Mogadishu Memoir (Part VI): Dugsi, School and Special Teachers

In 1970s, two men in a Mogadishu neighborhood –one Issak and the other Reer Hamar- were talking about another man. Both agreed that the man in question was a wicked person. The Issak said, “I don’t want to talk about this guy anymore because he is DAMEER (a Donkey). The Reer Hamar man stood up and protested, “War Kan Dameer maaha, GEEL waaye” (No, he is not ‘Dameer’ he is ‘Geel’ (camel). A true story.
***

Before Somali children started regular schooling, they had to attend Dugsi or Ardo (Quran School). Children as young as three or four attended Dugsi to study the Quran and learn how to read and write Arabic. In hindsight, I can only ruminate about the wasted resources and time for letting children memorize the Qur’an without ever teaching them its meanings. A typical Dugsi was coed and the children sat on the floor with wooden tablets. Every day, children wrote their daily lessons with charcoal ink and they would cleanse the tablets after the end of the school day. Teachers were religious clerics “Xer” who had memorized the Quran. Somalis view Dugsi as an integral process of their children’s educational development. It is very rare for a child not to have attended Dugsi before enrolling in public schools. Those who run or teach Dugsi are generally respected in their communities. Dugsi attendance fulfills the religious obligation of teaching the Quran to youngsters at an early age and also it serves as a necessary steppingstone for a possible success in regular schools. I heard the anecdote of men who were invited to lunch (Alla-Bari or Zab) and then after the meal each guest was asked to recite quietly twelve “Qulwallah” (Surat As-Samad; the shortest surah in the Quran). One man from Western Ethiopia stood up in disbelief and said, “Had I known twelve Qulwallah, I would have opened Ardo”. The man thought twelve Qulwallah meant twelve different Suras of the Qur’an which he thought were too many.

Our Dugsi was owned by Teacher Maryam and she was assisted by a string of religious clerics, but everybody knew that she was in charge. It was rare in the country at the time to find a woman who had memorized the entire Quran and was also running a Dugsi. That was a feat unheard of in paternalistic Somalia. She was in her late fifties and never had children. I do not recall if she was ever married. Teacher Maryam ran the Dugsi efficiently. She was an assertive woman who evoked fear and respect among the students. Although she was a close relative of the Prime Minister, and later President, of Somalia at the time (Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke), she never exploited her unique position for personal gains. She lived in Hodan District, but she used to come, from to time, to our neighborhood and spend several days in our Dugsi. Children always tried to please her, and, when she was around, their behavior drastically improved.

Although Teacher Maryam was never violent with her students, her disciplining approach was nontraditional and crude. For those children who couldn’t memorize their lessons or misbehaved, she had something special for them. She would call their parents, report the infraction, and ask the parents to spank their own children in front of the students. I thought that was a mean and demeaning way of addressing the problem. One teacher in our Dugsi, for a while, deployed an inhumane method of punishment by blind-folding students who did not memorize their daily lesson and letting the rest of students pinch them as they pleased in a span of several seconds.

When Teacher Maryam was returning to her home, some of the students would accompany her to get a cab. She reserved those rare occasions for two or three students who did something exceptional. It was a great honor to walk with Teacher Maryam for several blocks and assist her getting taxi. She was a magnificent lady. In early 1970s, Teacher Maryam built a big mosque (Dhagax-Tuur Mosque) next to her Dugsi. Several years later, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia built the biggest mosque in Mogadishu “Is –Bahaysiga” two blocks from Teacher Maryam’s. Many people preferred to pray in her mosque rather than the government- run and Saudi -sponsored mosque.

Most of my teachers in middle school and high school were from the North. In elementary level, the majority were the South. When I was growing up, the school system was divided into three levels: Elementary (4 years), Intermediate (4 years) and Secondary (4 years). A student had to pass a national standardized examination before he or she could move to the next level. In elementary, all the subjects, with the exception of English, were taught in Arabic, but in Intermediate and Secondary levels, the language of instruction was English. Somali was not officially a written language at the time. It was odd that elementary subjects were taught in Arabic because Somalis are not Arabs. Sadly, I had difficulty understanding most of the subjects during my elementary years because they made no sense to me. The level of Arabic grammar offered to us was mind-boggling. I guess, all we did, as students, was to memorize the material. My first day of school was special. My uncle, Mohamed Farah Hilowle ‘Farmajo’- who was married to my aunt-Madino Said Muse- took his son (and my cousin) Abdinadif and me to Moalim Jama School. Mr. Hilowle, a product of an Abgaal father and a Majertein mother, was one of the 13 leaders who founded the Somali Youth League (SYL). This remarkable man became a diplomat and was one time stationed in Ethiopia.

The elementary school was all boys. But in the intermediate level, I was exposed to a coed education of a small magnitude. The percentage of the girls in Moalim Jama School was less than 10. There was a Caucasian girl in the school who spoke Somali fluently. Initially, I did not know who she was but it turned out that she was the daughter of Suleyman Mohamud Adan “Suleiman Gaal” (Issak); at the time the Director General of the Ministry of Education. The girl’s mother, obviously, was from the United Kingdom.

Our class had about 40 students, and five were girls. It must have been terrifying experience for these girls. Two of the girls, Zahra and Zuhra were twins who lived in Isku-Raran. I was very shy boy but my friends, Abdifattah Sheikh Khalif, a Majertein boy from the Somali-Ethiopian border (Gallaadi and Dhudub), and Aweys (Abgaal) were the ones who led the constant teasing of the girls. The girls were a microcosm of Somali society; the twins were Reer Hamar, one girl was Bantu, one Hawiye, and one Darod. The girls always fought back and were not to be bullied. Most of the time, I accompanied Abdifattah and Aweys and I silently observed the barbs and the playful spirit between these two boys and the girls. Abdifattah, teasingly and affectionately, called the girls the “Shanta Shimbiro” (the Five Birds) and the girls called him all kinds of names.

Abdifattah was a gregarious, flamboyant and well-liked boy who must have been older than most of his classmates. His father (Reer Khalaf) was an Islamic Judge in Western Ethiopia and the boy was living with his sister and her husband, a banker, in Boondheere; a middle-class neighborhood in Mogadishu. Abdifatah was not into academics but he had a veritable obsession of becoming a singer. Oddly, he was the one who introduced me to Somali music and the world of entertainers. I started knowing who was who in the music industry. His cousin, Abdikhadar Hassan, was an aspiring young singer who later became famous across Somalia. Abdifattah and I used to go to Abdikhadar’s house in the Weliyow Adde neighborhood and engage in idle talk about the latest gossip of musicians. I must admit that I myself entertained the idea of becoming a musician once but my bashful demeanor and, not to mention, my bad voice fortunately saved the day.

