Back to Mogadishu: Part V and an Epilogue

Today’s Somali youth—and the generation that came of age after the 1991 civil war—are  helping Mogadishu’s progress through hard work and building a network of social relationships that transcend parochial tribal affiliations.

A United Nations consultant from Buuhoodle in the northern Ayn Region of Somalia told me about his son’s visit with him in Mogadishu. The young man, who lives in North America, had not seen his father for years. The consultant was worried his son would be put off by Mogadishu’s security lapses and the lack of glittering entertainment venues for young people.

During his visit to Mogadishu, the son would borrow his father’s SUV and vanish into the city for hours. Concerned about his son’s regular forays into the city, his father asked him where on earth he spent his time there.   

“Dad, I love Mogadishu. It’s a fun place to be,” the son said, “I have so many friends from social media to hang around with.”

“Okay, if that’s the case, then I have nothing to worry about, son.”

The father told me he was dumbfounded to learn how quickly and closely his son came to be  connected with his Somali peers across the globe — far from his life in North America.  

He explained his own initial surprise:  “Hassan, I am out of touch,” he said, smiling. “I am a middle-aged man coming to terms with the fact that the world has morphed into a small village.”

This story illustrates a huge generational shift among Somali’s youth. They represent the best hope Mogadishu has of rebuilding itself after many years of civil war and anarchy.  The generation that came after the 1991 civil war was spared from the atrocities and clannish enmities the country had experienced. While they may never have lived under a strong government in which law and order was the cornerstone of the administration, these young people desperately want a stable, united country.

Clannism is not a priority for them. In fact, their social relationships with diverse populations of Somalis are testimony to their commitment to marginalize tribalism. While Somalis in the diaspora are eager to know one’s clan, I was amazed to find that this generation of youngsters is not interested in clannism at all.  To them, clan identity is not important. In Somalia, where the sudden mobilization of tribes can occur at any moment for any reason, it was uplifting and refreshing to see these young people flourishing in an environment bereft of clan talk.

I have seen it on social media; Somali youth from all walks of life are forming friendships and cementing a galaxy of networks via online platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat. The experience of the UN consultant’s son clearly shows how this new generation feels at ease with friends across Somalia, especially in Mogadishu. Indeed, the Internet will continue to play a pivotal role in the rising prominence of the younger generation and the changes that are already in progress in Mogadishu.

Work ethic

Among the generational difference that attracted my attention was the work ethic of the youth who worked long hours six days a week. Despite high unemployment in the city, the young people I observed worked day in and day out, and gave me hope that the city was on the right track. These young people come from remote city neighborhoods to work tirelessly in low-paying jobs in restaurants, hotels, and office buildings, from early morning to near dusk.

Ali’s journey

Certainly, the younger generation is better placed to network with friends and meet up with each other than youngsters were a few decades ago.

Ali M. Hiraabe, a 45-year-old waiter/assistant manager at a restaurant in the capital proved to be a telling example of this change. After a few days of watching him interact with customers jovially and professionally, I asked him to tell me his story. He said that when the civil war broke out some 27 years ago, he was 18 and married with an infant.

Born in a rural area between Ceeldheer and Ceelbuur, Ali came to Mogadishu in 1983, and soon became smitten with the fast-paced urban environment. As he grew older, he studied religion and Arabic in various mosques and prepared for a career as a Quran teacher. He was teaching the Quran when the civil war erupted, found himself with no job and no place to stay.

“I was barely 18 with no job skills and a family to support,” he said.

He sent his wife and child to his hometown in Central Somalia so they could be safe. It was then that he made a career change, from a cleric to a day laborer. The war had destroyed many of the country’s institutions, making it difficult for many to find jobs. Ali decided to try his luck working in restaurants.

“People will always eat, even in the midst of war,” he said.

Ali applied for a restaurant job in the Kaaraan District. When asked if he had experience, he answered no, but that he was strong and reliable. The restaurant owner was impressed with his motivation and employed him as a waiter. However, there was a catch—Ali had to work for meals, not wages. The youngster accepted the offer, but made his own counteroffer: He asked if he could sleep in the restaurant at night. The owner agreed.

Ali rose early and made tea for the customers. He slowly learned how to cook and, within a month, he was promoted to a cashier; however, he still received no salary. The owner noticed Ali’s diligence and hard work and started trusting him. When the restaurant’s full-time waiter didn’t show up one day, Ali eagerly took his place. He became a waiter, cashier, and part-time cook — and earned his first pay of 10,000 Somali shillings.

After Ali had worked several months in the restaurant as a salaried employee, the owner decided to cut back costs and reduce his salary. Ali refused the cutback and walked away from the job.

The next day, Ali woke up early and approached an ice seller. He asked the man to hire him, promising to bring him more profits. He got the job and began learning new skills. The business expanded and started making more money.

“The owner and I were a team, and we really worked hard,” he said humbly. In fact, Ali said he made enough money to get his own place and buy a mattress and new clothes.

After several months, he fell out with the ice seller and moved on. Ali’s next stint was as a mechanic with UNICEF. This was followed by another job as a laborer in Saudi Arabia. One day, he suffered humiliation when a Saudi youngster spat in his face and shouted:

“You want to destroy our country like you did yours!”

Nevertheless, Ali remained in Saudi Arabia from 1997 until 2002. Then, he was caught in an immigration dragnet, detained for ten months, and deported back to Somalia.

Back in Mogadishu, Ali found jobs in successive restaurants. Despite the city’s security problems, he recalls once being robbed at gun point while he was working in a restaurant near the Howl-Wadaag District. Ali has been with his current job for over six years. He is a favorite with the customers because he is attentive, engaging, and has a self-deprecating sense of humor.

“Hard work and honesty have been my ingredients for survival in Mogadishu,” he told me. “I have no intention of going anywhere.”

Like many residents in the capital, Ali has now adapted to this new Mogadishu with its rapid growth, rebuilding, and periodic violent outbursts. His story personifies the ultimate goals of many in the city who hope to attain a stable, peaceful environment in which they can flourish and become better citizens.

As Ali said, “Mogadishu is not perfect, but it has its virtues.”

Epilogue

My five-part series, “Back to Mogadishu,” has generated positive feedback from many readers. Part III seemed to be the most widely read of the five. That was the first time I received numerous emails from friends and strangers, and all were positive and sympathetic.

Many people were dismayed that a few Somali government officials had acted in bad faith after they had offered me a job as a speech writer for President Farmajo, and later reneged on the offer after I had flown in to Mogadishu to take up the post.

My goal of writing Part III was not to shame anyone, including the Somali government. I wanted to share this experience with many of my friends, family members, and the public to explain how my efforts to serve my country came to naught when a few officials in Mogadishu felt insecure and threatened by my presence. I was not looking for a job when I was approached to be a speech writer for the Somali president — the job offer simply fell into my lap.

