By Isha Qarsoon

Nations write their future through the laws they choose to enforce. Today, Somalia stands at a crossroads. Instead of strengthening protection for its citizens, the government is ready to embrace a penal framework built on intimidation, irreversible punishment, and unchecked authority. Laws are meant to safeguard society and preserve dignity, yet the draft penal law risks doing the opposite by concentrating extraordinary power in the hands of institutions that remain fragile and unrestrained. If the proposed Somali Penal Code is implemented as written, the country will confront a difficult question: will it continue as a constitutional republic, or begin to drift toward a system defined more by fear than by justice? The text of the proposed penal code introduces punishments and powers that fundamentally reshape the relationship between citizen and state.

The most alarming feature is the structure of punishment. The draft lists ciqaabaha asalka ah [2] (original punishments) that include stoning (rajmi), amputation (curaancur-jar), cross-limb cutting (isweydaar u jarid), public hanging, flogging, and other irreversible penalties as ordinary sentencing tools rather than rare or exceptional measures. These are not marginal provisions buried in obscure sections; they are the core architecture of the code. A legal system that normalizes bodily punishment risks transforming justice into spectacle and authority into domination.

Supporters may argue that these provisions reflect Islamic legal tradition. Yet even if one accepts a religious justification, the deeper question is not theological but political: who will wield these powers, and with what limits? A just society is not defined solely by the punishments written on paper, but by the integrity of those entrusted to enforce them. A government widely viewed as unable to safeguard public resources and either incapable or unwilling to provide public security or protect the public trust cannot credibly claim the authority to exercise irreversible punishment without meaningful restraint. History shows that unchecked power is often justified in the language of order and morality; Somalia has seen this logic before, including from actors it now condemns. The country’s recent experience offers little assurance that such sweeping authority would be exercised with caution. Granting a fragile political class the legal power to amputate limbs, carry out public executions, or impose extreme retaliation risks transforming law from a shield that protects citizens into a weapon that controls them.

The draft’s framework for retaliatory punishment (qisaas) is another turning point.[3] It establishes equivalence-based penalties (i.e., an eye for an eye logic) that allows punishment to mirror harm rather than be calibrated through proportional judicial reasoning. This approach risks shifting the justice system away from state-based adjudication toward socially charged outcomes shaped by pressure, revenge, or fear. Courts may become instruments of retaliation rather than independent guardians of proportional justice.

Even more troubling is the way the draft expands liability beyond individuals. Under the system of diya (blood compensation), financial responsibility can extend to extended kinship or associated social groups (xigtada/cuqaasha), effectively imposing collective burdens for individual acts. [4] Modern criminal law (including Somalia’s provisional constitution) rests on personal responsibility. When punishment spreads through clan or social networks, the rule of law is destroyed and social fragmentation deepens.

The death penalty provisions illustrate how wide these powers could become. The draft allows execution by shooting (toogasho) or stoning (madid/rajmi) and permits execution to occur in prisons or “any other place” designated by authorities. [5] Such open-ended language does not merely define punishment; it creates space for public displays of power. A country already struggling with institutional trust should not adopt laws that make state violence more visible and more discretionary.

The most dangerous contradiction within this draft seems to lie between the Constitution’s protection of freedom of expression and opinion (xorriyadda hadalka iyo ra’yiga) and the breadth of punitive authority the new code attempts to create. [6] Somalia’s constitutional order was built on the promise that citizens would be able to criticize leadership without fear of retaliation. That principle is the foundation that distinguishes a republic governed by law from a system governed by fear. When the penal framework criminalizes broad categories of speech such as insult (aflagaado) or loosely defined threats to the constitutional order, the boundary between dissent and crime becomes dangerously unclear. Freedom of expression is not merely a political right; it is a structural safeguard against abuse. A government that cannot be questioned eventually stops correcting its own mistakes. If citizens cannot criticize the President or question laws that authorize severe and irreversible punishment in the hands of politically fragile institutions, then the constitutional promise of individual liberty becomes little more than words on paper.

Supporters may insist that harsh punishment is necessary to confront insecurity. But Somalia must confront an uncomfortable reality: a system that grants sweeping authority to punish bodies and silence speech begins to resemble the very practices the state condemns in extremist movements. The difference between lawful authority and coercive domination is not found in slogans or intentions; it is found in restraint. If a citizen fears that criticizing leadership could expose them to accusations against the state or to punishments that permanently alter their body or life, then the distinction between constitutional governance and militant intimidation begins to blur.

The tragedy is that Somalia’s Constitution was designed to prevent exactly this outcome. It protects dignity, liberty, and the right to speak precisely because past periods of lawlessness demonstrated how quickly power can be abused. A penal code that concentrates irreversible punishment in the hands of institutions that still struggle with accountability risks turning constitutional rights into mere promises on paper. Justice ceases to be corrective and becomes performative. Authority ceases to be legitimate and becomes feared.

