On a quiet Wednesday in the northwestern town of Gabiley, an ordinary work trip turned into a sudden, frightening rupture for a man many in Somaliland’s media community know only by his familiar nickname, Hassan Galaydh. His full name is Hassan Saleebaan Haruun, and he had traveled to Gabiley that day as a journalist, doing the routine work of gathering stories and talking to people, a task he had carried out many times before. But somewhere between the streets, the interviews, and the notebook pages, his day stopped being routine. Security forces arrested him. Sources close to the journalist said he was detained while on a work trip, without warning, without public explanation, and with a speed that left colleagues back in Hargeisa stunned and scrambling for answers. For those who knew him, the arrest was not just an attack on one reporter, but a message sent to every journalist in the region who dares to ask questions, challenge authority, or demand accountability. The news spread quickly through phones and messaging groups, carrying with it a sense of déjà vu, a familiar pattern of detention, accusation, and silence that has haunted Somaliland’s media landscape for years. In a country that has long prided itself on being an example of stability and democracy in the Horn of Africa, the image of a journalist being handcuffed in broad daylight struck many as a betrayal of the very values the government claims to uphold. There was no dramatic confrontation, no chaotic scene, just a quiet, clinical removal of a voice that had become inconvenient. And as word moved from Gabiley to Hargeisa, from local reporters to international press freedom organizations, the question everyone asked was simple and painful: What had Hassan Galaydh actually done?
The answer, according to Somaliland’s police command, was that he was suspected of spreading false news. In a short statement, the police said they had arrested Hassan Saleebaan Haruun, who is accused of spreading false news, and that he had been questioned about information he shared in the media. But here was the troubling part: the police did not specify which report, which article, or which statement they considered false. There was no citation of a particular story, no quoted paragraph, no clear explanation of what exactly the journalist had said that crossed the line. They simply said he had not provided evidence to support the information he shared, and that he would be brought before the relevant legal authorities for further action. For anyone who follows press freedom issues, this vagueness was itself a red flag. If a government truly has evidence of a crime, it usually names the offense. When it does not, the accusation becomes a tool, a way to punish someone without having to justify it in public. The phrase “spreading false news” is broad enough to cover almost anything, a critical tweet, a pointed question, an uncomfortable interview, a report that officials simply do not like. It is the kind of charge that tells journalists to watch their words, to self-censor, to think twice before publishing something powerful. And in a society where the press is already navigating delicate political tensions, that threat weighs heavily. Hassan Galaydh, after all, was not some anonymous source hiding in the shadows. He was a visible journalist, a man whose name appears in bylines and whose voice has been heard in public debates. His arrest sent a chill through newsrooms, not because anyone thought he was guilty of a real crime, but because his alleged crime was so undefined. If a reporter can be detained for “false news” without anyone saying what the false news is, then every journalist in Somaliland is vulnerable.
The timing of the arrest made the situation even more troubling. Local reports suggested that Hassan Galaydh’s detention was linked to remarks he had made a day earlier in Hargeisa, where he and other journalists had gathered to call on the authorities to release another detained journalist, Abdiqani Hussein Abokor Baylood. That protest, or appeal, was itself part of a growing pattern of concern about the treatment of media workers in Somaliland. Galaydh had reportedly appealed directly to President Abdirahman Mohamed Abdillahi Irro to release Baylood, and in doing so, he had reminded the president of his own history. During his time in opposition, Irro had strongly criticized the arrest and intimidation of journalists under the previous administration of President Muse Bihi Abdi. He had stood with press freedom advocates, condemned the silencing of voices, and promised that if his party, Waddani, came to power, things would be different. Journalists like Galaydh remembered those promises. They had hoped that a new government would mean a new era, one in which reporters could do their jobs without fear of retribution. And now, instead of that new era, they were watching an opposition leader who had become president using the same tactics he once condemned. The irony was not lost on anyone. The ruling Waddani party had repeatedly criticized the previous administration over the arrest of journalists and restrictions on press freedom. They had campaigned on protecting freedom of expression and press freedom. But power, it seems, has a way of erasing old convictions. For Galaydh, his only crime appeared to be that he had the courage to remind the president of his own words, to hold him to the standard he had set for others. It was a reminder that in politics, accountability is easy to demand from the outside, but much harder to accept when you are the one being held responsible.
