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Next morning
a hulking figure, sporting a blue helmet and
Desert Storm camouflage abruptly opened the
cell door. He simply stood in the doorway,
holding his nose and surveying the detainees
pensively for a long moment in a silence
broken only by the jingling of his numerous
keys.
"He doesn't look friendly today,"
the oldest of the group said quietly to
Ahmed.
"Don't worry," another youth
whispered in a tone that was far from
convincing. "Perhaps they're going to
release us today." A moment later, the
guard called the names of three inmates,
which included Ahmed.
"You're free to go!" the guard
shouted in English with Turkish accent.
Before the echo of his words had died Ahmed
was putting on his shirt, and if by magic
the other two detainees were already outside
the stinking cell. No good-byes, and no
release formalities and of course no
explanation why they were arrested in the
first place. There was a stirring in the
cell as Ahmed walked out in a jubilant mood,
but it was apparently painful the other boys
would remain in detention indefinitely.
"Wait!" shouted the youth who was
accused of shooting the Italian soldier.
"When are you going to release
us?" he said. "I insist my
innocence," he beseechingly added.
The UN guard laughed a humorless laugh and
slammed the vault-like steel door so hard it
echoed throughout the building. In
desperation, the remaining inmates crawled
to their corners of the cell, cursing the
United Nations and the Americans.
At a meeting between US Special Envoy,
Robert Oakley, UN Commander, General Cevik
Bir of Turkey and CIA Station Chief in
Mogadishu, it was decided that Ahmed and the
other two young gunmen were victims of
mistaken identity and should be released
from the UN detention center.
The meeting took place aboard the helicopter
carrier, USS Ranger against the background
of an intensified rocket attacks on
suspected hiding places of General Mohamed
Farah Aideed, the fugitive South Mogadishu
warlord. AC-130 Spectre attack planes landed
at the airport on a UN request.
Some 2000 soldiers of the
Quick Reaction Force were deployed around
the airport and at militia strongholds in
the south of the city. Men from the
ultra-secret Delta Force and SEALs (The
Navy's Sea, Air and Land) were deployed at
road junctions and at UN Command Post. The
US military had also thrown in some of its
best war gadgetry into the hunt for the
elusive General, including the Navy's Orion
plane, which slowly circled over the
devastated city, with cameras so good that
they can photograph a face in every detail
from 5,000 feet up. Harrier Jump Jets also
flew over the city, backed by Tomcats, to
herald the arrival of the Quick Reaction
Force and the Delta Force. The Delta is so
secretive that men of the force fight behind
enemy lines.
"It's like searching
a needle in a haystack," said a Marine
Corporal as he watched scores of Black Hawk
and Cobra helicopters firing their missiles
into suspected snipers' nests.
At the severely shattered Bakaaraha arms
bazaar, where until now you could buy
everything from ballpoint, laptop computers,
large screen colour computers, cell phones
to bazookas, AK-47 assault rifles, hand
grenades and the deadly .50mm Browning
Machinegun, at a duty free price, Ahmed
stood in front of his now bare hovel. His
eyes ached, his forehead hurt. The door
still remained askew on its hinges, but
looters finished the job. Even the old
mattress is gone. He spied the surrounding
areas as if he had never been there before.
He thought of Araksan and the boy. Where are
they now?
The couple met in front of
the gutted K-4 Hotel, where Araksan sold
cups of hot tea to the rebels as well as to
retreating government soldiers at the height
of the uprising against the military despot.
Government death squad killed her husband
and his bullet-riddled body was dumped in
front of their house. She had to bury him on
the spot with the help of some neighbors.
Her 12-year-old son, Darman, sold cigarettes
in street corners to supplement their
income.
Araksan found Ahmed
disgusting. To her there was much about the
young gunmen that was repulsive. He was in
his late teens of average height. He dressed
roughly in a loose dirty army coat, a baggy
pants and flip-flops. He was filth and
chain-smoked, joined street battles, slept
few hours in the mornings and rose without
bothering to wash himself or changed
clothes. To his comrades none of these
mattered.