No society becomes stronger by equating criticism with betrayal or by elevating punishment over due process. A state that entrusts extraordinary coercive powers to fallible officials must build equally extraordinary safeguards. Without those safeguards, the law itself risks becoming indistinguishable from the methods it claims to oppose.

This is where a difficult comparison becomes unavoidable. Somalia has already experienced a system in which fear, public punishment, and rigid control over speech shaped daily life. Viewed through that lens, the draft penal code grants extraordinary powers to institutions that have yet to demonstrate the capacity to exercise them with fairness or restraint. A government that struggles to operate prisons, courts, policing, and other basic rule-of-law institutions cannot credibly claim readiness to administer irreversible punishment. Allowing such a framework to take effect risks inflicting lasting damage on Somalia’s legal system. When a legal code authorizes extreme physical punishment, vague political offences, and broad discretion over execution methods, it threatens to recreate the same climate of intimidation that Somalis have worked hard to leave behind.

Even those who believe strongly in religious justice should pause. A righteous system requires righteous institutions. Somalia’s governance challenges — weak oversight, politicized security forces, and fragile courts — mean that concentrating severe punitive authority in the state could lead not to moral order but to systemic abuse. The danger lies not only in the punishments themselves but in the absence of strong institutional restraints.

There is also a personal dimension to this debate. Under a system that criminalizes broad categories of speech against state authority, writing an article like this could itself be interpreted as a threat to national unity or leadership. When a citizen must weigh the risk of severe punishment simply for expressing concern about legislation, the line between law and fear has already begun to blur.

Somalia deserves a penal code that reflects its faith, history, and aspirations while protecting dignity, preserving accountability, and preventing the concentration of unchecked power. Strengthening courts, clarifying offences, an maintaining proportional punishment would build security far more effectively than adopting a framework that normalizes irreversible physical penalties.

This is not a rejection of tradition or belief. It is a warning drawn from Somalia’s own experience: when authority becomes absolute, society pays the price. Failure to develop credible imprisonment and enforcement systems should not push the state toward irreversible punishments, especially in an environment where corruption can compromise any branch of government. The question facing the country is simple but profound: will the law serve the people, or will it place them at the mercy of those who claim to enforce it?

Isha Qarsoon
Email:  Ishaqarsoon1@gmail.com
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Nores and References
[1] Isha Qarsoon- is a platform dedicated to addressing critical issues pertaining to good governance, corruption, and social challenges.It aims to foster informed public discourse and contribute to societal awareness and reform
[2] Article of the draft law is entitled“Ciqaabaha Asalka ah ee Dembiyada Guud” and provides, Ciqaabaha asalka ah ee dembiyada waa:
a) Dil qisaas ama xad ah;
b) Dil iyo ka lalmid meel,
c) Madid (rajmi, dhagax-ku-dilid)
d) Isweydaar u jarid;
e) Curaancur-jar
f) Xabsi daa’in oo ah muddo soddon sano ama Xabsi ka yar;
g) Jeydalid afartan jeedal tiro aan ka yareyn;
h) Fogeyn;
i) Ganaax;
j) La-wareegid; iyo
k) Baabi’in.

[3] Article 44 (entitled “Fulinta Ciqaabta Qisaasta”) provides,
1. Qisaas waxaa loola jeedaa in dembiilaha lagu ciqaabo fal la mid ah midka uu geystay.
2. Xaqa qisaatu wuxuu u sugnaanayaa marka kowaad dhibbanaha, kaddibna wuxuu u gudbayaa dadka mas’uulka ka ah (Waliyadiisa).
3. Xaaladda dilka, qisaastu waxay noqonaysaa toogasho.
4. Xaaladda dhaawaca, qisaastu waxay noqonaysaa si waafaqsan axkaamta jadwalka kowaad ee ku lifaaqan sharcigan.

[4] Article 62(2) provides, “Diyada dilka ama dhaawaca kas-dhaafka ama kama’a ah, waxa ay ku waajibaysaa xigtada/cuqaasha dembiilaha.”
[5] Article 41 (entitled “Ciqaabta Dilka”) provides. “Dilku wuxuu noqon karaa toogasho ama madid (dhagax ku dilid), waxaa kale oo uu noqon karaa xad, qisaas ama tacsiir; waxaa raaci kara lalmid.”
[6] Article 144 (Entitled “U Gefidda Sharafta ama Maqaamka Madaxweynaha Qaranka”) provides, “Qof kasta oo fagaaro ugu gefo sharafta ama maqaamka Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda, waxaa lagu ciqaabayaa xabsi aan ka badnayn hal sano.”