Among the girls, was N.H.A. She was beautiful, confidant, and a hard-working student. NHA (Habar Gidir) lived in a distant neighborhood from the school with her single mother, a medical doctor trained in Italy. Her father, a driver, was a loving man who used to visit NHA in the school regularly. The girls and NHA found me as shy, nerdy, and reserved and I seconded that assessment. But, interestingly, I became infatuated with NHA for a short period. Since I was eleven at the time and too shy to express my feelings, I confided the matter in two of my friends in Isku-Raran who were not attending my school. One day, a story had it; NHA came to my neighborhood with her friends. Some of the kids allegedly teased her and called her, “Hassan’s girl friend”. NHA, not only was embarrassed, but she became incensed. Next day, I was summoned to the principal’s office. While I was heading to the office, I saw NHA and greeted her, but she did not respond. I was puzzled by her strange behavior. The principal, who belonged to the same clan as NHA, asked me my name and ordered me to leave the school immediately and bring my parents in the afternoon. I was flummoxed. “What did I do”, I pleaded. “Get out of here and bring your parents,” the Principal barked. I left the school dejected. Later that afternoon, I brought my mother to the school. There was only the janitor, an elderly man rumored to be Christian, and the principal in the school. The principal told my mother that I was harassing a girl in the school; an act unbecoming of any good student. I protested and told the principal that the charge was scandalous and vexatious. “Your son is given a warning to stay away from this girl,” the principal commanded. My mother thanked the principal and we headed home. I never had behavioral problem before and my mother neither reproached me nor did she say a word to me because she doubted the veracity of the story.

I was heartbroken by the entire episode. I was angry with NHA for the false accusation; angry with the principal for unfairly suspending me from school, and angry at what I perceived as clannish nepotism. Interestingly, after several years of that incident, I had another Habar Gidir principal that came to my rescue at a critical juncture of schooling. In 1976, I tried desperately to transfer from Hawl Wadag Secondary School to Benadir. The Gadubiirse principal at Hawl Wadag thought at the time that I was a militant because I skipped a technical class taught by a Russian widely believed to have been a KGB agent. The latter only came to our school two hours a day. The school staff believed that the Russian was no ordinary teacher because he had a flexible schedule and a jeep in his disposal. At any rate, one day, I skipped the Russian’s class out of laziness and became involved in an imbroglio with the principal. Since the academic year started only two months earlier in my new school of Hawl Wadag, it was a herculean task to transfer to another school. I pleaded with Mohamed Haji Abdi (Majertein), who was the Director of Hamar School District in the Ministry of Education, to allow me to transfer to Benadir Secondary School but to no avail. The Director’s name was not strange to me because he was the brother-in-law of my best friend, Abdikarim M. Farah “Wariiri” (Dhulbahante) and my classmate in middle school. “Wariiri”, a brilliant student and now an accomplished Economist with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) could have helped but I felt shy to ask him to intercede on my behalf. But then, Principal Mohamed Farah gave me a rare opportunity to accept me at Benadir. I was elated and felt like ‘walking in the air’. Benadir, to me, was ten times better than Hawl Wadag and more prestigious. In the 1990s, Principal Mohamed Farah became one of the top lieutenants of General Aidid.

Back to Moalim Jama School, I had difficulty understanding why a principal would punish a student for an alleged act that supposedly happened while the school was not in session? I did not harass NHA nor did I even make her uncomfortable. That incident made me cut my relationship with the five birds. I avoided them for months and acted that I did not know them.

Weeks before the end of the year, something weird happened. I left school one day heading home when one of the birds-Sa’diyo- came running after me. “Wait Hassan,” she said, “NHA is in front of the school and wants to talk to you.” I started walking back to the school apprehensively and wondering what the scheme was this time. I saw NHA, elegantly but bashfully, standing in front of the school gate. “Hassan, I apologize for what I did to you. Please forgive me”, she sheepishly said. I was stunned by her apology and, all of sudden, became speechless. “It is ok,” I said and then I left. Being eleven years old, I kept wondering what the underlying reasons for the apology was. My own theory was that the final exams were approaching and the girls needed my academic help since we used to study together. But one of the senior birds, Zeinab, told me two or three years later that she asked NHA to apologize to me. My mother and the caretaker of Zeinab became friends, and the girl, apparently, felt embarrassed that we were not in good terms. With or without NHA’s apology, I became somewhat cool, but civil, to the girls and steered clear of them.

People Who Made a Difference

Teacher Abukar
Teacher Abukar (no relations) was my sixth grade Arabic teacher. This Hawadle, tall, lanky, and reticent man seemed to be a typical Arabic teacher at the time; boring and uninspiring. But one day, our Geography teacher became sick and a substitute teacher who used to read to us the famous, but licentious, book, Arabian Nights, was not available. The principal sent Teacher Abukar to our class to fill the hour. We were disappointed with the sight of our Arabic teacher coming to our class to fill the void. But we were in for a big surprise. Teacher Abukar told us the story of Prophet Mohamed, Peace Be Upon Him, from childhood to his marriage of Khadija. Now, the way Teacher Abukar told the story was nontraditional. The Prophet Mohamed the school system was teaching us was a man who was sent to his people to fight corruption against a feudal Qureish lordship. He was a man who loved his hometown, Makka, and felt sad when he was expelled. This Mohamed was a man who taught his people basic morality, like telling the truth, helping neighbors and loving one’s country. But Teacher Abukar told us a side of Prophet Mohamed that we, children, could identify with and in which super natural tales did not mar its narration. It was, mostly, a tale of a small boy growing up in Makka; A boy who lost his father, and then later his mother, but had close relatives looking after him. What fascinated us the most, as children, was the love story between Khadija, 40 years old, a distinguished business woman known for her beauty, good character, and remarkable pedigree, and young Mohamed, twenty-five years old, an honest man who happened to be her employee. I had never heard this side of the Prophet’s background before, and it humanized the man and the legend. The Prophet I used to know was a man quick to dispense sagacious statements and who wanted me, as a child, to pray and fast. My mother used to tell me, from to time, bits of information about the Prophet. Initially, I thought Prophet Mohamed was Somali because everybody talked about him by relaying his Hadiths (Prophet’s sayings and tradition) in Somali. But when I found out that Prophet Mohamed was an Arab, I was very angry. This discovery, of course, happened before I was six and it was devastating to me because I had already formed an image of the prophet being a Somali figure. Like many Somali children, I was raised with a stable diet of Somali nationalism. I was taught that Somalis were the best and smartest people in the planet. Therefore, for Prophet Mohamed, the man who was my source of inspiration, being a foreigner was unfathomable. It took me a while to recover from that rude awakening and sophomoric belief. Professor I.M. Lewis, in his Modern History of Somalia, alluded to the notion that Somalis are generally respectful and courteous to foreigners but that they also have “deeply ingrained suspicion…an aggressive self-confidence and, traditionally, open contempt for other people.” As a child, I was more or less, confused.

Teacher Abukar’s hour with us ran out quicker than we wanted. It was a lovely and educational treat. After that fateful day, students used to look for Teacher Abukar every time we had an hour to fill and ask him to tell us more about the history of Prophet Mohamed, Peace be Upon Him.


Teacher Adan Nuux Dhuule
Mr. Dhuule (Issak) was my sixth grade science teacher. He was also tall, slender, and always projected that type of seriousness that makes you respect the person. Mr. Dhuule was not the kind of teacher who joked with students or doled out compliments. He did not have a pretentious bone in his body. He came to the class, taught, and left immediately after the period was up. I had the view that Mr. Dhuule was anti-social and indifferent. Many of my classmates did not like him but I thought that one had to work harder to earn his approval. On rare occasions, Mr. Dhuule would flatter some of the students if they did something extraordinary, and, on some occasions, I was fortunate to be on the receiving end. Mr. Dhuule taught in our school, Moalim Jama, less than a year. After his 9-months’ National Service stint, Mr. Dhuule was randomly selected, among others, to work for the Ministry of Information and Guidance. He was assigned to Radio Mogadishu and worked there as a broadcaster. Few years later, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) hired him as a newscaster. I always admired Mr. Dhuule’s unique way of delivering news because it was a reflection of his personality; serious and not ostentatious.


