losing their refugee status in Kenya.  

Many refugees living in Dadaab who were interviewed by Human Rights Watch said that they had agreed to return because they feared Kenya would force them out if they stayed.

Camps cannot be a permanent settlement for refugees. Dadaab was opened 30 years ago as a temporary solution for those fleeing the war in Somalia. Unfortunately, the situation in Somalia is not changing. It is time the Kenyan government, in partnership with members of the international community, finds a sustainable, long-term solution for Somali refugees in Kenya, including considering pathways towards integrating the refugees into Kenyan society.  Dadaab could then be shut down and the refugees would be able to lead dignified lives, to work and to enjoy freedom of movement unlike today where their lives are in limbo, living in prison-like conditions inside the camps.

The proposal to allow refugees from the East African Community to remain after the closure of the camps — which will mainly affect the 130,000 South Sudanese refugees in Kakuma —  is a good gesture and a major opportunity for refugees to become self-reliant and contribute to the local economy.

Announcing the scheme, Kenya said that refugees from the EAC who are willing to stay on would be issued with work permits for free. Unfortunately, this option was not made available to refugees from Somalia even though close to 60 per cent of the residents of Dadaab are under the age of 18, have lived in Kenya their entire lives and have little connection with a country their parents escaped from three decades ago.

Many in Dadaab are also third generation refugees, the grandchildren of the first wave of refugees. Many have also integrated fully into Kenyan society, intermarried, learnt to speak fluent Swahili and identify more with Kenya than with their country of origin.

The numbers that need to be integrated are not huge. There are around 269,000 Somali refugees in Dadaab and Kakuma. When you subtract the estimated 40,000 Kenyan nationals included in refugee data, the figure comes down to around 230,000 people. This is not a large population that would alter Kenya’s demography in any signific ant way, if indeed this isis the fear in some quarters. If politics were to be left out of the question, integration would be a viable option.

Many in Dadaab are also third generation refugees, the grandchildren of the first wave of refugees.

For decades, Kenya has shown immense generosity by hosting hundreds of thousands of refugees, and it is important that the country continues to show this solidarity. Whatever the circumstances and the diplomatic difficulties with its neighbour Somalia, Kenya should respect its legal obligations under international law to provide protection to those seeking sanctuary inside its borders. Refugees should only return to their country when the conditions are conducive, and Somalia is ready to receive them. To forcibly truck people to the border, as Kenya has threatened in the past, is not a solution. If the process of returning refugees to Somalia is not well thought out, a hasty decision will have devastating consequences for their security and well-being.

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Abdullahi Abdille Shahow is an independent researcher and Horn political and security analyst. He was formerly lead research covering the northeaastern counties for the Nairobi office of the International Crisis Group. In this capacity, he wrote policy-geared reports and briefings on the security situation in the region.

Politics

Laikipia Land Crisis: A Ticking Time Bomb

Historic land injustices, changing land ownership and use, and heightened competition for natural resources — exacerbated by the effects of climate change — make for a perfect storm.

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Laikipia Land Crisis: A Ticking Time Bomb

“Here we have a territory (now that the Uganda Railway is built) admirably suited for a white man’s country, and I can say this with no thought of injustice to any native race, for the country in question is either utterly uninhabited for miles and miles or at most its inhabitants are wandering hunters who have no settled home . . . .” Sir Harry Johnstone

There have been significant changes in the pattern of land ownership in Laikipia in the last two decades. These changes are set against a background of profound inequalities in land ownership in a county where, according to data in the Ministry of Lands, 40.3 per cent of the land is controlled by 48 individuals or entities. The changes have not brought about an improvement in the lives of the pastoralists and other indigenous communities who occupied Laikipia before colonisation. These groups — and the Maasai in particular, following their 1904 and 1911 treaties with the British — were forced out and relegated to reserves in southern Kenya to make way for the establishment of large commercial ranches owned by White settlers. Those indigenous inhabitants who remained were pushed by subsequent colonial legislation to Mukogodo in the north of the county, the driest part of Laikipia.

The pastoralists did not recover their land with the end of colonial rule. On the contrary, Jomo Kenyatta, the first president of Kenya, encouraged White settlers to remain after independence and today, some of the descendants of those settlers who decided to make Kenya their permanent home still occupy vast swathes of land in Laikipia County. Those who were unwilling to remain in Kenya under majority rule sold their land to the Kenyatta administration. As Catherine Boone, Fibian Lukalo and Sandra Joireman observe in Promised Land: Settlement Schemes in Kenya, 1962 to 2016,

With the approach of independence, the settler state and the British government stepped in to protect the interests of Kenya’s white land-owners by creating a land market for white settlers who wanted to sell their agricultural holdings, and supporting land values for those who wanted to stay. The buyer of most of these properties was the Government of Kenya, using loans provided by the British Government and the World Bank. Through this process, the Kenyan state acquired about half of the land in the (ex-) Scheduled Areas.

In 1968, under the World Bank-funded Kenya Livestock Development Programme — whose stated objective was “to increase beef production for home consumption and export mainly by subsistence pastoral groups” — the government enacted the Land (Group Representative) Act (Cap. 287) that saw the creation of 13 group ranches in the northern part of Laikipia, which is the driest part of the county. However, well-connected local elites helped themselves to part of the land, excised as individual ranches. There are 36 such individual ranches that should have been part of the group ranches.

