Mogadishu: Whose City is it Anyway?

Several weeks ago, there was a duel on the airwaves between Sheikh Ciise Ahmed Dalabey (Chairman of Guurtida Beelaha Hawiye) and Sheikh Foad Shongolo, one of the top leaders of al-Shabab group. Mr. Dalabeey (Abgaal) started it when he gave a rousing speech before his supporters and demanded, among other things, that the Darod take their ‘man’ (then TFG Prime Minister Omar Abdirashid Sharmarke) from Mogadishu because the capital belonged to the Hawiye. I will summarize key points of Mr. Dalabeey’s speech, which he addressed larger and smaller clans under the 4.5 formula (Hawiye, Darod, Dir, Digil/Mirefle, and the “0.5” smaller clans) as following;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nl5ayzCTo5U

On the Darod: The HARTI group, and especially the Majertein, are asked to take their ‘man’, Omar Abdirashid Sharmarke, away from Mogadishu and to their land –Puntland-because Omar Abdirashid has fleeced the wealth of the nation, failed to defend the land, and remained mum about the continuing deportations of many Somalis by the administration of Puntland. It is unacceptable that Omar Abdirashid would rule the Hawiye in their own land while President Farole of Puntland is forcefully deporting Somalis.

On the Digil and Mirefle: The Digil and Mirefle, and especially the Mirefle, are asked to remove Sheikh Sharif Hassan Sheikh Ahmed from Mogadishu because this politician has been nothing but a nuisance; a figure who relishes on conflicts. He should be brought to court and asked how he had managed the treasury of the country for the year and half that he was the Finance Minister. Our request, if not implemented, will be followed by use of force.

On Dir: The Dir from the North have established their own administration in Hargeisa and the Hawiye will work with them and support them. We will welcome their support too. The Northern Dir people are better off leaving Mogadishu and joining their brethren in Somaliland. The Dir of the South, and especially the Biimaal, would get their rights. The Hawiye inhabit between Hobyo and Kismayo. In many parts of Somalia, we are the majority but there are areas we co-habit with other groups.

On 0.5: There is nothing good to say about the 0.5. These are smaller groups and those who live with us would be respected.

On TFG President: We want the president to implement Islamic courts, create a national army that is run by professional and honest Hawiye officers, and protect Hawiye port, airport, and properties. The Hawiye businessmen have been robbed and they should get their businesses back. In fact, we have all been robbed.

On Al-Shabab Group: The Al-Shabab group should cease the fighting in Hawiye land because the Hawiye know how to fight. We made you who you are; Ayro brought you from nowhere. Sheikh Hassan Dahir and Sheikh Mohamed Dheere are still around and relevant. The Hawiye had fought against Mohamed Abdille Hassan, Ali Yusuf, and Siad Barre. We would defend ourselves. You, Al-Shabab group, only know how to detonate a bomb. We would build fortresses from Mogadishu to Ceel Buur then wait and attack you. Go to Bay and Bakool where defenseless people live and takeover their land.

Fouad Shongolo who was born and raised in Mogadishu but hails from the Awrtoble lineage (Darod) responded to Dalabeey’s speech by denouncing the latter’s claim that Mogadishu belonged to the Hawiye. “Who said that this land belongs to the Hawiye,” bellowed Shongolo. Shongolo said that the Al-Shabab Group came to existence to fight against tribalism. He also urged people whose homes have been taken away from them to seek his assistance in getting their properties back.
http://miisaanka.com/article.php?articleid=2729

Given the current situation of Somalia, the issue of who does Mogadishu belongs to is a diversion to the real story; the story of a country that has become a byword for religious extremism and anarchy.

Ciise Dalabey is a new tribal chieftain in the political landscape who has embraced his role with a convert’s zeal. He is already exhibiting a mania for disputation. A friend of mine, who used to be a high official in the Somali Football Federation and who also belongs to the same sub-clan as Dalabey, chastised me for magnifying the significance of the chieftain. “He is nobody”, my friend said, “but I am sure some people are pleased with what he is saying.” I have to agree with my friend that there are some people who think that Dalabey is making sense and that, perhaps, it is better that we reexamine the tribal land delineation. Can clans claim their own territories, or are the Somalis so intertwined that dividing the land based on clan domination or numerical majority in an area becomes insignificant? Dalabey’s willingness to carve out Somalia into clannish enclaves and his bravado for calling for an open warfare deserve condemnation. His bellicose rhetoric is nothing but a paragon of hate speech. What is equally deplorable is Farole’s arbitrary deportations of many people from Puntland. I will only address the issue of Mogadishu in this particular article.

The history of Mogadishu, before the civil war, is a history of diversity and peaceful co-existence. Once upon a time, no Somali lived in Mogadishu. According to Al-Shaikh al-Imam Shihab al-Din Abi Abdalla Yaqut al-Hamawi al-Rumi al-Baghdadi’s book, Kitab Mu’jam al- Buldan, in 1286 Mogadishu had residents “whose inhabitants were all foreigners and not Black: (Cited in Hersi 1977, P. 103). These foreigners originally came from Arabia and Persia and settled there. Long before the Arabs and Persians made their way to Marka and Barawe, there were travelers such as Ibn Said (died 1286) who visited the Benadir coastline and found Marka the capital of Somali Hawiye clan. The Hawiye were a present force in Benadir in the 12th Century but they were not “the only occupants of the land” (Lulling 2002, P.16). There were other communities such as the Digil/Mirefle, the Biimaal, Bantu, and, according to Lulling, the predecessors of the Eyle, “who in modern times are scattered bands of professional hunters,” who were already settled in these areas. Cassanelli goes even further when he argues that,”The Digil appear to have been among the earliest Somalis to occupy the Benadir, probably in the first Millennium A.D (Cassanelli 1974, P. 6). But Mogadishu was different in its demographic makeup. By the time the renowned Arab traveler, Ibn Battuta, visited Mogadishu in 1331; the city was ruled by a Somali who spoke both Arabic and Somali fluently. The city’s population consisted mainly of the descendants of earlier Arab/Persian communities and whom we call today “Benadiris”. Mogadishu residents were engaged in trade and the city was bustling with merchandise from all over the world. Ibn Battuta also noted that about 200 camels were slaughtered in the city every day and that the residents consumed large quantities of food to the extent that they were corpulent. Mogadishu, to Ibn Battuta, was a prosperous and booming town compared to Zayla, in which the Moroccan traveler had earlier visited and called “the dirtiest, most abominable, and most stinking town in the world”. Zayla residents had plenty of fish and they had a habit of slaughtering camels in the streets. “When we got there [Zayla] we chose to spend the night at sea, in spite of its extreme roughness, rather than in the town, because of its filth”. But Ibn Battuta was impressed with Mogadishu and the hospitality he received as a religious scholar.

The outskirt of Mogadishu was inhabited by nomads who were Hirab or Darandolle. What made Mogadishu special and prosperous was the fact that it was not a self-sustaining town. It was a city that manifested economic interdependence as well as good neighborly existence. Somali pastoralists and the people in the inter river plains had stake in the prosperity of Mogadishu. There was a period during the Ajuran Empire in which Mogadishu was jointly run with the Mudaffar Dynasty. One Ajuran Imam was ruthless to the Darandolle nomads and would not allow them to use certain wells. There were times that the nomads were also not allowed to stay in Mogadishu after sunset. Between 1600 and 1625, the nomads rebelled against the repressive rule of one Mudaffar leader and took control of the city. An Abgal king was installed in Shingani and subsequently became the head of both the Abgal and the city (Cassanelli, 1974, P. 36). Mogadishu’s rule changed hands and by the 18th century it found itself under the joint rule of the Geledi Sultanate and the Arab Sultan of Zanzibar. It was in 1892 when the Sultan of Zanzibar leased the city to the Italians. By 1905, the Italian colonial administration had made Mogadishu the capital of Italian Somaliland.

Mogadishu went through massive transformation in the twentieth century as many people, from the north to the southern tip of the country, made it their home and achieved a degree of harmony. It became the only cosmopolitan city in Somalia that could boast of being diverse and peaceful. Every Somali administration since colonialism made Mogadishu its capital. If there was a census in the city in 1990, I am sure it would have shown a melting pot. Perhaps, to the detriment of the development of other cities, Mogadishu received more attention and aid both from foreign countries and previous governments.

