ONLF alleges Ethiopia extracting Somali Region oil without community consent

Oil, identity and consent: Why Ethiopia’s Somali region is pushing back

There are two ways oil can arrive in a place like Ethiopia’s Somali region: with community buy-in and a clear ledger of who benefits, or with suspicion trailing the first truck. This week, as Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed told lawmakers his government is ready to begin using oil from new wells in the Somali Regional State for domestic markets, the Ogaden National Liberation Front (ONLF) chose the latter framing—warning that a vital moment for Ethiopia’s energy ambitions risks being squandered by old habits of exclusion.

The spark: new wells, old grievances

Abiy’s remarks were brief but notable: oil drawn from wells in Kaali, in Dhoobaweyn district of Qorraxay, and in Elele district of Shabelle, could soon feed the national market. That pledge was enough to set off alarms in Jijiga and in Somali diaspora circles from Minneapolis to Melbourne. “Our people were not consulted—not even the current regional administration was involved,” ONLF spokesperson Adani Hirmooge told the BBC’s Somali Service. “Neither ONLF, which fought for this region, nor elders or intellectuals were asked for their input.”

Hirmooge’s argument is less about whether Ethiopia should use its oil and more about who gets to decide how. He points to border towns like Wajaale and Moyale—critical arteries in a country where roughly 95 percent of trade runs through Djibouti—and says revenue flowing to Addis Ababa hasn’t translated into local investment. “This time, they are exploiting oil without even speaking to us,” he said. He also drew a sharp comparison from his life in Australia: “You cannot drill even a single hole without the consent of the local people. Who gave permission to drill on Somali land?”

Who decides? The constitutional gray zone

At the heart of this dispute is a question many multiethnic states grapple with: who owns and manages natural resources? Ethiopia’s constitution vests land and natural resources in the “state and the peoples of Ethiopia,” a phrasing that, in practice, leaves room for tension between federal ministries and autonomous regional governments. In theory, Addis designs the policy and manages the licensing, and regions share in the revenue; in reality, these arrangements rise or fall on trust and transparency.

Trust is in short supply. The Somali region—often referred to by its historical name, Ogaden—has cycled through crackdowns and rapprochement for decades. In 2018, the ONLF, once an armed separatist movement, signed a peace agreement with the federal government, ending an insurgency but not the deeper argument over self-rule. According to Hirmooge, resource management was on the table when peace committees were formed, alongside unresolved issues such as self-determination, asset ownership and accountability for past abuses. “Progress stalled on Ethiopia’s side,” he said. Federal officials have not publicly laid out a revenue-sharing framework for the new fields.

The money—and the mood

Energy analysts see upside. Early production could earn Ethiopia as much as $1.2 billion, potentially rising to $7 billion if extraction scales up. For a country managing inflation, foreign exchange shortages and post-conflict reconstruction, those numbers are irresistible. Abiy has signaled that early output will be used domestically, which could ease import bills and reduce urban fuel shortages that have periodically snarled transport and spiked food prices.

But any windfall comes with a ledger of expectations. The ONLF’s message is a familiar one in resource frontiers from Nigeria’s Niger Delta to Kenya’s Turkana and Ghana’s Western Region: development without consent is a spark near dry grass. Communities ask for three things—information, participation and a fair share. In places where governments have embraced open contracts and independent oversight around oil and gas—think of the transparency standards many countries benchmark to—the conflict risk has generally fallen. When those steps are skipped, the grievances pile up quickly.

Lessons from the neighborhood—and the past

East Africa offers cautionary tales and useful templates. In Mozambique’s Cabo Delgado, gas riches collided with local disenfranchisement, feeding an insurgency that upended a multibillion-dollar project. In Uganda’s Albertine Graben, years of consultations and resettlement plans still sparked protests over land and compensation. Kenya passed a revenue-sharing law after a noisy debate that included local leaders, civil society and pastoralist groups, recognizing that oil roads and pipelines cross communal grazing lands, not empty maps.

Ethiopia’s Somali region is not a blank slate either. The Calub and Hilala gas fields, discovered decades ago, have cycled through ambitious plans and stalled timelines. Pipeline dreams to Djibouti come and go. Locals remember the promises, the helicopter visits and the silence after. There is a powerful memory in pastoral communities—of wells deepened, of clan rains, of state projects that arrived without translators. That memory is part of today’s pushback.

The human stakes

It is easy to turn oil into a macro story—barrels, budgets, balance-of-payments relief. On the ground, it is more intimate. In the dry belt stretching from Gode to Qabridahare, oil roads can redirect herds, and drilling sites can fence off customary routes to water. Jobs are promised to youth who have watched cousins leave for Gulf ports. Elders worry about land registration, about who signs, about what happens when disputes cross clan lines. Throw in the Somali region’s proximity to sensitive borders and the choke point of Ethiopia’s trade route through Djibouti, and you have a combustible mix if community voices feel shut out.

Hirmooge’s framing—“land, wealth and political authority should remain in the hands of the Somali people”—is not a demand to stop development. It is a demand to shape it. Even the language matters. Is this “Ethiopian oil in the Somali region,” or “Somali region oil for Ethiopia”? The former can sound like extraction; the latter like inclusion.

What Addis can do now

• Publish the plan: Contracts, timelines, environmental and social impact assessments, and a revenue-sharing formula need to be public, in Somali, and discussed in town halls from Jijiga to Elele.
• Practice consent, not just consultation: Free, prior and informed consent is more than a checkbox. Community leaders, women’s groups and pastoral associations should have a seat before licenses are finalized.
• Local benefits early: Visible investments—clinics, water points, scholarships, road maintenance—reduce the gap between promises and lived experience.
• Independent oversight: Invite auditors and civil society to follow the money. If Ethiopia aims to turn oil into stability rather than friction, sunlight is an ally.

What to watch

In the coming weeks, watch for signals that the federal government is willing to slow down and listen. Does Addis Ababa send a senior delegation to Jijiga to co-design a framework? Does the Somali regional administration publicly endorse the plan, or does it hedge? Do we hear timelines for environmental reviews and community compensation? And does the ONLF, now a legal political actor, use this moment to push for a broader settlement on autonomy, or does the conversation harden?

Ethiopia’s oil story is not just an economic chapter; it is a test of the federation’s promise. Can the state turn contested ground into common ground? Can development move at the speed of trust? The answer will shape not just a handful of wells in Kaali and Elele, but the wider bargain between the center and Ethiopia’s far-flung regions—where resources are plenty, patience is not, and the future arrives faster than the past lets go.

With files from the BBC Somali Service.

By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.