By Osman A. Hassan

The pain of the Northern Frontier District now administratively renamed Northeastern Province and fragmented into Garissa, Wajir, and Mandera counties is not episodic, accidental, or merely reactive to terrorism narratives; it is structural, inherited, and continuously reproduced by the Kenyan state, its political elites, and its security architecture. Somalis in Kenya have historically faced intense pressure and discrimination from both the Kenyan government and other ethnic communities. Despite these challenges, significant progress has been made since the collapse of Somalia’s central government in the early 1990s, particularly in education, economic advancement, and political participation. As a result, Kenyan Somalis presently have become an integral part of the country’s social fabric, playing an increasingly influential role in Kenya’s economy and political landscape.

This article examines the ethnic marginalization and discrimination experienced by Kenyan Somalis the persistence of structural and societal challenges that continue to exist.

From pre-colonial disruption through colonial militarization and into the post-independence securitized republic, the Somali Kenyan citizen has been constructed as a permanent suspect, a conditional Kenyan, and an expendable body within the nation’s legal and moral imagination. Massacres, extrajudicial killings, collective punishment, and infrastructural neglect are not deviations from Kenyan governance in NFD/NEP; they are its defining logic. The modern narratives of Al-Shabaab terrorism did not create this suffering they merely rebranded an older colonial grammar of domination that continues to regulate Somali life, memory, and possibility. Consequently, the trauma of NFD/NEP is not only historical but intergenerational, passed from one generation to the next as normalized fear, political disillusionment, and economic abandonment.

The roots of this marginalization predate Kenyan independence. The British colonial administration viewed the Somali-inhabited north as a buffer zone rather than a community worthy of development or integration. Colonial governance relied on collective punishment, movement restrictions, and militarized administration, embedding a security-first approach that treated Somali pastoralists as inherently unstable, disloyal, and threatening. The denial of political representation, investment, and citizenship recognition during the colonial era was not reversed in 1963; it was inherited wholesale by the post-colonial Kenyan state. Independence for NFD did not mean liberation but rather the transfer of colonial violence into African hands. The Shifta War and its aftermath institutionalized the idea that Somali Kenyans were insurgents by default, legitimizing mass detention, village burnings, starvation tactics, and massacres whose wounds remain unacknowledged and uncompensated.

The Wagalla massacre of 1984 stands as the most horrific embodiment of this continuity. Thousands of Somali civilians, men, women, elders were rounded up, stripped of dignity, starved, tortured, and murdered by state forces in the name of security. The massacre was not an anomaly; it was a message. It communicated clearly that Somali lives were expendable, that justice would never arrive, and that state violence against NFD communities would remain unpunished. To this day, the Kenyan state has neither fully prosecuted the perpetrators nor delivered meaningful reparations. This absence of accountability reinforced a culture of impunity that continues to shape policing and military behavior in the region.

Extrajudicial killings have become a normalized instrument of governance in NFD/NEP. Young Somali men are routinely stopped, profiled, detained, disappeared, or executed under the vague accusation of terrorism. Due process is suspended, constitutional protections evaporate, and collective suspicion replaces individual guilt. The killing of the Garissa taxi driver by police is not an isolated incident but part of a long pattern where Somali livelihoods are criminalized and Somali mobility is punished. Each killing sends a signal that Somali citizenship is provisional and revocable at the discretion of armed agents of the state. The courts, oversight bodies, and political leadership often respond with silence or denial, further deepening the community’s alienation from the justice system.

The emergence of Al-Shabaab terrorism provided the Kenyan state with a convenient narrative to justify long-standing repression. Terrorism became a logo—a symbolic cover that masked older colonial practices of control. Under the banner of counterterrorism, entire communities were subjected to curfews, mass arrests, business closures, and indiscriminate violence. Yet terrorism did not create marginalization; marginalization created the fertile ground in which extremist narratives could exploit grievance, despair, and humiliation. When a state treats a population as an enemy, it should not be surprised when loyalty fractures. However, the state refuses to interrogate its own role, choosing instead to criminalize the victim.