Iraqi Teacher
This was an Arabic/Religion teacher that I had at Benadir Secondary School. He was an Iraqi Baathist teacher who was tall and boisterous. There were many students who used to skip the Arabic class because it was, to them, boring or badly taught. I remember seeing this burly and hulking Iraqi teacher screaming at students out of frustration. The first day I saw him was my first day at the school and the teacher asked each one of us to read an Arabic passage. As indicated before, Arabic was not a subject many of the students enjoyed because it was alien to them. When my turn came, I read the passage flawlessly. I saw the teacher coming to me impressed. He asked me my name and he wrote it down in a small piece of paper. That was the beginning of a teacher and student relationship that left sentimental memories. This teacher encouraged me to study Arabic and gave me books, magazines, and cassette tapes. He was also crucial in helping me organize an educational symposium, along my schoolmate Abdirizak Jama. I remember the school principal, an Issaak guy nicknamed ‘Jilbaweyne’ being apprehensive because he was afraid that we would politicize the symposium. The Iraqi teacher was instrumental in pacifying the principal and the symposium went well without any incident.


Asha Dheer, the Poetess
My relative Asha Mohamed Abdi ‘Asha Dheer”was tall, strong, and beautiful. She was married to ‘Shurubo’, who used to own a truck. Asha used to stay with my family when she visited Mogadishu from Bossasso. She was never blessed with children, but her husband loved her dearly. Asha was funny, sociable, and talented and had a strong personality. I remember her complaining to me about two Reer Hamar (Shaanshi) women in our street who were bad-mouthing each other. “Hassan, why do Reer Hamar women wait for each other when they are engaged in verbal assault? One speaks and heaps on the other all kinds of insults while the other patiently listens and waits for her turn to insult”, she retorted. One time I was walking with her near El Gab cinema when a man tried to make a pass; “Abaayo, iska warran [Sister, what is going on?] “The man asked. “Waar halkee baad ii dirsatay ee aan kaaga warramaa” (where did you send me so I can bring you some news) she answered with contempt and walked away. She was a famous poetess (Buraanbur) in the Northeast. When Asha, was pleased with me, she would glowingly say:

Xasan Sharaf, Shan-ka-roone, Shiikh Maxammad Abuukar.
(Hassan, the Honorable, the Remarkable, [son of] Sheikh Mohamed Abukar)

But when she was upset with me, she would jokingly say:

Xasan Shuruf, Shiiraaye, Sheeloweyne
(Hassan, the Malodorous, the Smelly, [with] Enlarged Prostate

It was unfortunate that Asha Dheer got killed by masked assasins in her house in Bossasso some years ago.


Abdisalaam, the Journalist
As a teenager, I came to know a young man who was a teacher but later became a journalist. It was convenient that he lived close to our new house in Xamar Jab Jab. His name was Abdisalaam. He was Rahanweyn and lived with his older brother, Colonel Dafeedow; the second highest official in the Department of Corrections. Daafedow was rumored to be an ally of “Mama Khadija” (Siad Barre’s wife). At any rate, Abdisalam and I became friends even though he was at least several years older than me. He was not happy with his teaching profession and he aspired to become a journalist. After numerous attempts, he succeeded in becoming a journalist. He was the one who introduced me to journalism in mid 1970s. I used to go with him to the famous Samatar Bookshop in Mogadishu, which was a block away from the American Embassy. Abdisalam was fluent in Arabic and used to purchase leading Egyptian papers like Al-Ahram, Al-Akhbar, and Akhbar El-Yom. Even though these papers were few days old, if not weeks, Abdisalam would buy them. He would give me the papers after he was through reading them. I could not afford purchasing papers because I had no income. I loved reading these papers and I fell in love with journalism. My sister, meanwhile, used to read Al-Hawwaa, a woman-geared magazine published in Egypt. I did not care but I read every publication that fell in my hands. When I had extra money, I would go and buy these newspapers. At Hamar Weyne market, there was a man who used to sell used publications like Newsweek, Time, and National Geographic. I loved buying used periodicals from this vendor because his prices were three times cheaper than the ones sold at the bookshop. I am grateful to Abdisalam for introducing me to the world of journalism because it was the only reason that made me come to the United States.
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Disclaimer: I mention the names of the people in my memoir and their clans. I do so for historical reasons and for the fact that the clan in itself is not the root cause of Somalia’s problems. I am from the old school that knowing one’s clan is not scandalous but using clan affiliation as a pretext to stereotype, discriminate, and humiliate is unacceptable. As the Quran says; “O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that you may know each other. Verily the most honored of you in the sight of Allah is (he who is) the most righteous of you. And Allah has full knowledge and is well acquainted (with all things)” (Sura 49:13)

Mogadishu Memoir (Part V): Housemates Unplugged

“Our house it has a crowd
There's always something happening
And it's usually quite loud
Our mum, she's so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed

Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our
Something tells you that you've got to move away from it.”

“Our House” by Madness.

***

In late 1960s and early 1970, my family shared a living space with a collage of characters that would make any psychologist have a field day. We lived in a big brick house that had several large rooms, a large space for cooking and one bathroom which was shared by all the housemates. The area the house was located at El Gab neighborhood was generally inhabited by working class people but our house was big enough to accommodate middle class characters and high school students.

Farah ‘Ileey’ (Farah the one-eyed), a shrewd Marehan elderly businessman, owned the house but he was mostly an absentee landlord. My mother ran the show by collecting rent and maintaining order in the house. After several years of running the affairs of the house, some naysayers started telling the landlord that my mother was acting like the owner of his property. My mother, whose leadership skills enabled the place to function properly, was asked to move out of the house. Being a vigorous fighter, my mother refused to budge. After a few months of tug of war, the landlord talked to some Darod elders in order to intervene, and finally my family moved out. However, two years later, the landlord came to my mother regretting about his decision. Apparently, the property had fallen into disrepute.

Three young Northerners (Isaak clan members), who were civil servants, occupied a room in the big house. As a lad, I loved these young men because they were very generous to me. In fact, they gave me the first job I ever had which was to wake them up early in the morning so they could go to work. I was paid 2 Somali shillings per week! I remember one particular Ramadan when I went with these young men to a restaurant at 4 in the morning and ate spaghetti. Until today, I have such a vivid memory of that meal and the experience of going to a restaurant in the wee hours. My mother was not pleased with the fact that I was being paid for doing a neighborly act. She told the Northerners not to give me money and she demanded that I continue waking them up as usual. Being spoiled by the cash flow that I was getting, I became somewhat disappointed with the new arrangement and I did something out of sorts; I changed the method of payment. I started going outside of the house and collected my payments through the back window. Somehow, my mother found out about my secret scheme and, interestingly, chose not to reprimand me or accuse the Northerners of undermining her authority. She knew when to pick a fight and when to let certain things slide by.

A young Reer Hamar artist occupied one of the rooms and he talked to no one when he was around, but he was gone most of the time. I remember his room not being neat but, on the walls of his room, he had fascinating paintings by different Somali artists. I was more impressed with the paintings by his colleagues than his. Also, he had a habit of drinking and alcohol consumption was something frowned upon by Somali people.