Many years ago, I visited Washington D.C, which has predominantly Black residents, and I naively told an African-American cabbie of the city’s uniqueness for being a “Black city”. The cabbie looked at me with disgust and ruefully said, “Sir, Washington is not a Black city. It is an American city and the capital of all Americans”. I was hoping that Sheikh Dalabey would be a purveyor of hope rather than despair; a unifier rather than an agent of schism and belligerence. Any Somali national has the right to settle any part of Somalia without fear and recrimination. One can safely say that non-Hawiye Mogadishu residents suffered tremendously in the Civil War whether it was losing life, limb, or properties. Perhaps, the Darod and the Benadiris were specifically targeted as people and became piñatas for the Mogadishu warlords (Aidid, Ato, Ali Mahdi, Yalahow, etc). Hawiye residents, in turn, also suffered in the hands of Siad Barre’s forces, the TFG governments under Abdullahi Yusuf (remember the Ethiopian invasion) and now under Sheikh Sharif and his AMISOM backers; not mention the ruthless Al-Shabab (Shongolo, Godane, and Robow) and Hizbul Islam (Hassan Dahir Aweys). No one group in Mogadishu can claim to be sole owners of the city and only victims. After all, Mogadishu belongs to all of us and, frankly, we all have been robbed!


Reference
Cassanelli, Lee Vincent, The Benadir Past: Essays in Southern Somali History, Ph.D. thesis; University of Wisconsin, 1973.
Hersi, Ali Abdirahman, The Arab Factor in Somali History, Ph.D. thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1977.
Luling, Virginia, Somali Sultanate: The Geledi City-State over 150 years, Transaction Publishers, 2002.

Black Mamba Boy: A Book Review

There are three types of women; those who have little or nothing to say about their fathers; those who revile their fathers and those who lionize them. The American writer/poet Sylvia Plath made it fashionable to excoriate her father in the most corrosive terms. It did not matter that Plath’s father died when she was 8 years old. In her famous poem, “Daddy”, Plath blames her father for almost everything that had gone wrong in her brief but illustrious life; from attempting suicide at an early age, to marrying a fellow poet, Ted Hughes. In her poem, she uses a metaphor of her father as Hitler and her husband as a vampire.

If I have killed one man, I‘ve killed two__
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

Plath concludes her poem with perhaps a painful departing line; “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through”. Three months after writing her poem, Plath, who suffered from chronic depression, killed herself at age 30.

Nadifa Mohamed’s new novel, Black Mamba Boy, (London: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2010) is an attempt to lionize her father and pay tribute to him. As a child, Nadifa imbibed stories of her father’s early life which, to the pedantic, might seem the saddest poetry. But to Nadifa they were intriguing tales that warranted a book. The term “Griot” is used by West Africans. It refers to someone whose task is to keep an oral history of a clan or a village and then entertain people by using such methods as storytelling, dancing, and songs. Nadifa Mohamed is unabashed about who she is to her father. “I am my father’s griot…This is a hymn to him. I am telling you this story so that I can turn my father’s blood and bones, and whatever magic his mother sewed under his skin, into history,” says the novelist. Nadifa was born in Hargeisa, in 1981 but grew up in England. Her serene and free-from-trauma life is no match to what her father had endured while growing up.

It is 1930s and eleven-year old Jama, the protagonist of the novel, lives with mother in Aden, Yemen; a British colonial outpost. Jama’s mother is a single woman who struggles to eke out a living in a poor and strange land. She is a woman of mercurial moods and you never know what to expect of her. She can be benevolent one minute and hard to get along on the other. Jama’s father has long been gone from their lives as he is rumored to be somewhere in Sudan. Young Jama lacks a sense of purpose and dawdles in the streets of Aden doing nothing. But this early experience in the rough streets of Yemen would later become crucial as he copes with a life rich with irony. His mother suddenly passes away and Jama is left with a meager 100 Rupees. An aunt brings him to Hargeisa, Somaliland, to live with his grandfather. But there is no grandfather in sight and he finds difficulty dealing with his female relatives. In Hargeisa, jama’s father looms imposingly over his life and the lad has a pathological drive to look for him. It becomes a veritable obsession to find his father and Jama leaves Somaliland to undertake a 1000-mile journey by foot, camel, train, and boat that takes him to Djibouti, Eritrea, Sudan, Egypt, Palestine, and Europe.

Jama’s odyssey is mired in difficulty and often warfare. He vacillates from crisis to crisis but he also utilizes a string of clan connections as well as the benevolence of strangers. Jama’s hazardous journey is all too familiar to today’s Somali immigrants who had encountered an array of hurdles, hunger, diseases, imprisonment (or to put it mildly, detention); a cascade of abuse, poverty, menial jobs, and at times, a mood of utter despondence. Jama’s survival skills and his magnificence of spirit save the day. In his journey, Jama meets a woman in Sudan, falls in love with her, and finds that he is unable to cease traveling. Jama, after making safely to London, gets news from his wife and faces the most jarring question in his life.

Nadifa Mohamed’s novel can be summarized as a novel about fatherhood and all that it entails. It is a celebration of fatherhood; the longing for a father, a search for a father, and the profound question of whether a man wants to be an active father or merely a generous sperm donor. Nadifa is a good writer who infuses fact and fiction. Her lacerating wit makes you howl with laughter. There are, at times, tedious historical details in the novel and some phrases that are left not translated to the benefit of non-Somali readers. But overall the novel is an interesting read. I can see Nadifa saying to her father, with an apology to Sylvia Plath, “Daddy, daddy, I am proud of you.” I have heard rumors of Nadifa Mohamed’s exciting novel. For once, the gossips are right.

Glimpses of Somali Diaspora: A Documentary Review

Three decades ago, most of the Somalis in America were students scattered around the country and there was a small number in major cities like Washington and New York that worked. When I first came to the States in 1980, I briefly lived in New York which had small number of former Somali seamen and a dozen diplomats working for the U.N. After four months in New York City, I saw the small money I had dwindling and I decided to move to Ohio to start my college education. I knew no one in Ohio but when I arrived there I was amazed to meet three young women from Northern Somalia who were already attending the university. The three were siblings and they had come to the States at a tender age of 17 with scholarships from the United Arab Emirates that were secured for them by Omar Arteh Ghalib. After several years in Ohio, I moved to a city in Southern California, not far from Los Angeles, for graduate studies. Southern California was different because it had two dozen Somali families who were brought as Ethiopian refugees. The community, though small, was a closely-knit group and we visited each other in the Weekends, ate together, and helped the new arrivals. But in early 1990s and due to the gestation of the Somali Civil War, a new wave of refugees poured in our city that had witnessed the disintegration of Somalia on first-hand and had seen gruesome killings and displacement. The small Somali community that coexisted peacefully and in harmony for years all of sudden became infused with a new blood that saw the world, perhaps, in the prism of clan warfare. Many of the newcomers seemed to be hauling around some legitimate grievances about what was done to them. It did not take long that the early pioneers of the community-some highly educated- to start mangling their roles by gradually gravitating to their clans and then becoming stooges doing their tribe’s bidding. It was a needling reminder, or perhaps a repudiation of conventional wisdom, that the educated class is bereft of the vagaries of clannism. It was like the x-ray-not beautified but stripped down- and beyond the veneer of civility laid individuals with extreme clannish views. I remember two educated good friends, one Ortoble and the other Ogaden, who used to go out every day and drink coffee together all of sudden ceasing to socialize. When I inquired about the reason of their falling out, the Ortoble man said, “Don’t you know what happened in Kismayo? The Ogadens are now claiming Kismayo as their territory”. One Issak fellow used to stand in a major intersection of the city cursing what he called “Dulmiga Daaroodka” (Darod Wrongdoing). A Marehan man mused if his daily prayers, behind a Habar Gidir Sheikh, would ever be accepted. Coming from a non-Hawiye, non-Issak, and non-Darod clan, I was somehow spared from this dysfunctional and acrimonious environment. There were numerous times that I was called to interpret in court cases because the defendants and the victims found a Geledi man either “neutral” or “harmless”. But my short honeymoon was rudely interrupted when one day I walked into a court and an attorney asked me a relevant (ok, dumb) question; “What is you clan?” In a normal conversation, I would have told that lawyer about my clan and, perhaps, would have basked in informing him that the Geledi Sultanate onetime ruled what is now called “Benadir” region but this was a court of law. I refused to state my clan in the pretext that I was a professional, and hence an impartial, interpreter. The attorney pondered for seconds and posed another question that almost made me yell with a hideous laughter. “Okay, do you speak ‘Darod Dialect’? “Who told you that the Darod have their own dialect?” I asked him. The attorney showed me a young woman-who was born and raised in Kenya- and who was a Case Worker for a local clan-based organization as the source of his information.

