Mogadishu Memoir (Part IV): A Neighborhood In Transition

In 1970s, there was a popular Omar Shooli song –lyrics by Abdalla Nuriddin- called ‘Abyan’ which talked about my childhood neighborhood and it went like this;

“Abyan waxay ku nooshahay
Aqalkeda uu yahay
Isku-Raran Agteediyoo
Agagaarka Ceel Gaab


“Abyan lives
[In] a house located
Near Isku-Raran
[And] around El- Gab”

My old neighborhood, El Gab or Isku-Raran, was the hub of Mogadishu, and in its vicinity there were many shops, restaurants, and eager vendors selling their products. Also, the city’s bus depot was located there, and it was the first place where people that came from different cities in Somalia landed when they entered the city. El Gab was a busy place that bustled with people, replete with the sounds of braying donkeys, and symphony of car horns. In essence, it was a lively place. As a child, I used to go to the El Gab Square late in the afternoons when the hot sun cooled down, and I would listen to the story tellers or, as some referred them, charlatans. There were throngs of people surrounding various storytellers and the latter would entertain the audience with the stories they weaved. Most of the stories these men told were laden with superstitious tales but had underlying moral underpinnings. The storytellers always managed to stop when the story got interesting in order to cajole money from the listeners. The audience, who seemed to hate the cliff hangers, wanted to know the end of the story and would willingly donate money. I heard all kinds of outrageous stories, however, the most outlandish was the one about a man whose penis was cut off by his wife but the man finally managed to get his severed manhood back in tact after going through a soul-wrenching process of repentance. Beside listening to the tall tales, I also enjoyed going to El Gab Cinema which was my favorite place to hang out. The neighborhood had two vestiges of Italian colonialism; the ‘Ambulatorio El Gab”, an out-patient medical center, and a big burial site exclusively for Italians that was, in later years, incrementally desecrated and finally removed.

Homes near our house were populated by families, but few blocks away from my residence was a cluster of dwellings rumored to be a hot bed for prostitution? Behind our home, there was a big house and the owner had exotic wild animals such as monkeys, baboons, tortoise, wild cats, and gazelles which he kept them in cages and sold them to the Europeans. I was always scared of getting close to that monstrous house for fear of encountering wayward monkeys or baboons. There were times that some of the male baboons got loose in the neighborhood and caused havoc. Next to the house with the wild animals was where my friend Abdulqadir Mohamed Mohamud Yusuf- nicknamed Cabdulqaadir Cadde- lived. Abdulqadir (Majertein-Issa Mohamoud) and I were best friends in the 1960s and he was a brilliant student who excelled in school. He lived with his single father- a male nurse nicknamed ‘Qoor Dooro’- his younger brother- Abdirizak- his aunt Mulki, and his Ogaden grandmother, Murayo, may God bless her soul. Abdulqadir’s father was semi-educated but he was a committed parent who oversaw his children’s education. Abdulqadir’s mother lived in Garowe and had her own family. Murayo, the grandmother, showed me a great of love and care because she believed that I was a well-mannered boy. As children, Abdulqadir, his bother Abdirizak, and I played together and sometimes we used to pretend to be cowboys. I used to make toy pistols out of thick paper and gun belts from ropes. Abdulqadir used to go beyond the role-playing and would tell his brother and I fabricated stories about cowboys. Abdirizak and I enjoyed listening to these wild stories but, on Abdulqadir’s back, we would grumble about being subjected to a contexture of lies.

There was a Hawadle family across our house; Khalif, his wife Amina, and their children. Khalif was tall, lanky, and hot-tempered man, but his wife was gentle and reserved. Their son, Bashir, and I were in the same age but he attended a school where Italian was the medium language. There were also two families from Eritrean descent that lived three houses away; “Baal Dooro” and Hashim. ‘Baal Dooro’ was a short, stocky man who worked, as a technician, for Radio Mogadishu. I used to see him leave his house early in the morning as he headed to Radio Mogadishu where he was responsible for broadcast equipments running smoothly. I sadly remember times when Siad Barre’s soldiers barged into his house and he was dragged to the radio station so that the government could broadcast urgent news such as aborted coup. Hashim was in his late 40s at the time, always drove fancy cars, and appeared to be well off compared to other families in my neighborhood. One day, Hashim vanished. It was later discovered that Hashim worked for the Ethiopian government and was in Mogadishu as a deep cover spy. My brother-in-law told me many years later that, while in an official visit to Addis Ababa, Hashim came to the hotel where the Somali delegation was staying.

