Mogadishu— The Bombed Paradise .

BY DAHUTI KAHURA
T S Elliot once said it was all in the waiting. Twenty one years after Somalia disintegrated into an internecine and fratricidal civil war, senior writer DAUTI KAHURA travelled to Mogadishu, the capital city of once greater Somalia, a city he describes as a bombed paradise and found a people—to quote the controversial Indian author Salman Rushdie—“united by one language and divided by maps.” Finding a people imbued with an eternal optimism, “the only thing that seems not to have been destroyed,” reports Kahura, “is ceaseless Somali humour—but comedy is a cousin of tragedy.”
It was by sheer providence that I left Mogadishu 12 hours ahead of a bomb that rocked the precincts of a shop I had just visited to buy gifts and memorabilia to carry back to Nairobi. The attack no doubt was carried out by the al Shabaab, a militia group that is currently being fought by Kenya Defence Forces in central and southern Somalia. Shabaab, which means the youth in Arabic, is a remnant and mutation of the Islamic Courts Union that was defeated and routed in 2006 by the Ethiopian military.
I had stayed at Hotel Sahafi —Arabic for journalist—just about 100 metres from Kilometre Four, and where two French nationals were kidnapped by the militia group in July 2009. Hotel Sahafi International is where the legion of foreign journalists who land in Mogadishu end up staying.
So it was not a wonder that my minders checked me in at Sahafi and calmly told me that the al Shabaab intelligence in the city would immediately know that I had been booked at the hotel—“but there was nothing to worry about”, they comforted me. They were not bluffing. When the two French nationals booked into the hotel, the al Shabaab intelligence immediately knew they were masquerading as journalists. In fact, the French nationals were experts who had come to advise on security matters for the TFG presidency.
One morning at about 10am, as guests cooled off in their rooms, the al Shabaab stormed into the hotel in a truck, ran—commando style—into the French nationals respective rooms and took off with them to an unknown destination.
By the time I was arriving at Hotel Sahafi, as 2011 came to a close and KDF engaged the al Shabaab in their second month, the hotel had been completely sealed off with armed sentry men taking turns to guard the hotel’s front and rear entrances, 24/7. Unless the al Shabaab drove a truck right into the high metal grates in a suicidal move, or threw a bomb, probably from Kilometre Four, there was not half a chance that the guests were threatened, but still…
It was not until I landed at Aden Abdulle International Airport by Mogadishu’s seaside, that it dawned on me that since becoming a journalist the maxim journalism is about seeing and learning had not had such profound meaning. Even the most hardened optimistic and spirited Somali—a people I found out to be imbued with ceaseless humour—agreed with me that 21 years in an unending internecine civil war—was a long time in any language.
Mogadishu city, once described by Europeans as a paradise had been turned into a shell. A bombed paradise that stood like a continuum of ancient ruins. Only that the buildings had been deliberately destroyed by gangs of rival clans fighting to own the city and therefore control of the seat of political power. It is a dusty coastal city cannibalised by its own people who, like Salman Rushdie, the controversial author of the Satanic Verses once said of them, “To be a Somali is to be a people united by one language and divided by maps.”
My minders had told me that it was a great time to visit Mogadishu—the war on al Shabaab by the Kenyan military notwithstanding. There was some modicum of security. There was a general consensus among the people that they were weary of fighting and therefore willing to talk. But most fundamentally, the people seemed to agree in unison that the al Shabaab is a retrogressive force, a menace that does not advance the Somali cause—that is peace—after 21 years of living like medieval Europe.
Somali people are an oral community. They may not agree or easily arrive at a consensus, but can talk for hours on end, cracking jokes even in the gravest of adversity and difficulty. Graham Hancock, the British journalist and celebrated author of the seminal book—Lords of Poverty—remembers Mogadishu with nostalgia. It was his home in peacetime, just before the war broke out and for over a year when he lived there with his first wife, Santha Faiia, a Somali.
For all the time I was in Mogadishu, I talked to the people and they talked to me. From politicians to Cabinet ministers. From senior military officials to foot soldiers. From the rank and file Somalis to diplomats. From Somalis living in the Diaspora who were also visiting like me, to journalists and media personalities. From presidential advisers to businessmen and even to one of Somalia’s best known vocalists—Binti Omar Gal, the 50-something crooner, who in her heydays regaled Somalis all over the world with her sweet melodious lyrics. Lastly I spoke to Turkish officials who are in Mogadishu and who have taken it upon themselves to reconstruct the city.
I began by speaking to former military officer in Siad Barre’s government, Khalif Ashkir Deinixoosh. In his 70s now and slowed down by age, Khalif was a senior army officer. Khalif later become an author and wrote about the history of the Somali people and Siad Barre. It could be said that he is one of the unauthorised chroniclers of Barre’s biography. Khalif seemed excited when he confided that he was currently working on another book on Siad Barre, this time to be published in English. The first book was published in the Somali language.