The reaction to Galaydh’s arrest was swift and angry, not just from his friends and colleagues, but from politicians and public figures who saw the detention as an attempt to muzzle dissent. One of the most vocal responses came from MP Mohamed Abiib, who condemned the arrest and called for Galaydh’s release. His words carried the weight of someone who understood what was at stake. “This kind of arrest is nothing but shameful and worthless,” Abiib said. “I call for the release of journalist Hassan Galaydh and other journalists. This arrest is unreasonable.” The bluntness of that statement reflected the mood of many Somalilanders who have watched their government drift toward authoritarian habits. Journalists, for their part, expressed solidarity with their detained colleague, sharing messages of support and demanding transparency. Press freedom advocates warned that the arrest would damage Somaliland’s reputation at home and abroad, especially at a time when the region is still seeking international recognition and trying to present itself as a democratic model. The irony was particularly sharp because Somaliland has long argued that it deserves a seat at the table of nations, that it is different from the chaos and repression seen elsewhere in the region. Governments that want to be taken seriously need to show that they respect basic freedoms, including the freedom of the press. Detaining a journalist on vague charges undermines that entire narrative. It sends a message that the government is more afraid of criticism than it is committed to democracy. And it makes it harder for Somaliland’s friends in the international community to defend its cause, because how do you defend a country that throws reporters in jail for asking questions? The growing debate over freedom of expression in Somaliland is not just a legal issue; it is a moral one, and the arrest of Hassan Galaydh has pushed that debate into the open.
This incident did not happen in a vacuum. It came amid a broader and increasingly heated discussion in Somaliland about the limits of free speech and the relationship between the state and the media. For decades, Somaliland’s journalists have operated under difficult conditions, sometimes facing harassment, detention, and intimidation. The previous administration of President Muse Bihi Abdi was frequently accused of cracking down on press freedom, a charge that the current leaders used as ammunition during their election campaigns. Waddani, the ruling party, positioned itself as a champion of open debate and democratic values. Its promises were explicit: protect journalists, end arbitrary arrests, respect the constitution. Now that Waddani is in power, those promises are being tested, and many people believe they are being broken. The arrest of Hassan Galaydh, so soon after the detention of Abdiqani Baylood, suggests that the new government is continuing the very practices it once condemned. That is a bitter pill for journalists who had allowed themselves to hope. It also complicates Somaliland’s broader political situation. Somaliland declared independence from Somalia in 1991, but it has not received broad international recognition. For years, its leaders have argued that recognition should be based on its democratic record, its stability, and its respect for human rights. Every time a journalist is detained without just cause, that argument grows weaker. The international community may not always act on human rights violations, but it notices them. When a government claims to be a model of democracy while simultaneously silencing its critics, the contradiction becomes hard to ignore. The debate over press freedom is therefore not just a local issue; it is tied to the very future of Somaliland as a state. If the government cannot protect the basic rights of its citizens, including the right to speak freely, then its claim to independence loses some of its moral foundation. Journalists are not the enemy of the state; they are the eyes and ears of the people. And when they are targeted, the whole society suffers.
As the hours passed after Hassan Galaydh’s arrest, there were more questions than answers. Would he be charged with a real offense? Would he be granted access to a lawyer? Would he be brought before a court, or would he disappear into the machinery of detention, held without trial while the government decides what to do with him? For his family, his friends, and his colleagues, the uncertainty was unbearable. The arrest was not just a legal action; it was a human event, an interruption of a life, a sudden emptying of a chair at a dinner table, a phone that no longer picks up calls. Behind the headlines and the political statements, there is a person, a journalist who loved his work, who believed in the power of telling stories, who wanted to hold power accountable and give voice to the voiceless. His name is Hassan Saleebaan Haruun, known as Hassan Galaydh. He is not a symbol to be debated in political forums; he is a husband, a father, a son, a friend, a colleague. And now he sits in detention, accused of something no one can clearly define, waiting to see what will happen to him. The international community, human rights organizations, and ordinary Somalilanders are all watching. But in the end, the real question is not just whether Hassan Galaydh will be released. The real question is whether Somaliland will live up to its own ideals, whether its leaders have the courage to admit they were wrong, and whether press freedom will become a reality or remain an empty promise. The arrest of one journalist can be reversed, but the damage it does to trust, to public confidence, to the sense of justice in a society, is much harder to repair. Every journalist who hesitates before publishing a story, every editor who deletes a paragraph out of fear, every citizen who thinks twice before speaking their mind, is a small victory for those who want to silence dissent. And every release, every apology, every step toward accountability, is a reminder that democracy is not a gift from the powerful, but a right that must be demanded by the people. For now, Hassan Galaydh remains in custody, his future uncertain, his voice temporarily silenced. But the voices of those who stand with him, the journalists, the politicians, the ordinary citizens who refuse to look away, are still calling out. They are calling for his release. They are calling for justice. And they will not be quiet, no matter how many arrests are made. Because in the end, the truth always finds a way to be spoken, and the people who speak it, no matter how many walls are built around them, remain the heartbeat of any free society.