Somali fishermen caught between piracy crackdown and survival

Abdifatah Mohamed has spent two decades pulling fish from the waters off Somalia's Puntland coast, beginning when he was barely old enough to handle a net. Now 35, he watches the catch dwindle year after year. Foreign trawlers work these same waters with equipment and scale that no local fisherman can match. Lobsters, once reliable, have become scarce. The sea that sustained his family is being emptied by vessels flying flags from distant countries, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

But the ocean's decline is no longer his only problem. Since late April 2026, piracy has resurged off Somalia's coast with enough force to reshape life in the fishing town of Bander Beyla, where Mohamed lives. Hijackings have multiplied—the exact count depends on whether you include commercial ships, fishing vessels, or dhows, but the pattern is unmistakable. Several seized ships have been anchored near Bander Beyla itself, bringing the crisis from distant headlines into the town's streets and harbors. In late August, local authorities made a decision: fishermen would not be allowed to go to sea. The order was meant to last two months. The stated reason was security—authorities feared pirates were disguising themselves as ordinary fishermen to move between the town and hijacked vessels.

For Mohamed and others like him, the restriction felt like punishment for a crime they did not commit. "Our families depend on what we catch at sea," he said. "Even though our catches have gone down in recent years, it helped provide for our families at home. But it's like we were being punished for crimes we have nothing to do with, and our families have suffered for it." The hardship was compounded by a second layer of risk. If authorities discovered a fisherman had ventured out despite the ban, he could be accused of supplying pirates or transporting goods to hijacked ships. If he stayed out at sea, international naval forces might mistake him for a pirate and arrest him—or worse. Men from Bander Beyla have already disappeared into foreign jails on such suspicions.

Abdirizak Said, who has fished these waters for 15 years, confirmed that dozens have been arrested. Most were caught after bringing food or khat to pirates when ships were anchored nearby. Local businesses received orders not to sell anything to the hijackers; those who disobeyed would themselves be branded as pirates. The crackdown extended into ordinary commerce in ways that rippled through the entire community. Supply boats that once arrived regularly from Yemen stopped coming altogether, cut off by fear of pirate attacks.

Yet the piracy itself is not separate from Bander Beyla—it emerges from within it. Some of the men involved in the hijackings are from the town, members of the same families and clans as the fishermen now under suspicion. This is the architecture that researchers like Jethro Norman of the Danish Institute for International Studies say must be understood to grasp why piracy persists and why crackdowns so often ensnare innocent people. Piracy is not merely a crime committed at sea. It depends on networks on land—kinship ties that can mobilize credit, equipment, manpower, and protection. Clan relationships function as a form of financial and social infrastructure. When authorities try to disrupt piracy, they inevitably reach into these networks, which means entire communities become suspect.

Some residents have resisted. Recently, when young men from the town attempted to arm themselves and head to sea, local civilians confronted them and persuaded them to abandon the plan. These were not government officials or security forces—they were neighbors who understood that if attacks were launched from Bander Beyla, the town would bear the consequences. The restrictions were eventually lifted on October 1, after international naval operations succeeded in freeing three hijacked vessels: the Honour 25, the Seamull, and the Eureka. Forty-four seafarers were released, though five crew members died during the rescue operation involving the Honour 25.

But the lifting of restrictions has not restored normalcy. Military helicopters from the European Union Naval Force now routinely fly inland from the sea, hovering over Bander Beyla and the remote coastal areas nearby, searching for armed individuals. The visible security presence remains. For Said and other fishermen, the sound of aircraft is a constant reminder that they are being watched. "We can hear the sound of aircraft and the louder it gets, the closer they are, so we know they're watching," he said. "I just want to make a living without worrying whether I'll make it back to shore safely."

The renewed piracy surge has coincided with a shift in international naval priorities. After Houthi attacks began in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden in late 2023, responding to the conflict in Gaza, international navies redirected their focus and resources toward that threat. The reduction in security presence off Somalia's coast created space for armed groups to operate. Meanwhile, Puntland's own maritime police force has been stretched thin by other demands—fighting ISIS in the Al-Miskad mountains and managing fallout from a 2023 anti-Somaliland uprising in Las Anod that drew fighters, including some from the maritime force itself, away from coastal security. These are not abstract geopolitical shifts for the people of Bander Beyla. They determine whether a fisherman can work, whether his family eats, and whether he returns home or disappears into a foreign detention center.