Those ranches that were sold to the Kenyan government by the departing British settlers are within the expansive Laikipia plateau. The government later sold them to land buying companies formed by Kikuyus that in turn subdivided them into individual holdings. Examples of such lands include Kamnarok, Kimugandura, Kirimukuyu, Mathenge, Ireri and Endana, among others. The remaining land was gazetted as government land such ADC Mutara and Kirimon, or outspans such as Ngarendare and Mukogodo, which were used for finishing livestock for sale to the Kenya Meat Commission.

Land tenure and use

In the Kenyan context, and compared to other counties, the history of land in Laikipia County is unique, with a diversity of tenure systems each representing a unique system of production. The map below shows the different land use and tenure systems in Laikipia County that include large-scale ranches, large-scale farms, group ranches and smallholder farms.

There are 48 large-scale ranches sitting on 40.3 per cent of the total land area in Laikipia County, 9,532.2km², some of which are still owned by the descendants of the colonial settlers. The ranches  occupy huge tracts of land, the three largest being Laikipia Nature Conservancy with 107,000 acres, Ol Pejeta with 88,923.79 acres, and Loisaba with 62,092.97 acres.

Source: Ministry of Lands

Most of these large-scale ranches — many of which have an integrated economic system that includes livestock, horticulture, wildlife conservation and tourism — were acquired during the colonial period and legislation governing their ownership was taken from the colonial law and integrated into the constitution of independent Kenya under the land transfer agreement between the colonial government and the Kenyatta regime. It should be noted that the Maasai land campaign of 2004 pushing the government to address historical injustices following the forced ouster of Maasai from their ancestral lands in Laikipia, brought to light the fact that some of these ranches had no legal documents of ownership. In an article titled In the Grip of the Vampire State: Maasai Land Struggles in Kenyan Politics published in the Journal of Eastern African Studies, Parselelo Kantai observes,

Ranchers interviewed could not remember how long their own land-leases were supposed to last, were unaware of the Anglo-Maasai Agreement, and, in at least one case, were unable to produce title deeds to their ranches. And when opinion was expressed, it bordered on the absurd: the ‘invaders’, observed Ms Odile de Weck, who had inherited her father’s 3,600-acre Loldoto Farm, were not genuine — not Maasai at all. They were, she noted emphatically, Kikuyus. The Maasai, she said, had willingly ceded rights to Laikipia, had been compensated long ago and now resided happily in some other part of Kenya, far away.

Immediately following the campaign, the Ministry of Lands started putting out advertisements in the print media inviting those landowners whose leases were expiring to contact it.

Twenty-three large-scale farms occupy 1.48 per cent of the land in Laikipia County. These farms are mostly owned by individuals from the former Central Province who bought the land following sub-division by the Kenyatta administration, or through land buying companies, which opted not to sub-divide the land but to use it as collateral to access bank loans.

Source: Ministry of Lands

Smallholdings sit on 27.21 per cent of the total land area in Laikipia County. These farms were initially large-scale farms bought by groups of individuals who later sub-divided them into smallholdings of between two and five acres. There are three categories of farmers in this group: those who bought land and settled to escape land pressure in their ancestral homes, those who bought the land for speculative purposes, and those who bought land and used it as collateral for bank loans. A majority of the first group still live on their farms, practising subsistence, rain-fed agriculture. Most members of the other two groups are absentee landowners whose idle land has over time been occupied by pastoralists in search of water and pasture for their animals, or by squatters seeking to escape the population pressure in the group ranches. In some cases, pastoralists have bought the idle land and have title.

The 13 group ranches cover 7.45 per cent of the total Laikipia land area and are occupied by pastoralists who use them for communal grazing. However, some of the group ranches such as Il Ngwesi, Kijabe, Lekurruki and Koija have also established wildlife conservancies and built tourist lodges.

Laikipia land use.

Source: CETRAD

Changing land ownership, changing landscapes

Since the late 1990s, when agitation for political reforms and a new constitution began in earnest, and in the intervening period, new patterns of land ownership and land use have been emerging in Laikipia County.

Data from the Laikipia County Government indicates that 16 of the 48 large-scale ranches have been internally sub-divided into units of between 3,000 and 4,000 acres, with the land rates due for each sub-division paid according to the size of the sub-division. The sub-divisions are made through private arrangements and do not appear in the records at the Ministry of Lands. There are claims that the sub-divided parcels have been ceded to European retirees looking to acquire land for holiday homes in Laikipia, and to White Zimbabweans. There are also claims that the large, palatial, private residences that have sprung up within the sub-divided parcels are in fact tourist destinations for a high-end clientele in a business that operates outside Kenya’s tourism regulatory framework and violates Kenya tax laws.

In the Kenyan context, and compared to other counties, the history of land in Laikipia County is unique, with a diversity of tenure systems each representing a unique system of production.

Whatever the case, the County Government of Laikipia confirms, “Most of the white settlers buying property are soldiers or tourists who loved the [county’s] climate, its people and natural beauty and want to experience it all over again. Big time investors [sic] in real estate flock the area, either to buy or construct multi-million shilling holiday homes, targeting wealthy European settlers and tourists.”

The Laikipia County Government also confirms that the large-scale ranches have also been leasing training grounds to the British Army Training Unit Kenya (BATUK), adding, “In 2009 BATUK expanded these grounds to 11 privately owned ranches, including Sosian, Ol Maisor and the Laikipia Nature Conservancy.”