The issues many of the Somali refugees faced in the 1990s were the same many refugees face when placed in a new country; language barrier, lack of employment, and growing youth delinquencies. More Somalis kept coming to the States under the Family Unification Act until the American government amended the law in late 1990s. Then there was the tragedy of 9/11 in 2001 which almost put future Somali emigration to America to a complete halt. It was sometime after 2002, when a new wave of Somali refugees came but this time they were overwhelmingly Bantu. The Bantu encountered major difficulties in their resettlement in America because many of them came from small farming towns. Moreover, the Bantu refugees were a protected group because of the legacy of slavery and discrimination in Somalia.
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The Letter: An American Town and the Somali Invasion; Written, Produced, and Directed by Ziad Hamzeh; Arab Film Production, 2003.

What were Somali refugees doing in Lewiston, Maine, in 2003?

Maine is the second “Whitest State’ in America (after Vermont) and Lewiston the second largest city in that state. According to U.S Census of 2000, Lewiston had a 97.3% White population. The Somalis were not resettled in Lewiston as refugees but instead went there in a wave of secondary migration. Most of them came from cities like Atlanta and were placed in dangerous neighborhoods that were infested with drugs, gangs, and high rate crime. Fearing for their lives, some of these refugees sent a “Sahan” to look for a safer place to settle. Somali nomads normally send “Sahan”-someone who does exploratory expedition- to look for water and lush grazing for their livestock before they make a move. That is how Lewiston, Maine, was discovered by Somalis. Gradually, more Somali families kept moving there until the Mayor of Lewiston, Larry Raymond, wrote a public letter asking the 1,100 Somali refugees already in that city to tell their friends and relatives in other parts of the USA not to come to Lewiston because of the city’s constrained resources. To the Somalis, Lewiston became their new home and getaway. “Compared to where we came from,” said a Somali resident, “Lewiston is heaven.” Lewiston residents were evidently baffled by the new Somali ‘invasion’ to their town. Somalia, after all, is the same country in which American soldiers were killed and their corpses dragged in the streets of Mogadishu. The fact that the popular movie “Black Hawk Down” –in which the above incident was based-was released during the time of the controversy added insult to injury. Moreover, a young Army Ranger, Sergeant Thomas J. Field from Lisbon, Maine; a town next to Lewiston, was killed in Somalia at that time and a local highway was named after him. White Supremacists discovered a fertile ground in exploiting the ‘Somali invasion’ to a pristine White city to rally people against black refugees and immigrants. Poor Whites seemed vulnerable for fear that the Somalis would compete with them with the limited resources. During rallies some of these White folks reiterated unfounded statements that Somalis were “given free rent, free food, free cars, and never had to pay taxes”. One woman aptly put it, “We are sick of Somalis. They get everything and we get nothing.” The mayor rationalized the writing of his infamous letter by declaring that Somalis were “without skills. No language skills. No working skills. [They] Do not pay taxes”. In short, Mayor Raymond retorted that he was “asking a moral issue; give us a break”.

The Somalis, confronted by an outside threat, came together and showed a monolithic front. They started defending themselves against the vicious attacks of White Supremacists and the Mayor. The Somali community did open businesses in Lewiston to revitalize the sagging economy of the city. Community elders explained to the media that the Somalis were hardworking people, multi-lingual, honest, and peaceful. They articulated that they were being singled out for their “color” and “religion”. In fairness, some of the White residents of Lewiston came out in support of the Somalis and against the White Supremacists who had called for a massive rally to demonstrate against the Somali presence in Lewiston. The racists supported Mayor Raymond’s letter and vowed to separate races. The controversy grew out of proportion and there was media frenzy across the United States about Maine and the Somali influx there. Maine’s leading politicians from Governor John Baldacci- a grandson of a Lebanese immigrant-to the State’s famous US Senators (Olympia Snowe and Susan Collins) condemned the rally organized by the World Church of the Creator –a racist group headed by Mathew Hail- and assured the Somali refugees that they were welcome to live and work in Maine.

Seven years after the ‘Somali Invasion’, Karen Jacobsen, Director of Forced Migration Program at Tufts University, said that the refugees in Lewiston in general and Somalis in particular had revitalized that city’s economy. “They [Somalis] have a very good network [with strong] trading links and [bring] new economic activities.” (“The Refugees Who Saved Lewiston”, Newsweek, January 17, 2009).

The Letter is a documentary that captures the reactions, views, and fears of the people who were touched by the Somali influx to Lewiston. Ziad Hamzeh is a master filmmaker who gives a chance all the parties involved in this controversy to express their views, sentiments, and concerns without any interference. This documentary, moreover, raises many issues that are still engulfing the United States today; To what extent America is ready to accept new breed of immigrants that are non-Europeans in its midst. The documentary is the story of a group of immigrants in pursuit of economic independence and better life and the reaction they generate. It is the interplay between racism and tolerance on one hand and the slow process of remaking and deconstructing American society.

Rain in a Dry Land; Written, Produced, and Directed by Anne Makepeace. Anne Makepeace Productions, 2007.

In March 10, 2003, filmmaker Anne Makepeace was reading an article in the New York Times about 12,000 Somali Bantu refugees being resettled in fifty cities in the USA after a year when she had an epiphany. She would make a documentary about these refugees which the article referred as descendants of ex-slaves who were expelled from their homes, endured an odyssey that took them to Kenya where they were languishing in refugee camps. What intrigued Ms. Makepeace was the fact that the Bantu refugees had no urban background and had never seen “indoor plumbing” “a staircase” and “a building taller than one story”. She wondered how these upcoming refugees would cope in a complex and advanced industrial society like America. She went to Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya and decided to follow two Bantu families for a period of 18 months that covered from these families’ preparation/orientation to come to America to their settlement in Springfield, Massachusetts, and Atlanta, Georgia, respectively. One family had a husband, a wife, and children and the other was led by a single mother. These two families have stories to tell about their relatively peaceful life in Somalia, before the Somali Civil War, to the traumatic period they went through when family members were killed, beaten, and displaced.

Rain in a Dry Land is a documentary that tells the story of refugee families as they face culture shock while at the same time bracing for a new life in an alien country. It is the story of struggle, survival, and resiliency. The Bantu refugees encounter the typical challenges many of the refugees face like limited English proficiency, scarce employment opportunities, and making sense of their new environment. The filmmaker’s unique ‘tell-it-like it is’ approach is both endearing and painful. The youngsters are perhaps the ones who have the most difficult time as they attempt to navigate between their new lives in America and their attempts to preserve their cultural identity.

The story of Somali refugees presented in The Latter and Rain in a Dry Land is still a story whose ending is still being written. Thirty years ago, many Americans were not aware of where Somalia was located. Today, Somalia is in the news. In the USA, many Somali refugees have found safety and the opportunity to start a new chapter in their lives. Perhaps, the rosy picture of America being ‘a paradise’ that many of these refugees were imbibed during orientation classes in the refugee camps is far from the truth. With opportunity, indeed, comes adversity.

Hamarweyne, Mon Amour

In the 1980s, I spent the first part of the decade in a small college town in Ohio with little or no interaction with Somali-speaking people. Then in late 1988 I went to Albany, New York, to visit my cousin and her husband. While in Albany, I was introduced to a young Yemeni college student. After conversing with him in Arabic for a while, I learned that he was actually born in Berbera and spent some time there before moving to Yemen. We switched speaking in Somali and I was amazed how fluently he spoke the language after many years of absence from Somalia. I have never felt so nostalgic to my native language the way I did that day; it was as if I went back home. I felt invigorated and rejuvenated. I remembered an incident in 1970s at the old Soccer Stadium in Mogadishu at Campo Amaharo (later re-named Abdul-Aziz) when a Chinese official visited there and gave a short speech during the half-time. The official spoke in Chinese but he had a Chinese embassy officer who interpreted for him in Somali. Every time the interpreter spoke, the entire audience ruptured and applauded loudly in unison. The Somali audience was marveling at the interpreter‘s mastery of Somali language and seemed to care less about what the Chinese official was saying about Beijing-Mogadishu bilateral relations. That particular day, my nostalgia mainly stemmed from a neighborhood in Mogadishu that I haven’t seen for sometime. I grew up in Isku-Raran which had undergone a massive transformation while I was still a child and hence lost its original make-up.

Isku-Raran was notorious for its density and crowdedness. The houses were poorly constructed and were made of bricks and woods or “Baraako” as the Somalis call them. The land mapping, if there was such a thing, was haphazardly drawn and there were many alleys. As a child, I used to seek solace and comfort in a not-so distant neighborhood called Hamarweyne. Unlike my neighborhood, where the tallest building was three-floor height and was owned by SIIDOW (Geledi), Hamarweyne had hundreds of tall buildings which were neatly arrayed. I was drawn to Hamarweyne not because of its tall buildings but to its God-given and priceless feature: the Indian Ocean. I would go to Secondo Lido, not to swim, but to watch and enjoy the beautiful scenery. The section I used to hang around was close to what was later known as Hotel Uruba. There were always some youngsters at the ocean, a small number of Reer Hamar fishermen and some who, like me, were drawn to the ocean for its aesthetics.

