general

Sixty-four years. That is how long Somalia's criminal code sat on the books without a modern law to protect its women and girls from sexual violence. The code was written in 1962, the year before the Somali Republic had even turned five. Since then, generations of Somali women have been raped, trafficked, and silenced while the law either ignored their suffering or treated it as a stain on the family rather than a crime against a human being.
Ask yourself what that silence means. It means a mother who reports her daughter's rape may be told to stay quiet to protect the family's honour. It means a survivor can be pushed into marriage with her attacker. It means a prosecutor who wants to bring a case may have no clear statute to stand on. This is what happens when a state fails to name a crime. The crime does not disappear. It simply goes unpunished, and the victims pay for it.
The Somali Parliament has now passed a new law against sexual violence. The lower house voted to replace an outdated framework with legislation that finally treats these crimes as crimes. We should say that plainly: this is a step forward, and Somali lawmakers deserve credit for taking it. But we have seen too many African governments celebrate a bill and then abandon the people it was meant to protect. A law is a promise. Whether it becomes justice depends on what happens next.
Consider the context. Legal Action Worldwide, an NGO that lobbied Somali authorities for the reform, has worked to push this change through a system that has been slow to respond to women's voices. Its program leadership, speaking to FRANCE 24, framed the new law as a long-overdue correction. That framing is right. Civil society pressure, not government generosity, moved this bill. Every reform that matters in Africa has followed the same pattern: ordinary citizens and their organisations refusing to accept that the status quo is acceptable.
The scale of the problem is documented, and it is brutal. UN agencies working in Somalia have recorded tens of thousands of gender-based violence cases in recent years, and experts consistently warn that reported figures capture only a fraction of what happens. Survivors often cannot reach a clinic, a police station, or a courtroom. Many fear reprisal from their own families or from armed groups. The displacement caused by drought, conflict, and the ongoing insurgency has pushed women into camps where protection is thin and predators are many. When the law offers no clear remedy, the predators learn that they will not be stopped.
And we must confront the reality that the Somali state does not hold a monopoly on justice. Al-Shabaab controls swathes of the country and runs its own courts, which impose punishments that are brutal, arbitrary, and devastating to women. Clan-based dispute mechanisms, often the first port of call for families, frequently pressure victims toward compensation payments rather than justice. In this vacuum, a weak national law is not just an inconvenience. It is a gift to every armed actor who wants to rule through fear.
So what must Somalia do now? The answer is not complicated, but it demands discipline. First, the federal government must fund the implementation of this law with real money, not press releases. That means specialised sexual violence units in police stations, trained prosecutors who understand evidence collection and survivor-centred procedure, and courts with the capacity to hear cases without years of delay. Second, Mogadishu must work with the Federal Member States, because a law that stops at the Mogadishu city limits protects nobody in Baidoa, Kismayo, or Garowe. Third, the government should publish annual data on reported cases, prosecutions, and convictions. Transparency is not a favour to donors. It is the only way citizens can hold their leaders to account.
Somalia does not need to invent this from scratch. Kenya's Sexual Offences Act of 2006 created a clear legal framework and dedicated protections, though its implementation has been uneven and still requires far more resources. Sierra Leone's Sexual Offences Act of 2012 gave survivors clearer legal standing in a country that had emerged from a brutal civil war in which sexual violence was used as a weapon. These examples show that legislation works best when it is paired with institutions that can enforce it, and when civil society is allowed to monitor the results. Somalia can learn from both the successes and the failures.
The international community has its own duty here. Donors, including Western governments that love to lecture Africa about women's rights, should stop treating gender justice as a side project to be funded when convenient. If you believe in equality under the law, prove it with sustained, predictable financing for Somali courts, Somali police training, and Somali survivor services. Do not fund only the conferences and the photo opportunities. Fund the detectives, the shelters, and the judges who will actually do the work. And do not condition your support on the political convenience of the moment.
Here is the call to action, and it is addressed to every Somali citizen, every member of parliament, and every African who believes our continent deserves better than impunity. Demand that the new law be published, translated, and taught in every district. Demand a timetable for implementation and an independent body to track it. Demand that police and prosecutors receive the training and budgets they need. Demand that women be present in every room where these decisions are made, not as decoration but as decision-makers. And when the first case is dismissed, when the first family is pressured to stay silent, when the first perpetrator walks free, demand to know why.
Somalia has waited 64 years to say that rape is a crime without excuses. That wait was a choice made by people who had the power to act and did not. We will not accept another 64 years of excuses. Pass the law. Fund the law. Enforce the law. The women of Somalia have already paid enough for the silence.
Based on reporting by FRANCE24