Multinationals have also moved in, buying up the large-scale farms, particularly those situated near permanent sources of water, where they have set up horticultural businesses growing crops for export to the European market. The arrival of export horticulture in Laikipia has increased competition for resources as “agro-industrial horticulture, pastoralism and small holder agriculture compete for land, capital, and water, with access to water being particularly hotly contested.”

Absentee owners of smallholdings that have over time been occupied by squatters are also selling their land. With the help of brokers and officials from the Ministry of Lands, the smallholdings are consolidated and sold to individuals and companies who may not be aware that the land is occupied and that the sale could be a potential source of conflict.

Only the group ranches — which are occupied by pastoralists who use traditional grazing management techniques — have not changed hands and remain intact. They are, however, facing pressure from a growing population, intensive grazing and increasingly frequent droughts that are putting a strain on the natural resources.

On the other hand, most of the land gazetted as government land has been grabbed by senior government officials, politicians and military personnel. Of the 36 government outspans, only four remain. Outspans neighbouring large-scale ranches have been grabbed by the ranch managers and such grabbed land has since changed hands and been acquired by individuals.

Where farmers were settled in forests during the era of former President Daniel arap Moi, forest cover was plundered for timber and the forest floor given over to cultivation. When President Mwai Kibaki succeeded Moi, these farmers were constantly under threat of eviction but they continue to occupy the forests to date. There are, however, intact forest reserves where on-going human activity has not had a negative impact. They are used and managed by pastoralists as grazing lands, or managed by conservation groups, or by the government.

Impact of change of ownership on other livelihood groups 

Land deals are coming to compound an already existing multiplicity of problems related to the access, use and management of scarce resources in Laikipia County. Compared to neighbouring counties, in the past Laikipia received moderate rainfall and severe droughts like those experienced in 2009, in 2017 and now in 2021 were the exception. This attracted pastoralists from Baringo, Samburu and Isiolo counties to settle in the county in search of water and pasture for their livestock.

Over time, land pressure in central Kenya also forced subsistence farmers to move and settle in Laikipia, practicing rain-fed agriculture and keeping small herds of sheep, goats and cattle. This has led to competition for space and resources that has been compounded by frequent and increasingly severe droughts in recent years.

“The Maasai, she said, had willingly ceded rights to Laikipia, had been compensated long ago and now resided happily in some other part of Kenya, far away.”

The consolidation of smallholdings belonging to absentee owners where land that had previously been sub-divided into units of between two and five acres is now being merged to form bigger units of 500 acres and above, sold off and fenced is further reducing the land available to pastoralists and to squatters who have been using such idle land to graze livestock and grow crops, leaving them with limited options and leading to an increase in levels of vulnerability as they have to rely on relief food in order to survive.

The smallholder land consolidation process, which is being undertaken by former ranch managers who are brokering for individual buyers, is also blamed for the over-exploitation of natural resources in some areas and their conservation in others. In those areas occupied by farming communities, forest cover has been exploited either for charcoal burning, firewood or timber production as people look for alternative sources of livelihood. In the smallholdings where pastoralists have title, overgrazing of the rangelands due to constrained mobility does not allow the range to regenerate. This in turn has led to the degradation of the land and the emergence of unpalatable invasive species of plants like prosopis that render grazing areas unusable, further compounding the problem of access to pasture in the few areas left for pastoralists to graze.

In the group ranches, the most degraded rangelands are overrun with opuntia stricta, an invasive species of cactus whose fruit is harmful to livestock and has caused “economic losses in excess of US$500 in 48% of households in Laikipia”.

On the other hand, in the large-scale ranches, large farms, consolidated smallholder farms and group ranches where conservation and resource use fall under the intensive management of a few individuals, the availability of resources is assured even during times of stress. However, the availability of resources for one group of users and the lack of resources for another often leads to conflict as those without poach from those who have them. One example is when pastoralists graze illegally in the large-scale ranches whenever there is scarcity in their own areas, leading to arrests and sometimes confiscation of livestock from the pastoralists by government agencies in an attempt to protect the large-scale ranches.

Historical injustices and government failures

Article 60 of the Constitution of Kenya 2010 guarantees equitable access to land and security of land rights. Further, Article 68(c)(1) states, “Parliament shall enact legislation to prescribe minimum and maximum land holding acreages in respect of private land.” Parliament has failed to pass such legislation and, indeed, the government has shied away from addressing historical land injustices in Kenya in general and in Laikipia – where they are most visible – in particular. Policy makers rarely discuss justice in the context of land reform and what has taken place are land law reforms in lieu of the essential land reforms that would confront the material consequences of unequal access to land. As Ambreena Manji observes in her paper Whose Land is it Anyway?,

The consequences of a legalistic approach to land reform are starkly evident in Kenya’s new land laws. First and foremost, it foreclosed debates about redistribution, prioritising land law reform as the most effective way to address land problems and so evading more difficult questions about who controls access to land how a more just distribution might be achieved.

The recent violence that visited death and destruction on parts of Laikipia is a continuation and an escalation of a crisis that first came to a head in May 2000 when pastoralists drove their livestock into Loldaiga farm. Then the Moi government intervened and allowed the pastoralists into the Mt Kenya and Aberdare forests while big ranchers supported the government by allowing some animals onto their ranches.

In 2004, pastoralists again occupied commercial ranches while agitating for the non-renewal of land leases which they believed had expired. This time the Kibaki government used force to dislodge them. However, the question of land leases remains unresolved to date. Outbreaks of violence have become more frequent since 2009, caused by a combination of factors including the effects of climate change and increasingly frequent droughts that force pastoralists from neighbouring Baringo, Isiolo and Samburu into Laikipia in search of water and pasture. This inevitably leads to conflicts with ranchers onto whose land they drive their animals.