I wondered if the inability to fulfill a simple obligation (the promise of a job offer) is not indicative of incompetence on a much broader scale. 

A few readers shared similar experiences, which removed the idea that my case was an anomaly.

Awad Calls

Foreign Minister Ahmed I. Awad had good intentions when he approached me about the speech-writing position. I knew from day one that the job was not within his purview—it was the responsibility of Villa Somalia, the seat of the Presidency, to hire a speech writer.

After the article was published, Awad called me from Djibouti, where he was on an official visit. He was not angry, but concerned, and apologized for what had happened to me in Mogadishu. He swore to me he did not see the email I had sent him while in Mogadishu.

“I am not someone who is disloyal and lets his friends down,” he said.

Villa Somalia Responds

On June 4, Awad called me again, and this time he was with Fahad Yasin, Chief of Staff of the Office of the Presidency. Awad asked me to talk to Fahad. In a calm voice, Fahad greeted me and told me he had heard about my botched meeting with officials in Villa Somalia.

“On behalf of the Office of the Presidency, I apologize for what has happened to you. It was not an evil intent on the part of the officials in Villa Somalia. They were overwhelmed with political crises,” he said. “We will pay all the expenses that you have incurred and any other loss you have sustained.”

Next, Awad spoke with me and underscored the importance of the apologies I had just received. 

“Not many governments would admit a mistake and offer such an apology,” he said.

While I accepted Awad and Fahad’s apology, the ball is now in the court of the Somali government to do what is right. (Full disclosure: I am no longer interested in the job). So far, no compensation has yet been paid.

These two senior officials have taken the first of three steps to solve the problem.

As Stephen Covey wrote in his seminal book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, “The proactive approach to a mistake is to acknowledge it instantly, correct and learn from it. This literally turns a failure into a success.”

Back to Mogadishu (Part IV): Thirty One Years Later

Al-Shabaab has become the big elephant in today’s Somalia—and it’s a force to be reckoned with.  While the organization was dislodged militarily from Mogadishu several years ago, it still maintains a sinister presence in the capital. This presence is so threatening that the government’s security forces do not venture into some areas of the city. Extorting local businesses is the group’s modus operandi and its lifeline for survival. Most disturbingly, members of the radical group have melted into the city, so it is difficult to distinguish between actual Al-Shabaab members and those who are sympathizers. To paraphrase U.S. President Donald Trump’s conspiratorial phrase, there is a “deep state” in Mogadishu that revolves around the shadowy Al-Shabaab and its draconian brand of justice.

Terror by phone

Abdi is a family friend I haven’t seen since 1977. He has lived all his life in Mogadishu, fathered several children some of whom live in Europe, and engaged in various business ventures—some very successful and others not so much.

As a child, Abdi was like a big brother to me—kind, caring and generous. He was young, single, gainfully employed, and so committed to improving his life that, in his spare time, he took English classes at the American Mennonite Mission in Mogadishu. Occasionally, Abdi also took my cousin and me to a restaurant where we ate ravenously.

During my visit to Mogadishu, finding Abdi proved to be a Herculean task. I had his cell phone number, but the man did not answer. Finally, I asked my sister in California to try to call him, hoping he would answer an international call rather than a local one. She called him, but to no avail. After many calls, he finally answered. She asked him why he didn’t answer his phone, and he was as honest as one gets:

“I only answer the phone for one hour every day,” he said, “from 5 to 6 p.m., so the kids can use the Internet.”

“Hassan is in Mogadishu and he wants to see you,” my sister said.

“Oh, let him text me.”

I texted Abdi as instructed, but still had no luck. After that, I called him many times but ended up leaving Mogadishu without meeting him or talking to him. My sister, never one to give up easily, tried her luck again. After two days of calling him, he finally answered. This time, Abdi admitted he had another cell phone number, which he only answers if it is an international call.

“But why?” my sister asked.

“I do not answer the other cell phone because there are people—bad people—who I do not want to talk to,” he said sheepishly.

“Who are these bad people?”

“I can’t talk about it now, but one day I will.”

For Mogadishu residents, the “bad people” Abdi referenced is a euphemism for the Al-Shabaab radicals. The group has been engaged in a systematic terror campaign by calling people and threatening them if they do not pay extortion money. Sometimes the terrorists call innocent people to warn them to refrain from working for the government or the mass media. At other times, the calls are simply verdicts issued to the receivers who are to be executed.

Trying to establish how Al-Shabaab militants get access to people’s contact information is like trying to find out how the Mafia generates its revenues. Members of Al-Shabaab have infiltrated government institutions, law enforcement agencies and telecommunication companies in Mogadishu.  

For instance, Hormuud Telecom, a giant telecommunication company in Mogadishu, has an Electronic Virtual Cash (EVC) mobile money-wiring service that has a $300 limit. Instead of carrying cash and exposing themselves to danger, many residents in the city use a cell phone to pay their bills. I asked why there is only a $300 limit on such phones and was told there are varying accounts.  For Hormuud Telecom officials, the limit is set at $300 limit for security reasons to protect customers from fraud or theft.

However, there is another sinister explanation.

“It is what Al-Shabaab wants,” a government official told me. “The $300 limit on the EVC is a way of punishing the government and, by extension, civil servants, because monthly salaries are above $300.”

In Mogadishu, sometimes it is difficult to separate truth from conspiracy theories. A noted tribal chieftain swore to me that Hormuud Telecom, which has 31 branches in Mogadishu, pays Al-Shabaab a monthly extortion fee of $1000 per store. Claims like this one—and the widespread rumors and innuendos that abound in the city—are always difficult to verify.

In fairness, Hormuud Telecom is not the only company that is widely rumored to pay extortion money to Al-Shabaab. Almost all other major businesses in the city and even some civil servants cough up money to Al-Shabaab.

A year ago, the government passed a decree to punish all businesses paying extortion money to Al-Shabaab. Instead of rejoicing, Mogadishu merchants protested against the decree because the government was in no position to protect them against Al-Shabaab’s wrath. Consequently, the decree was quietly shelved.

I heard that a civil servant with the city’s court system had received a call from someone who claimed to be an Al-Shabaab representative.

“You will pay us $30 per month effective immediately,” the anonymous caller demanded.

“But I am married and have several children. That’s too much money to pay.”

‘Ok, how about $20 per month?”

“That’s much better. I can do that.”

“Deal!”

“But who do I give the money to?” asked the civil servant.

“The treasurer where you get your salary. Just tell him to deduct the $20.  He will know.”

The person who told me this bizarre story is a successful businessman and close relative of the civil servant who was extorted.

As disturbing as this story is, other Al-Shabaab phone calls have come with sinister and hair-raising overtones.

