BY M J AKBAR
Editor-in-Chief of The Asian Age
E-mail: [email protected]
16 January 2006
ON December 2, 2005, His Excellency Eng.
Hussein Mohammad Farah Aideed, deputy prime
minister (politics and security), minister
of interior, Transitional Federal Government
of the Somali Republic, called, by appointment,
on India’s high commissioner in Nairobi,
Surendra Kumar.
He was dressed in a dark blue suit, tie
and leather-strap sandals. The ‘Eng.’
before his name was similar to ‘Dr’:
Engineers now like to be known that they
are thus qualified. In Somalia the preferred
title of Hussein Aideed is ‘General’,
a claim by hereditary right.
His father, General Mohammad Farah Aideed,
became the world’s most famous warlord,
immortal in local lore and deified by Hollywood,
when, in 1993, he broke American will by
downing two Black Hawk helicopters and killing
18 American Marines whose bodies were dragged
through the streets of Mogadishu, capital
of Somalia. A reward of a million dollars
was placed on his head, and he was nicknamed,
for some obscure reason, Yogi the Bear.
The father did not die in an American prison,
but in his own city. His son was living
in America, and had trained to become a
reserve Marine. When his father died, he
returned to Somalia to inherit the title
and the loyalty of his father’s militia,
though not the respect that his father commanded.
Neither father nor son believed that the
term "warlord" was appropriate.
Aideed means "one who rejects insults".
He seemed sincere, said ambassador Kumar.
Hussein Aideed promised peace would finally
come to Somalia in about six months, thanks
to the latest deal brokered by mostly well-meaning
(or simply fed-up) neighbours. He asked
for Indian assistance in demining southern
Somalia, building roads, assisting in healthcare
and training the police.
Uniforms and guns for the police would
not be unwelcome. Since there is nothing
called a police force in Somalia at the
moment, perhaps Hussein Aideed wanted arms
and training for his own force. Kumar was
diplomatic in his response; the visitor’s
charm was not sufficient to reduce the host’s
scepticism. The news is that India is not
in any hurry to arm and train anyone, or
rebuild roads, which are controlled by AK-47-wielding
bands who laugh as they collect their tax
on any vehicle brave enough, or desperate
enough, to travel. The government of Hussein
Aideed used to be based in Nairobi until
the Kenyans exhausted their patience and
told them to go.
Somalia is not a country in search of a
government. It is a government in search
of a country. From the air, Mogadishu is
entrancing, lean and stretched out against
the Indian Ocean, a city of two million
in a country of seven. It begins in the
greenery of banana trees in the south, curves
along the pristine beaches untouched by
the large waves that break much before the
shore. The city ends where the sand rises
to cliff height in the north before spreading
into the arid and endless desert. We flew
into an airport in the north on Saturday
in a Red Cross plane. The Red Cross is now
the only international organisation with
a national presence in Somalia, working
to bring a touch of contemporary concern
to a land that has been driven back into
a pre-industrial past by criminal greed
and mindless violence.
The breeze cools the midday sunshine and
throws sand into our eyes as step off. The
airport was built by Osman Hassan Ali Atto,
warlord and politician, to ferry khat, a
local nerve-soother. When the international
airport closed down, its fortunes boomed.
Wisely, Mr Atto decided to share such fortunes
with a fellow warlord. The commerce is limited
but it is a commercial hub of sorts.
In 1998, two Red Cross officials disembarked
at this airport from a similar plane and
wandered off to answer a call of nature
behind a nearby sand dune, a reasonable
need after a two-and-a-half hour flight.
They were lucky. The rest of the group was
kidnapped by gunmen who appeared over a
small hill, and held hostage for 10 days.
Somalia is now one of two regions where
the Red Cross uses armed guards, rather
than the humanitarian credibility that keeps
it safe elsewhere. The only other place
is Chechnya.
There are three structures at this airstrip,
nearly indistinguishable from the colour
of the surrounding desert. The first, about
10 feet wide with a sloping tin roof, is
both the cafeteria and the bank: you can
get a soft drink while you change foreign
exchange for Somali shillings. There was
a time when a dollar fetched 30,000 shillings,
but the rate has stabilised at 15,000. Warlords
print the Somali currency. There is an advertisement
of a cellphone company on the second hut,
which is possibly an office. The third structure
on an airstrip devoid of any human habitation
for miles is a mosque, an Ottoman crescent
atop its minaret.
A small craft of Aviation Sans Frontieres
is waiting to take off when we land: the
two NGO planes constitute the business of
the day. A man near the tarmac with a cap,
a piece of cloth wrapped around both ears,
a football-referee whistle in one hand and
a tasbeeh (prayer beads) in the other is
the air traffic clearance authority. Each
item has a function. The cap is for the
sun. The cloth is for the sand. He keeps
in touch with the pilot with the whistle.
He keeps in touch with God with the prayer
beads.
Our plane is refuelled while we wait. Three
skinny, industrious men, two of them in
the trademark lungi, kick-roll dented drums
from a Dyna 350 semi towards the plane.
A wheelbarrow, carrying a hose and a small
engine, accompanies them. The drums contain
the fuel. Each is opened, with some effort,
by a metal strip that fits into a groove
in the cap and twists the cap around. On
end of the hose goes into the drum, the
other into the plane. The engine is pulled
into a gurgle. Oil begins to flow up. They
travel about a hundred metres or more ahead,
obscured by a windscreen of powdery desert
dust: nine men on the back of a powerful
Toyota, their legs dangling over the side,
each with an AK-47 of varying power, and
enough ammunition to start a small war.