Population pressure, from both humans and livestock, is another cause of conflict in Laikipia. The carrying capacity of group ranches is stretched to the limit while it is plenty on neighbouring commercial ranches. Moreover, population migration to Laikipia from neighbouring counties is placing additional pressure on resources.

The sub-divisions are made through private arrangements and do not appear in the records at the Ministry of Lands.

The proliferation of small arms in the county has added to the insecurity; pastoralists from neighbouring counties invade and occupy commercial ranches, conservancies, smallholdings and forests armed with sophisticated weapons. Laikipia pastoralists have also acquired weapons both to defend themselves and their animals and to invade other land.

Politicians have since 2009 also been encouraging pastoralists from neighbouring counties to move to Laikipia on promises of protection in exchange for votes. There are also claims that politicians have been helping the pastoralists to acquire arms and that most of the livestock being grazed in private ranches and farms belongs to senior government officials and politicians who have exerted pressure on the government not to act on the pastoralists.

In the twilight of another Kenyatta government, relations between the commercial farmers and ranchers, the pastoralists and the smallholders remain poor and there is a lot of suspicion among them, with each group acting as an isolated entity. But for how long can the big commercial ranches and large-scale farms continue to thrive in the midst of poor farmers and dispossessed pastoralists?

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Politics

Securing Kenya’s Electoral Integrity: Regulating Truth

The Kenyan government has tried to curb the spread of false or inaccurate information through regulation. But outlawing disinformation alone will not address the spread of fake news.

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Securing Kenya’s Electoral Integrity: Regulating Truth

In recent years, it has become relatively common for public entities and politicians in Kenya to disavow certain content shared through social media, claiming it to be false. This year alone, the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC) has had to issue two statements dismissing election-related content as fabricated. In July 2021, it was reported through mainstream media that the Directorate of Criminal Investigations (DCI) had arrested an individual involved in online fraud. According to the report, the police suspected that the individual hacked into the IEBC’s database and accessed personal details relating to 61,617 registered voters. Shortly after the news broke, the IEBC claimed it was false. Even more recently, in September, the IEBC had to issue a public statement clarifying that a call for applications for jobs in their voter education programme was fake.

These instances have not taken place in isolation; there is a broader discernible upward trend in false or inaccurate content in Kenya. In a 2018 survey of 2,000 Kenyans by Portland Communications, 90 per cent believed they had interacted with false information relating to the 2017 Kenyan elections, while 87 per cent believed that such content was deliberately false. The issue of deliberately spreading false information was the subject of Odanga Madung and Brian Obilo’s research for the Mozilla Foundation. In their report, they highlighted the extent to which the spread of disinformation in Kenya through Twitter was coordinated and well -organized.

These local developments also occur against a backdrop of global trends with striking similarities. Several governments—including Kenya’s—have attempted to rein in the spread of false or inaccurate information through regulation. For example, in 2018 Kenya enacted the Computer Misuse and Cybercrimes Act (CMCA) which criminalizes sharing false information. Noting that some of these countries have directly linked their regulatory objectives to the safeguarding of their democracy, it is worth exploring the ways in which false or inaccurate content compromises democracies, and in particular, electoral integrity.

To a post-truth world

Undoubtedly, the ability to agree on basic facts is a core tenet of democracy. To optimally make a collective decision, voters ought to have access to the same accurate information. While arriving at a single “objective truth” is not always possible due to mediation in communication, it is important for the citizenry to at least have access to, and acknowledge the basic facts that underpin the political processes they are participating in. The increasing spread of false or inaccurate content in recent years points to the solidifying of a “post truth” age where political rhetoric often appeals to emotion and sentiment with little regard to factual rebuttals.

This post-truth concept is not entirely novel. For example, climate change denial and anti-vaxxer sentiments have long persisted despite widespread availability of evidence to refute them. But in recent years, it has gained significant popularity perhaps due to the increasingly populist nature of political campaigning in the digital age. On the same year Donald Trump won the US elections, Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the year was “post-truth”. In his campaign, Trump made it a habit of dismissing mainstream news reporting as “fake news” when it contradicted his narrative and even went ahead to later falsely claim he coined the term. Likely emboldened by these trends, other populist leaders around the world began dismissing news reporting as fabricated when it did not suit their narratives – Jair Bolsonaro of Brazil and Rodrigo Duterte of the Philippines have both accused journalists of spreading “fake news”.

Rather dangerously, some leaders who sound the alarm over false or inaccurate content are often either linked to the deliberate spread of such content or have benefited from it. Trump’s campaign was boosted by a group of Macedonian teenagers who, driven by advertising revenue on Facebook, generated several seemingly genuine news articles that either directly supported Trump or discredited his opponent, Hillary Clinton. The combination of these leaders casting aspersions as to the integrity of traditional media and the spread of “alternative facts” on social media results in a political environment where voters are highly distrustful of each other and of core institutions such as the media. The danger is exacerbated by the nature of social media and how third parties—often with the aid of social media platforms—are able to curate the type of content users are exposed to in a subtle manner as we discussed in our previous article.

Rather dangerously, some leaders who sound the alarm over false or inaccurate content are often either linked to the deliberate spread of such content or have benefited from it.