An aide to General Gaafow, then head of immigration, received a phone call in which he was told: “We know you are now in General Gaafow’s home, so be careful.” The aide was terrified that the militant group had tracked his whereabouts. He started sweating and became panicky. After he left General Gaafow’s house, he got another call informing him that the previous call had been a prank. He was enraged that his friends considered this a practical joke.

Death of a fruit merchant

Muse Macow, a Benadiri merchant, was asleep at his humble home in the Hamarweyne District when his cell phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. Nobody called at that time of the day, but there was no mistaking the murderous tone of the voice on the other end of the line that struck terror into his heart:

“You have failed to heed our warnings, so soon you will die.”

On March 8, 2018, Muse Macow was gunned down. Local media outlets reported that the merchant had business dealings with the soldiers of the African Mission in Somalia (AMISOM) in which he purchased fruits and then resold them.

When I talked to the merchant’s relatives, a tragic story of the targeted killing emerged. Macow was a popular merchant who had made a name for himself through his tenacity and hard work. He had a wife and three children, one a month-old infant. He made his living by purchasing food products from AMISOM soldiers, and then reselling them for a tidy profit. He had received threatening calls from Al-Shabaab to refrain from doing “business with the enemy.” Macow, whether from sheer bravery, or as one relative said, from “misguided stubbornness,” refused to heed the threats.

“Quutul yawnkeyga ku jira tijaaradaan,” (My daily sustenance is in this business) he is said to have told the radicals who threatened him. It is widely believed that Al-Shabaab terrorists killed him and then vanished in the night. It was a tragic loss for his young family, his parents, and the many customers who adored him—they were all left inconsolable and despondent. The police promised to investigate the crime, but that offered little but rhetorical solace.

Secret courts

When Al-Shabaab is not killing innocent people and extorting money, it conducts secret mobile courts to settle disputes among citizens. The government’s court system is riddled with corruption, some claim it is justice for sale. This is how Al-Shabaab pitches its supposed fairness and honesty. A plaintiff contacts Al-Shabaab representatives and orally files a complaint against a defendant. According to various reliable stories, Al-Shabaab militants call the defendant and ask him or her to come to Aw-Dheegle, a militant-controlled town 37 miles west of Mogadishu on a specified date. The case is settled at that makeshift court.

A freelance journalist, who contributes to Italy’s prestigious daily newspaper, Corriere della Sera, told me about an incident that happened while he was visiting Beledweyne in early March. A woman had complained that her estranged husband was not supporting her financially. Her husband was no ordinary man—he was a police officer. When Al-Shabaab ordered him to appear at a makeshift court in Booc, a town near Beledweyne, he was terrified. However, the man came to the fatalistic conclusion that the terror group could get him easily if he ignored the summons. He reluctantly agreed, thinking he would not return safely.

At the makeshift court, the woman accused her husband of financial negligence. The man denied her charges and told the court he regularly left substantial amounts of money for her at a shopkeeper in Beledweyne every month. When the court officers called the shopkeeper to verify the husband’s claim, it turned out to be true. In addition, the shopkeeper happened to be an Al-Shabaab sympathizer, which made his testimony even more credible. The court proceedings ended with a ringing exoneration of the husband, and his wife was censured.

“I saw the man return to Beledweyne unharmed,” the freelance journalist told me.

Of course, Al-Shabaab’s brand of justice pales in comparison to its atrocities and reign of terror in the country. The justice the group delivers is based on strict interpretation of Sharia (Islamic) law. In criminal cases, the punishment is not proportional to the actual crime. The trials are not deliberated carefully and thoroughly and the verdicts are issued swiftly. The draconian punishments sometimes result in the loss of limbs, flogging or decapitation.

As long as the government is unable to protect its citizens and businesses by instituting a justice system that is fair and free from corruption, Al-Shabaab will continue to be a sinister presence in Somalia.

Back to Mogadishu (Part III): Thirty-One Years Later

It was the phone call of a lifetime—one that would take me back to the land of my birth with a job offer that would catapult me into a rarefied position of serving the country’s top leadership.

On February 6, 2018, while I was driving outside Phoenix, Arizona, on my way to Southern California, I received a phone call from Ahmed I. Awad, the Foreign Minister of Somalia. Until a few months previously, Awad had been Somalia’s Ambassador to the U.S. After exchanging pleasantries, Awad asked me:

“If offered a position as a speech writer for President Mohamed Farmajo, would you accept it?

Honestly, I was shocked. Awad, after all, was a serious man not given to making asinine jokes. After a few seconds of silence, I said I would accept such a position if it was fine with the people of Villa Somalia—the seat of the presidency.

“Good, then stay tuned,” he said and ended the call.

Two days later, Awad called and asked if I could send him my resume. I did immediately.

This was not the first time I was approached about being a speech writer for a Somali president.

In 2012, Abdi Hosh, now the Minister of Constitution and then a legislator, introduced me—via email—to Kamaal F. Gutaale, then Chief of Staff of President Hassan Sheikh. He recommended me as a speech writer for the new president. Neither Gutaale nor I followed up on the matter.

On February 13, 2018, I received a missed call from Abdirizak Shoole, Deputy Chief of Staff of the Office of the Presidency. He left me a message in which he requested my presence in Mogadishu. Soon after that, I received a text message from him reiterating the request:

“Greetings, Hassan. I request that you come to Mogadishu at your earliest convenience and meet with the [officials] in the Office of the Presidency.”

“Ok, I will let you know before I arrive in Mogadishu,” I replied.

I thought things were going fast and that my speech writing services were badly needed in Villa Somalia. My understanding was I would be interviewed first, followed by a background check, and then a decision would be made whether to hire me or not.  

I was wrong.

On February 20, I let Villa Somalia know that I would be arriving in Mogadishu in the early morning of March 16. I estimated that the interviewing process would take a week. I checked with the Deputy Chief of Staff to give me a date detailing when the process might finish so I could buy my return ticket early.

The response I got was firm and unequivocal: “Get only a one-way ticket because you will start working from day one.” There was nothing to worry about, I was told, because everything would be taken care of.

When I hemmed and hawed about getting the return ticket, I was told in no uncertain terms that the job was for me to have and I should avail myself to work, “at least for one year.” Again, I was told “everything will be taken care of.”

The new directive changed everything for me. Now, I had less than three weeks to prepare myself for a big move to Mogadishu after decades of absence. In short, I had to get rid of the stuff I had accumulated over the years—from furniture to stacks of books. It was a sudden and drastic downsizing. As an independent contractor, I told my clients I would be gone for a year. They were not pleased.

Friends and family members assured me I was doing the right thing by taking the job and serving my country in my capacity as a speech writer.

“You write a lot anyway,” one friend said jokingly, “you might as well start writing some meaningful speeches for the president.”