For a while, a couple, for confidentiality reasons, I would call “Salad” and “Anbara” occupied the room adjacent to ours. Salad belonged to ‘Carabta Maxmoud Saalax’ clan and his wife was Harti who originally came from the rural areas of Western Ethiopia. Anbara was also a cousin of a famous Somali singer. Salad had an unerring gift and he used to bring old and run-down refrigerators and fix them like new. This rare talented technician was a man loaded with contradictions because he had a volatile temper and would, at times, beat up his wife. That was the first time that I was exposed to domestic violence. Every time Salad beat his wife- which was the case for the first few years of their nascent marriage- the house would be flooded with educated, attractive, and progressive women who happened to be Anbara’s cousins. These ladies would console Anbara while at the same time giving the silent treatment to the wife-beater. I did not see these women visit our house when things were calmer. Anbara was novice to city life and, understandably, was missing her family back in Ethiopia. It appeared that Salad’s father, a diminutive man, was nonchalant about his son’s violence. The only thing, as a child, I could do for Anbara in 1973 was teaching her literacy and basic arithmetic. Later, she moved to Madina District in Mogadishu and became rich. Many years later, I was told that Anbara sneaked back to Ethiopia and was involved in a bizarre espionage case n behalf of the Somali government. Of course, it is difficult to verify the veracity of the story.

Several young students from the Northeastern part of Somalia occupied one of the rooms. Most were distant relatives of my mother, but one of them was my cousin; Omar Abdullahi Haji Osman (Omar Saddiq). These young students were mostly attending high school in Mogadishu and were all supported by their parents back in Qardho and Bossasso. My mother acted as a surrogate parent for these youngsters and some of these students excelled in school and were given scholarships to study in Western Europe and, later, to the Soviet Union.

A young handsome army officer named Tahlil (Hawadle), his mother, and his sister occupied two of the rooms. At the time, army officers and doctors were the two highest respected professionals in Somalia. This army officer was charismatic and a sociable person. His mother was the old school and was protective of him, especially against Darod girls.

Abbas and his roommate occupied one of the rooms. Abbas and my mother, though not related, belonged to the same sub-clan. He was single for a long time but he had a steady girl friend that cared a great deal about him. The young woman gave Abbas ample opportunity to marry her but, unfortunately, he was not the marrying kind and eventually she left him. Abbas’ roommate was an intriguing character. This tall man was a heavy smoker, and he had a peculiar habit of waking up early in the morning, breaking up several eggshells, and gulping the yolks of the eggs. Someone told this poor chap that the egg yolks were good in preventing lung cancer.

There was also the room of a bachelor teacher in his forties who rarely socialized with other housemates. One day, this teacher tried to rape a young and beautiful Habar Gidir woman who worked for the Northeasterners as a cook, but she screamed and he let her go. Afterwards, there was a hush-hush talk about the incident that a young boy like me was not privy to its unsavory details. With the pure curiosity of a child, I started digging for information until I find about the attempted rape. Apparently, the maid did not want to press charges against the teacher, and the whole matter regretfully was swept under the rug.

There were two young Darod men and their younger sister attending high school and occupying one of the rooms. The girl was an average-looking and had the social skills of a cougar. But she became the center of attention in the house and, for me, a source of problem. The girl was mostly interested in the army officer and would try to flirt with him. The young people in the house were not happy with the fact that the army officer was overshadowing them. The girl did whatever she could to get the officer’s attention but the romance was one-way because the officer did not reciprocate the feeling, not to mention his family was displeased with the girl’s bold overtures. But, interestingly, I became infatuated with this girl. I was only eight or nine years old at the time and she was at least seventeen. I started daydreaming about this girl and was consumed by her thoughts. One day, I went to a classmate of mine named Isgow Abdullahi (Shiikhaal Jazira)) who was good in Arabic and I asked him to draft a love letter for me so I could give it to the girl. He dutifully agreed and gave me a short letter saying, in essence, that I loved the girl. I wrapped the note and gave it to the older brother of the girl who in turn gave it to his sister without looking the note. Immediately, I disappeared because I was too embarrassed to stick around and face the music. I started avoiding the girl for at least two days. On the other hand, the girl was appalled and she squarely put the blame on the Northeastern housemates. She accused them of orchestrating the whole matter because they were presumably jealous of her flirtation with the army officer. The Northeastern youngsters vehemently denied that they had anything to do with the love letter. The girl’s older brother singled out my cousin, Omar Saddiq, for allegedly writing the letter. Oddly, Omar was a studious student and was not interested in girls. Curiously, I was never asked what my role was in the whole affair. Why bother! I was only an innocent child! The clamor and the hubbub about the letter put an end to my brief and infantile infatuation. It was only many years later did I confess to my cousin that I was the perpetrator of that nefarious deed.

For a while, one basketball referee lived in one of the rooms. This housemate had interesting collection of books about the history of Somalia and especially that of the Somali Youth League. Apparently, he did something illegal and ended up getting arrested. Two secret service agents came to the house and started searching his room, and among some of the items they discovered were porn magazines. I saw one of the agents flipping through the magazines and then slapping the housemate in the face. The housemate, a tall corpulent fellow, was meek and he gave no response as his eyes welled with tears. He was taken away and was sentenced to prison for several months. For a short period, Khalif Issa Mudane (a young Norteastern) lived in the house until he won a scholarship to the Soviet Union and eventually became an air force pilot. In the 1990s, Khalif became a co-owner of now defunct Damal Airlines. Another young man, Mohamed Rashid (Shiikhaal) also lived in the house and became an air force pilot. Sadly, Mohamed Rashid perished in 1975 when his MIG plane crashed in the outskirts of Mogadishu few days after Siad Barre sent 10 Ulema (scholars) to the gallows.

Uncle ‘Abdi Gurey’

Though not a resident of our house, my beloved uncle Abdirahman Yusuf Musse ‘Abdi Gurey’ was a regular visitor, and there were times that he came for lunch every day. He was handsome and soft-spoken man with Indian features. When my uncle went to Saudi Arabia in mid 1970s for work, he told me that he was always mistaken as an Indian.

My uncle was a civil servant in early and mid 1960s until Prime Minister Abdirizak Haji Hussein laid off many government employees for either efficiency reasons or for political expediency. The layoff was a blessing for my uncle because he opened his own company and named it “Auto Noleggio Wajer” (Wajer Car Rental). He became semi-rich and led an upper-middle class life style. In 1969, he even ran for an office and came close to being elected to the country’s parliament.

My uncle led a bachelor life but in 1969 he married a tall half-Arab and half Harti beauty named Layla Yaslam. I still remember the wedding night and seeing my uncle and Layla coming to the house holding hands. I was very close to my uncle and he used to call me “Hassan Sharaf” because he said that I was always a clean child. The next day after the wedding, I went to my uncle’s house in Hodan (Dabka) District while he was still in honeymoon. We played Somali chess or ‘dubnad’, ate pastries, and listened Sudanese music. Layla bore him a son, Yusuf, but he died in infancy. It was very unfortunate that my uncle’s marriage to Layla abruptly came to an end. My uncle, within a year, married a Majertein woman from Garowe (Issa Mahamoud) who bore him several children. He died in 1990 after several years of illness, not broke but naturally without the wealth that he had amassed in 1960s and early 1970s. Before his death, he became embroiled with Somali politics and got arrested numerous times for suspicion of backing the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), an opposition group based in Ethiopia.

