Originally published 29 April 2019.

The United Nations can sometimes be a figure of fun for its breathless commitment to the dullest of minutia, but spare a thought for the members of the UN Somalia and Eritrea Monitoring Group (SEMG) as they solemnly submit hundreds of pages of reporting each year on the illicit Somali charcoal trade.

Charcoal has to be one of the most banal of topics. It’s made by slowly heating wood in an oxygen-free environment to produce a hotter-burning and smokeless fuel. But while it might not be producing any visible smoke, it is emitting an array of consequences that lead from the acacia forests of Somalia to the Royal Australian Navy. The story of how this innocuous product can have such far-reaching effects is a lesson in the need to address even the most mundane of connections to terrorism, and the consequences if you don’t.

Charcoal made from the acacia tree is prized in the Middle East for shisha and barbecues. In fact, it’s so prized (or maybe so overlooked) that many regional countries seem happy to receive it without asking too many difficult questions about its provenance.

The first part of its journey takes the charcoal from its source in the Somali acacia forests to key ports on the coast. On the way, al-Shabaab, a violent terrorist group responsible for several major attacks in Somalia and Kenya (including a truck bomb in 2017 that killed over 500 people), taxes the charcoal that passes its road blocks. Such is the volume of charcoal trade that at its height al-Shabaab was receiving US$25 million in revenue from it.

This enormous influx of wealth to the al-Qaeda-linked terrorist group prompted the UN Security Council in 2012 to ban the export of charcoal from Somalia. The ban has remained in place since then, and although the levels of export have dropped, it is far from ended—in 2018, the SEMG estimates that al-Shabaab still received around US$7.5 million from some 60,000 tonnes of charcoal.

From Somalia, the SEMG lists a veritable cornucopia of criminal activity before the charcoal arrives at its final destination. According to its diligent reporting and that of other regional investigators, Kenyan soldiers from AMISOM, the peacekeeping mission in Somalia meant to be enforcing the ban, instead allegedly oversee and profit from the charcoal’s movements at Somali ports. Paperwork disguising its origin is produced from Comoros, Cote d’Ivoire, Gambia, Ghana and Iran, some completely forged, some produced by corrupt government officials. At its trans-shipment point in Iran, the charcoal is switched to bags that further disguise its Somali origins, before making its way to Dubai where agents well aware of its dubious origins distribute it to its final buyers throughout the Gulf.

Aside from terrorism, corruption, smuggling, bribery and organised crime, Somali charcoal also has another devastating consequence: the deforestation of Somalia. Such is the rate at which this occurring that the SEMG estimates between 2011 and 2017 a tree was cut down on average every 30 seconds. The rapid deforestation is compounding the severity of both drought and flooding across Somalia. Oxfam is warning that, if the prevailing climate and conflict risks continue—and unless the 2019 humanitarian response plan receives a rapid and substantial boost (it’s only 13.5% funded at present)—there’s a real risk of famine.

Despite the UN’s numerous warnings, exhortations and outright begging for support from regional states to enforce the ban, the illicit trade has continued. Somalia is unable to prevent the trade without help. Kenya robustly refutes any suggestion its soldiers are facilitating the trade. Regional countries make half-hearted statements supporting the ban but do little to enforce it.

In 2014, the UN finally turned to the broader international community, as represented by the Combined Maritime Forces (CMF), to interdict the shipments on the high seas. Little is said in the relevant resolution about how exactly this is to take place, other than that it is to be done in an ‘environmentally responsible manner’. This is a headache for anyone planning to actually enforce the ban, as the resulting options are either to somehow try to transfer the cargo onto another ship—a logistical feat of epic proportions at sea—or escort the detained vessel to the nearest friendly port and persuade them not only to take the cargo but also to dispose of the ship and its crew (in an environmentally responsible manner, of course).

Australia is a prominent and longstanding contributor of ships to the CMF and has impressive bragging rights in the hundreds of tonnes of drugs and weapons it has seized to date, but there is no mention of charcoal in any of these reports. That’s not surprising, as one vessel in an enormous ocean must make hard decisions about where it is needed and what its strategic priorities are. Should the CMF, and by extension Australia, actively try to prevent the illicit charcoal trade, thereby tackling terrorism, saving Somali lives, and reducing the risk of environmental disaster? If not, how much responsibility do we have to pressure regional states to enforce the ban? Is the political capital required really worth it?

It’s only charcoal, after all.