On March 16 at 10 a.m., I landed in Mogadishu ready to start my work in Villa Somalia. I was received well at the airport, and a young man was told to drop me at a hotel on Makka al-Mukarrama Road, and then take me to Villa Somalia. Things were going smoothly, I thought, but that was wishful thinking.

When we arrived at the heavily guarded hotel, no one would let me in because I had no reservation. After waiting about 20 minutes in front of the hotel, the hotel clerk finally came outside and said he had received a call from Villa Somalia to let me in. While I was checking in at the hotel, the young man who had dropped me off, left quietly without informing me. There went my ride to Villa Somalia, a heavily protected government compound into which only authorized cars are allowed.  

My first day in Mogadishu was a time to rest and sleep. I had endured a 13-hour flight from Los Angeles to Istanbul, followed by five hours in transit, and then an eight-hour flight from Istanbul to Mogadishu. I showered and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark.

The next day, I dressed and waited for someone from Villa Somalia to come and fetch me, but no one showed up. I called and sent text messages to the official designated to coordinate with me, but to no avail.

On the fifth day, at dusk, the Deputy Chief of Staff came to my room in the hotel and asked me to get ready to start working on a speech. While he was in my room waiting for me, Foreign Minister Awad, who was in Rwanda for a conference, called him. After a few minutes, he asked for me and I talked to him briefly.

The Deputy Chief of Staff said he would wait for me downstairs. But then, in a split second, he changed his mind and said his driver would take me to Villa Somalia. That was the first and last time I rode in a bulletproof vehicle.

At Villa Somalia, two officials received me: a senior presidential advisor on policy nicknamed “Balal,” and Abdinur M. Ahmed, the Director of Communications of the Office of the Presidency. The two seemed curious and inquisitive:

“So, tell us about the circumstances that led to your presence in Mogadishu in general and in Villa Somalia in particular,” was the first question Balal asked.

I was surprised by the elementary nature of his comment. Hadn’t these two been briefed by the Foreign Minister and the Deputy Chief of Staff, I wondered?

I told them I was not a job seeker and that a Somali government official from Villa Somalia had called me and offered me a job as the president’s speech-writer.

“But, we do not need a full-time speech writer,” said Balal. “The president gives speeches once every three weeks at the most. What would you do in the meantime? You would be sitting in your hotel bored.”

The Director of Communications nodded in agreement.

I explained to them that speech writing involves team work, and that no single person can do the job without input from senior officials, including the president. It is a huge task because it involves explaining and messaging.

“We have an occasional speech writer who is a lawyer,” added Balal. “I don’t believe we need a full-time speech writer. Maybe the Foreign Ministry needs one because Awad travels a lot and gives many speeches.” Balal was insinuating that the whole job offer was the work of Awad, who needed my speech writing, but was using Villa Somalia as a cover.

It was obvious these two officials were anything but eager to see me employed in the position promised to me. I was rudely intruding into the cocoon they had made for themselves inside Villa Somalia.

“I wish I had known about your concerns before I left the U.S.” I said ruefully.

“We will consult with Awad and other officials here in Villa Somalia and I will get back to you in two days,” said Balal.

The short meeting was over and we exchanged contact information. Before I left the presidential compound, I was told to stop at a trailer that served as an office for making IDs and permits. I was photographed.

Back in my hotel room, I wondered if I were in a bad dream. What was this all about? The whole episode of my visit to Villa Somalia seemed bizarre. I immediately wrote an email to Awad, the official who had initially recommended me for the job. I explained to him what had transpired in Villa Somalia. Unfortunately, I never heard from him. Neither did I hear from the two officials who had met me in Villa Somalia.

As I stayed in the city for two more weeks, waiting to hear any news from Villa Somalia, I decided to put my time in good use. My phone calls and text messages to the Deputy Chief of Staff fell on deaf ears. I made myself busy, walked a lot in the city, and sometimes took the three-wheeled vehicle known as Bajaj, dined with friends and new acquaintances, and interviewed people, especially young people. I wanted to understand the new Mogadishu and write about my impressions. I am glad I collected enough materials to write a five-part series about my trip.

While I was in Mogadishu, the whole city was buzzing with chatter about a motion in parliament to impeach then speaker Mohamed Osman Jawari. President Farmajo was staying in the Defense Ministry instead of his usual residence in Villa Somalia.  The Chief of Staff, according to sources, had vowed not to come back to Villa Somalia until Jawari’s matter had been settled. I had a tough time making sense of why Jawari’s political ordeal was crippling the functioning of the entire federal government. There were days the city was under curfew for fear of armed clashes between warring factions.

After getting no responses from Villa Somalia, I became concerned about the piling up of the bills from my hotel accommodation and meals. I decided to leave Mogadishu. I bought a return ticket from Mogadishu to Los Angeles and paid off my hotel and meal costs—expenses, I was told, Villa Somalia would pay for.

At Mogadishu Airport, I was spotted by the same airport official who had received me during my arrival.

“Are you leaving us already?” he asked, smiling.

“I have a few things to take care of in the U.S.,” I said, embarrassed. I felt like a small child that had been caught sneaking. “Hopefully, I will be back during Ramadan.”

In truth, I wanted to go back to Mogadishu after the political storm surrounding speaker Jawari had subsided.

Twenty minutes before boarding, the same airport official came running to me and handed me his cell phone:

“Talk to the Deputy Chief of Staff,” he said.

I was not surprised Villa Somalia had gotten a whiff of my imminent departure from Mogadishu.

“I hear you are returning to the States,” the Deputy Chief of Staff said.

“Oh, yes. You guys have no time for me. What am I going to do—sit, wait, and worry?”

“I am really sorry for what has happened. As you know, the timing of your arrival was hectic. I did not sleep last night because I was consumed by the issue of the speaker.”

“I understand there is political tension in the city, but hopefully I will be back by Ramadan.”

“We will pay all your expenses. Make sure you have all the receipts and send them to me as soon as possible.”

“I will.”

“Ok, good luck then.”

I left Mogadishu in a heartbeat. It was a long flight from Somalia to Turkey and then to California. I am glad I came back safely—that was priceless. My trip to Mogadishu was financially draining, emotionally exhausting, but personally enriching with insights and a new appreciation for my beloved city. Overall, it was not a lost cause. In fact, I learned a lot.

A friend, a former presidential advisor from a previous administration, was flabbergasted I had not consulted with him before my departure to Mogadishu.

“You don’t know these people,” he said. “No one will ever contact you or even pay the expenses you have accrued.”

“I can live with that,” I told him.

In the end, there is one truth: Somalia does not belong to a few figures—it’s a country for all of us. As my esteemed colleague, Faisal Roble, once wrote, “At times, I feel that Somalia is hopeless; but again, giving up is worse. May God help us.”

