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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Director of Communications nodded in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.”

“Ok, good luck then.”

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

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

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

“I can live with that,” I told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Streets without laws

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

Only in Mogadishu is that possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, not,” I answered.

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

Bajaj pandemonium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Bajaj driver aptly summarized the business:

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

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

Who let the animals out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first hour

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

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

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

 “Hassan Abukar.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thirty-one years ago,” I said.

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

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

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

Wake up, it is a car bombing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No More Digil/Mirifle Speaker

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

Are you shocked?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honey, you can’t be.”

“Why not?”

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

“But I want to be the speaker.”

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

“Really?”

“Indeed.”

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

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

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

“Yes, I agree”

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

"I see.”

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

“Is that a joke?”

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

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

***

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

Are you numb to this commentary?

I thought so.

Helmi Ben Meriem: A Tunisian Scholar of Somali Studies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben Meriem was incredulous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sayyid Ahmed: A Charistmatic Somali Bridge Builder in Egypt

In 1978, when I was 18, I left Somalia to join my older sister, a diplomat, in Cairo, Egypt. It was my first trip abroad, and I was both excited and ambivalent. On the one hand, I was apprehensive about an unknown future. On the other hand, I felt I was embarking on a new adventure in search of better educational opportunities.

In the year and a half I spent in Cairo as a student and a local employee of the Somali Airlines’ branch office, I met some interesting Somali individuals, both leaders and ordinary people. Cairo was a transit stop for many Somali officials heading to Europe or other parts of Africa. It was also a city in which many Somalis attended school, while others came to get their work permits on their way to the Gulf. Still others had left their families in Cairo as they went to work elsewhere, while a good number came to spend their vacations in Egypt.

Interestingly, I met one Somali elder who made a lasting impression on me—the legendary Sayyid Ahmed Sh. Musse. The loveable and brilliant leader had helped cement Egyptian relationships with Somalia. Sayyid Ahmed (1910-1980) hailed from Somaliland (Habar Yonis) and had come to Egypt in the 1930s. He was a jack of all trades. His career seesawed between being a university student, a successful businessman, who imported camels from Somaliland, and a journalist at the Somali Service of the popular “Sawt al-Arab” (Voice of the Arabs) radio program in Cairo.

 He was a charismatic and sociable character, an excellent conversationalist who had played a crucial role in the politics of Somaliland in the 1950s as an activist. For many, he was the point man of Egypt in the Somaliland British Protectorate, and he had notable influences in the fields of culture and politics. After 1960, he mentored a group of Somali diplomats stationed in Egypt about the country they were posted.

As a young adult, Sayyid Ahmed proved to be a resourceful and powerful figure to whom many looked up. The following story excerpted from his fascinating years in Egypt proved this. Former ambassador Abdullahi Adan (Congo), whom I also had the pleasure of meeting in Cairo, said in an interview that he was one of the 22 students from Somaliland who were told that they would be met by Sayyid Ahmed, the “Somaliland Representative in Egypt” once they arrived in Egypt. When the students disembarked at Port Said, to their surprise, there was no one to receive them. They took a bus and arrived in Cairo in search of Sayyid Ahmed. Apparently, Sayyid Ahmed had not been informed of the arrival of the new students.

The students struggled to find Sayyid Ahmed in such a cosmopolitan city as Cairo, and navigating the unfamiliar terrain of outdoor meat markets, street peddlers, and towering buildings became a Herculean task. The students split into groups in the crowded streets of the city shouting Sayyid Ahmed’s name. But to no avail. Some of them went to Al-Azhar University, where they inquired about Sayyid Ahmed’s whereabouts. This time they were lucky. A tall young man with Somali features approached them and introduced himself as Sayyid Ahmed. They were thunderstruck by his appearance because, in their harried calculations, they had assumed such a powerful position would be filled by a middle-aged, professional-looking man. Sayyid Ahmed, it turned out, was a slim, smiling youth attending Al-Azhar University. However, his resourcefulness did not disappoint them as he took every one of the 22 students to a tailor and got them coats and pants. “It was quite a scene,” Ambassador Abdullahi Adan said many decades later, “seeing 22 Somalis walking in the streets of Cairo wearing the same clothes.” Sayyid Ahmed then took the students to al-Mujammac, a government center located at Tahrir Square, and obtained their immigration papers.

In the 1950s, Sayyid Ahmed returned to Somaliland, where he became a relentless champion for teaching the Arabic language in the British Protectorate. He was instrumental in opening the first Islamic institute in Buro. Moreover, in 1956, he founded a political party called “Hizbu Allah” (God’s Party). According to Dr. Abdurahman M. Abdullahi (Badiyow), the author of The Islamic Movement in Somalia (2015), Sayyid Ahmed was influenced by Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood and Nasserist ideology. He skillfully combined Islamism (a globalist religion and ideology) and nationalism (a particular ideology for a nation-state), a contradiction in terms. His Islamic activism was relatively moderate. First and foremost, he advocated the independence of Somaliland from Britain.