If there was any neighborhood in Mogadishu that was unique and fascinating, it was Hamarweyne. The residents of Hamarweyne, considered Arab or Persian descent, are called the Reer Hamar, or “Cad Cad” (light-skinned) as one of my northern friends calls them, are some of the most industrious, creative, and skilled people in Somali Peninsula. They are mostly merchants, tailors, and technicians. The Madhiban and Tumal are also very skilled people as a group despite the age-long and heinous discrimination that has been meted against them throughout Somali history. The Reer Hamar, unlike other Somalis, were mostly concentrated in one part of Mogadishu and perhaps were saved from the internecine clan wars that other parts of Somalia experienced in the 19th century and beyond. During the colonial period, some of the Reer Hamar and in general Benadiri people were in the forefront in the struggle for independence and leaders like Dheere Hajji Dheere, Hajji Mohamed Hussein Maxaad and Mohamed Ali Nuur were among the 13 Somali Youth League (SYL) founders. The Reer Hamar people are a close-knit group, family-oriented, and they generally inter-marry. Once you come to know a Reer Hamar family you are a friend for life. In 1960s, I had a classmate at Moalim Jama School called Jeilani. Sometime in 1970s, my sister came to know a Reer Hamar official, Mohamed Osman, who was the head of the Protocol at the Foreign Ministry one time and who later became the Somali ambassador to Iran and Sudan respectively. Mr. Osman happened to be the father of Jeilani. My sister did a minor favor for Mr. Osman, who was posted abroad at the time, which was delivering a parcel to his family in Mogadishu. At the time, my family was living in Hamar Jab Jab and so was the family of Mohamed Osman. Every week, the Osman family made cake and Halwo for my family even after my sister was posted abroad. The family’s loyalty and kindness was amazing.


Hamarweyne had string of shops that sold many different goods. The day before Eid, my mother would take me to Hamarweyne in order to get me some new clothes and shoes. Long before drinking smoothies became fashionable in the West, there were stores in Hamarweyne that specialized in all kinds of juices. After shopping, my mother and I used to get tall glasses of cool papaya drinks. Hamarweyne Market was the biggest and cleanest market in Mogadishu and natives were not the only ones that shopped there, foreigners would shop at Hamarweyne market as well. Across the market, one would find dozen of men sitting behind wooden tables and typing letters in old typewriters. These men helped people in writing letters and applications. Before I could get my first passport in 1978, I had to go to one of these typists and get a letter typed on my behalf requesting the travel document.

Hamarweyne was unique in a way because it had attracted many diverse groups in its midst. There were Reer Baraawe owned-stores and businesses run by other Somalis. Hamarweyne also had Indians, Arabs, Pakistanis, Persians, and other foreign nationals who operated businesses there. The famous Zulfikar Ali stores across the old parliament were owned evidently by a Pakistani family. So was NISF ADEN store which was owned by the Bin Naafic family. Some of the gold smiths in Afar Irdoodka were Indians. As a child, my uncle used to take me to an Italian pastry shop behind Café Nazionale and Cinema Hamar called “Mariottini” which was owned by a Somali woman who was half Italian. Afterwards, my uncle and I used to stop by at Croce Del Sud café where we would drink cappuccino.

Unlike the Reer Hamar who eschewed tribal political involvement, some Somali-Arab “Carab Soomaali”, were unwittingly recruited by Daarood politicians on their side as the Daarood had claimed of being descendants of Arabs. The Hawiye in Mogadishu saw that as an “unholy alliance” and protested against the Darood (it was mostly Majertein) and burned down the latter’s shops . On one occasion, the rioters were mainly Abgaal and they kept chanting;

Dalxiin Dalxiin Dalkissa Geeya
Dariiq walbay Dukaan Dhigteen
“Send Dalxiin Dalxiin (an Arabic word for ‘Now’ but as reference to Darood) to their country
They have placed stores in every street”.

I knew an elderly Yemeni merchant named Faraj Ba-Dahir who was a family friend. Faraj used to live in Hamarweyne with his wife and his children. His youngest daughter, Fatma, was my age. Faraj also owned a store in Hamarweyne that I used to stop by on my way to the beach. Faraj and Fatma used to visit our family from time to time and my sister and I would join them to go to Afgoi for an outing. Faraj was short and stocky man. He was health conscious and would, on rare occasions; walk from Hamarweyne to Afgoi for exercise. As a child, Faraj encouraged me to read newspapers. He would give me ½ Somali Shilling and would ask me to buy “Najmat Oktobar” (Xiddigta Oktoobar”; the official news paper of the country and the mouth piece of the government. The paper was only available at Hamarweyne and in limited edition. Faraj would tell me that it was my responsibility to educate myself about current affairs. However, there was one problem. I could read Arabic well but could barely understand it and when I would share my concern with Faraj, he would quip, “That does not matter. Keep reading”. At any rate, one day I went to Faraj’s store in Hamarweyne and he, as usual, reprimanded me for not reading the newspaper and keeping up-to-date with current affairs. He gave me ½ Shillings and demanded that I purchased the paper on my way home. I did what I was asked, but when I got close to Ceel Gaab Square, I was stopped by a young man who used to hang in our neighborhood but who lived elsewhere. This man had graduated from Jamal Abdinassir School and had won scholarship to study in Egypt. He did not know my name but he saw me with a copy of the paper. He stopped me, started paginating the newspaper, and then gave me ½ Shillings and left. I was stunned because the young man thought I was a paper boy but, frankly, I did not protest because I felt relieved that I did not have to read the paper that day and pocketed the money.

As I got older, I saw less of Faraj. He sent his daughter Fatma to Yemen for early marriage. Then, one day, I went to his store and was met by Basharow, a Reer Hamar merchant, who informed me that Faraj had passed away. My visits to Hamarweyne became more focused on seeing the ocean.

It was sometime in 1977, when I started going to the historic Arbaca Rukun Mosque. A young Reer Hamar Sheikh named Muridi Hajji Sufi (Shaanshi) used to give daily Tafseer lesson there. Muridi was one of the disciples of the late Sheikh Mohamed Moalim. His Tafseer was widely attended by youth across Mogadishu. The government was not pleased with the fact that hundreds of youth were attending a religious circle even though it was a peaceful and not a radical gathering. Sheikh Mohamed Guled (Tumal), who was the Director of Religious Affairs of the Ministry of Justice and Religion, attempted numerous times, on behalf of the government, to stop the Tafseer. Sheikh Muridi was an ally of an equally popular preacher named Sheikh Mohamed Imankey (Shaanshi). Imankey, perhaps, was one of the most eloquent and witty preachers I have ever seen. He was widely loved and respected by the youngsters at Arbaca Rukun because he was courageous, and to the delight of many, politically-oriented. Every time Sheikh Muridi was summoned to the Ministry of Justice and Religion, he would take along Sheikh Imankey who was friendly with Sheikh Mohamed Guled.

Hamarweyne had historical mosques but on occasions I used to go to Marwas. The mosque had a Reer Baraawe (Hatimi) Imam who was fluent in Arabic and had a beautiful voice. There was also the Hadith circle (Riyaadhul Salixiin) taught by the late Sheikh Ibrahim Suuley (Dir) a knowledgeable and pious scholar.

After I attended Arbaca Rukun, I would stop by at some of the stores to satisfy my sweet tooth. The “mac-macaan” (Sweets) in Hamarweyne was irresistible. The contribution of the Reer Hamar to the rest of Somalia, from cultural artifacts to literary works, cannot be enumerated here but I will only mention one thing; pastries. Nomadic Somalis can boast about introducing “OODKAC” to a country that does not have a distinctive traditional meal. The food Somalis eat is borrowed from other cultures such as spaghetti from Italy, Rice from Arabia, Injera from Ethiopia, Sabaayad and Samboosa from India, etc. But “Halwo” is purely a Somali invention, thanks to Reer Hamar. What would Somalis do with out halwo? The Halwo is served during weddings and many other occasions.

