On a Saturday in Mogadishu, inside a government building where diplomatic protocols and camera flashes usually rule, Somalia’s Minister of Information, Culture and Tourism, Abdifatah Qasim Mohamud, sat down with Deniz Demir, the coordinator of the Center for Combating Disinformation at the Turkish Presidency’s Directorate of Communications. The purpose was to talk about strengthening cooperation against disinformation and misleading narratives. Around them were Somali officials: Abdishakur Ali Ahmed, the director of the ministry’s Strategic Communication Department, and Mohamedkafi Sheikh Abukar, the director of Somali National Television. The official statement after the meeting said the two sides discussed the dangers that false information poses to society, to security, and to the strategic relationship between Somalia and Turkey. They emphasized, as officials often do, the importance of continuous cooperation to safeguard accurate information and public trust. But behind the smooth diplomatic language, there is a much more complicated story. This is not just a conversation about how to correct false rumors or verify facts before publishing. It is a conversation about power, fear, and the meaning of truth in a country where public anger can explode overnight, where journalists are arrested for their work, and where the partner being invited to teach lessons on disinformation has its own troubling record of silencing the press. The meeting was framed as an effort to protect society from harmful falsehoods, but it inevitably raises the question: who decides what is false, and who is protected when the machinery built to stop lies is turned against legitimate criticism?
The backdrop to the meeting made these questions impossible to ignore. Across parts of southern Somalia, protests had erupted over allegations that Turkish drones were involved in an attack on the residence of former Somali Custodial Corps commander General Mahad Abdirahman Aden in Doolow on the night of September 3. Jubaland authorities accused Turkish drones of carrying out the strike and claimed that the general was targeted because of his political differences with the federal government. The accusation ignited a wave of public fury. Demonstrations were reported in Kismayo, Afmadow, Doolow and Garbaharrey, and in Kismayo, hundreds of demonstrators burned the Turkish flag. Some carried images of Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan with bloody hands. Banners read “We don’t need Erdogan.” Protesters chanted, “We once loved Erdogan and Turkey, now we hate them.” It was a visceral, emotional outburst, not a carefully calibrated political statement. People were not debating drone technology or diplomatic alliances in the abstract; they were expressing a feeling of betrayal, a sense that a close partner had crossed a line. The federal government, for its part, rejected the airstrike claim entirely, saying preliminary information indicated that the explosions were caused by explosives being prepared inside the house, and announced that it would appoint a fact-finding committee. Turkey has not officially commented on the incident. Whether the allegation is true or not, the emotions in those streets were real, and they show that the relationship between Somalia and Turkey is not just an alliance between governments; it is a deeply personal matter for many ordinary Somalis, full of pride, hope, and now, for some, anger and disappointment.
This was not the first time Somali and Turkish officials have gathered to talk about information and media. The two countries have been building a closer partnership for years, and media cooperation has become a regular feature of that relationship. In September, the same Minister Mohamud and Coordinator Demir attended a program titled “A New Era in Türkiye-Somalia Relations” at Aden Adde International Airport, where the Speaker of the House, Abdulkadir Mohamed Nur, called for enhanced efforts to counter disinformation. The Turkish Ambassador to Somalia, Alper Aktaş, has also been active in this area. In May, he visited the Ministry of Information to discuss media modernization, institutional capacity building, and cross-cultural exchange programs, including plans for cooperation on countering regional disinformation campaigns. At the same time, Somalia has launched its own National Policy Consultation on Managing the Risks of Social Media Misuse, bringing together government officials, civil society, media professionals, and legal experts to develop a framework to mitigate harms such as cyberbullying, hate speech, online radicalization, and the spread of false information. On the surface, all of this looks constructive and even hopeful. These are exactly the kinds of issues that every country in the digital age must confront. Social media can be a force for good, but it can also be used to spread lies, incite violence, and destroy reputations. Yet the timing of these initiatives, and the choice of partner, make many observers uneasy. The same week that Somali officials are praising Turkish expertise in countering disinformation, journalists in Turkey are being sentenced to prison under a vague law that has been widely condemned by international press freedom organizations. The same governments that talk about protecting accurate information are also cracking down on independent voices at home. That contradiction is hard to ignore, and it raises serious questions about what lessons are actually being transferred from Ankara to Mogadishu.