Sayyid Ahmed wrote three books in Arabic, which are all out of print: “Hizbu Allah wa Hizbu al-Shaydan” (The Party of God and the Party of Satan), “Al-Tharwah al-Taaci’ah fi al-Soomaal” (The Continued Loss of Wealth in Somalia) and “Khadarul al-Casabiyyah cala Soomaal” (The Danger of Zealous Clannism to Somalia).  

Sayyid Ahmed was married to an Egyptian woman who bore him several children. He also fathered children from a Somali wife. His son, Mahdi from the Egyptian mother, was quite popular among Somalis in Cairo. He was a handsome social butterfly who helped many Somalis navigate Egypt’s social and administrative landscape. Some Somalis dubbed him the “Egyptian” for adopting the local habits of “Mujamalah” (sucking or kissing up).

Sayyid Ahmed had a son, Mohamed “Cirro”, who became an accomplished Somali journalist working in Mogadishu. I met him in Cairo during one of his visits to his family, and we struck up a lasting friendship. He was smart, educated, and a capable reporter who encouraged me to pursue journalism. A nationalist who believed in Somali unity, he stayed in Mogadishu after the collapse of Siad Barre’s regime. In the early 1990s, Cirro worked as an adviser to General Mohamed Farah Aidid, and later to his son Hussein Aidid. He later became ill and was brought to Hargeisa, where he passed away several years ago.

Asmahan Sh. Musse, a niece of Sayyid Ahmed who lives in Canada, fondly remembers her uncle from long conversations she had with her father. Moreover, as a child, her uncle would bring her and her siblings sweet treats from Egypt. “My whole family was proud of his immense contribution to the Motherland,” she said. “He was simply a hero who the new generation has yet to learn about and appreciate.”

Sayyid Ahmed is best remembered as a nationalist who championed the preservation of Islamic identity and culture in Somaliland. He helped establish Islamic institutions there and was a catalyst for many Somali students to win scholarships in Egypt. He served as an informal ambassador for many Somalis long before Somalia became independent. He blended Islamism and nationalism and is credited for lending crucial support to the then-nascent pro-independence party in Somaliland, the Somali National League (SNL). He is also the first Somali student to graduate from the prestigious Al-Azhar University.

Somalis in Norway Confront Child-Rearing Culture Clash

The Somali community in Norway is at a crossroads. Norway is one of the wealthiest, safest, and most welcoming countries in the world. It is home to many immigrants who have fled poverty and lack of opportunities in their native countries. However, the country has some of the toughest child welfare services in the world; a record that has angered Norwegians and immigrants alike. Somali immigrants must learn Norwegian-approved child-rearing practices and the laws that govern them, but need a method to share that information across the community.

“We are definitely under the microscope,” a Somali community member in Norway said. “There is an intense debate now in Norway regarding the welfare of Somali children.”  

Recently, a Norwegian TV channel aired a documentary about Somali children whose parents had returned them to Somalia and who subsequently suffered violence and other abuses. These parents were doing what the Somalis call “dhaqan-celis” meaning cultural rehabilitation, or a process in which children in the West are taken to Somalia to reform and learn their culture. As a result of the furor, the Norwegian government has tasked seven departments to look into the matter and make recommendations.

There are about 42,217 Somalis in Norway, making it the second-largest non-Western community in that country. The first few Somalis came to Norway in 1970 as seamen; others arrived after the Somali civil war started in 1991. About 50 percent of the Somali population in Norway is concentrated in Oslo. Interestingly, 17,000 of the 42,217 are children. Some Somalis have adapted to life in Norway and have become integral members of Norwegian society. Interestingly, Somalia’s current Prime Minister, Hassan Kheyre, and Mohamed Osman Jawari, speaker of Somalia’s Federal Parliament, are both Norwegian nationals.

Other Somali asylum seekers and refugees have settled in Norway in the past few years and are adjusting to their new home. “Almost 70 percent of Somalis fall into the latter category,” said Mahad Abdulle of Maqal Radio at a gathering in August 2017 where members of the Somali community in Oslo met a visiting Somali official.

During that meeting, it was clear the community’s main concern was the removal of Somali children, who were being taken from their homes by Barnevernet, the Norwegian Social Service Agency.

Tough Child Welfare System

Norway has rigorous child protection laws that have confounded many international critics. Barnevernet is responsible for the protection of children in the country. It is devoted to children’s rights, and promotes their well-being more than any other nation. According to the Child Welfare Act of 1992, Barnevernet’s main purpose is to “ensure that children and youth who live in conditions that may be detrimental to their health and development receive the necessary assistance and care at the right time and to help ensure children and youth grow up in a secure environment.”