Mogadishu Memoir (Part IIX: Crimes & Concoctions

“Glory is the worst enemy of power, and nostalgia the worst poison for the future,” said Jacques Attali, Economic Advisor to French President Sarkozy after condemning the disgraceful performance of the French National Football team in the 2010 World Cup tournament.
***
I was either 10 or 11 years old when some of the children in my neighborhood told me that a young prisoner named Aweys, who was with a group of state prisoners doing construction work at Isku-Raran, was asking about me. I feigned ignorance and denied having any connection with a criminal. Well, Aweys happened to be my older brother and sadly he took the wrong path in life because he was involved in petty crimes, assault, and various schemes which subsequently made him spend a great deal of time in and out of prison, and when he was out of prison, instead of learning from his past mistakes, he would go right back to hanging out with hoodlums. Some of my family members had told me that he had a big heart but he also had a volatile temper. His propensity for trouble-making and constant run- in with the law had rendered him the status of being persona non-grata among relatives. My brother seemed to show an interest to know more about me through other people, but never made any attempt to contact me or connect with me. I never had the pleasure of personally meeting him and tragically he met his fate in Mogadishu in the 1990s at the hands of bandits “Mooryaan”. One of my older brothers aptly summed up Awey’s fate when he said, “If you live by the knife, you die by the knife.”

Every time I heard about “Gaalshiro” (Carcere in Italian)–the Central Prison in Mogadishu-I remembered my brother Aweys; a frequent guest there. Gaalshiro was located close to Hamar Weyne and De Martino Hospital (Maartiini). To add insult to injury; criminal offenders and political prisoners were housed together because food was so scarce and horrendous at the prison that relatives of prisoners had to bring meals to their loved ones. As many people flocked to Mogadishu from the provinces in 1960s, the rapid urbanization of the city contributed to the rise of crime. In that period, the types of crimes committed were pick-pocketing, house burglaries, alcohol-abuse, petty theft, assault and battery. There was no proliferation of firearms and the criminals’ weapon of choice was lethal, widely available, and cheap which was a dagger or “Toorrey” as the Somalis call it. The Civilian government was not successful in dealing with criminals because of the intrinsic nature of corruption in its unreliable judicial system. It was common for certain criminals to bribe their way out of incarceration. But the military government of Siad Barre showed a grasp of the magnitude of the task at hand and started imposing tougher enforcement. Capital punishment, which was in the book but rarely enforced, was re-introduced for those who killed. In early 1970s, “Geedka” or the ‘pole’ became popular because that’s where criminals and some of Siad Barre’s political opponents were executed. The executions were administered behind the Police Academy and they were widely publicized. As a child, I had witnessed at least the public executions of two or three violent criminals. People in Mogadishu somewhat appreciated the introduction of capital punishment because it deterred many of committing violent crimes.

One constant tactic to use for both the civilian and the military governments was the use of torture to illicit confessions. Suspects were normally slapped, shoved, beaten, and at times even taken to the ocean to be subjected to something similar to ‘water-boarding’. Political prisoners also suffered the same torture tactics and were deprived from due process. “Godka” or ‘the pit’ was basically a detention center that specialized in all kinds of torture under Siad Barre. The East German Communist government helped Siad Barre’s regime in the construction of “Laanta Buur” and “Labaatan Jirow” prisons where political dissidents were incarcerated.

KU-DHAC
In my neighborhood and close to Dhagax-Tuur, there was a market called “KU-Dhac”. It was primarily thieves’ market but there were of course legitimate vendors as well. Petty thieves sold stolen goods clandestinely to either customers or third parties. The market was like a big pawn-shop and practically one could get all kinds of merchandise; new, used, stolen or legitimate. The old anecdote about a family that was being burglarized is worth-mentioning here. A wife tells her husband to go and confront the thieves but the husband, sensing danger, tells his wife “Don’t worry, I will go to Ku-Dhac market tomorrow and purchase the stolen products.” I used to go through the Ku Dhac market on my way to Dugsi even though I had once witnessed a man being chased by a dagger-wielding fellow. The military government later demolished the market and installed the statue of “Mohamed Somali” or Dhagax-Tuur.

Jamal-Jaan
One of the famous hide-outs of criminals in Mogadishu in 1960s was “Jamal Jaan”. It was located on “Aw-Aweyska” neighborhood of Hamar-Weyne and next to a perilous section of the Indian Ocean that locals called it “Geel-Laq”. Alcohol addicts and fugitives used “jamal Jaan” as a place to evade authorities. It was rumored that the law-enforcement agents of the civilian government were afraid to venture into that notorious hide-out.

Gangs
I remember hearing about the stories of individuals that were notorious for their long list of criminal activities especially the infamous gangster named “Jaykey” (Shiikhaal) who was as rugged as a rock, cruel, and had dramatics for flare. Moreover, he had imperious way of dealing with people and he once proclaimed to be “Il Dio Di Benadir” or ‘The God of Benadir’. I used to see Jaykey in the streets close to Afar-Irdoodka and I remember him emulating American cowboy actors by the way he dressed and smoked cigarettes. There was another gangster in Boondheere neighborhood called “George” (Abgaal) who was as popular as Jaykey. It was ironic that these two gangsters joined the Somali National Army in the 1970s and were later court-martialed and killed for allegedly orchestrating a mutiny.

Tough kids
Among the youngsters in Isku-Raran neighborhood, there were some tough boys that I knew but did not socialize with. Some of these tough youths used to hang around as a group and play soccer together; on rare occasions, they bullied other kids, but they were not criminals. Among these were the boys of Reer Hassan Geesood, Cadow, Miiraaf, and Mohamoud Haji Adan to mention a few. On rare occasions, these youths would get involved in power struggle that led to physical beating. One of the women that lived on my street, Caanood, used to yell at some of us children for playing in front of her house. She would bark, “You mama-boys, why don’t you play with kids like Burhan Hassan Geesood”. Burhan was our age all right, but he was a tough kid that neither I nor the kids I played with wanted to mess with. He had two tough older brothers (Caato and Muse) that were pugnacious and belligerent.

Attempted Political Assassination
During the civilian government, I heard a bizarre story of an attempted political assassination of General Jama Ali Qoorsheel (Warsangeli) who was Deputy Police Commissioner. My recollection as a child of this incident is murky. A distant uncle of mine and a police officer was shot several times for foiling the attempted political assassination of Qoorsheel. The conspiracy had taken place in Qoorsheel’s house in Hamar Jab Jab in the wee hours of the morning but the General was not harmed. This uncle of mine used to visit my mother from time to time after the incident and after he had recovered from his wound, but I have been unable to locate him as a source for this memoir. Perhaps, members of General Qoorsheel’s family can elucidate the intricacies of this attempted political assassination.

Political Crimes
The military government waged a campaign of fighting “tribalism” and made it a state crime. I remember government officials holding countless rallies and even burning effigies of what was termed ‘tribalism’. It was one of these rallies in our neighborhood that I heard an anecdote in which Brigadier General Hussein Kulmiye Afrah had asked one of the dignitaries sitting next to him about a local leader who rose and denounced tribalism as a pernicious disease that needed to be extricated from Somali society. “Kan yuu yahay (who is this guy [clan-wise]?”, Afrah had allegedly inquired.

In 1969, Siad Barre was not an absolute leader of the military government but he was a master manipulator who was well adept in consolidating power incrementally. In the first few months of the coup, Barre maneuvered in sending Major General Mohamed Ibrahim ‘Liilq-liiqato’ (Shiikhaal) and the second highest ranking officer in the armed forces to Germany, Colonel Abdullahi Farah Hoolif (Majertein) to Egypt as ambassadors respectively. Officers Mohamed Farah Aidid (Habar-Gidir) and Abdullahi Yusuf (Majertein) were each offered diplomatic posts abroad because they were not in tune with the new regime. When these two officers refused to be posted abroad, Barre jailed them for a total of six years which consequently led to Aidid suffering from a bout of nervous breakdown in Mandhera prison. Liiq-Liiqato, on the other hand, was seen by Barre as a threat because of his ranking status and older age in contrast to the younger members of the SRC. General Mohamed Abshir (Majertein), a retired Police Commissioner, was arrested along prominent civilian government officials and they were all sent to a presidential guest house in Afgoi which was made a make-shift detention center. Farah Gollalleey (Abgaal) a former parliamentarian and one of the detainees best known for his acerbic and biting assessments summarized that early period of the military government as the following’
“Ama afkaaga hayso’
Ama Afweyne ammaan
Ama Afgoi aad”.
“You either keep your mouth shut,
Or flatter Afweyne [Barre]
Or Go to Afgoi”

