Twenty-five years after the historic Arta Conference, Somalis return to the city that rekindled their dream of statehood—and to the president who believed in them when they had lost faith in themselves. In Arta, where tears met hope, President Ismaïl Omar Guelleh stood as the guardian of Somali unity and the moral compass of a nation searching for its identity. As the country marks the 25th anniversary of that defining moment in Somali history, this reflection revisits the story of gratitude and brotherhood toward a small nation with a great heart: Djibouti.
Twenty-five years ago, I was a young journalist carrying my small bag and simple microphone, unaware that I was about to witness an event that would remain forever engraved in the memory of all Somalis: the Arta National Reconciliation Conference.
Months before that, I still vividly remember the day when the newly elected President Ismaïl Omar Guelleh stood before the United Nations General Assembly, pledging—not as a politician, but as a father—that he would bring together the divided Somalis at one table. It was a promise made in the halls of New York, but it came true less than a year later in a small, warm-hearted town called Arta—and I was there.When we were invited to Djibouti, we never imagined that this modest stretch of land on a hilltop would redraw the map of a lost nation. Djibouti opened its heart before it opened its halls, and President Guelleh was not a host receiving guests, but a father embracing his children returning from lands of division and war. For six full months, he moved tirelessly among the delegates’ residences—reassuring one, reconciling another—and saying to them in the voice of a wise elder: 'You will not leave Arta until you are reconciled.' Djibouti—a country small in size—carried on its shoulders a nation deep in wounds.Djibouti gave everything it had. Its people joined the effort as though it were their own national dream. I saw with my own eyes poor herders leading their camels and sheep to the conference compound, offering them as hospitality for their Somali brothers.
I remember one of them—a simple nomad elder—standing before the gathering and saying, his voice trembling: 'I heard that my Somali brothers have come to Arta to reconcile, so I brought this camel as a gesture of hospitality and gratitude.'
I also saw others who brought nothing but a jar of milk or butter, offering it as a gift to the conference guests. Those moments embodied the purest meaning of brotherhood and redefined generosity—not as a gift from abundance, but as an act born of love and faith in a shared destiny.
I still remember the young Djiboutian boys and girls who moved among the conference guests with grace and selflessness, serving tirelessly and without a single word of complaint.
At that time, I was working for BBC Arabic Radio, covering the sessions and the disputes, spending long nights without sleep—chasing details that perhaps did not interest the newsroom, but meant everything to us Somalis. The Arta Conference was a mixture of emotion and politics, of hope and despair, of nostalgia and contention. And whenever tensions rose, President Guelleh would suddenly appear—with his calm smile and endless patience—to bring hearts together before bringing agreements together.
I saw him many times walking through the corridors of the great tent late at night, weary and burdened by endless meetings and mediations, yet never retreating. As I watched him, I realized I was not seeing a mediator between Somalis, but the elder Somali himself, who had decided to carry our burden on his shoulders to the very end. He guarded that tent as one guards a fragile heart—never sleeping, never resting, extinguishing fires before they ignited, and planting hope where only ashes remained.
In the end, the dream was born. The Somalis left Arta carrying the founding document of the Third Republic—with its constitution, its government, and its parliament—and the world recognized it, marking the beginning of Somalia’s long journey back to statehood. It was the dawn after a long night of loss, a moment written by Djibouti’s sweat, patience, nobility, and courage.
Since that day, the Arta Conference has remained both a political and moral reference for Somalia—not only because it rebuilt the institutions of the state, but because it restored faith that we are one people, no matter our divisions.
And today, a quarter century later, we Somalis return once again to the city of Arta. We return not as rival clans, nor as factions in conflict, but as sons returning to the first home that sheltered them when their homeland failed them. And there, welcoming us once again, stands President Ismaïl Omar Guelleh, with the same smile, the same warmth, and the same spirit—as though time itself had stopped at that very first moment of hope.
He looks at us today with eyes full of pride, seeing the fruits of what he planted, watching Somalia begin to regain its place in the Horn of Africa and the wider world. We stand before him—leaders, citizens, and journalists—and say from our hearts: 'Thank you, Mr. President. You were not merely a neighbor—you were the brother who carried us from ashes to light.'
The Arta Conference taught us that Djibouti is not just a neighboring state, but the heart of Somalia when its own heart had stopped beating. It taught us that true brotherhood is not measured by borders, but by acts of compassion that save nations.
And so, twenty-five years later, I write these words not merely as a journalist recounting a story, but as a Somali bearing witness—with mind and emotion alike—that what Djibouti did was not politics, but pure love, worthy of being inscribed in the record of human history before political history.Thank you, Djibouti. Thank you, Mr. President.
Ali Halane is a Somali journalist, researcher specializing in African and Middle Eastern affairs, and co-founder of the Somali Cultural Parliament.
The opinion expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Dawan Africa
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