According to Statistics Norway (2016), by the end of 2015, almost 36,800 children had received some type of services from Barnevernet, including counseling, social service visits, and day care assistance. About 60 percent of those receive services at home and 16 percent outside their homes—mostly in foster care or in institutions. The 36, 800 receiving some type of services represents 2.9% of all children in Norway.

The current controversy is not over Barnevernet’s provision of child welfare services, but its removal of children from their homes.

According to published government data, children are referred to Barnevernet for the following reasons: about 29 percent of the children have parents who lack parenting skills, 17 percent of the children have parents with a mental illness, 11 percent have experienced some type of domestic conflict, and 8 percent have parents abusing drugs.

Recently, domestic critics of Barnevernet have become vocal. In 2016, a Norwegian mother and her Romanian husband lost their five children to the agency. An evangelical Christian couple, Ruth and Marius Bodnariu, were accused of administering corporal punishment to their children, a charge Ruth admitted to Barnevernet case workers. In Norway, spanking children is illegal. The Bodnariu case became a media sensation when the BBC made a documentary about it.

Corporal punishment is outlawed not only Norway, but in 42 other countries around the world.  However, Norway has raised its opposition to corporal punishment with unprecedented zeal. One Norwegian reverend took pains to refer to his country as a secular nation. “They have a new translation of the Bible that erases all the verses that talk about disciplining your children,” he said.

About 170 psychologists, social workers, and lawyers signed a petition last year condemning Barnevernet for its stringent child welfare rules and the excuses it uses to remove children from their homes. “Children are removed from the homes on very weak evidence characterized by speculative interpretations,” the signatories to the petition wrote. “Too often, we see biological parents who do not have all the world’s resources behind them, stand no chance against a big and powerful public apparatus. We see a tendency for decisions to be made based on incomplete observation basis and tendentious interpretations.” The signatories called for a reform of child welfare services and the end of policies that unfairly traumatize both children and parents.

Barnevernet officials point out that 90 percent of children receive services while at home and only 10 percent are removed from their parents. “The worst mistake is when we wait too long to take children from home,” the director of the agency said to SBS Australia.

International outcry

In 2016, Czech President Milos Zeman compared the Norwegian child welfare system to Nazi Germany’s Lebensborn, a program in which the children of unmarried mothers were given to Aryan parents.

An Indian couple had their children removed from home because they fed them with their hands. A Brazilian woman in Norway sought refuge in her country’s embassy in Oslo after Barnevernet case workers quizzed her about her daughter’s eating habits, and a former Russian government official accused Norway of kidnapping children to solve the country’s low fertility rate.

According to a BBC report, eight child welfare cases in Norway were heard in the European Court of Human Rights in 2016. A Czech member of the European Parliament said there were “human rights violations [that] have occurred and that there is something dangerous in Norway.”

Romania, Lithuania, Poland, and Sweden have protested Barnevernet’s practices, which they say are ruining families.  

Between 2005 and 2015, about 500 parents left Norway and illegally removed their children to settle elsewhere.  

Are Somali children in danger?

Saeed Amin, a Somali Norwegian who works for an Oslo municipality, has been stopped many times in the streets and asked about the “3,000 Somali children” Barnevernet had taken. The staggering number of 3,000 did not surprise him because in Somali communities rumors oftentimes outpace facts. He decided to let the evidence speak to the community.

“The good thing is Norway documents everything and publishes it,” he said at a community gathering.

What did Amin find out?

“The notion among Somalis that there are 3,000 missing Somali children is baseless,” Amin said.

Equipped with the latest statistics of the Norwegian government, Amin said that, in fact, only 180 Somali children have been removed from their homes. “About 680 of our children are currently getting some type of services from the system,” he added.

Cultural issues

Many Somali children are raised in a culture that sits very close to the confluence of tradition and modernity. Spanking is acceptable in Somali society; parents administer corporal punishment, as do public school teachers and instructors of the Quran. There is a different system of child rearing in Norway to which Somali parents need to adjust.  

One Somali community activist in Oslo observed a difference between how Somalis view their children and how Norwegians do. Somali parents raise their children so that when they grow up, the younger generation can help their parents, the community member said. “In Norway, parents raise their children for the betterment of society and, hence, it is not their sole responsibility.”

Community action

According to a young Somali Norwegian, there are more than 100 Somali organizations in Norway and Somalis are divided across clan lines.

Saeed Amin thinks there is one major thing the community lacks: unity.

“It is not shameful to have particular organizations, but we have to have an umbrella organization that speaks for all of us and furthers our interests,” he said at a community gathering. Being united in pursuit of a common purpose will make the community stronger and aid in the fight for its rights, he added.

The road to the future

In the end, it is what individual parents do that matters most. Sharpening parenting skills, understanding the social and educational system in Norway, and providing stability for children will help quell the Barnevernet controversy.