Distrusting institutions is not the only risk to democracies. In some cases, false content results in violence. In 2016, following claims that Hillary Clinton was running a ring which that was exploiting children sexually in the basement of a pizza restaurant, a man armed with a gun broke into the restaurant to find out if the claim was true – it was not. More recently, a large-scale attack on the US Capitol took place following the outgoing president’s false claims through social media that the election was stolen. In this case, it was reported that Facebook was aware of the potential for violence arising from the false claims but failed to limit their spread. With real dangers like this in mind, the desire to “regulate truth” is understandable. However, attempts to do so have raised a novel set of challenges. For one, it is extremely difficult to define truth let alone purport to regulate it.

Getting the terminology right

The terms “fake news”, “disinformation”, and “misinformation”’ have featured prominently in discourse on the spread of false content. While these terms are generally used to assert that something is untrue, they are sometimes wrongly conflated. This conflation then impairs any attempts at regulation. The term “fake news” does not necessarily refer to one specific type of content. Clair Wardle of FirstDraft has rightly noted that it is an entire eco-system that includes both misinformation and disinformation. Elsewhere, one of us has categorized the nature of this content into two conceptions for purposes of understanding how to regulate it: the deliberate action and the culture around it.

The deliberate action essentially refers to disinformation. Spreading disinformation is the act of intentionally and knowingly sharing false or inaccurate content.  For example, the teens in Macedonia spinning fake articles for advertising revenue were involved in a disinformation campaign. In Kenya, Madung and Obilo identified groups of bloggers who were paid to push trends with false content that maligned certain political actors such as those who filed a petition to oppose the Building Bridges Initiative. These disinformation campaigns are often well coordinated and targeted at a particular outcome. Due to the potency of such campaigns in electoral contexts, they have previously been referred to as “distributed-denial-of-democracy attacks”.

These disinformation campaigns are often successful because of the second categorization – the culture of misinformation. In other words, the increasing likelihood of individuals to share false or inaccurate content unintentionally or inadvertently. Misinformation can range from misleading or alarmist headlines to demonstrably false claims passed on by people who had a good faith belief in the accuracy of those claims. For example, a few years ago, the Kenya Bureau of Standards had to issue a statement denying the existence of “plastic rice” in Kenya following the circulation of a video on WhatsApp implying there was. WhatsApp is a particularly notorious avenue through which misinformation is shared locally. Even mainstream media is sometimes susceptible to sharing misinformation as was seen most recently when several newsrooms reported that a Kenyan Senator dialled into a parliamentary debate session from a bar due to a poorly edited clip that was circulating on social media. They later had to recant upon discovering it was an altered clip.

Even mainstream media is sometimes susceptible to sharing misinformation.

Unlike coordinated disinformation campaigns, which may often be linked to a central source, misinformation entails the public playing an active role in both creating and amplifying narratives. As a result, Renée DiResta has referred to misinformation as ampliganda amplified propaganda.  This culture of misinformation has been enabled by several things. First, the use of social media as a source of news content has led to a decline in gatekeeping or fact-checking of content. Second, the nature of social media is such that it amplifies one’s biases and exposes them to content which often confirms their worldview. This in turn results in their likelihood to consume false or inaccurate content unthinkingly. Lastly, the existence of disinformation campaigns, and the discrediting of claims as false by politicians further muddies the waters, making people unsure of what is “objectively true”. This has made addressing the problem of fake news difficult.

Regulating truth 

Conceivably due to a focus on disinformation, regulation seeking to rein in false or inaccurate content has often been quick to criminalize the spread of fake news. As it was noted in the Kofi Annan Commission on Elections and Democracy in the Digital Age (KACEDDA) report, there is insufficient data regarding the individuals, motives and means behind the spread of fake news, possibly hampering regulatory efforts.  Across the world, governments seeking to rein in fake news have either targeted the individuals involved in spreading such content with penal sanctions, or the platforms hosting the content with financial liability. Both approaches are wanting for various reasons. For one, they both purely ignore the broader conception of fake news as a culture enabled by several factors. Second, they also pose a threat to the freedom of expression which, in relation to political speech, is vital.

Take for example Kenya’s CMCA, mentioned above. It criminalizes disinformation, identified in the Act as the intentional publication of false, misleading, or fictitious information which that is disguised as authentic. Those found guilty of committing this offence would be subjected to either a fine not exceeding KSh5 million (approximately US$45,000) or to a term of imprisonment not exceeding two years, or to both. More severely, the CMCA also makes it an offence to knowingly publish false information through any media in a manner calculated to cause disorder or to harm the reputation of a person. While the fine for this offence remains the same as the previous one, the potential prison sentence is a term not exceeding ten years. In no way should the intentional spread of false information be condoned. However, such laws may be the subject of abuse by governments seeking to suppress political activism and allowable expression. For example, Mutemi Kiama was arrested over claims that he violated the CMCA when he shared a poster with President Kenyatta’s image, identification number and a statement ostensibly from Kenyans to the rest of the world renouncing him as Kenya’s representative for purposes of seeking financial loans. This occurred in the context of a broader discourse on Kenya’s debt burden and a section of Kenyans’ displeasure with the economic trajectory of the country.