Back to Mogadishu (Part II): Thirty-One Years Later

During my Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to Mogadishu, a jovial, smiling woman with beautiful henna wear dye on her hands sat on the opposite aisle. She said she was a resident in the UK and asked if I visited Mogadishu often. I said no, so she then described the city and told me what to expect. She lamented that Mogadishu was not the same city I had known as a child because the old residents were either dead or in the diaspora.

“There are new people,” she said. “Very dark people.”

I smiled and jokingly said, “Darker than you and I?”

Somehow, she got the message that the two of us were in no position to discriminate against anyone on the basis of their color.

The streets of Mogadishu are a spectacle to behold: people, animals, and vehicles noisily converge in scenes of organized chaos compounded by security checkpoints placed awkwardly in the heart of the city.

Streets without laws

Can you envision a city of two million people with no discernible traffic laws?

Only in Mogadishu is that possible.

The city has no government entity that regulates traffic. Anyone can operate a vehicle (car, bus, motorcycle, or truck) without a driver’s license. There are no lanes marked on the streets and no traffic signs. The interaction between vehicles and pedestrians is chaotic, and accidents are common.

Because traffic is not regulated, there are no records for any prior traffic violations, and no administrative courts to hear traffic cases and mete out penalties or convictions. The old Mogadishu where I grew up had strict traffic regulations. I remember driver’s license tests were so rigorous that sometimes examiners resorted to tricks to test the knowledge of potential drivers.

One can understand that the country has only recently ended a civil war in which many existing institutions were destroyed. However, the enactment and enforcement of traffic laws is so important it should have been prioritized by the new government.

Getting from one place to another in the city can be challenging. The checkpoints are necessary to limit suicide car bombings by Al-Shabaab, but they rarely deter terrorist attacks. At best, these checkpoints serve as delay tactics and sometimes blunt the carnage caused by car bombs.  

On the way from my hotel to a major government center — usually involving a seven minute drive — I was stopped several times at army checkpoints. The driver and I were asked the same question: “Who are we going to see inside the government compound?” It did not matter that I was riding in the bullet-proof car of a high ranking government official.

“Don’t they know you?” I asked the driver.

He said, “I don’t know,” while playfully scrunching his face. “They always have new soldiers.”

In one checkpoint, a soldier asked me bluntly if I had a gun.

“Of course, not,” I answered.

Not for once was I asked to get out of the car to be frisked and at no time was the car inspected — a confusing and unpredictable security arrangement.  

Bajaj pandemonium

A Bajaj is an inexpensive three-wheeled motorized vehicle small enough to navigate through Mogadishu’s narrow roads and alleys. It gets its name from the company, Bajaj Auto, which makes these three-wheelers. It is very common in Mogadishu and serves as a major means of transportation.

When I was growing up in Mogadishu, taxis were everywhere and there weren’t many of these small three-wheelers on the streets. In fact, the nickname “Bajaj” is a relatively new term for these vehicles.

A Bajaj may be the best means of transportation for many of the capital’s residents, but its dominant presence in the streets can be annoying and frustrating. These vehicles are driven fast and with almost reckless abandon, a fact that contributes significantly to the chaotic traffic conditions. Nevertheless, in view of the lack of traffic enforcement, the drivers of these “artful dodgers” cannot shoulder all the blame for the chaos they cause.

A young reporter from the Somali Cable Channel told me there are 21,113 Bajaj-style vehicles in Mogadishu alone, and each operator pays $8 per month in taxes. Some of the Bajaj owners said the reporter’s number was inaccurate at best and misleading. They said there were several thousand Bajaj bikes in Mogadishu. They added that the claim the drivers pay only $8 tax a month was a gross misrepresentation; it was more like one dollar a day, whether the vehicle was active or inactive.

I don’t know whether Mogadishu’s municipality has official statistics on the number of Bajaj in the city and how much tax revenue is collected from them every month.

When my friend asked a Bajaj operator why he avoided driving on major streets, the driver was quick to say, “Because I did not pay my taxes.” Mogadishu’s municipality does not send tax bills in the mail because there are no street addresses nor mail services. Therefore, tax collectors have to hunt down tax evaders on the streets. It is a cumbersome task and, at times, involves extortion. I heard a Bajaaj operator once complain about occasionally paying money to tax collectors without getting any receipts.

Riding in a Bajaj is the best way to explore the new Mogadishu because these vehicles can go to places where cars cannot. But be prepared; riding in a Bajaj is like being on a rollercoaster. The speeding vehicle is so shaky it seems it could overturn at any moment. Pleas to Bajaj drivers to slow down regularly fall on deaf ears. Time is of the essence for these operators, who follow one cardinal rule: pick up new clients, drop them off as quickly as possible, and then look for new customers.

One Bajaj driver aptly summarized the business:

“When the market is good, it is as good as gold.” Then he added, “We have an unusual talent for making money.”

In spite of the prevalence of the Bajaj and its low cost, it is a tinder box waiting for a match. In almost every suicide car bombing in Mogadishu there are Bajaj drivers and passengers who perish. In the bombing near the Wehliye Hotel in March 2018, one Bajaaj driver miraculously survived, while his passenger and vehicle did not.

Who let the animals out?

New Mogadishu is teeming with wandering animals, mostly goats, cows and, on rare occasions, camels. It is a new experience for a major cosmopolitan city such as Mogadishu.

I asked many people, “Who owns these wandering animals?” I was always met with amusing stares and riotous laughter.

Every wandering animal in Mogadishu has an owner. In fact, every goat or cow in the city is registered in a modern fashion.

There is no agency for animal control, but every animal has a cell phone number written on it.

“Waa taargo” an elderly man told me, laughing, which literally translates into “the plates” in English because the markings are similar to license plates.

If an animal strays, which is rare, people know the cell phone number to call, which is the best way to track down owners and identify the animals. Of course, the “cell phone license plate system” begs the question: If the cell phone number is disconnected, who does one call?

Outside Mogadishu Airport, I saw two young camels crossing the street. For a second, I thought they were flying out of the country. As I looked closely, I saw cell phone numbers on them.  

At the KM-4 intersection, a cow blocked the traffic as a young soldier with a machine gun sat on the pavement chewing khat, which is a mild stimulant plant. Someone told me that the owner of this particular cow was a thug and no one dared touch the animal.

“It is not like India where cows are revered,” a pedestrian said, sarcastically. “Here, we are simply afraid of the owners of the cows.”

I learned that goat owners let their animals out in the morning so the animals can fend for themselves. Then, interestingly, they return home at dusk and are kept inside. No one dares to ask what these animals eat as they roam the grassless streets of Mogadishu hour after hour. I am at a loss to understand why people would keep livestock in the city and wonder if these goats produce milk for their owners.