Araksan discovered later
that the rough and strong smelling youth was
kind at heart. Usually he comes in the
evenings when the boy and his mother were
sitting for their modest dinner of rice and
lentils. He told the boy stories of travels
(which he himself never undertook), wars,
adventure and
Somali folktales. He seemed to have
rehearsed almost all the popular Somali love
songs and poetry.
It was on such evenings that she took an
interest in the young militia and for the
first time since the death of her husband,
she felt at ease with a man.
He was respectful but never fawning; he
laughed and occasionally criticized the
warlords and clan elders openly.
"The clan elders do not want to end the
factional fighting," he told her one
evening as they sat in front of the
fireplace, waiting for the teakettle to
boil.
Now standing in front of his looted hovel,
he was mentally depressed. It was the
illegal detention that pained him most,
caused him to sob openly for the first time
in his life.
He knew he was wrongly accused of ambushing
the Pakistani peacekeepers as they tried to
search for weapons across the street from
his hovel.
Informers swore that he
was one of the gunmen who killed the
Pakistanis in an ambush. But the truth was
later discovered that he was at the time
miles away from the scene of the crime.
He sobbed so hard that he was sure his
neighbor, the heavily bearded owner of the
half-demolished warehouse must have noticed.
He could feel the sickness inside him
steadily growing extensively. How could he
explain to young Darman and his mother the
Americans arrested him as a bandit? Sweat
was popping out of his forehead and armpits.
He could feel it soaking his shirt and
underwear.
"Could you step in
here for a moment, young man?" said the
warehouse owner, smiling and showing
gold-filled front teeth.
Ahmed swaggered non-challantly through the
cracked door of the warehouse. The older man
smiled again at Ahmed, putting his
forefinger virtually across his bushy lips,
as if afraid to be overheard by
eavesdroppers.
"Shhh." Then he told him that his
woman was here to inquire about him, but
didn't know where she was going.
"All I know is that she was worried
sick about you."
Ahmed felt that he ought to say something,
but didn't know what. The only thing he
could think of is where did she go, but that
sounded stupid and silly. Besides the man
already said he didn't know it.
As if he was reading his mind the old man
said: "Just gone from here without
saying anything else."
"Mahadsanid, Jaalle," (Thank you
Comrade), Ahmed said finally and wobbled
toward the door.
At the door, he paused and turned back.
"Can you lend me a gun?"
Abruptly, the man pulled out a G-3, the
German assault rifle, from a gunnysack with
trembling hands and handed it to Ahmed.
"There are four or five rounds left in
it. Avoid the Americans and use the shots
sparingly. And don't forget to return
it," he mumbled in a cracked whisper.
"Mahadsanid," Ahmed said, this
time truthfully, and walked out.
He was now literally
without home or country, he thought, as he
checked the gun. He knew that it was risk
walking in the streets without a gun. Common
criminals and escapees from the mental
hospitals would not hesitate before they
intercept a young man walking in the streets
of the war-torn city without firearms. Guns
are the local currency and an insurance
policy in a country where law and order
completely broke down. And the G-3 is one of
the deadliest weapons after the AK-47 and
M-16. It fetches little fortune at the
sprawling Sinai Market, not far from the
destroyed Bakaaraha, and Ahmed was wondering
how easy it was for the warehouse owner to
lend it to him without hesitation. Rumor had
it that the man is a paid informer of the
American CIA and the United Nation forces in
Mogadishu.
In view of the man's
hatred against the militia in the past,
Ahmed had no doubt that it was true, but the
ease with which he was able to borrow the
brand new gun from him without collateral or
question still puzzled him even more. It was
impossible to believe the man's generosity.
He shuddered over the grim prospect of being
arrested again by the UN peacekeepers for
possessing firearms illegally and sends him
back to that stinking cell in the bowls of
the former Italian Tennis Club with the
solid stonewalls three feet thick. The
Italians used it as wine cellar. It also
contained overhead steel railings for
hanging salami and sausages, but the UN
authorities removed them.
He thought of the US
Marines, most of whom are decent young men,
eager to help anyone in a jam, and if you
voluntarily surrendered your weapons to
them, they'd even give you a receipt. They
may even give you a packet of Hershey's or
C-Ration! He and his comrades carefully
avoided the French contingent of the
International Task Force, who unlike the US
Marines and Army Rangers, shoot anyone
walking in the streets with a gun, and don't
ask questions. Most of the men belong to the
soldiers of fortune known as Foreign
Legionaires based in neighbouring Djibouti.