My uncle was the most generous person that I have ever met. As a child, he was always there for me when I needed him. Many Northeasterners in Mogadishu used his postal box, 702, for getting their mail and he was well liked by his people. We used to go to places, on some Fridays, like Jowhar, Bal’ad, and Afgoi for day trips filled with fun and food. I remember sitting in the shaded acacia trees and eating exquisite meals like rice and lamb meat. Somehow, those sumptuous meals were always well cooked and tasted deliciously.

From time to time, I used to help my uncle in running his car rental business. Mostly, I did the paperwork. I remember one time when my uncle treated poorly two Hawiye bankers who wanted to rent a car. I did not know if the customers had prior dealings with my uncle but nevertheless I was embarrassed by his ornery and cantankerous behavior. Although my uncle owned a good business, he enjoyed hanging with his friends and was not fond of doing the day-to-day grunt work. He was different than my other uncle (and his cousin) Abdullahi Omar Ismail ‘Casaro’ who, though a self-made wealthy man, worked harder and shunned social gatherings. At any rate, one day I rented a car to a customer and my uncle came later that evening to check the sales and receipts. He calculated the numbers and saw what seemed to be an error. My uncle, being a man of sanguine tempers, became agitated and verbally abusive. I remained resolutely silent wondering what I had missed but, after a while, my uncle re-checked the numbers and realized that he was wrong. He immediately apologized to me and gave me 40 Somali Shillings. He was a knightly man.

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.

Mogadishu Memoir Part III: Defying the Odds

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust.

***

It was challenging for me as a young boy, while growing up in Mogadishu in the 1960s, to be surrounded by two strong-willed women. If my mother was a symbol of doggedness in the face of adversity, my sister was the paragon of discipline, competitiveness, and self-confidence. If my mother had a way of giving her views without appearing to do so, my sister enunciated her thoughts clearly and carefully.

My sister, Lul Mohamed Nur, is five years older than me, but I would not dare say so in front of people who have seen both of us lest I be accused of wishful thinking. Simply put, she appears much younger than me. She is tall, sociable, and smart. As a child, I was always conscious of giving her that power of being my ‘protector’ and she, in turn, always saw me as her little brother who needed her guidance. I do not know if my sister knows this; she did have some influence on me, especially in my formative years.

I remember my sister being a well-behaved and well-liked child in our neighborhood. When most young women her age stayed home and did domestic chores, my sister was an assiduous student who attended, in the 60s and early 70s, an all-Arabic Egyptian-run school (Jamal Abdinassir) from kindergarten to the 12th grade. If my sister liked something, she was not bashful of letting people know. I remember an incident in which my sister and some of her girl friends went to the house of a lady that baked Somali bread ‘muufo’. The baker lady at the time was churning milk into yogurt and my sister commented how the yogurt looked good. “Do you want some?” the lady asked my sister and her friends. The other girls sheepishly said “no” except my sister who said, “I would love to have some”. Then, the lady offered the yogurt only to my sister and when Lul tried to eat, the girls asked her if she could share it with them. “No way,” my sister protested, “you were offered but refused to accept the offer”.

I was probably 4 or five years old when I started going to the Quran School, or Dugsi as it is called, with my sister. We had to walk to the school, which was at least 15 minutes away. While attending the Dugsi, I got involved in a Quran contest with a beautiful, bright, and competitive Abgaal girl named Rahma. Rahma was new to our school but felt at ease with the new environment. She and I were in the same age group but the age or gender was not important factors. What was important was to see which student had memorized the Quran the best and the most. In our Dugsi, there were always contests and Rahma and I became finalists for one of those contests. Initially, I was able to beat her in one of these contests because of my sister’s assistance. But Rahma was a fierce competitor and she kept coming back more determined than before. I held my ground and managed to get ahead of her. After a while, I did not care much about competing with Rahma, but my sister did. Lul used to spend more time with me in order to get ahead of Rahma but that girl proved to be a formidable contender and my victory was short lived. After my sister graduated from the Dugsi, Rahma caught up with me and got ahead. When some of the children in my neighborhood told my sister about my embarrassing defeat in the hands of Rahma, Lul was very disappointed. Somehow, she felt that I had let her down.

I was fascinated by my sister’s creativity when it came to cooking; she always experimented with different things which at times seemed odd to me. My sister would buy vegetables and make delicious meals out of it and she seemed averse to traditional food of rice and spaghetti. Even today, as an adult, she enjoys cooking and I consider her a great chef.

My sister Lul was a voracious reader. She was the one who introduced me to Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. I always admired the good education my sister was getting from her school. I do not recall ever studying Shakespeare or Charles Dickens in my own prestigious Russian-built Benadir Secondary School. I still remember Lul reading to me Shakespeare’s famous play, The Merchant of Venice, and becoming enamored with this captivating tale of a Jewish merchant, Shylock, bent on getting a ‘pound of flesh’ from poor Antonio. I was fascinated with Portia defending her husband and his friend by disguising as a male attorney. As a child, I could not help but admire this type of storytelling. She also read to me Charles Dickens’ famous novel, A Tale of Two Cities. As a child, I had hard time understanding the killings and the carnage engulfing France during the revolution, but I was fascinated with the love story between Lucy and her noble husband Charles Darnay. Later, as a teenager, I started reading my sister’s Arabic books and became more entranced with them.

While growing up, my mother always treated Lul like a grown up. I was the impetuous child who required close supervision, and that used to irritate me. At age eleven or twelve, my sister lost her expensive watch that my mother had bought her while in school. Petrified to face our mother’s wrath, my sister, after school, went straight to my Uncle Abdi Gurey’s house in Hodan District. My uncle had to bring her to our house and plead to my mother to forget about the watch and forgive my sister, who was afraid and remorseful. My uncle gave my mother some money to cover the cost of the watch. All this was unfolding without my mother ever uttering a word or even showing how she might have been upset about the lost watch. My mother, a known martinet, kept smiling and seemed to be amused with the comic potential of the whole incident.

In the 1960s, I first heard about the Beatles, Ray Charles, the Temptations, and Elvis, through my sister. The information that I was imbibing from Lul about Western Music at the time was, at best, mediocre. I still remember my sister telling me the story behind Ray Charles’ hit “Hit Road Jack”. She made it more like a racial matter in which a black American man was trying to pass some Whites in a street and was being harassed. Of course, the movie RAY told a different story.

In mid 1970s, I decided to join the Somali officer-training program so I could go to the Soviet Union. I was interested in studying abroad and coming back to Somalia as an army officer. Naively, I contacted ordinary people who happened to be Marehan so they could intercede on my behalf. I remember going and seeking the help of a young man in our Isku-Raran neighborhood, Omar Yusuf Marehan, at a café close to El Gab Cinema and meeting him to help me. Omar, though Marehan, was in no position to help me achieve my career goal. Perplexed by my request, he looked at me and politely promised to look into the matter. In the midst of my obsession to join the army, my sister intervened and said that I would not leave school and join the army. At the time, she was the breadwinner in our household, and I chose not to disagree with her request but I was disappointed and felt that I had missed an opportunity. This was in 1976, and a year later, Somalia was involved in a bloody war with Ethiopia. I always wondered how my future would have turned if I joined the army.