This abuse is also discernible from the fact that evidence suggests the law is selectively applied. In 2020, a Member of Parliament, John Kiarie, posted a Twitter thread where he raised alarm at the number of people the government had in quarantine following the first confirmed COVID case in the country. His posts directly contradicted the Ministry of Health’s official position, indicating that the situation could be much worse than was officially reported. He was neither arrested nor charged, and the Twitter thread is still available online. The existence of a law that limits the freedom of expression in a subjective manner with the risk of stiff financial and penal sanctions, let alone its abuse, is likely to stifle free expression. More so with respect to political discourse which is crucial in campaigns and elections.

Aside from targeting individuals, some governments have sought to shift the burden of regulating fake news to platforms such as social media by imposing liability on them for their users’ behaviour in certain instances. Arguably the most notable example of this is Singapore’s anti-fake news law which that would enable the government to order platforms to take down false statements which that are against the public interest. Where platforms are at risk of incurring liability for user conduct, they are more likely to pre-emptively censor content they deem problematic. The net effect of fake news laws aimed at platforms would therefore be the suppression of protected speech in an unprocedural manner by private entities. At the same time, the core issue of fake news would not be addressed.

These attempts at regulation which focus primarily on disinformation campaigns, while well–intentioned, seem to have missed the mark. Jeff Kosseff, an Assistant Professor at the US Naval Academy recently remarked that the discourse around fake news has not sufficiently focused on the reason behind people’s susceptibility to such content. Instead, attempts at regulating fake news seem to focus on the individuals and platforms involved, and the mechanics through which it is spread. However, to address both the disinformation and the broader culture of misinformation that enables it, one must go beyond such regulation.

A layered approach 

Outlawing disinformation alone will not address the spread of fake news; it may in fact cause more harm than good. This does not mean that it should be tolerated in the name of respecting the freedom of expression, particularly in any context that is likely to lead to widespread violence due to long-standing tensions (e.g., deep running economic or ethnic tensions). Any attempts to outlaw certain speech ought to be contextual, measured, and proportionate to the ends sought. However, beyond this, they ought to be supplemented by policy interventions aimed at reforming the culture which that enables disinformation to take root.

Most of these policy interventions would involve education of one form or another. Crucially, governments should engage in both civic education and media literacy campaigns. Empowering the citizenry to both identify accurate sources of information and understand the role of different institutions in a democracy would contribute significantly to stemming the inadvertent spread or consumption of misinformation. This, coupled with collaborative fact-checking initiatives between the government and mainstream media, would enable voters to discern fact from falsehood.

To address both the disinformation and the broader culture of misinformation that enables it, one must go beyond such regulation.

Considering the centrality of social media to everyday news consumption, it would also be prudent to engage these platforms in such fact-checking initiatives. For example in Mexico, the National Electoral Institute (INE) collaborated with social media companies in support of Verificado 2018, a fact-checking initiative that saw the Mexican presidential debates livestreamed on social media from INE headquarters. The collaboration also supported the development of Certeza 2018, a fact-checking system used online which—through a combination of human and machine review—monitored online activity, assessed instances of misinformation, and took action by disseminating the relevant notices.  In recognition that fact-checking may occur late after false information is shared, it is also worth mainstream media exploring pre-bunking initiatives. These would involve identifying the common tropes around false narratives and priming audiences to receive them critically. Such efforts have been proposed as solutions to the current spread of misinformation around COVID vaccines. Sander van der Linden likens pre-bunking efforts to inoculation against disinformation and misinformation.

Even where pre-bunking efforts are not adopted, entities involved in the fact-checking initiatives proposed above may collaboratively engage in a debunking campaign by developing counter-messaging once misinformation is disseminated. For this, Indonesia’s example is instructive as noted in the KAF Commission’s report. In Indonesia, the electoral bodies collaborated with civil society and the Ministry of Communication and Information Technology to monitor social media activity and to spread counter-messaging in instances of misinformation, among other things.

While it is indeed necessary to curb the spread of false or inaccurate content, attempting to do so may pose several risks. Governments, social media platforms, and mainstream media ought to collaborate and make use of a few legal and policy-based initiatives to stem the culture of misinformation. The IEBC fortunately has several examples to draw from on how, as an electoral body, it can coordinate efforts around addressing the culture of misinformation around elections. In all, when seeking to curb the spread of fake news (both deliberate and inadvertent), it is important for governments to consider why their citizens are susceptible to false information as opposed to how and by whom that information is spread.

This is the third of a five-part op-ed series that seeks to explore the use of personal data in campaigns, the spread of misinformation and disinformation, social media censorship, and incitement to violence and hate speech, and the practical measures various stakeholders can adopt to safeguard Kenya’s electoral integrity in the digital age ahead of the 2022 elections. This op-ed series is in partnership with Kofi Annan Foundation and is made possible through the support of the United Nations Democracy Fund.

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Little to Show for Kenya’s Ten-Year Military Foray Into Somalia

The peace and safety that were the raison d’être of the Kenya Defence Forces’ incursion into Somalia are nowhere in sight a decade after the first boots marched in.

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Little to Show for Kenya’s Ten-Year Military Foray Into Somalia

In early October 2011, the Transitional Federal Government of Somalia was coming to grips with an evolving al-Shabaab that had just conducted the country’s most deadly suicide bombing at the time. On the 4th of October, a truck bomb detonated outside a compound housing several government ministries, killing up to 82 people, mostly students and their parents gathered at the Ministry of Higher Education following up on scholarship opportunities abroad. Despite all the fanfare that had followed al-Shabaab’s exit from the capital city earlier that year in August, this terrorist attack confirmed the group’s continued resistance and its adaptation.