Next, I met Sufi Mohamed Sheikh on the patio of Hotel Sahafi. He is arguably Somalia’s best known photographer and cameraman, also a chronicler of Somali culture and public life. Sociable and exhibiting the Somali renowned trustworthiness, Sufi and I sipped coffee speaking freely and heartily as he narrated to me how the once beautiful city of Mogadishu had fallen into the wicked hands of clan warlords.
Sufi, now 60, was something of an official government photographer in Barre’s time and because of his interactions with the president and high government bureaucrats, he traversed the country photographing them, alongside the country’s landmarks and panorama and creating portraits of senior state and military officials.
“I am in the process of compiling the history of modern Somalia through photography,” Sufi, who is fluent in Italian said in halting English. “I think the time is ripe. I managed to keep my stills and my other photographic materials intact. Now with peace in the offing, I have been spending more and more time at the studio with a view of reproducing my pictures that capture a Somalia in transition.” Sufi runs Sufi Institute of Photography, not too far away from Hotel Sahafi, and serves as a consultant to both local and international organisations.
When the war finally broke out in Mogadishu and Barre in a convoy of military vehicles and tanks headed for the Kenyan border, senior civil servants such as Sufi were in great trouble. Sufi is from the Darod clan, just like Barre. “When warlords of rival clans who had crossed paths with Barre started hunting down Darod members, I knew my life was in danger and my family was in trouble,” said Sufi. “So, I booked my wife and six children on a flight to Mombasa and I remained behind,” he recalls.
Later his family transited to the US and today they form part of the largest United States Somali Diaspora in Minneapolis. Sufi never left Mogadishu. “I love Mogadishu and despite the dangers and torment that I faced, I stayed around, moving from one corner of the country to the other and dodging rival clan bullets and senseless killings.” Still looking strong and gesturing with his big hands, one would almost believe Sufi was fatalistic.
His family of three boys and three girls, now adults and leading professional lives in America pleaded with him to go to the US, but Sufi would hear none of it. After staying away for a long time from his family, Sufi finally caved in—not by travelling to the US, but by marrying a younger wife and starting a family anew. But he still kept in touch with his first family. His youngest daughter had just been admitted to medical school by the time I was landing in Mogadishu and he was ecstatic about it. She had sent him the latest BlackBerry in the market and for the umpteenth time pleaded with him to change his mind, telling him she would be glad to stay with him.
If Sufi exhibited the undying nationalism the Somalis fearlessly have for their country, it is ambassador MA Alim, 72 , who talked passionately of the day Mogadishu will be liberated from anarchy and social upheaval. Alim had been an ambassador to Europe and Middle Eastern countries, like Dubai for many years. Like Sufi when the war quickly spread to Mogadishu, he stuck to his guns and refused to leave Mogadishu, but like every reasonable Somali man, he shipped his family abroad. And just like Sufi’s, his pestered him endlessly to leave Mogadishu for the comfort of a good life in the UK.
Alim also caved in by packing his bags and finally leaving for the UK in 2006. When I met him at Hotel Sahafi, he looked all but 72 years of age. Quiet, less talkative and very observant, pensive and condescending to me, Alim told me he missed Mogadishu, the incessant fighting nonetheless. “Mogadishu is my city and this where I grew up. If we do not come back to rebuild it, nobody will. I am tired of living in the UK, the weather’s horrible—it is too cold and I am not growing any younger. My children may like living in the UK but trust me, my heart’s in Somalia and not in London.”
Alim had left for the UK, not because he wanted to, but his children could not understand why he would continue living in a war-torn, hell-hole like Mogadishu. It was distressing and they worried every day that they would wake up one morning to find news of his death. “I joined them to relieve them of their fears and tensions,” said Alim. “They used to call me every single day. It was not fair.”
Now in Mogadishu, devouring its sunny weather again, eating food he had not eaten for a while and catching up with old time friends, Alim was in the broken city to see for himself the progress, albeit shaky and tenuous that the TFG government is making. He was also in Mogadishu at the invitation of the presidency, which wanted to consult him and tap on his wide knowledge on statecraft and his diplomatic skills.
I also met Abdullahi Sheikh Mohamed, a policy analyst on economic issues and a retired UN staffer. When I met him he had spent most of the day with TFG president Sheikh Sharif Sheikh Ahmed at state house consulting over wide array of state issues. “I was in Nairobi when the President sent for me,” Abdullahi told me that breezy evening. “But his emissaries finally caught up with me as we were climbing Mt Arafat in Saudi Arabia for the Hajj pilgrimage.”
I could see why the TFG government would seek out the likes of Abdullahi and Alim. As Alim had served and represented Somalia’s interests abroad, Abdullahi was a senior bureaucrat who served as the Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture during Siad Barre’s regime. “Mogadishu was a bubbly and lively city in the 70 and 80s,” said Abdullahi. “The city was alive and abuzz with a social scene that would be the envy of many a city in the region today,” reminisced Abdullahi. He would know.