Turkey’s approach to disinformation has indeed drawn significant international criticism. The centerpiece of that approach is Article 217/A of the Turkish Penal Code, widely known as the “disinformation law.” Since it entered into force in October 2022, it has been used extensively to prosecute journalists. At least 83 journalists have been charged 114 times under the provision. The law’s language is dangerously vague. It fails to clearly define what constitutes “untrue information,” which leaves courts with unchecked power to determine criminality. As one journalist prosecuted under the law noted, any information not sourced from the government is liable to be deemed false. That is a chilling statement, because it means that a journalist who reports a government critic’s claim, or who questions an official narrative, can be treated as a criminal. In recent months, authorities have escalated their use of the law to arrest and sentence journalists. In April alone, journalists Murat Ağırel and Barış Pehlivan were each sentenced to one year and three months in prison for commentary on a television broadcast, while Zafer Arapkirli received a two-year and six-month sentence for a social media post. The International Federation of Journalists and its partners have condemned the escalating use of the law, calling for its immediate repeal and describing Turkey as a “regional and even global outlier in the misuse of regressive fake news and disinformation legislation.” This is not a problem in some distant country with no relevance to Somalia. It is the exact model that Somali officials are now studying and cooperating with. And the troubling part is that Somalia already has its own record of silencing journalists, sometimes violently, without needing any help from abroad.
Somalia’s own press freedom challenges are serious and deeply worrying. Journalist Mascuud Warsame, the founder of Xogbile TV, was released in August after 40 days in detention without formal charges. Those 40 days were not a policy debate; they were 40 days of fear, uncertainty, and separation from his family and work. His release raised concerns about the legality of his detention and the state of press freedom in Somalia, but it did not signal an end to the pressure. In May, Somali security forces detained and allegedly assaulted three journalists in Mogadishu, with media organizations reporting that police threatened them with death if they did not remain silent about planned protests and other sensitive developments in the capital. Social media activist Sacdiya Macalin Ali was held for 122 days before an appeals court overturned her three-year sentence for “insulting state institutions” and “incitement,” sentences that stemmed from videos she had posted criticizing government officials. Somali police have also detained TikTok content creators accused of mocking President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, with authorities describing their actions as a “criminal offense” under laws against insulting national leaders. Meanwhile, the country’s draft Penal Code, currently before parliament, contains provisions that press freedom organizations warn could further criminalize journalism. Reporters Without Borders and the National Union of Somali Journalists have identified articles that penalize “false,” “misleading,” or “exaggerated” information with sentences of up to ten years, and up to twenty years when the information is linked to a “hostile state.” These provisions are strikingly similar to the language of Turkey’s disinformation law. The danger is not hypothetical. Somali journalists already face arbitrary arrests, equipment confiscation, beatings, and degrading treatment at the hands of security forces. Social media users have been detained for simply posting their opinions. Adding a legal framework modeled on Turkey’s approach would not solve these problems; it would make them worse.
The meeting between Somali and Turkish officials on countering disinformation raises uncomfortable questions about the direction of Somalia’s media policy. There is no doubt that disinformation is a genuine concern in any society, especially one emerging from decades of conflict. False rumors can spark violence, undermine trust, and wreak havoc on public health and social cohesion. Governments have a legitimate role in responding to those threats. But the record in Turkey and the pattern of arrests in Somalia suggest that laws and policies described as tools against disinformation are more often used to silence critics than to protect the public. Turkey’s disinformation law has been weaponized against journalists on a scale that has drawn condemnation from international press freedom organizations, and its vague provisions have been used to prosecute reporting on matters of clear public interest. Somalia’s draft Penal Code contains strikingly similar language, criminalizing “false” or “misleading” information without clear definitions or safeguards for journalistic work. The risk is that Somalia is importing not just Turkey’s technical expertise but its approach to controlling narratives. If the goal is truly to safeguard accurate information and public trust, the path forward is not to punish those who question power or to give officials unchecked authority to define what is true. It is to protect independent journalism, strengthen civil society, and ensure that any legal framework includes clear definitions, robust safeguards, and independent judicial oversight. Without those protections, cooperation on countering disinformation risks becoming a tool for suppressing dissent rather than a means of protecting accurate information. The people who lose in that scenario are not only journalists and activists; they are ordinary citizens, who deserve to know what is really happening in their country, and who are denied the truthful, open and fearless press that every healthy society depends on.