By Hussien Mohamed Yusuf

Recently, during a meeting with several NGOs working in the cross-border areas of Somalia and Kenya, we deliberated on livelihoods and natural resource management. It was a typical technical session—discussions on resilience, climate adaptation, and local livelihoods—until one participant from the Gedo region of Somalia shared a deeply disturbing set of images. The pictures showed hillsides stripped bare, entire stretches of forest turned into firewood, and trucks loaded with charcoal heading toward border markets. He later described their commendable work establishing tree nurseries to support afforestation efforts. But even as I applauded the effort, a question haunted me: What impact can a few thousand seedlings make when the system allows—and in some cases, facilitates—the destruction of forests at industrial scale?

It is World Environment Day, and we are reminded once again to speak for the trees, protect the rivers, and preserve what little green remains. But in the Somali context, the environmental crisis is not just about nature. It is a crisis rooted in governance—more precisely, the absence of governance. Somalia’s environmental degradation is not a technical failure; it is a political tragedy.

The Charcoal Curse

The forests in Somalia are not simply cut for survival or small-scale domestic use. Deforestation, especially in regions like Gedo, Bay, and Lower Shabelle, is a multi-million-dollar business. The demand for charcoal, driven by both local consumption and international export, has transformed trees into a form of currency in lawless regions. In the absence of state control, militias, clan actors, and even opportunistic elites exploit natural resources with no regard for sustainability. Trees are cut, not because they are abundant, but because they are vulnerable.

Every tree that falls in Somalia is not just an ecological loss—it is a symptom of state failure. The Somali government has, on paper, banned charcoal exports. Yet in practice, enforcement is weak to non-existent. The ministries tasked with environmental protection are either underfunded, undermined, or politicized. In many cases, those cutting the trees are more powerful than those meant to stop them.

The problem becomes even more acute during political transitions. As Somalia lurches from one election crisis to another, governance structures collapse into paralysis. Civil servants stop working, ministries lose direction, and donors freeze their funding pending clarity. Environmental programs, often treated as low-priority in fragile states, are among the first to suffer. Projects are abandoned, regulations ignored, and oversight disappears.

The environmental clock, however, doesn’t stop ticking.

Every year without a functioning political order is a year of irreversible ecological damage. The cumulative loss is staggering: acacia forests that take decades to regenerate are reduced to stumps within months. Riverbanks are stripped bare, leading to erosion, siltation, and flooding. Grazing lands are degraded, triggering conflict among pastoralists and between clans.

Political dysfunction in Somalia does not only fail to stop deforestation—it accelerates it. When citizens lose faith in governance, they fall back on survivalist instincts. When local authorities are no longer answerable to a higher national framework, they negotiate extraction rights instead of conservation plans. And when elections approach, everything—literally everything—takes a backseat to political maneuvering.

Tree nurseries are a beautiful idea, and those running them deserve recognition. But the real test lies in ensuring those trees survive beyond the ceremonial planting. In the absence of enforcement, the seedlings will be grazed by livestock, uprooted for fuel, or suffocated by neglect.

The tragedy is not that we lack solutions—we have thousands of community-based projects across Somalia. The tragedy is that we lack a system capable of protecting them. That system is a state—legitimate, accountable, and enforceable. Until Somalia can build and maintain one, every environmental success will remain temporary.

In truth, World Environment Day in Somalia should not just be about trees. It should be about building institutions strong enough to protect those trees. It should be about honest politics, responsible leadership, and a citizenry that believes their vote will matter—not just for power, but for policy. Because the trees will not survive another election cycle marked by chaos, contestation, and collapse.

Where Hope Can Take Root

Still, I remain hopeful—not because the current trend gives reason for optimism, but because the cost of inaction is simply too high. We have already lost too much. The time has come for environmental actors, peacebuilders, and governance advocates to converge their efforts. We cannot speak of climate resilience without tackling corruption. We cannot restore ecosystems without restoring legitimacy. And we certainly cannot save the forests without first saving the state.

Somalia’s future depends on building institutions that can endure political transitions and prioritize public interest. That is the only way tree planting becomes more than symbolism. That is the only way afforestation becomes protection, not performance.

So today, on World Environment Day, let us not be content with photo ops and slogans. Let us instead raise the uncomfortable truth: that no nation can protect its environment if it cannot govern its people. That is the case of Somalia. And unless addressed, the forests will continue to fall—not just to axes and saws, but to the silence of an absent state.

Hussien Mohamed Yusuf
Email: hussienm4@gmail.com

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Hussien is a Climate Change and Environmental Sustainability Practitioner based in Nairobi, Kenya