In a trip to Mogadishu in 2012, Mary Harper, the BBC Africa reporter,  remarked that Mogadishu’s goats were the only living creatures that looked “relaxed and well-fed,” in contrast to Mogadishu residents who seemed edgy and tense because of the frequent bombings in the capital.

However, Peter Bridges, the former American Ambassador to Somalia, was not enamored with these wandering animals when he was posted in Somalia in the mid-1980s. In his memoir, Safirka—An Envoy, he lamented, “No one had told me to expect all the animals wandering the streets—handsome goats, ugly fat-tailed sheep, small thin brown cows.”

It is remarkable to see a major African capital bustling with throngs of people, Bajaj, and wandering animals co-existing in a rather chaotic manner. Such is today’s Mogadishu.

Back to Mogadishu (Part I): Thirty-One Years Later

The last time I visited Mogadishu was in 1987, and the last time I lived there was 40 years ago when I was a teen. Then, I finally visited last month.

At times, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, I saw a city that has undergone what one might consider a Kafkaesque ordeal—two decades of civil war had cemented the city’s seemingly catastrophic plummet from grace. On the other hand, the city was brimming with an atmosphere of hope and a sense of newfound optimism. There was a tangible feeling that the residents of Mogadishu believe the city is in the process of becoming an emblem of triumph over adversity. In a way, I needed some psychic distance from a nostalgic past to face today’s reality. 

The first hour

In my first hour after arriving in Mogadishu, I encountered two minor incidents.

First, immediately after I landed, I stood in a long line designated for foreigners entering the country. I thought the word “foreigner” had a painful ring to it. After all, I was the one who had left Somalia as a teen and gained citizenship elsewhere. Most of the Somali passengers in that Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to Mogadishu were like me and were standing with me before the immigration officer. Only a small number of Somalis from the flight stood at the window for “Somali nationals and citizens.” We “foreigners” had to pay $60 to enter our native country.

As I waited to be processed for entry, I heard my name being called by an airport employee holding a cell phone:

 “Hassan Abukar.”

“Yes, I am Hassan Abukar,” I responded.

“Here,” the man said, “talk to the director of the office of the presidency.”

 “Are you ‘Hassan Abukar’ from America?” the voice said.

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome home.”

The airport employee smiled and took the phone back. He said he would meet me at the baggage claim.

After I was done with immigration, the man came back and told me the official I had just spoken with had sent him my picture. I know I had not met the official, nor sent him my picture. However, I wondered why the employee was calling my name if he had my photo. Perhaps, my images in some of my writings online had generated a little notoriety.

I am not a cleric, but I remembered an anecdote about a famous Yemeni cleric who was undertaking a trip to Saudi Arabia. Being a man with vanity, he wondered if the Saudis would recognize him as a “sheikh.”  At Jeddah airport in Saudi Arabia, he was received by a young Saudi who called him “sheikh.” The cleric was so pleased that he had been recognized as a man of cloth, and relaxed. Then, as he and the young man strolled in the city, a dog tried to cross the street but was repelled by the Saudi yelling: “Idlac yaa sheikh.” (Get out of here, sheikh). The Yemeni cleric realized that the Saudis were hopeless because they used the word “sheikh” on everything— people and animals.

The airport employee was kind enough to take my luggage to the parking lot and asked a young man in an SUV to drop me at a hotel in the Waberi District. Another young man from the same flight—who was born and raised in Saudi Arabia, but lived in Europe—rode with us. Neither of them had yet been born when I last saw Mogadishu.

Second, as we left the airport, I saw a landscape that seemed utterly strange to me. Makka al-Mukarrama Road, a major road artery in Mogadishu, was narrow, dusty, and thronged with people. Pedestrians paid little attention to cars that rushed through perilous, chaotic traffic. On the other side of the road, I saw a goat strolling on the pedestrian side unattended—a subject I will come back to later.

I saw a soldier holding a machine gun, signaling for cars to stop. When he raised his hand toward my car, the young driver simply ignored him and sped away. Suddenly, the soldier started chasing our SUV. In seconds, I thought we would be fired upon and I ducked for cover. The driver was nonchalant; he had the disinterested look of a youngster who had spent years fighting in the streets of Mogadishu.

“The soldier just wants a ride,” the young driver said sarcastically, with a glint in his eye.

I felt a small wave of relief; the incident had made my skin crawl. I was bewildered by the small extent it took for the younger generation of Mogadishu to see life endangered or lost.

The driver and the other passenger started talking about the hotel I was headed to. It was (and still is) a temporary home for some government officials, legislators, and United Nations contractors. A year earlier, several Al-Shabaab terrorists had attacked the hotel with a fusillade of gunfire, hand grenades, and finally a car bombing. Fortunately, the armed security guards fought back tenaciously and killed three of the terrorists. Moreover, the hotel’s strategic location—not being on Makka al-Mukarrama Road—saved the day. However, the building in front of the hotel though, was wrecked.  A dozen people, mostly women selling vegetables, perished.

“So, when was the last time you were in Mogadishu?” the driver asked me once again.

“Thirty-one years ago,” I said.

He offered little in the way of reassurance, saying: “I think we shouldn’t be talking about bombings and other violent acts.”

“When your time comes,” I replied, putting on a brave face, “you will find no human can prevent it.”

I have written extensively about Al-Shabaab and its terror campaign, but from the comfort of my home in the U.S. Now, I was headed to the very hotel that they had targeted a year earlier.

Wake up, it is a car bombing

Six days after my arrival, I met a friend from San Diego, California, who loves baked chicken.  He and his companion walked to a restaurant a block away from the popular Wehliya Hotel with me. It was a nice outing in which we reminisced about good times in Southern California.

The next day, my friend asked me if we could meet again at the same restaurant for lunch. I told him I was tired; I asked him and his friend to meet me instead at the restaurant in my hotel. The two came and we had lunch. We then sat outside the restaurant and drank tea. After a while, I excused myself and went upstairs to my room. Lying down, I dozed off. Thirty-eight minutes later, I heard a huge, loud blast that sounded as if the hotel was under attack by Al-Shabaab terrorists. I felt my time was up and that I had to face death. Ironically, I remembered the words of American filmmaker/comedian Woody Allen: “I am not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

The big blast was followed by a fusillade of gunfire and yelling among the hotel’s dozen security guards. My California friend later told me he had heard a hotel manager ordering guests to get their handguns. It was then that I realized that some of the guests were indeed armed and ready to fight. Those of us who were neither government officials nor armed were left to our own devices; ducking, hiding, and expecting the worst. We became like the wife of one Somali man in Salt Lake City, Utah, who had called 911 to complain about her. When asked, “Is she armed?” The husband quickly responded, “No, but she has long nails.” I believe all the hotel guests, who were men, did not even have long nails to defend themselves! In short, the frenzy that ensued following the bombing had all the making of a Hollywood horror film—except that this was real.