Next to Hashim’s house was where the Baynax Barre family (Ogaden) lived and I was friendly with their two boys, Abdilatiif and Liban. There was also the house of “Jamal Jabiye” (Jamal the Breaker/Demolisher); a Reer Hamar man, that worked for the Municipal Authority and whose job was to demolish homes that were on the way of new streets to be paved in the city. It was ironic that Jamal Jabiye’s own home was later destroyed by a government decree to make way for a major street in our neighborhood.

A Dhulbahante man (Du’ale) lived two houses away from our house with his wife, Caanood, a fierce Marehan woman, and their children. Their daughter, Duniyo Dualle, was my sister’s age and quite popular. This family used to rent out one of their rooms. I remember one particular Hawadle family that rented out a room from the Du’ale family which consisted of an army soldier, his wife Habibo, who had arrived from Hiiraan region, and their young children. This soldier was called Guurgarato and he would become, at the height of Siad Barre’s rule, a tycoon. Sometime in May 1991, and at the peak of the Somali civil war, my mother told me that she was boarding a plane at Mogadishu Airport on her way out of the country when she saw Guurgarato flanked by bodyguards. Guurgarato was surprised to see her and exclaimed, “Oh! Dahabo! Were you still in Mogadishu?” My mother, who always had high regards for Guurgarato, was miffed that the tycoon did not even show common courtesy of greeting her or inquiring about her welfare. Not known for nourishing a grudge, that was a peculiar encounter that my mother never forgot.

A block away from my home was the house of Abukar Kassim (Geledi), his Ogaden wife, and their children. The Kassim daughters were one of the prettiest in the neighborhood; one became an air hostess with the Somali Airlines and another became the wife of General Adan Gabyow, Somalia’s Defense Minister in mid 1980s. Few houses from the Kassim family was the house/store of Hajiyo Bullo (Majertein-Nuuh Jabraa’iil); the mother of Abdalla Mohamed Fadil, who later became a member of the Supreme Revolutionary Council and a Cabinet Minister under Siad Barre regime.

The family that had some indirect influence on our neighborhood, perhaps, was the one next door to us. The patriarch of this family was an elderly man named Garweyne (Majertein-Omar Mohamoud) who lived in Mogadishu all his life. I found Garweyne’s household to be fascinating and, in retrospect, different than other homes in my neighborhood because it had an astounding array of characters. The Garweyne family consisted of the family patriarch, his wife Axado (Habar Gidir-Saleebaan), aunts, children, grandchildren, and other relatives; the house was always full of people. Ali Garweyne, the son, was in his twenties at the time, and worked for the American Embassy. He was an archtype soccer fan; garrulous and loyal. From time to time, he would come out of his house, sit on the front stairs, watch the children play in the street, and he would prod, tweak, and challenge them. Salado Garweyne was several years older than me, and she moved to Italy in early 70s. Lul Garweyne, a divorced woman with a son, was in her twenties and was tall and beautiful. Zeinab Garweyne was my sister’s best friend in the 60s and 70s and she was always polite to others. She and my sister shared a lot. It is, as the French say, “Tous les beaux esprits se recontrent” (All beautiful spirits find themselves). Zeinab ended up marrying a Majertein guy (Mohamed Ali Maad) who worked for the Somali Airlines and later defected after joining the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF). Maryan Garweyne was in her thirties at the time and was married to a Reer Hamar artist, Mohamed Osman Ibtilo. Ibtilo used to appear in Reer Hamar plays. Zahra Garweyne was the oldest of Garweyne children and was married to Mohamed Geedi, an Habar-Gidir businessman, and had several children. Two of her children, Sa’eed and Su’di were close to my age. Zahra worked at a hospital and was often away from home but, when she was home, her presence was widely felt. She was tall and endowed with remarkable physical strength. Zahra was my favorite Garweyne children because she was, by all measures, a portrait of kindness and generosity. If her children went to the movies, and she saw me playing outside, she would call me and would give me money to go to the movies. She wanted me to have good time, and her generosity toward me was something I will never forget. Zahra was assertive and witty. In fact, the Garweyne progeny brought a great deal of humor to our community and elements of Westernization. But then, phases of modernization were already creeping in Somalia in 1960s.