After getting rid of some of the disgruntled officers outside the Supreme Revolutionary Council, Barre began conspiring against his own colleagues. Major General Ainanshe (Isaak) had opposed Barre on critical issues like who would be the head of the military government. Major General Salad Gabayre Kediye (Abgaal and the son-in-law of former President Adan Abdille Osman) was perhaps the most charismatic officer who had posed a clear threat to Siad Barre. Gabayre apparently wanted to be the head of the armed forces but Barre favored Mohamed Ali Samatar instead. It was said that Barre had secretly campaigned against Gabayre and wooed SRC members one by one. In a mock election within the 25-members of the SRC, Ainanshe and Samatar emerged as frontrunners and Gabayre lost. Then, in the run-off, Samatar defeated Ainanshe. To placate Gabayre, he was offered the position of Defense Minister. Gabayre became more sullen and embittered because he realized that his political fortunes were coming to wane. Incidentally, the 25-member SRC body had 10 Darod, 7 Hawiye, several Dir (1) Isaak (4), Isse (1) Gadabursi (1) officers; two minority officers, Samatar (Tumal) and Fadhil (Arab) and, to the dismay of 4.5 clan system proponents, no Digil and Mirefle representation. Those who knew Gabayre characterized him as an uncommonly leader and a brave man not known to cower or cringe, but his ambition, like Barre, took a quantum leap. In fact, in a speech given by General Mohamed Ali Samatar at Somali National University in late 1970s, he profusely praised the impeccable character of Salad Gabayre and his wide popularity among officers. Samatar also mentioned how close he and Gabayre were as the two had attended the same military academies abroad. In essence, Samatar admitted that the incarceration of Gabayare was a preventive measure on one hand as the latter was feared of toppling the regime. Mohamed Ali Samatar Interestingly, Samatar, in that lecture, gave a much abbreviated account of the roles of General Ainanshe and Colonel Abdulkhadir Dheel (Majertein). Ainanshe or “Odayga” (the old man) as Samatar referred him was not part of the planning and the execution of Siad Barre’s military coup in 1969 and hence became an afterthought. Moreover, Aninanshe, according to Samatar, had asked to be named as an ambassador. “Why would the Vice-President of the country downgrade himself to the rank of an ambassador?” Samatar inquired. This odd request raised serious suspicions in the minds of Barre and his minions that, perhaps, the ‘Old man’ was up to something. Samatar also accused Ainanshe as an unengaging man, bereft of discipline, dedication and commitment. Barre, perhaps, used Samatar and Abdallah Fadil, two good friends of Salad Gabayre to elicit nuggets of information about Salad Gabayre’s plans of staging a coup. It was no secret that Fadil testified against Salad Gabayre in the kangaroo court the regime set up to convict the alleged coup organizers. When Barre’s regime fell in 1991, Abdalla Fadil was mercilessly butchered by Aidid militia in retaliation, among other things but not exclusively, for his early double-crossing of Salad Gabayre. The inclusion of General Ainanshe and Colonel Dheel were perhaps a pure political ploy by Siad Bare to get rid of his opponents once and for all. Abdi Warsame Isaak (Dir) was a member of the SRC and, in an interview with VOA Somali service “Ifbixii & Dhicitaankii Kacaankii 21kii October 1969” on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of the “revolution”, hinted that the inclusion of Ainanshe and Dheel in the coup plot was at best suspect. Ainanshe was a cautious individual not known for undertaking impetuous actions and Dheel had already left the army because he had falling with Siad Barre before the 1969 coup. Dheel was a man of sanguine temper and he had, according to my sources, physical confrontations with Barre during the civilian government. There was even an incident in which Dheel grabbed General Siad Barre by the neck in an official meeting and the two were separated. Dheel had ridiculed and insulted his superior, General Barre, for being “provincial” and “pedestrian”. In that same interesting VOA program, Osman Jeelle (Hawadle) and also former SRC member opined that the coup plot, perhaps, was blown out of proportion and the killing of these officers was unnecessary and “avoidable”. “Prison could have done the job better”, Said Osman. At the risk of oversimplification, a long-time confidant of Siad Barre and former high-ranking government official who knew Barre since the colonial period told me that Siad had always misgivings about the Majertein and the Isaak; the Majertein for “their guile and treachery” and the Isaak for their “uppity” attitude. It is interesting to note here that Prime Minister Mohamed Ibrahim Egal tried to remove Siad Barre from his position as the head of the armed forces but that his efforts were thwarted by Darod leaders at the time. Mohamed Ali Samatar, in his lecture at the Somali University, mentioned that General Ainanshe placed an early call in the morning of October 21, 1969 to Egal to find out what the curfew was all about but that the latter was already under arrest. Whatever Siad Barre’s attitude toward the Majertein whom he ruthlessly targeted after the 1977 War and Isaak tribes had been, his genocidal campaign against the latter remains crime against humanity; from the massacre of Jezzira in which 47 innocent Isaak were shot point blank to the all-out war against the rebel group Somali National Movement (SNM) when the latter launched desperate military offenses and the regime responded with iron fist; thousands of civilians in the north were massively killed, maimed, and dislocated.

The Execution of a Father
The American journalist Philip Gourevitch chronicled the Rwandan massacre in his fascinating book, We Wish to Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with our families: Stories from Rwanda (1999). The title of his book was a telegram presciently sent by a group of Tutsi individuals surrounded in a church. These terrified souls were well-aware of the painful fate awaiting for them as their extermination became imminent. Imagine being a ten year old Somali girl coming home from school and the kids in your neighborhood tell you that your father would be killed tomorrow at GEEDKA. This is what happened to the daughter of Abdulkadir Dheel Abdulle. Ms. Dheel was evidently traumatized as she told me many years later, about that painful news. “I was very close to my father and loved him dearly,” she said. The children’s’ words proved prescient when the next day, on 7/3/1972, Siad Barre sent Gabayre, Ainanshe, and Dheel to the gallows. The government portrayed the ‘coup’ plotters as power-hungry sycophant bent on destroying the nascent regime. During the court proceedings, Salad Gabayre questioned why Ainanshe and Dheel were being lumped together with him because the two had nothing to do with his failed attempt to topple the Barre regime. Moreover, Gabayre and Dheel were rivals and that Dheel had indeed threatened the former to kill him due to personnel disputes in the army during the civilian government. It was Gabayre, with the blessing and the full knowledge of Siad Barre who dismissed Dheel from the armed forces in late 1969.


When Dheel was arrested in 1971 for the coup plot, he was a businessman operating a pharmacy. The killing of these officers ushered a new era in the country when political dissent became synonymous with self-destruction. When the Somali populace heard the song, “Danaystow dugagu waa daldalaad aan dacwa lahayn. Sama Diidow Dabin baa kuu Dhigan Lagugu Dili Doonoo” (You) opportunist, your demise is lynching without due process. You rejected peace and there is a noose waiting for you”, over the radio, it was an ominous sign that someone was arrested for a serious political breach and that the individual was inevitably making his way to the GEEDKA. I have never heard a song that filled many Somalis with terror and apprehension than this song. The military government not only killed the bread-winners of these families but it went after the women and the children in some cases. The effect was catastrophic for these families as some were reduced to abject poverty.


After the Somali army was defeated in 1977/78 during the Ethiopian War, Siad Barre’s henchmen began a massive campaign of house searches in Mogadishu. Soldiers would come to houses and search for anti-government forces or weapons. The husband of my sister’s best friend, Hawo Haji Abdullahi Qore, was involved in an attempted coup staged by Majertein officers. Colonel Abshir Muse happened to be in Italy when the botched coup, led by Colonel Cirro, was prematurely staged. The government’s response was swift and heavy-handed. Several officers, including Colonel Cirro, were sent to the gallows. Abdullahi Yusuf escaped to Ethiopia. It was ironic that, several years later, Siad Barre was successful in luring a small number of these Majertein defectors, including Colonel Abshir Muse, back to Mogadishu. One of these officers was my relative, Said Ali Haji “Said Garaame” and an artillery specialist. I last saw him in one of my visits to Mogadishu in the 80s. Siad Barre had heard about an incident of heavy artillery firing by the rebel group, the Somali Salvation Democratic Force (SSDF) and asked who was directing them. “Said Garaame”, he was told. “I never heard that name,” Barre muttered. Of course, he could not have because Said Garaame was a young officer trained in then the Soviet Union. When Said Garaame became disenchanted with the SSDF, he decided to leave the group and return to Somalia, but he was already a wanted man. Garaame turned to a relative and a government official in order to intercede. Enter; Mohamed Hassan Barre “Shimbiralaaye” (Majertein), an intriguing fellow, and highly educated who had spent many years with the United Nation’s FAO as an agricultural specialist. Shimbiralaaye was later appointed as Deputy Minister of Agriculture, Planning, and Finance respectively. This seemingly quiet and low-key politician, perhaps, had secret mission for Siad Barre for a while; luring disgruntled Northeastern officers who had defected to SSDF back to Somalia. In return, Siad Barre, once these former rivals came back to Mogadishu, would pardon them and they would go back to their old jobs. Siad Barre was targeting the ‘Osman Mohamoud’ officers because they had a great deal of respect and admiration for Shimbiralaaye; a self-made man not known for being an ideologue. At any rate, Shimbiralaaye was successful in being a go-between-guy between these Majertein officers and Siad Barre. Barre, who had waged a brutal campaign against the Majertein (‘Omar Mahamoud) clan in late 1970s was facing a new, and perhaps, a formidable clan in the Isaak and he could not have afforded fighting in two fronts.