I got text messages from my friend asking me not to leave my room.

“It is a suicide car bombing at the Weheliye Hotel,” he said.

In fact, it was a building a block from the Weheliye Hotel, a stone’s throw from where we had dined the previous day. The incident destroyed a business and left 14 people dead, and ten others wounded. The victims, who were drinking tea at an outdoor café, were civilians who were caught in the war between the government forces and Al-Shabaab. A young couple visiting from Europe were among those killed.

Minutes after the incident, ambulances arrived, but the gunfire persisted. Since there were many guns available to the security guards of nearby hotels, the display of firepower was palpable.  It seemed an attempt by these armed men to mark their territory to avert further attacks. When the army and police finally came, they too started firing into the air to disperse the crowd that had rushed to the crime scene. Some pedestrians came to aid the victims, because the ambulances and the authorities were somewhat late.

No More Digil/Mirifle Speaker

Somalia’s speaker of the federal parliament, Mohamed O. Jawari, resigned this week just days before an expected motion to oust him was to take place. There is now a scramble in the parliament to determine who will replace him. I think it is time for someone else, other than a member of the Digil/Mirifle clan, to be the next speaker. Fifty years is a long time for such a coveted position to be reserved for one clan, right?

Are you shocked?

I have never been a fan of Jawari, however, his sudden resignation presents a golden opportunity to weaken the odious 4.5 system—a power sharing arrangement among the country’s four major clans: (Hawiye, Darod, Dir, and Digil/Mirifle) that has been in place since the Arta Conference in 2000. The smaller clans are relegated to fight for scraps. For instance, the Hawiye and the Darod are given the offices of the president and the prime minister, the Digil/Mrifle get the speaker of parliament, and the Dir the judiciary.

I was in Mogadishu in March 2018 when the political ramifications on Jawari’s tenuous future started to take shape. To say that the government was in a standstill is an understatement. The political impasse was the talk of town and nothing got done. There were days that traffic on major streets came to a halt. There was fear the country’s multitude of security services would clash.

The problem with Somali politics is: It is divisive, clannish, and haphazard. Most of all, it is personal. I wonder if those who have been calling for Jawari’s removal ever thought about what would come next. What is the plan for after Jawari? What were the issues of contention or was it merely an attempt to get rid of Jawari? We Somalis are good in getting into political gridlocks and leaving no time for self-reflection.

Now that Jawari is gone, I propose something outrageous. Something—are you still with me?—that will annoy many: Let the parliament select a qualified speaker who is not, as tradition goes, a member of the Digil/Mirifle.

Jawari’s replacement will send shockwaves to the country if the Digil/Mirifle people are no longer entitled to the speakership. It is a position for all qualified Somali citizens.

In 1969, Sheikh Mukhtar, then the speaker, briefly served as president of Somalia when President Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke was assassinated. Mukhtar, according to people who knew him, was opposed to the idea of any Digil/Mirifle leader being relegated to the head of parliament. To him, it is a coveted job, but nevertheless one that limited the potential of his people.

Recently, Sharif Hassan, the interim president of the South-West regional state and a former speaker of the federal parliament himself, has made it clear that Digil/Mirifle should not serve as speaker. “Let someone else be the speaker,” Sharif Hassan said, with a sarcasm dripping from his mouth.

I know that the very mention of the name “Sharif Hassan” can make people tremble, or shudder in disgust, or both. He is, after all, a controversial figure prone to corruption and cutthroat political dealings. But, the man has a valid point.

Perhaps, agreeing with Sharif Hassan on this point will temporarily lift me from the list of his “sworn enemies.” After all, I have become persona non grata in Baidoa—the temporary capital of his regional administration—because of my critical writings about him.

The end of a Digil/Mirifle speaker should serve as the beginning of the end of the current clan power sharing, root and branch. It is one step forward in making a major, if not symbolic, dent on the 4.5 system.

The current system is an iniquitous power-sharing arrangement. It is not based on hard data as there has not been a census of the Somali people for a long time. No one knows the number of each clan in the country. The political leaders, who instituted the 4.5 system, thought they came up what they thought was an imperfect, but fair power sharing. They were wrong. They were oblivious to the fact that any system based on clans sharing power is fundamentally flawed and morally repugnant.

It is a system that further divides Somalis into clans instead of uniting them. It engenders some sort of superiority complex among major clans because they assume they are better than the smaller clans. It defies meritocracy. Moreover, it has increased political tension—like what we just witnessed in Jawari’s resignation—and has frayed the fabric of what once was a strong national pride.  Many people today identify with their clans rather than the nation.

Somewhere in Somalia, an unflinching conversation is taking place between an 8-year old girl from, let us just say, Badhan (Sanaag), or Borama (Awdal), or Guriceel (Galmudug) or Bula Burte (HirShabeele) or Beled Hawo (Jubbaland) and her astute, but realistic, no-nonsense mother.

“Mom, when I grow up, I want to be the speaker of the federal parliament.”

“Honey, you can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because only Digil/Mirifle people can be the speaker.”

“But I want to be the speaker.”

“I know sweetie, but that is the way things are.”

“Really?”

“Indeed.”

“Is it written in the Somali constitution, mom, that only Digil/Mirifle can be the speaker?”

“No, honey, but that is based on an informal agreement made by a bunch of old, myopic, and self-serving Somali politicians in 2000.”

“Wow! I am sorry, mom, but they were really dumb and unfair.”

“Yes, I agree”

“So, mom, do I have to be from the South-West region in order to be the speaker of parliament?”

“Not so fast. You have to belong to the Digil/Mirifle clan in order to be the speaker.”

“Are the Digil/Mirifle the only people who inhabit in the South-West region?”

“No, sweetie. There are other clans who live in the South-West region.”

“So, what you are saying is that only the Digil/Mirifle can be the speaker.”

“Exactly.”

"I see.”

“Worse than that, you can be Digil and not be the speaker. Only the Mirifle have historically been the speaker.”

“Is that a joke?”

“I told you, sweetie, Somali politics is not fair.”

“I love my country, mom, but Somali politics stinks.”

***

I don’t know what message we are sending to our children: You can only be president of Somalia if you hail from two clans. You can be the speaker of parliament only if you belong to this clan. It is time that Somalis think as one people, who can work together based on their shared identity. National pride should replace clan politics. That is, if we are serious of going forward, let our children aspire to the highest offices of the land regardless of their clan.

Are you numb to this commentary?

I thought so.