Abdullahi was the deputy mayor of Mogadishu in the 70s. He described his city then as clean, secular and forward looking. The night life was like in any other metropolis anywhere in the world. “The city had a secular feel to it,” remembers Abdullahi, “and people were free to enjoy city life and entitled to their religious worship. For example, the Catholic Cathedral was magnificent as was the Jamia Mosque.” But although the Mosque located at the near end of the main Mogadishu boulevard today still stands serenely, the cathedral today looks a relic from the Gothic era.
Abdullahi said TFG has many problems, some because of want of government experience, but chief among them were structural and institutional, but he was optimistic that if it kept on track it would overcome. “The government is young and inexperienced and sometimes it seems to grope in the dark. But what do we expect—any inexperienced government in TFG’s position would behave the same,” said Abdullahi.
According to the latest government statistics, Mogadishu has been receiving about 2,000 Somali returnees from the Diaspora, every month for the last couple of months. I met some of them while in Mogadishu and one could not fail to see in them a desire and passion for a dustless and gun-less Mogadishu that reminded them of their time.
Shukria Dini was one of them. In her mid 30s, Shukria had spent the better part of her growing up in Toronto—host to the largest Somali Diaspora community in Canada. With a PhD in social studies, Shukria is well-educated, eloquent and talks fast. Engaging her one supper time, Shukria told me she had come back to Mogadishu after 20 years because Mogadishu would remain her city and birthplace. “My ancestors walked the breath and length of Mogadishu and beyond, some are buried here”, Shukria said passionately with a Canadian twang. “I have a duty to my people and society.”
A pacifist, Shukria hoped that the TFG and the al Shabaab would find common ground for a meaningful and constructive engagement. “What Somalia needs, now that there is a window of opportunity, is people talking to each other and not a continuation and an exacerbation of war and war cries.”
Another Somali from the Diaspora was Abdishakur Ali Mire from London. Abdishakur had left Mogadishu when he was 17. Now 37, and a senior journalist Abdishakur was unmistakably British in his demeanour. “Twenty years is a long time living away from homeland,” said Abdishakur, “but Somalia will always be home.” Abdishakur is the managing director of M2A—a media and communications consultancy. He was in Mogadishu to work with Somali journalists, a project that he was in partnership with the TFG.
Abdishakur is soft-spoken, polite and media savvy and hardly engages in banter. But when we sat down to chat, he talked of his deep love for his country and the sadness he carried with him for seeing his country waste because of a senseless civil war perpetuated by selfish leaders. “If only peace would reign again, I would be back to Somalia, to Mogadishu, a city I grew up in for the first teenage years of my life. I have fond memories of Mogadishu and you can’t take that away. I long to be in Mogadishu,” said Abdishakur.
Peace. Security. Proper governance structures. That is what TFG government is working towards, said Hassan Warsame, a TFG MP. Hassan pointed out TFG was not a perfect government, but its main concern was to secure peace and security for everyone. And that is why the Turkish were in Mogadishu because at least the TFG—of course with the help of UPDF soldiers, popularly known as AMISOM—was able to maintain a sense of sanity.
There are 200 Turkish engineers, contractors, nurses, doctors, businessmen and dock workers in Mogadishu engaged in the reconstruction of schools, hospitals and the running of the Mogadishu port. A Turkish contractor who lives in Johannesburg but spends every two weeks of the month in Mogadishu told me security was crucial for rebuilding and reconstruction of Mogadishu. “If the TFG can maintain peace, the Turkish government is ready to bring even more Turkish experts to Mogadishu to revive and uplift the country from its current state of affairs.”
On my last day in Mogadishu I spent time with Fatah—a handsome, lanky and tall 22-year-old Somali youth who had been serving me tea from tea leaf packed in Kericho. Taking time from his busy schedule as a waiter, Fatah said to me he was a child of the Mogadishu madness that had wrecked havoc to the city. “I was born just when Mogadishu descended into chaos and all this time I lived through the war with my parents. It is by Allah’s grace that neither I nor my siblings and parents were killed during the war.”
But it is Fatah, nicknamed Shafane by his peers more than anybody else that carried the optimism, hope and aspirations of a future Somalia. Chatty, witty, clever and exceedingly charming, Fatah conspiratorially whispered into my ear that he had just gotten married to his teenage and secondary school sweetheart—19-year-old Hamdi. “I had no problem convincing her, but her parents had proved to be difficult, questioning my love and commitment to her,” chuckled Fatah. “Everything is about talking and negotiating and talking and then negotiating. Even TFG can talk to al Shabaab and negotiate with them and then talk again and negotiate until they arrive at a workable consensus.
Source:- The Star