When officer Said Ali Haji returned to Mogadishu, he was taken to Siad Barre by Shimbiralaaye. That was the first time Barre met the pesky young officer face to face. Barre, the consummate politician, was capable of charm and lectured the young officer about patriotism asking him to use his exceptional skills to defend motherland. “I know that you “Bah-Gareen” [a sub-clan of Osman Mohamoud] are not going to listen to me since you had disobeyed your own king long time ago,” Siad Barre ruefully added.

Mogadishu Memoir (Part VII): The Cultural Milieu

Politics
In 1960s, Somalia had a functioning, but somewhat corrupt, democratic government. The ruling party at the time was the Somali Youth League (SYL). Elections were as rampant as vote rigging because there were so many political parties that almost every major clan identified with specific political grouping; the plethora of political parties was astounding. As a young boy, I even remember a party named “Laa Ilaaha Illa Laah” (There is no god but Allah). My mother and my neighbors would cast their votes and come back home, wash off the stamp stain on their hands and go back again to the voting center to vote.

I would hear from neighbors what party won or which one was robbed from votes. Years later, my mother would tell me how I used to play with toys and make them fight with one another. Often, one of the toys represented Adan Abdille Osman ‘Adan Adde’ (the first president of the country) and the other Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke (Adan Adde’s successor). After what appeared to be a tough fight, I would make the Sharmarke toy win over the Osman one. Of course, Sharmarke belonged to the same sub-clan my mother did. My mother always told this story in order to show off my political, and definitely, clan ‘acumen’; my toy-fights were the essence of political acculturation. I wonder how my mother would have reacted if I had made the Adan Adde toy win. I had positive feeling toward Sharmarke while growing up because he seemed to me a decent human being and a popular leader. Of course, I knew nothing about his political leanings or agenda, but somehow, to me, Adan Adde represented something different and unknown. Only many years later, in mid 1970s, did I come to meet Mr. Adan Adde in person and I saw what a remarkable and ethical man he was. As a retired politician, he used to come and pray in Teacher Maryam’s mosque, which was located two blocks away from his residence. I remember an incident in which an Egyptian cleric insisted Mr. Adan Adde to give the Friday sermon but the former president gently pushed the cleric forward to the podium, and when the cleric finished his sermon, he asked Mr. Adan Adde to lead the prayer, but Mr. Adan Adde once again refused and insisted that the cleric lead the prayer.

'In 1969, a military coup transformed Somali political landscape. Like many people in the country, I was excited about the military coming to power. On October 21, 1969, I still remember the military patrolling our neighborhood, Isku-Raran, while people stayed indoors. I recall some soldiers chasing some of the children off the streets. It is no exaggeration to say that the whole country was itching for a political change. Siad Barre, initially, was not corrupt and dictatorial. As a child, I was eager to participate in school activities that celebrated the ‘revolution’, and there was high level of nationalism among us children in part because the level of indoctrination at school was also high. The mass media bombarded the populace with songs and plays that extolled the virtues of the revolution and denigrated the ‘corrupt’ and ‘self-serving’ civilian government. One of the major accomplishments of the new regime was the adoption of Latin script for the Somali language which enabled me, as a lad, to teach my mother and some of my neighbors’ how to read and write. As time passed, I became disillusioned with the regime and it mainly had to do with the fact that I was not being a conformist. Simply put, I became non-cooperative in the eyes of others.

“Your son does not want to sing ‘Guulwadow Siyaad”, a Guulwade militia man complained to my mother one time. It was a song that celebrated Siad Barre as a “victory-bearer” and as “the father of knowledge” while glorifying Socialism as a complete system that leads to prosperity. My mother laughed and acted as though she was disgusted with my brazen act of intransigence. But when my relatives were around, my mother would mockingly repeat the militia’s complaint of me as though she was indirectly endorsing my defiance. In reality, I was not trying to make a political statement but I was just bored with chanting the same song over and over. Some of my housemates did not make things easier for me as well. These Majertein youngsters were not in tune with the new regime. I recall one of their friends, a Dhulbahante high school student, being arrested and accused of being part of what the government called ‘a subversive conspiracy’.
My mother was not into politics until 1973 when she became, to the befuddlement of my family, an active organizer. She became one of the ‘Mothers’, or ‘Hooyooyinka’ as they were known, at a local orientation center in our neighborhood. Until today, I am puzzled by what made my mother join the women’s group. I can only speculate that she did it for social reasons more than anything else because my mother never imbibed the regime’s vacuous rhetoric. She and her female friends were having good time being part of something they thought to be special. My mother was not the kind of person who would neither lionize the regime nor revile it. She was, interestingly, non-committal about the political issues that were gripping the country at the time, but after 1978, my mother’s attitude toward the regime became positive. Of course, my sister got married to a government official and mother became defensive of her son-in-law and the government he represented. My mother’s change of heart was more or less a reflection of her attempt to be civil to her in-law than a political realignment.

Religion
Like most Somalis, I was born Muslim in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. My mother, my sister, and I were not religious when I was growing up. In the sixties and seventies, Somali women dressed modestly, but the veil, as we know it today in contemporary Somalia, was non-existent. The Reer Hamar women, however, had traditionally worn what is called “Shuko”; a dress that resembles the veil used by Arab women. Men did not wear Arabic ‘Thawb” or ‘Qamis’ unless they were religious clerics. There was an anecdote of an Issak cleric who went to Saudi Arabia in the 1960s and saw, in a Jeddah market, a Saudi man wearing the traditional Arabic “Thawb’ or Qamiis and singing. The Somali Sheikh was shocked and exclaimed, “Alla Shiikhani miyuu waashay”. (Oh my God, has this cleric gone mad!). The Shaikh was not aware of the fact that the “qamis” is the traditional dress for Arab men.

The level of religiosity among Mogadishu residents was moderate. People generally emphasized on good character rather than religious rituals. One can safely argue that people cared a great deal of being good neighbors to each other and eschewed spilling blood or causing mayhem. Religious indictments or excommunicating people from Islam were not common except in few narrow circles of Sufi groups. A Qadiri follower would treat a Salihi follower with contempt and derision, and the opposite was true.

A lot of people fasted in Ramadan regardless of their religious commitments. Restaurants, by law, were closed from sunrise to sunset. There were always people who broke the law and used their homes as makeshift restaurants. As a child, I would walk in the neighborhood in the middle of the day and smell the aroma of delicious food emanating from some of these houses while throngs of men would wait outside and stealthily go in and out of these houses. My mother fasted during the month of Ramadan and so did my sister. There were occasions that I was irked when I saw my sister eating during the daytime in the month of Ramadan. “Why is Lul eating when everybody else is fasting? Mom, this girl is embarrassing us”, I would protest. No one explained to me about something called women’s ‘menstruation’. I was simply upset by the display of what seemed to me as a clear violation of fasting in Ramadan. On the other hand, I am embarrassed to admit that I was hiding under the guise of childhood to even fast. In fact, I only started fasting when I turned 14 years old which is late for a Somali boy to start fasting. My mother never suggested to me that I should fast and, in all fairness to her, I never wanted to do so. Since my mother and my sister were fasting, no food was prepared until two or three hours before sunset which left me without a hot meal for most of the day. My mother used to give me money to purchase food, and I used to go to the market to buy bread and dates to make sandwich out of them---There were plenty of dates available at the market during Ramadan. Then, I would eagerly wait to break fast with my mother and sister. My mother, like most Somali mothers, cooked variety of food that was mostly prepared during Ramadan. I always loved Ramadan meals and the oeuvres like the samboosa and ‘bur’. I remember one particular Ramadan when I was 12 years old; for the whole month of Ramadan, I broke fast –even though I was not fasting- with my uncle and his guests at his house in ‘Dabka neighborhood. My uncle always had friends and relatives breaking fast with him and the food prepared in his house was quite elaborate. First, dates, soup, and samboosa were served, which was followed by a typical dinner of rice/lamb/spaghetti/fish/sabaayad, and then tea and deserts. The meal was too much for me as a child, but the adults apparently did not mind. In our neighborhood, Ramadan brought people more out of the confines of their homes, and it made them socialize or interact more with one another.