Africa-based jihadist groups confirmed a trend in 2016: the developing world is bearing the brunt of terrorism. Levels of violence have been such that the bulk of CT activities have been of a military nature, underpinning the sad reality that terrorism, insurgency and conflict are intimately intertwined.

Regardless of what the starting point was, a secular insurrection in Mali or militant Islamism in Somalia, jihadist groups have exploited local political, social, and economic grievances to build support bases. However, the intensification of indiscriminate violence has significantly reduced their popular support—as with Boko Haram.

There is a continuing debate about whether African groups are part of a global jihadist movement or represent forms of localised jihadism. Local dynamics, grievances and agendas are the main drivers behind the emergence and growth of the African groups and that connections with jihadists outside the continent are less a genuine attempt to contribute to the establishment of a global caliphate and more a tool to strengthen domestic jihad.

The interconnectedness of groups within and across subregions is evident, particularly in the north and west of the continent. This is facilitated by individual connections among militants as well as porous borders and the greater ease of communication through information and communication technology.

Extremist violence has spilled over from Nigeria into the Lake Chad Basin region, from Algeria to the whole of the Maghreb, the Sahel and West Africa, from Somalia to the Swahili coast—and from terrorism-prone to hitherto terrorism-free nations. IS-linked arrests in South Africa, an incident involving suspected al-Shabaab members in Rwanda and the killing of an IS recruiter in Kigali confirm the trend.

Responses have required concerted multinational efforts. Western involvement, such as the US strikes in Sirte and in Somalia, has often but not always been a game-changer. Regional approaches reduce the risks associated with country-specific action but resourcing initiatives is challenging. Effective coordination seems lacking.

In Kenya, Nigeria, Cameroon, and Tunisia the introduction of emergency measures under the guise of CT in some cases resulted in restrictions on freedom of expression and in physical abuse.

The lack of an agreed definition for CVE leaves room for stigmatisation of communities such as Somalis in Kenya. Given the key role played by social marginalisation in radicalisation, CVE initiatives might prove counterproductive and infringe human rights.

CT, CVE, counterinsurgency and counter-organised crime actions are all part of the spectrum of operations needed to fight jihadists in Africa. It’s a challenge to combine them effectively, but links between terrorism and drugs, weapons and, increasingly, human smuggling (together with other criminal activities, such as kidnap for ransom) play an important role in sustaining the groups, which remain resilient in the face of expanding military operations. Most African groups are less capable of sustaining full-fledged insurgency campaigns and holding extensive territorial control, but they continue to cause havoc, disrupt lives and economies, produce many fatalities and force large-scale human displacement.

The military success on some fronts in 2016 shouldn’t lead to complacency. Nations still face a significant threat, and the fragmentation and infighting among African jihadists (sometimes as a result of targeted Western assassinations of group’s leaders) could lead to unpredictability and higher risks.

Although high levels of insecurity ought to be met by military operations, a multidimensional approach is essential, and development and humanitarian initiatives can’t wait until security is re-established.

Most CT is state-centric, but the idea of Westphalian order is ill-fitted to Africa. Capacity building to strengthen government structures that aren’t always perceived as legitimate by the population, that have a predatory nature or that command armies not always behaving as the protectors of the people can be problematic and, indeed, counterproductive to achieving CT and CVE goals. In places such as Mali or Somalia, ethnicity or clan kindship might be much stronger determinants of identity and loyalty than governments, and foreign actions to support central governments might be viewed with suspicion.

The negative effects of this approach are evident when Westerners collaborate with autocratic regimes as with Cameroon, which has hosted a US drone base since 2015, and Djibouti, where the US military has its largest permanent presence in Africa. An approach that prioritises direct bottom-up engagements might be a better option and would also reduce the risk of funds being diverted or stolen by corrupt officials. It might also produce a clearer understanding of local people’s grievances and priorities.

Domestic agendas are likely to affect countries’ ability to join regional CT operations. This is particularly true of fragile democracies. For instance, in the longer term there’s a risk that Ethiopia’s internal tensions will constrain its contribution against al-Shabaab. Burundi, Uganda and Kenya have all experienced political turmoil, and their commitment to AMISOM shouldn’t be taken for granted. The EU threatened to cut its commitment to the Burundian contingent in response to repressive measures adopted to crush domestic pro-democracy demonstrations.

Tensions between Morocco and Algeria mean countries that intend to develop strategies with Rabat or Algiers have to do so on a bilateral basis, rather than as part of a regional effort. Such longstanding diplomatic tensions hinder smooth CT cooperation and, with no improvements in sight, should be taken into consideration for future CT engagements.