Somalia airstrike controversy tests U.S. credibility — and a community’s trust
On a baked stretch of road outside Ceel Buh, in Somalia’s Sanaag region, a car carrying a well-known clan elder was torn apart by an airstrike on a September afternoon. The U.S. military later said it had targeted an al-Shabab arms dealer in northern Somalia. Local authorities have a starkly different account: the man killed was a peacemaker, a bridge-builder, and their friend.
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In a place where the title “Caaqil” carries the weight of lineage and obligation, the death of Caaqil Omar Abdillahi Abdi has opened an old wound in Somalia’s long war. It isn’t just a dispute over one life. It’s a test of how the United States — two decades into its anti-militant campaign in Somalia — accounts for the lives caught under its crosshairs.
‘He was a peacemaker’
Regional authorities in Puntland State’s Sanaag region say the date, time and location of the September 13 strike align exactly with the attack that killed Caaqil Omar in the Jicanyo area, near Ceel Buh. No other strike has been publicly reported there that day.
“This was an unexpected and shocking incident,” said Faisal Abdillahi, the Sanaag regional intelligence chief. “A man driving his car was bombed from the air. We, the officials, had no prior knowledge or warning. The deceased was a prominent figure who worked closely with the community. We don’t understand why he was targeted.”
Brig. Gen. Abdillahi Omar Anshuur, who commands the 9th Division of Puntland State’s Dervish Forces, said he had known the elder for decades. “I knew Caaqil Omar for decades — we worked together along the coast in the 1980s,” Anshuur said. “He was a peacemaker who helped defend Puntland State during conflicts with al-Shabab and ISIS. His killing was illegal and unjust. He had been in Bosaso for 20 days and had even met President Said Abdullahi Deni. If he were guilty of anything, he would have been arrested, not bombed.”
Local police describe a frantic week of confusion after the explosion. “For a week, we searched for answers,” said Col. Aden Ahmed Ali, the regional police commander. “Only later did AFRICOM release a short statement confirming it carried out an airstrike but without naming the target.” According to Ali, the elder was not in hiding, not on a wanted list. “He was a public figure, known for protecting the community and working with the government,” he said. “We are certain he was not a terrorist. The United States must explain why a respected peacemaker was hit with three missiles.”
The governor of Puntland State’s Sanaag region, Said Ahmed Jama, echoed the disbelief. “He was involved in development and mediation work,” he said. “There were no complaints, rumors, or charges against him. The regional administration was never informed of any accusations. We are awaiting clarification from the U.S. on why this man was targeted.”
As mourners gathered, the elder’s family built a small monument at the site. His brother, Ali Abdillahi Abdi Ibrahim, addressed the crowd there. The message from officials and relatives alike has spread across Sanaag and parts of Puntland State, where protests and town hall meetings have demanded transparency from Washington.
AFRICOM’s strike — and the silence that follows
The U.S. Africa Command has conducted air operations against al-Shabab and Islamic State-linked fighters in Somalia for years, often striking remote compounds and vehicles in areas where the federal government lacks control. AFRICOM insists it takes great care to minimize harm. Yet the command rarely names its targets unless they are senior figures, and its assessments of civilian harm frequently diverge from accounts by families and local authorities.
In this case, AFRICOM said it targeted an al-Shabab arms facilitator — but stopped short of identifying the person. That gap is where mistrust grows. Outside Mogadishu’s war-scarred streets and the Shabelle River valley, in towns like Ceel Buh, people often hear the aircraft long before they see any official statement. “People are now terrified whenever they hear aircraft overhead,” intelligence chief Faisal Abdillahi said. “We need to know why he was killed and who authorized it.”
Independent monitors have spent years trying to bridge that gap. Groups like Airwars and Amnesty International have documented dozens of likely civilian deaths from U.S. strikes in Somalia since the campaign expanded in the late 2010s, even as U.S. officials have acknowledged only a fraction of those cases. To be clear, al-Shabab has waged a relentless insurgency, killing thousands of Somalis and attacking hotels, markets and schools. But when presumed militants and civilians move through the same roads and towns — and when the U.S. relies on a mix of intelligence feeds and partner insights — the margin for error can be painfully thin.
Why these disputes keep happening
Somalia offers a perfect storm for contested air campaigns. Ground access is often limited; front lines shift; identities and loyalties are local and textured, not black-and-white. A phone number that touches a militant network can belong to a middleman, a relative, or a community elder trying to mediate. A convoy that looks suspicious from the sky may be a family returning from a wedding, or an elder driving home after a meeting in Bosaso.
Over the past decade, U.S. administrations have revised the rules governing such strikes. The Obama-era “near certainty” standard outside active war zones was loosened under President Donald Trump and later tightened under President Joe Biden, alongside a Pentagon-wide effort to better prevent and acknowledge civilian harm. The Defense Department has launched a Civilian Harm Mitigation and Response Action Plan, pledged new training and data-sharing, and created mechanisms for condolence payments. On paper, it’s a significant shift. On the ground, families say the hardest part is simply being seen — and believed.
When a strike hits the wrong person, the pathway to accountability is opaque. For a farmer in Lower Shabelle or an elder in Sanaag, it can mean approaching local officials first, then trying to reach federal authorities in Mogadishu, and then hoping the case makes its way into a U.S. military assessment hundreds of miles and many time zones away. Even when the U.S. does review an incident, families rarely see the evidence. That’s the heart of the current impasse in Sanaag: regional leaders are not just disputing a label; they’re demanding a level of proof that carries meaning in their community.
The stakes for Washington — and for Somalia
Counterterrorism campaigns rely on trust — of partners, of local communities, of the families who live between militants and soldiers. A strike that local leaders call unjust can fracture that trust and hand extremist groups a narrative gift. Al-Shabab is adept at embedding itself in grievance, real or perceived. That is why officials in Sanaag, including Gov. Said Ahmed Jama, keep returning to the same plea: if the United States has evidence, show it; if there was a mistake, say so.
This is not an abstract debate. Puntland State, where the Sanaag administration sits, has faced its own militant threats and prides itself on relative stability compared to other parts of Somalia. Elders like Caaqil Omar are the social glue — the people who mediate clan disputes, coax fighters out of hiding, and carry a thousand cellphone numbers because everyone calls when something goes wrong. When those figures are killed, intentionally or by error, the damage isn’t just to one family. It loosens the threads that hold the region together.
What accountability could look like
There are ways to close the gap. AFRICOM can release more detail about the basis for its targeting decisions, even if some specifics remain classified. It can offer to brief local authorities, share sanitized imagery with Somali counterparts, and commit to joint site assessments with federal investigators when security allows. If an error occurred, a public acknowledgment and a compensation process — swift, accessible, and respectful — can prevent a single strike from becoming a generational grievance.
For Somali authorities, the path forward could include a transparent local inquiry that documents the elder’s movements, phone records and meetings in the days before the strike. That kind of granular local proof can complement or challenge U.S. intelligence, and it gives families something tangible in a landscape too often defined by rumor.
In the end, one question hangs over Ceel Buh’s quiet road: How much secrecy can a counterterrorism campaign afford, if the people it aims to protect no longer trust what it says? The answer may determine not just how this case is remembered, but how the United States is heard the next time aircraft drone over a Somali town and everyone looks up, wondering who is in the crosshairs.
By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