Political leadership at both national and county levels has compounded this suffering through betrayal, corruption, and theatrical deception. Presidents routinely visit NFD/NEP during election seasons, delivering grand promises of roads, hospitals, and development that never materialize. President William Ruto’s claims regarding the Nairobi–Mandera road exemplify this culture of political dishonesty. Infrastructure becomes a campaign slogan rather than a development commitment. Similarly, Farah Maalim’s repeated promises concerning the Garissa–Liboi road and the Yusuf Haji family’s assurances about the Garissa–Masalani road represent a broader pattern of elite manipulation, where political dynasties monetize hope while delivering nothing but press conferences and ground-breaking ceremonies without completion.

At the county level, Members of County Assemblies, Members of Parliament, Governors, and Senators are largely invisible outside campaign periods. When they do appear, it is often not as leaders but as patrons distributing Ksh. 1,000 notes to impoverished voters, deliberately fracturing communities along sub-clan lines to secure electoral advantage. This divide-and-rule strategy mirrors colonial tactics, ensuring that citizens fight one another over crumbs while leaders steal billions. County budgets intended for health, water, roads, and youth employment are siphoned off and invested in Nairobi real estate or businesses in other counties, leaving NFD/NEP underdeveloped despite massive allocations. Accountability mechanisms are weak, oversight institutions are compromised, and anti-corruption rhetoric remains performative.

The Kenyan political class across parties and regions has largely accepted the stigmatization of Somali Kenyans as terrorists. This perception permeates law enforcement, training institutions, Parliament, the Senate, churches, NGOs, and civil society organizations operating in the region. From 1963 to the present, Somali identity has been securitized, meaning that being Somali is itself treated as evidence of guilt. This racialized suspicion shapes hiring practices, policing strategies, and social interactions. Somali Kenyans are asked to prove their loyalty repeatedly, while others are presumed innocent. Citizenship, in this context, is not a right but a conditional privilege.

The psychological toll of this sustained marginalization is profound. Generations have grown up internalizing fear of the police, mistrust of the state, and skepticism toward politics. Trauma is transmitted not only through stories of massacres and killings but through everyday experiences of humiliation at checkpoints, harassment in urban centers, and exclusion from national narratives. Youth inherit not just poverty but a sense of permanent unbelonging. This inherited pain becomes normalized, shaping aspirations, relationships with authority, and perceptions of the future.

Economically, NFD/NEP remains deliberately underdeveloped. Poor infrastructure isolates markets, increases the cost of living, and limits access to education and healthcare. Roads are promised but not built, hospitals are understaffed, and schools lack resources. Development projects are often securitized, meaning they are implemented through military logic rather than community participation. NGOs operating in the region sometimes replicate this dynamic, prioritizing donor visibility over sustainable impact, while avoiding confrontation with state violence to protect their operational access.

The question of what lies ahead of these counties and their citizens is both urgent and painful. Without structural change, the cycle of violence, neglect, and deception will persist. True transformation requires more than counterterrorism rhetoric or electoral promises. It demands historical reckoning, including acknowledgment of massacres, prosecution of perpetrators, and reparations for victims. It requires demilitarizing governance in NFD/NEP and re-centering citizenship on rights rather than suspicion. Political leadership must be dismantled from clan-based patronage systems and rebuilt around accountability, transparency, and service delivery.

Equally important is the need to challenge the national narrative that equates Somali identity with terrorism. Education, media reform, and legal accountability are essential to dismantling this stigma. Somali Kenyans must be recognized not as a security problem but as equal stakeholders in the republic. Until this happens, the pain of NFD/NEP will continue to be inherited, generation after generation, as a living archive of betrayal.

In conclusion, the massacres, extrajudicial killings, colonial continuities, and terrorism narratives that define the experience of NFD/NEP are not disconnected tragedies; they form a coherent system of exclusion. The Kenyan state and its political elites have repeatedly chosen control over inclusion, deception over development, and impunity over justice. The future of these counties depends on whether Kenya is willing to confront this truth. Without such confrontation, the residents of Garissa, Wajir, and Mandera will remain second-class citizens in their own country, condemned to inherit pain while others inherit power.

Osman A. Hassan
Email: abayounis1968@gmail.com
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