The group, which had reverted to its initial guerrilla tactics, claimed responsibility and warned civilians to avoid government installations, even as the attack was widely condemned. On the same day the truck bomb went off in Somalia’s capital, in Nairobi, the Kenya Defence Forces was finally granted the authority to invade Somalia. Twelve days later, on 14 October 2011, the first Kenyan boots crossed into Somalia in Kenya’s first expeditionary warfare campaign dubbed Operation Linda Nchi — Protect the Country.

The deployment of Kenyan forces to Somalia had been rumoured for a while, but strangely, the invasion was hurried and the communications relating to the incursion ill-prepared. It was announced to Kenyans and the world two days after the fact by the Minister for Internal Security, flanked by his Defence counterpart. Two days later, Kenyan officials belatedly travelled to Mogadishu to synchronize messaging with Somali authorities. In a letter addressed to the Security Council 17 October 2011by Kenya’s Permanent Representative to the United Nations on, Kenya termed the invasion a “remedial and preemptive action” for recurrent incursions by al-Shabaab inside Kenyan territory and the abductions of several foreign nationals. Curiously, to the letter dated 17 October was attached the Joint Communiqué that would be issued the following day by the Kenyan Foreign Affairs Minister and Somalia’s Deputy Prime Minister and Defence Minister. The initial justification of “hot pursuit” of al-Shabaab kidnappers was eventually replaced with self-defence in line with Article 51 of the UN charter. Al-Shabaab had denied responsibility for the abductions at the time.

“When the Kenya government and the people of this country feel that they are safe enough from the al-Shabab menace, we shall pull back.” Gen. Julius Karangi, Chief of General Staff, KDF.

Two weeks after the launch of “Operation Linda Nchi”, General Julius Karangi, then Commander of the KDF, made the following haunting remark, “This campaign is not time-bound”. Ten years later, the end of the incursion, which has since been integrated into the AMISOM mission, is still not in sight. Nor is the peace or safety that Kenya sought. In Somalia, other than control of the major port city of Kismayo and the installation of an administration that is amiable to Kenya in Jubaland, KDF has little to show for its foray into Somalia.

Kenya suffered its greatest military tragedy in 2015 when al-Shabaab attacked El-Adde, a KDF forward operating base in the Gedo region of Somalia. An estimated 170 military personnel were killed in what Prof. Paul Williams of the Elliott School of International Affairs described as “the deadliest attack on peacekeepers in the history of modern peace operations.” And internally, since the invasion, attacks and casualties have multiplied, with the group taking responsibility for hundreds of attacks on Kenyan soil.

Prior to this, the group’s major claim to notoriety outside Somalia was the coordinated bombings targeting crowds watching the 2010 World Cup final in the Ugandan capital, Kampala, that killed 74 people. The group has since killed hundreds of people in Kenya, with high-profile incidents in the capital, Nairobi, including the 2013 siege of Westgate Mall and the 2019 attack on the DusitD2 hotel.

The group’s deadliest atrocity was its 2015 attack on Garissa University in north-eastern Kenya where 147 people were massacred. Al-Shabaab has also not shied away from hard targets and routinely attacks government security installations, including last year’s raid on the Manda Bay Airfield, a military facility near the Somali border. Thus, a sober evaluation of Kenya’s invasion and its aftermath, particularly when juxtaposed against the nation’s stated objectives, highlights a less than satisfactory performance on most counts.

“Not yet Kenyan”

In Kenya, parallel internal security operations were initiated to root out al-Shabaab, an animal whose “head was in Eastleigh and tail in Somalia”. These words by Orwa Ojode, Kenya’s former Assistant Minister of Internal Security, illuminated the official understanding of the relationship between the al-Shabaab threat and Kenya’s own Somali population. This was not much different from the ethnic Somali experience during the Shifta War (1963–1967), an insurgency that begun when the predominantly ethnic Somali population in north-eastern Kenya opposed the post-independence administrative arrangements that denied them the choice of joining Somalia.

Parallel internal security operations were initiated to root out al-Shabaab, an animal whose “head was in Eastleigh and tail in Somalia”.

Although the insurgency officially ended in 1967, collective punishment, discrimination, and political and economic marginalization of ethnic Somali communities in north-eastern Kenya continued to be the de-facto policy in the following decades. In 2014, the government launched its counterterrorism response, Operation Usalama Watch, following major security incidents at the coast and in north-eastern Kenya.  The crackdown in Eastleigh, a suburb of Nairobi that is the residential and business hub for the Somali community in the capital, exacerbated historical tensions.

The profiling and arbitrary detentions, harassment, extortion, and even forcible relocation and expulsion, contributed to the alienation and grievances that provide rich fodder for radicalization and recruitment. Rather than attract adherents through ideology, al-Shabaab capitalized on Kenya’s response and sought to identify with the disaffected communities, mainly at the coast and in north-eastern Kenya, in the process morphing from a distant threat that could be contained in Somalia to one that is now no longer easily identifiable.

The Jubaland Initiative

At face value, the intervention was seemingly motivated by national security interests as Kenya shares a long and porous border with Somalia where an active insurgency is raging. But upon closer inspection, previous non-military actions point to an intent to establish a friendlier Somali political order. Following the advent of al-Shabaab in 2007, the security situation in southern Somalia became a major concern to the Kenyan leadership. Kenya set about establishing the “Jubaland Initiative”, a plan to establish “Azania”, a buffer zone comprising three regions of southern Somalia — Gedo, Lower Juba and Middle Juba.

