Issue No. 518

The Uses (and Abuses) of History for Nation Building
 

The 19^th-century French historian Ernest Renan famously wrote, “the essence of a nation is that all individuals have many things in common, and also that they have forgotten many things… forgetfulness is essential in the creation of a nation.”
 
Renan was reflecting on nation-building in 19^th-century Europe, but his remarks are also relevant for 21^st century Somalia. As Somalis struggle to find political consensus, it often seems that memories of past conflicts can get in the way of local and national reconciliation. Events that happened decades or even generations before are often invoked by clan poets and modern politicians. This is done to stoke mistrust and warn followers away from agreements which on the surface appear beneficial to all parties involved. International actors are often baffled by the way the past can stir emotions amongst Somalis who otherwise tend to be pragmatic and present-oriented.   
 
Like Renan, Somalis also recognise that divisive historical memories can undermine efforts to build a sense of common national purpose. A well-known Somali proverb says, “Under every tree there is something that can burn it.” The idea is that one can always find historical kindling to stoke division, even in the shade of those large acacia trees where elders traditionally assemble to calm passions and mediate disputes. 
 
         The relevance of history— or at least the way it gets remembered and deployed— shows itself in a variety of ways. As in all societies, contested narratives of the past continue to provoke discord in the present. For example, it is easy to find educated Somalis who hold radically different views on the legacies of Mohamed Abdulla Hasan, the warrior, poet, and preacher who resisted imperial occupation of the Horn for two decades at the start of the 20^th century. For some, he is regarded as the father of the modern Somali nation; for others, he was a divisive figure whose dervish movement brought war and economic hardship to communities across the peninsula. Somalis continue to debate the wisdom of the decision to merge Somalia and Somaliland in 1960. They argue both privately and publicly over which Somali generals ‘lost’ the Ogaden in 1978 and which warlords were responsible for the collapse of consensus after the fall of the Siyad Barre regime in 1991.  
 
        Just as persistent are memories of natal lands lost to more powerful and aggressive neighbors. Some disputes date back to the precolonial era (long-standing conflicts over wells or pastures); others to the early colonial period when groups were displaced from clan homelands by European invaders or dervish resistance fighters. Still others relate to resettlement of nomads by the Somali government, during the 1974 drought, and after the Ogaden War. More recently, disputes concern the armed land grabs that followed the collapse of the Somali state in 1991. In all of these cases, territory was gained or lost by one group at the expense of another. Resulting grievances continue to inform politics at both local and national levels, even if international actors are not privy to disputed local histories that undermine present-day negotiations.
 
         While scholars may strive to write history in a balanced, non-partisan way, many of those engaged in everyday struggles for land, power, or recognition see nothing non-partisan about the past. History, for them, serves rather as a means of legitimizing the right to rule over a particular piece of land or, conversely, a series of accusations about wrongs inflicted on their group. Collective memories of inter- and intra- clan rivalries tend to predispose individuals and clans to respond in predictable ways to calls for cooperation with past rivals. In the absence of credible alternatives, old grievance narratives serve as ‘default mechanisms’ which turn complex pasts into partisan claims. 
 
Choosing what to remember and what to forget from the past is not something that outsiders can impose on Somalia. The work of reconciliation must be a Somali project, and this will surely involve efforts to consider how the past might be used constructively rather than misused obstructively. Somalia’s history includes many local examples of successful conflict mitigation— Burao and Borama in 1991-93, El Wak in 2010, Galkayo in 2017— and the subsequent incorporation of migrants from one part of the country into the communities of others. There are also countless dedicated mediators— both men and women— who have worked quietly across the country to find compromise and build trust among historic enemies, whose stories should be better known. 
 
We know that Somalia is a nation of storytellers: poets and clan elders, writers and journalists, academics and social activists, religious preachers and secular politicians. All know something about the histories of peacemaking in their communities. By sharing their stories in schools, on social media, at public events and religious gatherings, Somali storytellers can contribute collectively to a fresh set of shared memories. By reminding their audiences of how local communities have worked to settle conflicts in the past— even faced with serious doubts and long-standing suspicions— they help re-educate the public and may generate new popular national discourse around reconciliation. 
 
A ‘storytelling’ campaign to publicize local histories of peacemaking and consensus building may seem fanciful in the midst of Somalia’s current political wrangling and armed conflict. But finding alternatives to divisive discourse is what nation-building is all about. While we cannot expect people to agree to forget the real or perceived wrongs of the past, we can support initiatives to write, teach and tell histories of reconciliation from Somalia’s distant and recent past. These histories are in archives, and in peoples’ collective memories, if we only choose to remember them.