My record of praying five times a day, while growing up, was cause for alarm. Practically, I prayed only whenever I was in the mood of being religious. From time to time, I would start praying and going to the mosque; then after a week or two, I would regress back to my old habits of insolence. However, one experience had a major impact on me. I think I was either 11 or 12 years old when a young boy-who was half Arab and half-Somali-took me to the famous Abdiqadir Mosque, better-known as ‘Maqaam’, to attend a Tafseer session by Sheikh Mohamed Moalim. This mosque was a block away from the National Theatre and behind my school, Moalim Jama. Sheikh Mohamed was an Egyptian-trained cleric and a high official of the Ministry of Justice and Religion. He graduated from the prestigious Al-Azhar University, and he had an M.A in Philosophy. The Sheikh’s well-attended Tafseer lesson was between Maghrib and Isha prayers, and was held every night except Friday. The Sheikh used to sit on a platform covered with a white sheet and a microphone placed on top of it. The audience sat on the floor surrounding the platform.

Initially, I found Sheikh Mohamed’s style of Qur’an interpretation stale and boring, but after a week of attending his lesson, I started liking this new arena of knowledge. This Hawadle cleric, though from the south, received his early Islamic education under the tutelage of Somali Sheikhs in Western Somalia. He was short and overweight man with non-traditional accent. To the novice, the Sheikh’s public speaking skills left a lot to be desired. From time to time, he would repeat the monotonous phrase, “Maanta ma Arkeysaa…” which roughly translates in colloquial English, “You know what I mean…” His Quran exegesis, though, was gratifying. He always succeeded in presenting the Qur’an as lively and engaging as it was supposed to be. He was neither a fanatic nor a traditional Somali Sheikh. It was tragic that the Somali government under Siad Barre imprisoned him in 1976 and kept him locked at the notorious prison Labaatan Jirow for more than eight or nine years without any charges. Ironically, the Sheikh, at the time of his imprisonment, was the Director of Religious Affairs in the Ministry of Justice and Religion. It was only after the Shaikh’s imprisonment that Somalia experienced a wave of Islamic revivalism led by the Shaikh’s young disciples. Of course, the Shaikh will be turning in his grave had he known the current state of militancy in Somalia and the crimes being committed in the name of Islam. I had the pleasure of meeting the Shaikh one more time in his house during my last visit to Somalia in 1987 and I found him to be pleasant, not bitter, and full of humor. The Shaikh was disappointed with some of his former students and he accused them of being “myopic, intolerant, and disrespectful”. Sadly, the Shaikh died in late 1980s.

Back to the Shaikh’s Tafseer lessons, the first time I attended, he was explaining the story of Prophet Abraham’s wife being given glad tidying for bearing a baby. Abraham’s wife slapped her face in disbelief and asked the angels, in essence, how she could bear a child when she was an old woman. As a child, it was fascinating to listen to the human drama that seemed as if it was unfolding before my very own eyes. After a week, the Shaikh started the Tafseer of Surat Yusuf---the longest story in the Qur’an. I was mesmerized by the story of Yusuf because it had all the elements of drama, tragedy, comedy, and the usual stuff that we humans succumb to such as jealousy among siblings, treachery, sexual harassment, false accusation, false imprisonment, loss of faith, etc. I do not know how long it took the Shaikh to finish that long and fascinating Surah, but by the time he finished Surat Yusuf and began Surat Al-Ra’ad (the Thunder), I had lost interest in the Shaikh and his Tafseer. I was longing for stories and surprisingly the surahs that follow Yusuf hammer topics of faith and the Hereafter. I became ‘bored’ and went back to my old habit of not praying. Nonetheless, that brief experience gave me a new understanding of the Qur’an and it changed my perception of the Qur’an because all I did before that was to memorize it without knowing its true meaning.

It was in 1975 when I went back to the Shaikh’s lesson. One of my classmates, Yusuf Mohamed Elmi, a Shiikhaal, took me to the mosque. Yusuf and his late sister were devout young activists who used to give Islamic lessons at our Moalim Jama School. Yusuf and I struck friendship and he made sure that I accompanied him to Sheikh Mohamed’s lesson. Yusuf came to my house an hour before sunset one day in order to take me to the mosque but I told him that I had another important engagement that night. In reality, I was going to the movies! He was patient with me and sure enough he came back the next day and we headed to Abdulqadir Mosque. Yusuf introduced me to Shaikh Mohamed Moalim before the latter commenced his Tafseer. One day, after Maghreb prayer, we were shocked to find out that the Shaikh was arrested by the secret service.

Movies
Speaking of movies, I was a great fan of the cinema. In 1960s I often went to El Gab Cinema which was located in my neighborhood, but sometimes, I used to go to Cinema Nasr. I would never forget the first time I went to the movies. A young man named Mumin, a Geledi, and a friend of my family, took me to Cinema Super. The movie was an American Western. All I remember was seeing an image of a White woman and horses in the movie screen, and I became scared and I kept crying. I had never seen, prior to that point, a White person and horses. Mumin had no choice but to escort me out of the movie house and take me home. However, as I got older, I started loving all kinds of movies. All the American and European movies were dubbed in Italian. In essence, I can say that I grew up watching the movies of Kirk Douglas (wrongly called ‘Kirk Dabagalaas’ by Somalis), Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleve, Yule Brenner, etc. Somehow, the Spaghetti Western films resonated with us, Somalis, due to the immense Italian influence in Mogadishu. I still remember movies like, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, and admiring Clint Eastwood and that slimy and devious Eli Wallach, and loathing Lee Van Cleve. Apparently, Wallach was indeed bad, but his nefarious deeds were done with flare. There were also Italian movies that were shown in Somalia and some were bad imitation of American Westerns, but Franco Nero of ‘Django’ was popular among movie goers including myself.

Indian movies were also popular in Somalia in 1960s and 1970s. I used to watch Indian movies even though I did not understand the language. These movies were laden with romance, songs, and dance. There was one thing Somalis generally frown upon: public display of emotions. For instance, it is common for adults to cry in Indian movies, and somehow Somalis would stereotypically refer to someone that cried or showed emotion as ‘Hindi’ (Indian). I don’t think that I will ever forget about such classic movies like, Ram Aur Shyam, Farz, Waris, Waqt, Jawaab, Sangam, Janwaar, etc.
Music

Radio Mogadishu was the only medium of mass communication that was available to Somali masses. Although it was only broadcasted several hours a day, it was very entertaining. During Siad Barre’s regime, the radio was a paragon of turgid political machine. I loved Somali songs but paid little attention to poetry. At the time, I did not understand the richness of Somali poetry but I felt that I could relate to the songs and the music. My favorite program was a live interview session during Eid day with Somali artists. I loved knowing tidbits of information about the artists’ lives and the creative process despite of my mother lamenting about the deception employed by some of the female artists. “They [artists] never age; every year they tell us a younger age”, my mother would scoff.

In early 1970s, there was a new program called “Heesaha Hirgalay” which featured a song contest. It was held every Monday night at the National Theater, which was built by the Chinese, and famous singers like Hassan Adan Samatar, Abdi Tahlil, Abdulkadir Bagaag, Salad Darbi, and Abdikhadar Hassan were some of the artists that emerged from these contests. I was a big fan of these contests and sometimes would manage to go there at least twice a month. It was a bit expensive but I looked forward to going there, and when I did not go, I would follow the contest through the radio.

Sports
I played soccer in 1960s and early 70s and was pretty good at it. My first soccer game which was viewed by many people required a jersey and I did not have one. Instead, I had to use one of my white shirts and soaked it in a bath of saffron, and later pasted number 3 on it. I was playing with youths that were a bit older than me, and being part of soccer contest at times, required money. Each player had to put some money up front in order to play against another team, and the winning team took all the money. For this memorable game, I played good defense even though my team lost. Later, I played soccer for fun.

I used to be crazed about professional soccer games and followed the matches by listening to the radio, but I rarely went to see actual matches in the stadium. As a child, I used to support HORSEED against JEENYO; these two teams were the best soccer teams in the country. Horseed represented the military, and Jeenyo represented the Department of Public Works. Somehow, Jeenyo players seemed to me to be rugged, tough and dirty. I was a great fan of Ismaail Gariile, a talented soccer player who had defected from Ethiopia. Players like Jeylani (Bantu), Antar Jeenyo (Murursade), Budiste (Abskool) and later Shaash (Bantu), Bin Shakir (Baajuun) were my favorite ones. Later, I became a fan of FIAT team which represented young players like Ganjab and Dhagoolka.

I used to follow the Somali national basketball team and on several occasions watched their practices. I loved basketball and admired players like Saciid Qorsheel (Warsangeli) and the kid in our block, Abdirizaak Haji Raage (Murursade). They represented excellence in a sport not known that much in the country.

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)