In 1978, my sister married her boss: a family man 20 years her senior and with wife and eight children. We, family members, became our own befuddlement. Abdirahman Jama Barre was the Foreign Minister of Somalia and my sister’s immediate supervisor. Although Abdirahman and I come from two diametrically-opposed political spectrums, there were many times-in a span of 32 years- he had shared with me some intriguing stories, but that is a discussion for another day.

My brother-in-law Abdirahman was, in all fairness, always kind to my mother but his marriage to my sister drew the ire of one strong man; President Siad Barre, his brother. The president was concerned that Abdirahman was wrecking his first marriage in favor of a young and upcoming woman. After three years of marriage and the birth of two children abroad, my sister, posted in Europe at the time, went back to Somalia. One day, Siad` Barre summoned her to the presidential palace, Villa Somalia. Lul must have felt a morbid fear in facing the president. My sister found the president in his office incandescent with rage like a snake coiled to strike. Siad Barre asked Lul to leave Abdirahman Jama alone because he was already married and was the father of eight children. Barre was under pressure from Abdirahman’s first wife (Shiikhaal) to intervene and do something about the couple’s faltering marriage. Siad Barre offered my sister a plumb job-away from the Foreign Ministry- if she left Abdirahman and saved his first marriage. My sister, a quiet and a courteous person by nature, politely declined. The president flew off the handle, asked my sister her full name, as though he did not know the person he had summoned, scribbled something in his desk calendar book, and abruptly dismissed her from his office. My sister thought that she would be facing an uncertain and possibly treacherous future. It was widely rumored that whoever made the listing in that notorious book was doomed. But she was vastly relieved when nothing ominous happened. Several years later, Siad Barre became cordial and left the couple alone after they started having a total of seven children.

My sister and I used to get into heated political debate in Egypt in front of friends. I was the critic of the very government she was working for and she was the defender. It was only natural, that while in a visit to Mogadishu in 1985, that my brother-in-law rendered a characteristic verdict against me in my mother’s house. “Your son,” my brother-in-law told her, “is a good student and a fine young man, but he is ‘kacaan-diid’ (anti-revolutionary)”. I thought that Abdirahman had gotten a waft of my discussions with my sister in Cairo, but I was wrong. Oddly, he had something else in mind. In 1982, while visiting some friends in Washington, D.C, I was invited to a wedding. Someone, whom I guess must have been suffering from Kat hangover, came up with harebrained idea of asking me, a 22-year old man from Ohio majoring political science, to give an impromptu speech. That was a colossal mistake. It was a social and joyous gathering attended by many people, including Somali diplomats. After congratulating the young couple, I took few jabs at the policies of the Somali government. The speech lasted ten minutes, and I honestly thought it was all forgotten until someone told my brother-in-law about it. He was, to put it mildly, incensed but he never confronted me.

While growing up, my sister loved learning and always wanted to seek higher education. However, she got married at age 23 and, after a year, became a mother. Nevertheless, she started attending the Somali National University and because of family responsibilities and the gestation of the political turmoil in Somalia in late 1980s, Lul was unable to finish her college education. The words ‘discipline’ and ‘determination’ often come to my mind when I talk about my sister. Ten years ago, my sister, over forty, went back to school and took university courses with American youngsters that were young enough to be her children. She had an adamantine will to get her college degree and, indeed, she succeeded in obtaining her B.A in Business Administration.

Mogadishu Memoir Part II: A Unique Woman

Do you know the cliché that ‘single mothers are both fathers and mothers to their children’? Well, my mother would have scoffed that statement as an oxymoron gone awry. To her, and without any embellishments; single mothers are women doing their thankless jobs in the absence of fathers who have abdicated their responsibilities.

My mother, Dahabo Yusuf Muse, was born in Qardho to a Majerteen father (Osman Mohamoud) and a Dhulbahante mother (Nur Ahmed). In early 1950s, she met a teacher (Reer Baraawe) in Bossasso and married him. The couple moved to Afgoi where the husband was transferred. Although my mother was blessed with four children from that marriage, three of her offspring died in childhood. My sister, five years my senior, survived. Mother got divorced and met my father and married him. That marriage was short-lived too. My mother divorced my father and moved to Mogadishu after my birth.

My mother was tall, dark, and imposing. She rarely smiled, and her poker face was her signature trademark. It was difficult to know if she was pleased with you or angry with you. Neighbors and friends called her “Dahabo Dheer” (Dahabo, the tall). My mother had a hot temper. She was quick to criticize and slow to commend. She rarely showed any emotions. I have never heard my mother saying to my sister and to me that she loved us. But that did not mean that she was not a loving mother. Indeed, she was but she just did not show any physical or oral display of emotions. In spite of her serious projections, my mother was sometimes goofy. On rare occasions, she would run in our house, when we were alone, raise her dress to her knees, and do strange acrobatic moves. Most of the time though she kept quiet and minded her own business.

Even though mother was a single parent, she did not live off on her relatives’ goodwill. She worked hard to support her two children. The two absent fathers in this case, unfortunately, were nowhere to be seen, let alone provide assistance. There were no government programs to assist the needy and the indigent. Immediately after our move to Mogadishu in 1960, my mother earned money by cooking meals for her brother and his bachelor friends. Then, she started making incenses (uunsi) and started importing perfumes and colognes from Aden; at the time a bustling British colonial post. Her incenses were in demand because she was a perfectionist who had such prodigious capacity for detailed work. You could see that she took pride in her work. The first ten years of my life, my mother, my sister, and I shared a room. Afterwards, we got our own little house that my mother rented. Given our humble living condition, I never felt, as a child, financially deprived. My mother always gave me money when I needed. If my mother did not want to do something, she never hesitated to let you know. For instance, she cooked breakfast and lunch for our family. When I told her that some families had also dinner as part of their daily meal intake, my mother looked at me as though I had offended her, and then quietly informed me that she was not into cooking a third meal every day. It was not a financial decision but rather a personal choice.

My mother was a clean person who always smelled nice. Her female friends teasingly named her “Dahabo Foon” because she smelled great. She had nice jewelry collection, and I used to tease her to sell them off because she was single.

My mother was illiterate until 1972. She was, though, a strong advocate for good education. Early on, she placed my sister and me into Qur’an school before we even started elementary school. My sister and I were placed in a Dugsi/Ardo (Quran School) that was a bit far from our home. A tall, big, single elderly woman named Maryam owned that school. The choice of this school was not coincidental. Teacher Maryam and my mother belonged to the same Majertein sub-clan (Osman Mahmoud). Moreover, teacher Maryam was the sister of Somalia’s president at the time, Dr. Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke. Teacher Maryam was the only woman who operated her own Dugsi as all other Qur’an schools at that time were owned and managed by men. She had memorized the Quran and opened the school. Later, she would build a big mosque next to the school, but we are getting ahead of ourselves. I will address my years in that school later.

My mother placed my sister and me in a private English school run by a man named NUR (Abgaal) who had a laundry business in our neighborhood. Teacher Nur was smart and self-made man. I hated his school though because it was very competitive and not age-appropriate. For instance, my sister and I were in the same level even though she was older than me. Moreover, there were fewer students, and Teacher Nur did not hesitate to hit us with a stick if we missed our assignments. My mother was paying a fortune to send my sister and me to that school. These early and odious English tutoring classes proved to be so beneficial that, later in my schooling, I always excelled in language courses. They gave me a strong foundation not only to do well in English, but also the motivation and the discipline to acquire Arabic. Now, this was an indication of my mother, the illiterate, being ahead of her time. Other than my smattering knowledge of English and Arabic, my sister today speaks English, Arabic, and French fluently. Moreover, she will neither go hungry nor get lost in Italy because she has a working knowledge of Italian.