The proposed leader of “Azania” was the late Prof. Muhamad Abdi Gandhi, a former minister in the Transitional National Government of Somalia, who hailed from the region. On the Kenyan side, a clan associate of Prof. Gandhi, Yusuf Haji, was Minister of Defence and a key player in both the initiative and the 2011 invasion. Kenya set about training approximately 3,000 soldiers who would conduct the offensive alongside Kenyan troops, but a little later, Sheikh Ahmed Mohamed Islam Madobe’s Ras Kamboni militia became the preferred ally. Kenyan troops captured the port city of Kismayo from al-Shabaab insurgents in September 2012 and less than a year later, Ahmed Madobe declared himself president of the new interim administration of Jubaland. The Federal Government of Somalia at the time did not recognize this administration, leading to testy relations.

Kenya’s support to Ahmed Madobe also dented relations with Ethiopia and led to regional tensions. In 2019, after Kenya stuck with its ally during disputed Jubaland polls that were not recognized by members of the Somali diplomatic corps, and prevented an Ethiopian military aircraft — rumoured to be ferrying Ethiopian troops to support Federal Government plots in Kismayo to undermine Ahmed Madobe — from landing at Kismayo airport.

In January 2020, fighting broke out between Somali government forces and those of Jubaland after the Jubaland regional security minister, Abdirashid Hassan Abdinur “Janan”, suspected of crimes under international law, escaped from Federal detention and resurfaced in the Kenyan border town of Mandera. After Janan mobilized militias on the Kenyan side of the border, Somalia filed a complaint with IGAD. The assessment team sent to the border by IGAD reported no proven Kenyan role in supporting rebels. However, the Djibouti officials who led the fact-finding mission were challenged by the Somali government, souring relations between the two countries. The unfortunate consequence of the political rivalry and military standoff was the noticeable distraction from the war against al-Shabaab.

The assessment team sent to the border by IGAD reported no proven Kenyan role in supporting rebels.

Somalia’s neighbours have routinely recruited, trained, and backed Somali militia groups whose leaders are then propelled to political leadership positions. Interventions in Somalia’s political and security matters by her neighbours have provided an arena for proxy battles, elevated allied political cronies to the detriment of grassroots leaders, and thrown the nascent federalism structures into disarray. By making allies out of Somalia’s regional leaders, the neighbours are decentering sovereignty, weakening the already fragile state-building efforts.

The aftermath

Some argue that Kenya’s action was pre-emptive and that the insecurity across the border in Somalia caused by the active al-Shabaab insurgency would eventually have spilled into Kenya. However, if the purpose of the operation was to contain al-Shabaab and create a buffer zone, that has failed. A more potent al-Shabaab continues to make regular incursions and has co-opted more communities into its Kenyan front. Assailants of Somali origin initially led al-Shabaab attacks in Kenya; today, the threat has morphed and includes Kenyan nationals from every ethnicity.

Kenya has been further stained by reports of the KDF’s involvement in illegal trade, particularly sugar smuggling and charcoal exports, with the Kenya government reportedly losing millions of shillings in tax revenue due to the illicit sugar that transits through Somalia. Further, Kenya’s aerial bombardment campaign in southern Somalia has been the cause of tensions between the KDF and civilian populations, particularly in Gedo. The bombardments usually follow attacks on Kenyan positions or soldiers and have been read as collective punishment, resulting in civilian casualties and destroying critical telecommunications infrastructure.

The KDF has made a valuable contribution to Somalia’s peace and stability. The ultimate sacrifices by the KDF and the financial cost of the war have been immense and have not been in vain, at least for Somalia. Al-Shabaab has been kept at bay and allowed the state formation process to proceed. However, a major casualty has been the relationship between Somalia and Kenya which, although historically testy, deteriorated to its lowest point in the wake of the 2011 invasion and the Jubaland initiative. In the anarchic period that followed state collapse in 1991, Kenya had posed as a supportive neighbour, hosting hundreds of thousands of refugees as well as multiple reconciliation conferences. It had adopted a hands-off approach, only engaging through IGAD and taking the lead from Ethiopia on political matters. The reconciliation conferences eventually gave birth to the Transitional Federal Government in 2004, which Kenya hosted for another two years.

The 2011 invasion, the implementation of the Jubaland initiative, and the maritime boundary dispute between Somalia and Kenya have changed this. The two countries have engaged in very public diplomatic spats over the Jubaland regional elections in 2019 and the maritime dispute that the International Court of Justice has just decided in favour of Somalia, severing and restoring diplomatic relations several times.

As it became clear that the mission would not end as swiftly as it had begun, the KDF rehatted into AMISOM in 2012 to ease the financial burden. However, the future of AMISOM itself is the subject of ongoing debate, with the AU and the UN both conducting independent assessments and presenting possible options for an international security operation beyond 2021. Among the options recently endorsed by the AU Peace and Security Council is a hybrid mission with the UN that would ostensibly solve the challenge of financial sustainability. The Somali government has wholly rejected this option. Instead, it seeks a reconfigured mission that would be more agile and support the Somali Security Forces, taking on primary security responsibilities.

Of course, those in the Somali national leadership are not passive spectators or victims but also aggressors as they have learnt to use the neighbouring states to prevail in political and security standoffs. Beyond 2021, Somalia envisions a security infrastructure that will depend on Somali security forces, not external armies — a direct challenge to Kenya and its stated plans to only leave Somalia when Kenya feels safe.

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