In the centre is a mounted heavy machine-gun,
manned by a burly brother in a bandana,
with don’t-fool-with-me in his eyes
and a pistol in his belt. In local parlance,
they constitute a "technical".
No self-respecting warlord travels with
less than four "technicals". Since
this one has been hired to protect us, I
suppose this ‘technical’ is
on the side of the angels, but loyalties
are variable in a cash-and-carry business.
We drive over sand and rock towards the
world’s largest, or perhaps only,
ghost city. An occasional man sleeps under
a desert shrub. Lonely men squat on the
edge of the track, waiting for nothing,
their faces drained of all expectation.
Women, in rare ones or twos, are defined
by the bright colours of their dress, principally
a dramatic red interspersed by a soothing
yellow. The rest is silence in a vast emptiness,
broken only by the periodic and minimal
radio exchanges between our SUV and our
"technical".
Suddenly, to our left, appears a huge scrapyard,
a crazy museum of twisted, shattered metal,
carcasses of cars, machines, yesterday’s
homes, anything that could be pillaged.
It is owned by Bashir Raghe, a warlord.
A minute later we see a large ship sitting
impassively offshore. This is the scrap
metal trade, a lucrative byproduct of a
destruction-economy, and yet another fortune
for warlords to kill over. "Do you
know where the scrap is headed?" asks
a friend whom I shall leave unnamed. I don’t.
To India.
To the right, in another minute, is what
seems to be a mirage: a pink villa from
an Italian seashore. Who lives there? A
businessman. What is his business? He owns
a bone factory. A destruction-economy has
more than one byproduct.
So far, I note, I have seen seven beneficiaries
of this economy: the warlords; Japanese
vehicle manufacturers (all registrations
in Dubai or Sharjah); the Russian armaments
industry; Belgian pistol-makers; telecommunications
equipment makers; shipowners and Indian
scrap merchants. Add an eighth, I am told.
Coca-Cola. There is a flourishing Coca-Cola
factory in the south of the city. Life goes
better with Coca-Cola, particularly amidst
death. The first sight of Mogadishu is unreal.
It is like seeing ruins from the wrong end
of time.
The jagged edges of Rome’s or Amman’s
amphitheatre symbolise the achievements
of 2,000 years ago. In Mogadishu, you see
the ruins of a flourishing 20th century
city in an environment that has regressed
2,000 years. Only a few of the shell-shocked
homes seem inhabited; strangely there is
utter silence even among the sparse patches
of life.
I am given a guided tour of devastation:
here what was once an enclave of diplomatic
homes or an embassy row during the era of
the Soviet-supported President Siad Barre,
there nothing where once the Indian embassy
existed. Every hundred paces is dull repetition
of what used to be. The true sadness of
Mogadishu is not what it has become, but
what it once was, and what it could have
been.
The radio crackles. We cannot go to the
Italian cathedral built when they colonised
this part of Somalia. The "technical"
has reported that a gunbattle is going on
in front of the cathedral. And so, without
any fuss, we turn left a little before the
gunbattle and drive into what was once the
pride of the city: the main street, full
of banks, businesses, government offices,
cars, pedestrians, restaurants, bars and
hotels. The street ends at the embankment.
A majestic hotel sweeps in a classic Italian
curve to our left, architecture that once
hummed to the music of hundreds of rooms.
It has now been blasted apart, shattered
by tank battles that destroyed this street
and city.
We get off at the embankment, which is
broken at one place leaving a large gap.
One tank, unable to brake, crashed through
at this point. The tank lies on the rocks
of the ocean shore, rusted, its turret tilted
up, still searching for an enemy of the
same colour and blood. It is as distressing
a memory as the Fascist pillar nearby that
has survived on the promenade from the time
of Mussolini. We are at the Hammaruin. We
change guard. Literally. Our gunmen are
all smiles as they wave goodbye; their replacements
smile more broadly as they welcome us. But
they don’t smile at one another.
This is the dividing line between the north
and south of Mogadishu. Militia from the
north cannot enter the south, and naturally
vice versa. In the ocean, a handful of children
chatter and skip over the rocks, the shallow
water being their only entertainment. On
the street, young men with nothing to do
but clutch triggers at their nerve-ends
watch as we switch vehicles and guards.
A gun is part of the normal dress code of
normal young men.
Engineer Hussein Aideed, leader of the
United Somali Congress/Somali National Alliance,
is yet to reach middle age. His mother,
Asli Dhubat, his father’s first wife,
took him to the United States as a teenager.
He joined the US Marine Corps Reserves in
1987, became a corporal and told the Associated
Press in Somalia: "Once a Marine, always
a Marine". He has, he believes, a wonderful
idea for Somalia’s future.
There are no passports in Somalia; even
Kenya does not recognise a warlord passport
any more. Hussein Aideed told ambassador
Surendra Kumar that he was negotiating with
an Indian IT company to create e-passports.
The cost was estimated at $25 million. He
had worked it out. An account would be opened
in a prestigious international bank; 80
per cent of the passport fee deposited in
this account would go to pay for the initial
cost and 20 per cent would be sent on to
Somalia. This would eventually pay the $25
million. It seems a great idea for California.
Eminent intellectual and author
M J Akbar is the editor-in-chief of The
Asian Age and Deccan Chronicle newspapers.
He is currently on a visit to Somalia.