In a revealing episode of geopolitical turbulence, a small aircraft en route to Hargeisa was recently grounded—not due to mechanical failure or adverse weather, but by a political directive from Somalia’s federal government in Mogadishu.
The aircraft, operated by East African Aviation, was denied access to Somali airspace, reportedly because it had previously provided services to clients in the Jubaland administration—one of Somalia’s semi-autonomous federal member states—according to sources familiar with the company’s operations.
While disruptions of this nature are not unusual in fragile states, this latest incident throws a spotlight on a far more entrenched issue: the contested nature of Somali sovereignty.
In this case, the battle over control of the skies reflects a deeper struggle for political legitimacy and power across a divided landscape.
The flight had been scheduled to land in Hargeisa, the capital of Somaliland—a self-declared republic that has operated independently since 1991, following the collapse of Somalia’s central government.
With its own constitution, currency, armed forces, and regular democratic elections, Somaliland functions as an independent state in everything but name.
Yet it remains unrecognised by any country or international institution, including the United Nations and African Union.
Despite its self-governance, Somaliland’s airspace remains, on paper, under the jurisdiction of Mogadishu—an arrangement that dates back to a still-unresolved agreement with the UN’s International Civil Aviation Organization (ICAO).
For officials in Hargeisa, that legal technicality continues to have very real consequences.
The decision to bar East African Aviation has been widely viewed in Somaliland as a political move, designed to reinforce federal authority over regions that seek greater autonomy—or outright independence.
But critics argue that the episode reflects more about Mogadishu’s fragility than its control.
“Somalia’s federal government struggles to govern large parts of its own territory,” said one Somali analyst, speaking on condition of anonymity.
“Yet it insists on exercising exclusive control over the airspace—including over Somaliland, which it hasn’t administered for over three decades. That contradiction lays bare the unresolved tensions around federalism, recognition, and sovereignty.”
In Hargeisa, control of the skies is more than an administrative matter—it is a potent symbol of self-determination.
Somaliland officials have long pushed for full authority over their own airspace, not only for practical and commercial reasons, but as a fundamental assertion of statehood.
“This isn’t about a single flight—it’s about the principle,” said a senior Somaliland official.
“Incidents like this show how we’re still bound by a political system that doesn’t acknowledge our existence, despite the institutions and stability we’ve built.”
One stranded passenger responded with dry wit.
“Maybe it’s time to go back to the nomadic way,” he joked.
“Camels don’t need clearance from Mogadishu—or anywhere else.”
The comment may have been light-hearted, but it echoed a serious frustration.
Somaliland has managed to build peace, hold elections, and maintain functional governance in a volatile region.
Yet it remains tethered to a central government it no longer recognises—and from which it seeks full independence.
In Somali politics, even flight paths are contested terrain. And this latest airspace dispute once again raises the broader question: who gets to define the future of the Somali territories? Now, many in Somaliland are renewing their call for the international community—particularly the United States—to reconsider its stance.
Will global powers continue to endorse the current ambiguity, or engage more directly with the political reality on the ground?
At stake, they argue, is more than a blocked flight. It’s a question of legitimacy, justice—and the right to chart a different course.
