Somali Sultan Seeks Answers After U.S. Strike Kills Mediator

        In the northern town of Badhan, a respected clan leader grieves the loss of a peacemaker killed by a missile he believes was meant for war, not peace.

BADHAN, Somalia – Night has settled over Badhan, its silence broken only by the rustle of wind through the streets. A guest room lined with family portraits and framed photos of the sultanate, is lit by several dim bulbs. Sultan Said Abdisalam sits on a wooden chair, fingers slowly tracing his prayer beads. Next to him, the elder brother of the man killed in a U.S. drone strike stares into the camera lens, the grief between them deeper than the darkness outside.

 

“They killed my brother,” he says quietly. “Not a soldier. Not a fighter. A man of peace.”

The Sultan’s voice trembles when he speaks of Caaqil Omar Abdullahi Abdi, the elder and mediator killed last month in a U.S. drone strike in the village of Jinacyo, in Somalia’s Sanaag region. The two men were not only leaders of the same clan — they were lifelong friends bound by their shared mission to keep their people from war.

“Omar was my right hand,” the Sultan said. “We traveled together, we prayed together, we built peace together. And now he is gone — taken by three missiles from the sky.”

A Friendship Forged in Peace

Just two weeks before the strike, the Sultan and Omar had returned from a peace mission to Bosaso, where they met with Puntland’s President, Said Abdullahi Deni, to discuss ending clan fighting that had claimed dozens of lives.

“He was full of hope,” the Sultan recalled. “He believed that Somalis could solve their problems with dialogue, not guns.”

When the Sultan left for Ethiopia days later, he expected to return to a calmer Sanaag. Instead, he received a phone call that shattered him.

“They told me Omar had been killed by a drone,” he said, pausing as his voice broke. “At first, I thought it was a mistake. How could they target a man whose only weapon was peace?”

A Death That Feels Like Betrayal

The U.S. Africa Command (AFRICOM) later claimed responsibility for the strike, describing the target as “an arms trafficker.” To the Sultan, those words felt like salt on an open wound.

“That was a lie,” he said bluntly. “Omar was not an arms dealer. He never touched a gun in his life. He was the man who convinced young men to put their weapons down.”

The Sultan said he met with President Deni shortly after returning to Somalia to seek answers. Deni, he said, assured him that Puntland had no role in the strike.

“Deni told me directly that Puntland was not informed,” the Sultan said. “That means this was a foreign decision — one made without understanding who Omar really was.”

For the Sultan, the airstrike was not just an act of violence; it was a betrayal of everything he and his friend had worked for.

“They say they are fighting terrorists,” he said, “but they killed a man who was fighting to stop terror — the terror within our own hearts.”

The Weight of Loss

In the Sultan’s courtyard, mourners still come and go, offering condolences and prayers. The walls are lined with framed photographs of the two men during their peace missions — smiling, seated among villagers, notebooks open, hands raised in discussion.

“I have lost many things in my life,” the Sultan said softly, “but losing Omar… that broke me.”

He said they had spoken for nearly 11 hours by phone the night before the strike, planning their next steps in a fragile reconciliation process between two rival communities.

“He was tired but hopeful,” the Sultan remembered. “He told me, ‘Sultan, we are close to peace this time.’ That was the last thing he ever said to me.”

A Call for Justice

The Sultan is now demanding an independent investigation into the strike, calling it “a crime against peace.”

“If he had done wrong, why didn’t they arrest him?” he asked. “Why must a foreign plane decide who lives and who dies in our land?”

For him, the death of Omar is not only personal — it is a symbol of Somalia’s fragile sovereignty and the dangers of a war fought from afar.

“Omar died believing in Somalia,” the Sultan said, his eyes finally lifting from the ground. “He believed in words, not weapons. He was the best of us. And now, the sky that killed him still hums above our heads.”

As evening falls over Badhan, the Sultan rises slowly, adjusting his traditional shawl. The courtyard grows quiet except for the faint sound of wind and prayer.

“Omar is gone,” he said. “But the peace he died for must not die with him.”

Reporting by Abdirisak Mohamud Turyare from Badhan, Somalia