Helmi Ben Meriem: A Tunisian Scholar of Somali Studies

As a child growing up in Tunisia, Helmi Ben Meriem heard nothing but negative things about Somalia. It was a country reduced to cultural stereotypes and ravaged by war, famine, and endless squabbling among its political leaders. Little did he know that one day he would be his country’s sole specialist on Somalia. His PhD dissertation, titled, “Writing Dictatorship in Selected Works by Nuraddin Farah, a Foucauldian Reading,” forged an opening for additional studies.

A researcher at the University of Sousse in Tunisia, Ben Meriem is also a fiction writer. He has authored several short stories and is finishing a new novel.

Recently, Ben Meriem ruminated on the remarkable turn of events in his life, from his childhood bubble to adult scholarly discovery.

“As a child, was I supposed to know better that Somalia had more to offer than those two gloomy pictures of war and famine?” he ruefully said.

Ben Meriem’s interest in Somalia did not come overnight; it occurred in two stages. First, as a young man, he would go to the public library as he was fascinated with maps. His initial interest was in landlocked countries, such as Lesotho and Ethiopia, and islands like Sri Lanka and Comoros Islands.

Somalia is neither a landlocked country nor an island, but something about its geography drew his curiosity. It is what Ben Meriem called, “the oddly shaped dagger-like piercing  into its land near Garowe.

Many years later, Ben Meriem learned the reason why Somalia’s strange-looking shape came into being: It was the product of a colonial demarcation of the country, including the role Ethiopia played.

“I was fascinated by Ethiopia’s desire to get as close to the ocean as possible, wanting the salty sea smell to reach its lands,” he said, smiling.

The second stage began four years ago when Ben Meriem and a friend traveled to Tunis, the capital of Tunisia. Ben Meriem did not want to undertake the trip due to his aversion to big, cosmopolitan cities. What happened next was a classic case of the Rashomon effect—multiple telling of a story by the individuals involved in rather subjective, contradictory ways.

His friend insists, according to Ben Meriem, that the two stumbled on Nuraddin Farah’s first novel, “From a Crooked Rib,” at a famous bookstore in the capital.

Memory being a tricky thing, Ben Meriem is adamant that he and his friend noticed a small book fair while strolling not far from the Tunisian Broadcasting Agency. It was there, he recalls, where the two saw Farah’s novel.

“My journey to Somalia and discovery of its literature started at a bookstore famous for its cheap editions and violations of copyrights,” Ben Meriem said, laughing.  “That’s how I came to know Farah, and how I came to know Somali literature. Ebla [the novel’s protagonist] was like the open-sesame that got me hooked on Somali literature.”

Ebla was followed by many others, including Zulekha, Medina, Diriye, Nadifo, Askar, Sharif, and Olad.

Perhaps Ben Meriem was also enamored with something else, something more intriguing. It is, he said, what former Somali Prime Minister Mohamed Ibrahim Egal once termed “the Biblical character of the Somali people.”

At any rate, Ben Meriem’s casual discovery of a novel by Somalia’s eminent and internationally acclaimed writer Nuruddin Farah was a blessing. His research on Farah was followed by study of many others, such as Abdi Sheikh Abdi, Saida Hagi-Diriye Herzi, Sofia Samatar, Hassan Mumin, Abdi Latif Ega, Nadifa Mohamed, Awes Ahmed Osman, Yasmeen Maxamuud, and Diriye Osman.

Ben Meriem’s road to specializing in Somali studies was anything but smooth. It was paved with put-downs, smears, and psychological hurdles. Somalia, after all, was a country that has provided a spectacle of dysfunction over two decades: a tortuous civil war, chaos, piracy, religious extremism, and the lack of a strong central government. Ben Meriem’s choice of study of that country stirred an unusual amount of rumblings among his friends and colleagues. Why study a messed-up country that is gripped by famine and starvation?

“Imagine a person fervently talking about his studies only for someone to say ‘I did not know those starving people had literature,’” said Ben Meriem.

It was irksome for him to be subjected to answering questions about the relationship of class, poverty, and the production of literary work.

“I was faced with people who were so comfortable in their ignorance,” explained Ben Meriem. “Tunisians, especially the educated class, think so highly of themselves and never miss an opportunity to disparage other nations like Libya, Afghanistan, and Somalia. If educated Tunisians can be racists and bigoted, then what was I expecting from the majority of Tunisians who only read half a page a year? Thank God, my American literature professor and a Tunisian friend passionate about Arab literature, who are ever helpful and encouraging, made it possible for me to pursue my interest in Somalia.”

By sheer force of will and intellect, Ben Meriem kept studying Somalia. In spite of the constant discouragement that he encountered, it did not keep him in a suspended state of melancholy. Somalia became his obsession, and nothing could stop him. He had no time for people with a fatalistic view who see a poor country and infer that it cannot possibly have viable literature. Today, Ben Meriem is a walking, talking rebuke of everything that stands for ignorance and cultural stereotypes.

A few weeks ago, Ben Meriem took a picture of some graffiti near a train station in the town of Lamta. It read, “Tunisia is a bitch.” But what was written and drawn next to that phrase was mindboggling and disturbing: the word “Somalia” and a flag with the letter “X.” The five stars of the Somali flag were missing.

Ben Meriem was incredulous.

“The ‘X’ was a symbol of death or poison,” he said. “This association tells everything about how Somalia is perceived in Tunisia.”

These cultural stereotypes that Tunisians have about Somalia are not limited to Tunisia; they are prevalent in many countries.

“I believe that every country needs other people to look down on,” said Ben Meriem.

Ben Meriem sees bright sides of Somalia other than its fascinating literature. He sees a country that can teach other developing countries a few things about the peaceful transfer of power. As an example, the image of three Somali presidents standing together in February 2017 when power was handed to President Mohamed Abdullahi Farmajo went viral on social media.

“In a region where dictators cannot seem to force themselves to let go of power, the Somali case seems to be a positive oddity,” said Ben Meriem.

The road to recovery for Somalia is promising. Rwanda experienced a similar breakdown of order and a violent civil war, Ben Meriem explained, yet it has slowly and incrementally recovered and is now rebuilding. It is, therefore, according to Ben Meriem, the responsibility of the Somalis to rebuild their country and change its negative image.

“If the Somalis wish the negative associations to be erased, they—and only they—can make it happen,” affirmed Ben Meriem.

A scholar like Ben Meriem is ever conscious of the role of literature and its power in helping to reshape the history and progress of a country.

“I firmly believe in the power of the arts,” said Ben Meriem, “in not only recording the history of Somalia but also in the shaping of Somalia; of creating hope and possible paths toward progress and prosperity.”

He added:  “It is, as has always been, in the hands of the Somalis.”  

Ben Meriem, like Somalia, has a compelling story line: There is poetry to a man once doubted and ridiculed, but now making history and becoming the first Tunisian scholar who specializes in a country that is slowly rising from the ashes—a country that was battered, but still standing. Ben Meriem, like Somalia, will forever represent how minds can change.