In 1972 when Somali language was finally written, I taught my mother how to read, write, and basic math. She was always grateful to me for teaching her literacy, and I was eternally grateful to her, among other things, for giving me the opportunity of attending private schools.

In my first year in elementary school, my mother was shocked by my odd behavior of tearing my lessons from my notebook and then discarding the pages. When she inquired why I was doing that, I told her “Well, these pages were already used and I need a clean notebook”. She always narrated this humorous story to juxtapose my sister’s serious studying habits. My laissez faire approach to studying during my first grade did not bode well with my mother. But in 1980, when I decided to come to the USA, some members of my family were adamantly opposed to my pursuit of higher education at that juncture of my life because they wanted me to stay in Egypt and not quit my job with the Somali Airlines. My mother gave me $1600 that she had at the time and encouraged me to seek education in America. It was a sage decision that I never regretted.

As a child, I would go with my mother to the market. I was fascinated with the respect she commanded, on one hand, and her pugnacious habit of picking fights with strangers, on the other hand. At the market, my mother used to get the best cut of meat from butchers. Her poker face gave her an aura of respectability. She was serious and, unlike other women, never joked with the butchers. But sometimes she would argue with cab drivers or storeowners for reasons that seemed trivial to me at the time. Because prices were never set in the country, and aware of her female status, my mother did not give an inch in bargaining. I hated such outings because of my aversion to confrontations and discord.

Once, I saw my mother in a wrestling match with a woman younger than her in Isku-Raran neighborhood sometime in mid sixties. Both fell on the floor. It was an ugly sight to be witnessed by a child. Fortunately, no one was hurt. The cause of the fight was innocuous; my mother turned on the radio in a day where a house a block away had ‘tacsi’ (funeral). My sister instigated the whole thing when she told my mother that the woman in question made disparaging remarks about my mother’s uncouth and blasphemous behavior. My mother loved listening to Radio Mogadishu so much that no one could have come between her and the radio. In addition, she was in the confines of her room when she felt badmouthed. In Somalia in 1960s, the radio was broadcasted for only a few hours a day and was the only source of news and information in a country which had no television and no mass circulating papers. To her detractors, the incident showed my mother as a woman with deeply entrenched stubbornness. To her admirers, it was plainly Dahabo Dheer being herself.

As a child, I would engage in occasional fights with other children. When one boy taunted me one day of being “ugly”, I felt hurt and upset. My mother told me, “Don’t listen to him. Thank Allah that you have your senses. You can hear, talk, and walk soundly:” These statements, somehow, gave me a great deal of comfort and assurance.

My mother married several times and none of her marriages lasted long. Her strong personality, a no-nonsense approach to life, and her fierce independence were characters abominable to insecure men. Being a single mother gave my mother some sort of edginess and a cynical attitude to men. It was apparent that romance was not her forte. I remember her brother, and my beloved uncle Abdirahman Yusuf Muse ‘Abdi Gurey’, telling me, “Hassan, your mom is not lucky with men”. This apt characterization was, indeed, a true illustration of my mother’s odd relationship with the opposite sex. Men, generally and unfortunately, prefer women who are pliable, dependant, and less demanding. My mother’s top priority was raising her children and making sure that they got the best education available to them. She was an imperfect woman who was dealing with an imperfect world with grace and dignity. May Allah have mercy on her?

Mogadishu Memoir: Close, Yet Far Away

“Go, greet your father,” my mother commanded me.

I was either six or seven years old when I first saw my father. My parents had an altercation three months before I was born and they had decided, according to local tradition, to terminate their marriage after my birth. My mother, my five year old sister from a previous marriage, and I moved to Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia, 16 miles south of Afgoi, my birthplace. Afgoi, a small farming town with beautiful scenery and the weekend getaway of Mogadishu’s affluent and middle class when the country was relatively peaceful was also where my father’s family and his Geledi clan lived. My mother, on the other hand, hailed from Qardho in the Northeast region, hundred miles away and today’s bastion of piracy.

My father was a medium built, light-skinned man in his forties, with bushy eye brows. He had a light coat and trouser that matched, and on his head, he was wearing a traditional kaffiyeh. His voice was husky, and he spoke with authority which evoked fear and respect. Initially, I was afraid of him. He unleashed a torrent of questions about my school and I answered them politely and in short sentences while maintaining a distance from him. He sat on a traditional chair called ‘Ganbar’ and started speaking to my mother as though he was a regular member of our household. He spoke loudly and laughed outrageously.

My mother made sweet tea for my father. He seemed a good conversationalist, but perhaps as not a good listener because at times it appeared as though he was engaged in a monologue with himself. In the midst of the conversation, my father gave me five shillings; an equivalent of one U.S dollar. I was excited that I had paper money, and I left immediately to go to a neighborhood store to buy cold soda and candy.

My father was still talking and laughing when I came back to the house. I kept watching him closely as I studied his every move. I kept wondering if he had come to visit me or consume large quantities of tea. Once in a while, he would ask me a question, but most of his conversation was geared toward my mother. He was as loquacious as my mother was reticent.

My father loved women so much that he fathered close to 28 children from several wives, but I was the only child that my father had with my mother. My parent’s marriage came to an end when my father married a third younger wife while my mother, the second in hierarchy, was pregnant with me. My mother, who was seething with jealousy, flew into a paroxysm of rage one day, kicked him out of the house, as she demanded for a divorce. When elders tried to mediate the couple, my mother confounded all their attempts for reconciliation.

But this day, my parents were having fun, talking as though there was no rancor or bitterness. I was the one who was, oddly, left out of the picture.

After that first encounter, my father would pop in our house to visit me at least once every five or six years. He was still living 16 miles away but he was spending a great deal of time in Mogadishu working, and visiting two of my sisters and his grandchildren who lived few blocks from my house.

My mother rarely talked about my father. She never complained about the fact that he did not pay child support. But when I promised to do something and failed to deliver, my mother would scold me of being like my father. She used the Somali term “booto” which roughly means blather to illustrate my genetic inclination for vacuous talk.

I think I met my father not more than four or five times. I pretended that I did not care about him, and acted as though he did not exist. From time to time, I met my brothers and sisters while walking in the streets of Mogadishu. There were never planned visits from my father’s side of the family.

Then in 1978, at age 18, I left Somalia for Egypt. One and half years later, I came to the United States to attend university.

It was some time in 1981, when my mother sent me a letter informing me the death of my father which happened two months earlier.

All of sudden, my father became, to me, a different person. He was no longer the man who had abandoned me and rarely visited me. He was not the man who never set foot in my school or took me to soccer games. I started giving him all kinds of excuses. How did he manage to feed 28 children with a meager income? I was only one mouth he did not have to worry about. I was living with my mother, a single hard working woman in a paternalistic society, and I had a large contingency of relatives, from her side of the family, who were always kind to me.

I kept vacillating between two thoughts; my feelings of disappointment that I was deprived from paternal care and love on one hand, and on the other hand my understanding that my father was, financially, in dire strait and could not have supported me. Was his dereliction of paternal duties the result of his other obligation to feed a battalion?

