Two Somali fishermen, their faces obscured by oversized scarves, shifted uneasily as they entered the room for a secret meeting. They were there to explain why they had recently turned to armed piracy. “Go ahead and record—we agree to it,” one of them said, sitting nervously for an interview in the town of Eyl.
This apprehensive behavior stands in stark contrast to the bravado once displayed by the pirates who dominated the port town nestled between the arid mountains of the Somali coast. Known historically as Harunta Burcadda, or the Pirate Capital, the town’s strategic location and access to fresh water made it the primary base of operations during the height of Somali piracy between the early and mid-2000s.
During that era, pirates targeted cargo ships and oil tankers, forcing major global shipping companies to reroute their vessels. With local government influence non-existent and the police too intimidated to intervene, the town thrived on ransom money. The World Bank estimated that between 2005 and 2012, pirate syndicates raked in between US$339 million and US$413 million.
The golden age of piracy crumbled when international navies began patrolling Somali waters. Most residents welcomed this change, as the piracy boom had brought rampant inflation, drugs, alcohol, and a social stigma that local religious leaders vehemently opposed. However, deep-seated resentment toward foreign vessels, particularly industrial trawlers, persisted among the fishing community that relies on the ocean for survival.
To this day, fishermen accuse foreign fleets of stealing their livelihoods. “Ships come and take all our equipment and our catch,” Farah, a fisherman-turned-pirate, told the BBC. To protect their identities, his name and that of his associate, Diiriye, have been changed for this interview. Both men had invested roughly US$10,000 into their boats, engines, and nets, only to have them destroyed or stolen by foreign trawlers.
Diiriye recounted a harrowing story of relatives who went out to check their nets at dawn and never returned. Three days later, their bodies washed ashore. “There were bullets in their bodies,” Diiriye said. “They weren’t carrying weapons; they went to sea with nets to make a living.”
Farah added, “We live off the sea. The sea is our business. When someone intimidates and robs you, you are obligated to fight back. They are the ones causing the conflict. If they did not take what is ours, we would not engage in piracy.”
These men are not alone in their decision to return to the sea as outlaws. According to the European Union’s Operation Atalanta, there were 26 pirate attacks between 2013 and 2019, followed by a period of calm between 2020 and 2022. However, the trend reversed in 2023 with six incidents, followed by a surge to 22 incidents in 2024. Reports from the International Maritime Bureau indicate this upward trajectory continues into 2026.
On April 21, 2026, the oil tanker MT Honour 25 was seized while traveling from Oman to Somalia. Among its 17 crew members are four Indonesians: Captain Ashari Samadikun from Gowa, 2nd Officer Adi Faizal from Bulukumba, Chief Officer Wahudinanto from Pemalang, and crew member Fiki Mutakin from Bogor. The remaining hostages include 11 Pakistanis, one Sri Lankan, and one Indian.
While many hijackings fail, the rewards for success are immense. Pirates claimed to have received a US$5 million ransom for the release of the Bangladeshi-flagged MV Abdullah in March 2024. Although the ship’s owners did not confirm the figure, they acknowledged the vessel was freed following negotiations.
Sources in the semi-autonomous Puntland state, where Eyl is located, estimate that approximately 10 gangs—each with about 12 members—now operate in the region. They typically spend 15 to 30 days at sea, arming their speedboats with AK-47s, rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs), fuel, and food. According to the pirates, they use the ships’ own GPS tracking systems to locate larger targets.
“We use RPGs to stop the ships,” Diiriye explained. “When the ship does not stop, we shoot above it. We do not kill. The goal is to get something, not to kill. It is to scare them.”
Financing these operations requires significant capital, leading to the formation of syndicates involving local businessmen from cities like Garowe and Bosaso. Investors often pool money for the boat, the weaponry, and the logistics, hoping for a lucrative ransom payout. In Somalia, acquiring an AK-47 is alarmingly easy, with prices around US$1,200—a legacy of two decades of civil war and lawlessness.
While some former pirates have turned toward a life of repentance—such as Abdirahman Bakeyle, who donated his properties to charity and became a preacher—the scars of that era remain. In Eyl, residents point to the persistent presence of smuggled alcohol and opioids as a lasting negative legacy. Local elders and workers at tea stalls admit they do not support piracy, though they deeply empathize with the fishermen’s hatred of illegal foreign trawlers.
For individuals like Ali Mursal Muse, who has fished for lobsters and sharks for 40 years, the danger is constant. He believes he has often been mistaken for a pirate by foreign military aircraft during counter-piracy operations. Similarly, Hawa Mohamed Zubery, a 40-year-old widow, lost her husband 14 years ago when he vanished at sea—a tragedy she believes was the result of a case of mistaken identity during the height of the piracy crisis.
Illegal, unreported, and unregulated (IUU) fishing remains a major point of contention. The Global Initiative against Transnational Organised Crime suggests that many trawlers from China, Iran, Yemen, and Southeast Asia operate without valid permits or with falsified documentation, costing Somalia an estimated US$300 million annually. Puntland’s Minister of Information, Caydid Dirir, acknowledged the existence of illegal vessels, noting that while progress is being made, the issue remains a complex challenge.
For now, the cycle of poverty and desperation fuels the resurgence. Farhan Awil Hashi, commander of the Puntland Maritime Police Force, believes the solution lies in job creation. “The youth must have work. If someone is busy doing something, they will not think of going to sea to hijack ships,” he told the BBC.
Despite the risks, Farah and Diiriye remain committed to their path, viewing it as the only way to provide for their children in an economy where traditional fishing no longer sustains them. “If my mother knew,” Diiriye admitted, “she would be so disappointed. She would report me to the authorities.”
Summary
Somali piracy, which had significantly declined after its peak in the early 2000s, is experiencing a notable resurgence, with attacks sharply increasing from 2023 onwards. This renewed activity is primarily fueled by local fishermen’s deep resentment towards foreign industrial trawlers, which they accuse of illegally depleting fish stocks, destroying their equipment, and causing violence. These fishermen feel compelled to resort to piracy as a desperate measure to protect their livelihoods and fight back.
Pirate gangs, often financed by local syndicates, conduct hijackings primarily for ransom, using weapons like AK-47s and RPGs to intimidate without lethal intent, as seen in incidents like the seizure of the MT Honour 25. While successful ransoms can be substantial, the core issue of illegal, unreported, and unregulated (IUU) fishing by foreign fleets remains a major challenge. Officials stress that job creation is crucial to address the underlying poverty and desperation that continue to fuel this renewed cycle of maritime threats.