Somalia’s attorney general issues warning over defamation, misinformation on social media

Somalia moves against online defamation. The bigger story is who decides what’s dangerous speech—and when

In Mogadishu’s humming tea stalls and on the diaspora’s WhatsApp groups from Minneapolis to Mombasa, politics is now a permanent scroll. Somalia’s Office of the Attorney General stepped squarely into that stream this week, announcing a legal push against what it called online insults, defamation, social incitement, offensive images, immoral content, false information, and posts that “promote societal division.” Some people have already been tried, the office said, while others remain under investigation. The warning was unmistakable: expect “firm legal action without hesitation.”

In a country where a rumor can travel faster than a police pickup, the move lands with force—and a set of hard questions about how to police harm without muting an often-fragile public conversation.

What happened

In a statement released Sunday, the Attorney General’s Office framed the cases as a defense of social order and personal dignity, language that will resonate in a society where honor, reputation, and communal cohesion carry real social and political weight. “Strong legal measures will be taken to protect the honor, dignity, and security of Somali society,” the office said, underscoring that it is “mandated to uphold the rule of law, preserve order, and safeguard citizens.”

File photos show Attorney General Sulayman Mohamed Mohamud addressing earlier press conferences, part of a broader effort by Somali authorities to define the rules of a digital commons that has exploded over the past decade: TikTok, Telegram channels, anonymous Facebook pages, and YouTube livestreams that can whip up solidarity—or division—within hours.

Why it matters

Somalia’s information sphere is a high-wire act. It is a space where journalists are targeted by al-Shabab, where politicians spar by proxy online, and where diaspora influencers command large followings that straddle clans and continents. In that space, some categories listed by the Attorney General—incitement and the spread of false information, for instance—can be genuinely dangerous. In recent years, false claims have triggered panic during security operations, and inflammatory posts have exacerbated local tensions after bombings or political reshuffles.

But the same space is also where citizens document corruption, share security alerts when official channels stay quiet, and debate reforms in a country inching toward broader electoral participation. Criminal defamation or amorphous “immoral content” provisions, wielded without guardrails, risk turning legitimate criticism into a legal hazard. That tension—between protection and suppression—is the heart of this story, in Somalia and far beyond.

The law and the gray zones

Somalia’s legal toolkit is a patchwork. The country’s Provisional Constitution guarantees freedom of expression, but it coexists with a decades-old penal code that criminalizes defamation. A media law updated in recent years drew criticism from journalists for potentially burdensome regulations and ambiguous offenses. In 2023, authorities ordered internet providers to block TikTok, Telegram and a betting site, citing indecent content and militant propaganda—an assertion both hard to dismiss and hard to independently verify consistently across platforms.

Ambiguity creates friction. What counts as “immoral” in a society that is conservative but also changing, where comedy roasts go viral and religious reminders do, too? When does “insult” become defamation? Which “false” claims are legally actionable, and which are simply the heat of politics? In courtrooms where capacity is uneven and threats to judges and prosecutors are real, clarity is not a luxury—it’s a shield.

A region-wide pattern

Somalia is not alone in grappling with the unruly public square of social media. Across Africa, a wave of laws aimed at cybercrime, hate speech and disinformation has spread. Kenya has used its Computer Misuse and Cybercrimes Act to prosecute online speech; Ethiopia introduced a hate speech and disinformation law in 2020 that rights groups say has been used to stifle dissent during conflict. Uganda and Nigeria have each weighed versions of online regulation that, critics warn, can criminalize satire as easily as slander. The global pattern is unmistakable: governments, including democracies, are trying to tamp down harms that platforms have often struggled to control—sometimes with good reason, sometimes too aggressively.

This is also a story about private power. Moderation in Somali-language content lags behind English or Arabic, and major platforms have been slow to invest in local expertise. The result is a familiar gap where the worst content is missed while legitimate posts are removed inconsistently. In that vacuum, government prosecutions become both a tool and a temptation.

Real risks, real abuses

For ordinary Somalis, the stakes are immediate. There are real harms online: doxxing of women activists; smear campaigns that strip people of job opportunities; coordinated rumors that complicate security operations; sectarian baiting dressed up as news. When the Attorney General says such acts undermine “the security and confidence of the Somali public,” many will nod.

But Somalia also remains one of the world’s most dangerous places to be a journalist, a reality acknowledged year after year by press freedom monitors. Reporters navigate pressure from militants, local powerbrokers and authorities alike. Criminal defamation and broadly defined “false news” provisions are blunt instruments. In a fragile system, they can become shortcuts to silence critics, muzzle independent media, or punish opposition voices under the guise of public order.

What accountability could look like

Somalia’s challenge—to deter genuinely harmful content without cracking down on dissent—has no perfect blueprint. But some principles are clear:

• Define the offenses: Narrow, precise definitions of incitement, defamation and disinformation reduce the risk of abuse. So does prioritizing civil remedies for defamation over criminal penalties.
• Ensure transparency: Publicly track cases, publish court decisions, and allow independent scrutiny by media and civil society. Ambiguity breeds suspicion.
• Create recourse: Defendants should have prompt access to counsel, clear appeals, and protection against intimidation.
• Partner smartly: Work with platforms to improve Somali-language moderation and invest in digital literacy that helps users spot manipulation before sharing it.
• Protect journalists: Codify safeguards for reporting in the public interest, including errors made in good faith and fair comment on matters of public concern.

None of this is easy in a country still rebuilding its institutions. But it is precisely in such contexts that the rules of the public square matter most.

What to watch next

• Case details: Which cases move forward, under what statutes, and with what evidence? Watch the charging documents—if they’re made public—for clarity and consistency.
• Court openness: Will the trials be public? Can media attend? Transparency will shape public trust.
• Platform posture: Do Facebook, TikTok, and Telegram bolster their Somali-language moderation and fact-checking? Are there new partnerships with local organizations?
• Political temperature: As Somalia navigates constitutional reforms and a rolling electoral conversation, the line between political speech and “incitement” will be tested.
• Public response: If citizens perceive the crackdown as protection, support will follow. If they see it as selective enforcement, cynicism will harden.

Somali proverbs often distill politics into a sentence. One says: “Two truths cannot contradict each other.” It’s true that hateful lies can tear at the fabric of a nation. It’s also true that free expression is the oxygen of a society emerging from conflict. The Attorney General’s statement may signal a tougher era for online speech. Whether that era builds trust—or burns it—will depend on something no law alone can guarantee: fairness, in daylight.

By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.