Perhaps, as a child, it would have meant a lot to me if he had visited me regularly, talked to me more, played with me, or took me for an outing in those rare visits.

Last fall, my mother passed away. My 25-year old son, who lives in Switzerland, called me and told me that he loved me and that he could not have asked for a better father. Immediately, I started thinking about my own father. Maybe he was all along with me, in the back of my mind, inadvertently helping me to become a better father. Perhaps, I was trying so hard not to deprive my four children- now adults- of having an engaging and loving father. It seemed that the best lesson my father ever taught me was how not to be a father.

Now, I miss him even more.

Somalia's Haiti Problem: Where Is the Love?

I am a bit overwhelmed by the massive outpouring of aid that Haiti is getting now. I understand that the Island country was struck by a national disaster in which thousands of people perished and a lot of people got hurt. Haiti is poor, black, and has a long history of dysfunctional governments.
But as a Somali, I have to confess that I am perplexed. Why do some countries get so much love and others are deliberately ignored. I was even incensed when I saw a man, in one of the websites, asking about the distance between Haiti and Somalia, and whether there were pirates close to the waters of Haiti that could impede the flow of aid there. Now, that is too much!

Somalia is a bigger country and has so many issues and problems that the world ought to tackle. But I see the West turning its eye away from Somalia. I see our rich Muslim brethren of the Gulf States being sick and tired of our country. I see some of the Saudi scholars busy with issuing Fatwas or edicts excommunicating Somali pirates from Islam. Once upon time, Somalia was a proud and respected country. Now, we have become a laughing stock. A politician in Ivory Coast warns his countrymen of the danger of being in political quandary. ‘Do we want to become another Somalia’ he warns. No, of course. When a group of Somali taxi drivers in San Diego have recently protested against unfair labor practices, one of the owners was quoted suggesting that the cabbies go back to their country and become pirates.

I know why Somalia does not get much love from the world. It is beyond the trivial excuses of the country being black and Muslim. I think the world is suffering from the ‘Somali fatigue’.

First, Bush Senior sent troops to Somalia under operation “Restore Hope”. Somali warlords, like Aideed Senior, were not concerned about the thousands of people dying from hunger. They were interested in power and looting. It was Keith Richburg, a Washington Post reporter, who observed the cruel and evil nature of such warlords like Aideed. Richburg said in his book, Out of America: A Black man Confronts Africa (1997), that the first time he met Aideed he thought the Warlord was crazy. But, “When I saw him a second time in Bardhere, [Aideed was]holed up in a compound sitting on cushions and twirling his walking stick, with piping-hot food laid out on a long table while a few yards away people were dropping dead of starvation. That second time I thought he was not only crazy, but evil.” The rest was history. Aideed’s thugs and ordinary Somali masses taught the American Rangers a few lessons of savagery when the dead American soldiers were stomped on, beaten, and dragged in the streets of Mogadishu. To add insult to injury, Somalia will always be remembered and associated with the Hollywood movie Black Hawk Down! Our bellicose tendencies were magnified.

Second, Somalia is a security threat to such powerful nations like the United States whereas Haiti is not. Last week, President Obama wrote an article in Newsweek, “Why Haiti Matters”, highlighting the humanitarian aspect of the Haitian tragedy and the moral obligation to extend a helping hand. “We are mobilizing every element of our national capacity: the resources of development agencies, the strength of our armed forces, and most important, the compassion of the American people,” Obama declared. Americans, of course, are also concerned about the flood of Haitian refugees into Miami. But that is an immigration problem. Somalia, meanwhile, is another matter. Yemen and Somalia are candidates for an American military intervention. There is the threat of Al-Qaeda taking roots in Somalia. Al-Shabaab terrorists are making a good case for such intervention. Their leader has declared allegiance to Usama Bin laden (UBL). Bin Laden, who has always claimed that al-Qaeda fighters were behind the shooting of American helicopters in Somalia in early 1990s, must be pleased with al-Shabaab’s new vote of confidence in him. Of course, many Somalis not only see Bin Laden’s claim to be preposterous but they also see it as an exercise of self-aggrandizement. The last thing Somalis need is UBL meddling in our already-messy affairs. I know many Somalis would scream, “What does Usama want from us; he already has Pakistan” in paraphrasing the Black Comedian, Chris Rock, who raised similar question about Michael Jackson. Rock said, “What do whites want from us; we have already given them Michael Jackson”. As long as Al-Shabaab terrorists are controlling large swath of Somali South, the country will be viewed as a major security threat. The fact that Al-Shabaab terrorists have been actively recruiting Somali youth in the West will further alienate Somalis. The Americans won’t land in the presidential palace in Mogadishu, like they did in Haiti, but they would be sending drones to eliminate terrorists.

Third, pirates are soiling our reputation in the world. I believe the problem of piracy in Puntland (Do you know any pirates in Kismayo or Zeila?) is complex and multidimensional. The problem is bigger than a bunch of lanky, gun-toting, mal-nutritioned men roaming in the waters of Indian Ocean or the Red Sea. The assertion that the Puntland administration is too feeble to address the piracy problem needs to be re-examined. Perhaps, many sectors in Puntland have higher stake in making sure that this piracy issue remains unsolved. The pirates, themselves, have become brazen in their criminal activity after that infamous incident with the American ship in early 2009. The so-called president of Puntland, Mr. Farole, has been busy muzzling journalists and handing some Ogadenis, suspected of being members of the separatist organization ONLF (Ogaden National Liberation Front), to Addis Ababa.

Fourth, the Haitian Diaspora in America is vibrant and active. There are more than 200,000 Haitian immigrants in New York alone. The Somali Diaspora is small, new, fragmented and voiceless. Somalis do not have celebrities like Jean Wycliffe to advocate for them. We do not have sympathetic artists, filmmakers, politicians, and human rights activists that can raise their voices on behalf of Somalia. No George Clooney, no Bono, and definitely no Angelina Jolie. By the time former Supermodel Iman became interested in Somalia, her career was in a declivitous state. Projects like Save Africa by prominent artists were always geared to special countries like Ethiopia and, nowadays, Darfur. Obviously, if Ethiopia had gone what Somalia has been through for the last two decades, there would have been a world outcry. There is something about Somalia that turns the world away from it!

Then, finally, there is the issue of relief agencies. Al-Shabaab terrorists have kicked out relief agencies from the areas they control accusing aid workers of being spies. Last week, the terrorists robbed the offices of a relief agency in Beledweyne taking laptops and other valuables. The world responded to the Haitian tragedy with unmitigated attention and rescue. Even the Israelis, mind you, established a hospital in Haiti traveling 1700 miles to that Caribbean country while at the same time neglecting their hungry and economically -isolated Gazans next door. One voice was the exception. According to Foxsports.com, former NBA player Paul Shirley, mocked the Haitians. “Dear Haitians,” he wrote, “First of all, kudos on developing the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Your commitment to human rights, infrastructure, and birth control should be applauded”. He further asked, “ …Could you not resort to the creation of flimsy-shanty-and shack towns? And could some of you maybe use a condom once in a while.” ESPN dropped Shirley as its freelance writer because of his outrageous comments about Haiti.
The world needs Somalia as much as Somalia needs the world. If Somalis can’t help themselves, as it is manifested today, then perhaps we need the world to come and rescue us.