In late 1960s, Zahra’s husband decided to run for a seat in the Somali parliament and the Garweyne family rallied behind their son-in-law by soliciting the support of the people in the neighborhood. As a child, I remember seeing a lot of people coming to a weekly party which was held at the Garweyne house where food and soft drinks were served while the pulsating music blared in the background. Zahra’s children, Sa’eed and Su’di (under ten years old at the time) opened the party with beautiful dancing that used to captivate the attendees. Then, two lines of dancing were formed, one for the men and the other for the women. As I recall, I was always a spectator because dancing was not my bailiwick. Besides, I was shy in public places. But story had that one night I joined the crowd of dancers and did a bit of dancing. My sister and Zeynab Garweyne conveyed this story to me many years later, but I have no recollection of this incident. I have doubts that I was brave enough to dance in front of tens of people. I can only think of one occasion in which I danced so enthusiastically and wildly, but then I was an adult. It happened in 1983 or 1984 while in college in Ohio and during Eid celebration. I was hanging with some Arab men from the Gulf who were singing folk songs in a tiny apartment. It was an unremarkable experience except for its dullness. I wanted to rejuvenate the men in that joyous occasion so I started dancing wildly. I thought this peculiar incident was in the dustbin of history until my then wife informed me that the Arab women in our married-student complex were impressed with my dance moves. I was unaware that the event was even videotaped. That was a scene I would have paid real money to see it in tape!

The Garweyne family probably introduced some Western music to our neighborhood. For the first time, I saw teenage boys and girls in the Garweyne compound and listening to the Beatles, Elvis, Ray Charles, etc. The youngsters would sometimes hang in the alley between our house and the Garweyne compound and engage in amorous flirtations. But in all fairness, the Garweyne children were not involved in those illicit acts, and they made a show of rising above the fray. Paradoxically, Garweyne children were a bit conservative even though the family was indirectly facilitating the introduction of some elements of Westernization in the neighborhood. For instance, most of the Garweyne girls ended up marrying men arranged for them by relatives. Members of the Garweyne household used to call me, “Hassanow” and would ask me to entertain them. They listened, with rapt attention, to my impetuous and idle talk. Oddly, they thought I was very funny, but as a child I loved the attention I was getting.

One incident had a searing effect on me because it involved the brutal murder of one the members of the Garweyne family. I think I was either nine or ten years old when an aunt of Garweyne children, who used to take care of them, became the victim of homicide. Our neighborhood, at the time, noticed a sharp spike in criminal activities such as burglaries. Criminals became so bold that they used to break in homes and take portable items. Some of these criminals would dig holes under the front doors to seep inside the houses. The Garweyne aunt, apparently, foiled numerous attempts to rob that big and tempting house because she was vigilant and tough. However, the criminals became frustrated with her and one of the hoodlums managed one night to lure her out of the compound, and struck her head with a metal object. The blow to her head was followed by a primal scream that pierced the still night which woke up many people. Sadly, the criminals managed to vanish in the darkness of the night. The aunt was taken to Digfer Hospital, and I remember neighbors pouring into the Garweyne house anxiously waiting to hear news about the aunt’s condition, but she died several hours after the incident. For the Garweyne family, and all of us who knew the aunt, it was a sad moment and we all felt the loss. Personally, I felt like a member of my own family was brutally murdered. The family was buoyed by a wave of sympathy and support and the ordeal clearly taxed and tested the neighborhood. Few years later, the perpetrator of this heinous crime was arrested for committing another brutal murder in Baidoa, 200 Kilometers away from Mogadishu, and was sentenced to death. During the court proceedings, he dropped a bombshell when he confessed to a long list of criminal activities including the killing of the Garweyne family aunt.

The neighborhood that I grew up was diverse when it came to its ethnicity and clan make-up. As mentioned above, there were families from Eritrean descent. There was one family from Arab descent and also a group of Oromo (Aruso) migrant labor. In mid sixties, Mogadishu experienced a torrential rain that devastated some houses and especially the shoddy-built house which was rented by the hard-working Oromo men. The entire neighborhood came to their assistance by giving them money and food. For weeks, the women in the neighborhood took turns cooking food for the Oromo men. One of the memorable moments for me was when one of the Madhiban girls, and a close friend of Zeinab Garweyne, got married, and many people in the neighborhood took part of the celebration. I remember luminary singers like Hassan Diriye, Omar Dhuule, and Mohamed Saleebaan coming to the neighborhood and singing at the wedding. Our neighborhood was also home to the poet and entertainer Hirsi Siiqe (Majertein) and his Marehan wife who hailed from Cawuduwaaq in Central Somalia. The couple’s daughter, Hodan, and another girl in the neighborhood, Asho Liin, were one of the vanguard children who became part of the group “Ubaxa Kacaanka” (The Flowers of the Revolution) under Barre regime.

The old Somali Youth League (SYL) headquarter was located three blocks away from my house and I recall two young men from Mozambique living in one of the back rooms of the center. Some of the neighborhood children used to taunt and harass one of the young men by making ‘ugly’ faces just because he looked, to their eyes, different. The young man, in turn, used to go berserk and would chase the children.