Horn Development Notes ❈

Somalia’s hunger is not a breaking story. It is a baseline.

Every few years, the photos and headlines return: emaciated children, dry riverbeds, queues for food distributions. Donors convene pledging conferences, agencies refresh their emergency plans, politicians promise coordination. Then the rains come, or the news cycle moves on, and the crisis is reclassified from “famine” to “acute food insecurity.” But for millions of Somalis, hunger never fully leaves. It stretches and tightens with the seasons and the political calendar, becoming a normal condition to be managed rather than an intolerable failure to be ended.

Calling this “normal” is not a moral judgment on Somalis; it is a description of how the system currently works. Droughts, floods, displacement and high prices interact with fragile institutions, insecure roads, missing infrastructure, and a relief economy that keeps people just above the survival line without changing the underlying structure. Politics, meanwhile, continues as always: competition over territory and rents, short-term bargains, and symbolic announcements about resilience that rarely translate into the boring, patient investments that would make chronic hunger exceptional again.

To understand why hunger behaves like a norm in Somalia, it helps to separate three layers: climate, infrastructure and markets; and politics.

The climate layer is the one most often named: multi-season droughts, erratic rains, rising temperatures, and then destructive floods. For rural and pastoral households, this means more frequent and sharper shocks to pasture, water and livestock. Climate is not new in Somalia, but the speed and volatility of current patterns mean less time to recover between shocks. Even in good years, many households are one failed season away from crisis; in bad years, the line between “poor” and “famine-affected” is thin.

Infrastructure and markets translate these shocks into hunger or resilience. In large parts of Somalia, there are few reliable rural roads, limited cold storage and warehouses, weak irrigation, and patchy electricity. When a drought hits, traders can only move food and water so fast and so far; when prices spike globally, import-dependent markets pass that cost straight to consumers. Water trucking, private boreholes and small-scale irrigation schemes play a vital role, but they are fragile and expensive. There is no dense, climate-ready “infrastructure of adaptation” – no network of wells, storage, small dams, feeder roads, energy and communications robust enough to absorb shocks and keep food and water physically accessible.

In this vacuum, markets do function, but they do so under extreme stress and with high margins. A trader in a remote district is not a villain for charging more when fuel prices and security risks climb. Yet for households spending most of their income on food, these price shifts are the difference between eating twice a day and once, between staying in place or joining an IDP camp. Mobile money and remittances soften the blow for some families, but they are unevenly distributed and cannot substitute for missing public systems.

Over this sits the political layer. “Politics as always” in this context means that hunger is deeply shaped by decisions on security, representation, and resource allocation, but rarely treated as the central test of those decisions. Territorial control and clan bargaining shape where roads are built, where health posts and schools survive, where local government functions; they also influence how quickly humanitarian aid reaches certain areas, which communities are visible in national plans, and whose suffering becomes legible to donors. In some places, negotiations with armed actors determine whether food can move at all. In others, the presence of an international compound guarantees attention to nearby camps, while villages just beyond the security perimeter remain invisible.

Humanitarian actors, for their part, are caught between genuine commitment and structural constraints. Funding is short-term and volatile; appeals are chronically under-financed; programmes are often designed for one- or two-year cycles. “Resilience” has become a standard word in project documents, but much of the architecture still revolves around emergency response. When drought looms, plans are activated, NGOs scale up, and cash or food is distributed. When the immediate emergency fades, budgets shrink, teams are reassigned, and the opportunity to systematically build water, storage, roads and safety nets is lost again. No single agency chooses this pattern, but together they reproduce a system where survival is the outcome, not transformation.

The result is a grim equilibrium. Rural and peri-urban households adapt as best they can, diversifying income, migrating, sending children to cities, relying on relatives abroad. Local markets and private providers fill gaps with water, transport, and basic services where possible. Humanitarian pipelines prevent full-scale famine in many areas, especially when early warning works and funding arrives on time. Politicians manage the optics, balancing domestic expectations and donor relationships. Hunger moves up and down the scale, but it rarely drops out of the picture.

This is what “hunger as norm” looks like: a country where food insecurity is not an exceptional shock but an ordinary risk, managed each year through a mix of coping strategies, emergency aid, and selective infrastructure fixes. Climate change tightens this equilibrium; each cycle becomes harder to manage without deeper structural change. Yet the politics of the state, the incentives of donors, and the business models of many actors remain aligned with continuity rather than disruption.

Breaking this norm does not start with a new slogan, but with a different way of asking questions. Instead of “How many people can we feed this season?”, the core questions become: which investments in water, roads, storage, energy and basic services would permanently reduce the population living one shock away from hunger? How can social protection systems be built to deliver predictable support before people exhaust their assets? What forms of local government and accountability are needed so that drought response is a matter of public policy, not ad hoc negotiation? And how should external actors change their own funding and programming logic to support that shift, rather than reproducing the emergency cycle?

Politics will not disappear from these choices; it will always shape who benefits first, which regions and clans see more investment, and how institutions are built or blocked. But politics can operate inside a fundamentally different structure – one in which the baseline is that most Somalis are food secure most of the time, and hunger has returned to what it should be: a signal of exceptional failure, not an expected part of life.

For now, that is not the system Somalia has. The system Somalia has is one where climate shocks are intensifying, infrastructure for adaptation is thin, markets are stressed, and the relief economy sits on top of a fragile political order. As long as those fundamentals remain unchanged, hunger will continue to behave like a norm, and politics will continue as always.

The question for Somali policymakers, practitioners, and their partners is whether they are prepared to treat this as unacceptable normality and reorganise their work accordingly – or whether the next drought and the next set of photos will once again be absorbed into a familiar, lethal routine.