After he was released from
the UN detention center, he didn't waste his
time to look for Araksan and her son. He
would scan the ghost city, avoiding UN and
US patrols. He scanned the few makeshift
markets, places where people still sold
things, despite the anarchy. He kept himself
busy. There was always time to think about
all sorts of things.
He went to the K-4 Hotel which was now
rebuilt and housed members of the
international press covering the "big
profile." Image-conscious CNN sent
their best reporters to Somalia, because
Americans were involvement in what was
described as the first humanitarian invasion
in history. Ahmed did not locate her,
because US Military Police have removed all
hawkers, or street vendors, from the area.
One night, a militia youth
he knew, told him that the boy and his
mother moved to another shantytown in the
eastern neighborhood, after their lean-to
have been destroyed by fire.
"There's very little music out there
these days," the youth told him,
referring to the sound of gunfire common in
many parts of the city. "But beware of
the freelancers," he added with a
frown.
At the shantytown, dubbed as OPEC, because
women who cradled automatic rifles sold
petrol, engine oil and kerosene in Jerry
cans on the roadside. But now everybody
gathered around the food vendors.
Half blocks away all shops and eating-houses
have been looted and burned
to the ground. The only
things that are left intact are the gaping
concrete walls, where students had painted
anti-government slogans. Of course, nobody
paid attention to the graffiti anymore.
People are now worried about how to get food
for their hungry children. One fresh slogan
said: "WE WELCOME THE US MARINES."
Someone also fixed colored letters to the
wall of a dilapidated school to spell out
"WELCOME MR.BUSH AND HAPPY NEW
YEAR," reference to former US president
George Bush's impending visit to Mogadishu
and Baidoa, which the international press
called The City of Death.
Though a few looked
elsewhere for food or firewood, inevitably,
as if drawn by the muezzin's call, everyone
ended up at OPEC.
Ahmed was walking down a dust road, thinking
where to turn to next, when suddenly out of
nowhere the boy appeared in an alley reeking
with the stink of piss. He was carrying
packets of Embassy cigarettes in one hand
and a vintage Italian Tommy gun on the
other.
"DARMAAAN," Ahmed shouted over his
lungs.
The boy sagged the side of a half-demolished
wall, panting with joy.
"Ahmed!" he gasped. "My God!
How did you…?
"Don't talk," he snapped.
"There's no time. Let's get out of
here!"
He snatched the Tommy gun from him and threw
it away furiously into the gutter.
"That thing is for grown ups. Besides
it is a museum piece."
"I didn't shoot anybody."
"That's OK. Let's find your mum. Do you
know where she is?"
"Yes, at the corner of the gutted
police station."
As they trudged through the maze of winding
alleyways, past the crowded food stalls,
keeping to the shady part of the sidewalk,
Ahmed began trying to explain to the boy why
he was arrested. And after a brief rest
under an acacia tree in front of the walls
with the anti-government slogans painted on
them, he poured out as much as he could. He
stifled a yawn and stood up before he dozes
off.
They continued to run until they reached at
the corner of the gutted police station. The
policemen and their commanding officers were
either massacred by the rebels or took off
for the south of the city, shading off their
blue uniforms in the process. And sure
enough an angry crowd lynched many. It was
action against the military dictatorship,
they believed.
Araksan was slumped on a
wooden stool, selling cups after cups of
heavily spiced Somali tea, when she saw
them; she swirled around and run toward
them.
"Ahmed! My God! It's Ahmed! What…
happened? She heard her stammer.
"It seems we are once again reunited as
a family. What happened is not something
that can be discussed here."
"I …I'm sorry," Araksan cried.
Her eyes blurred with tears, as she embraced
both of them.
"It just makes me throw out to think
about that stinking cell."
A SHORT STORY IN
SIMPLIFIED ENGLISH FOR OUR YOUNGER VISITORS
To be continued…
By
M.M. Afrah©2004
Afrah95@hotmail.com
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TAKING
POINT BY M.M. AFRAH
