qat had many grumbling and in some cases mounting small protests. But even with these reservations, after years of bloodshed, most Somalis acquiesced since they were thankful for the stability.
When my editor gave the trip to Somalia a green light, I tried to recall the lessons I had learned a few months earlier in my “Hostile Environment Training” course. British ex-marines offered these sessions for journalists heading into conflict zones. (A course certificate also lowered the insurance rate our papers paid to cover us when we travelled.) Basically, it was a week in a Virginian field where the tough Brits beat the snot and scared the shit out of us. The first morning began with a surprise hostage-taking as “kidnappers” in balaclavas ran from the woods, stopped our car and hauled us out of the vehicle (I went by my pony tail since I was awkwardly stuck in the back), threw burlap sacks over our heads and then had us march, kneel, lie motionless face down in the dirt in a drill that felt all too real. The entire exercise was videotaped and later analyzed so we could learn what made a “good hostage” and a few other tricks. Other lessons that week included how to negotiate checkpoints, cover riots (wear natural, not manmade fabrics that could melt and stick to your skin if burned), identify different types of explosions and negotiate a minefield, as well as general orienteering, which was by far my worst session—not surprising, as I cannot read a map in Toronto, either, and lasted only two days in Girl Guides as a kid.
My favourite session was first aid, thanks partly to a background in lifeguarding, but also because I found our instructor endlessly amusing. Tall, lanky and right out of a Monty Python skit, his every sentence included the phrase “Happy with that?” As in “Your leg has been severed by a machete. Happy with that? What do you do now?” Or, “You’ve run out of water. Happy with that? Happy with that? Do you drink your piss?” The scenarios they set up for us were resplendent with fake blood and Oscar-worthy performances, and my hands shook every time I tended to the “victims” or used a Sharpie to write on someone’s forehead the exact time I had tied the tourniquet so the doctors would know if the limb could be saved or if it had to be amputated. The only time I saw one of our instructors break role was when I tried to stop a femoral artery bleed. “Lovie, that’s not working,” said the smirking instructor as he pushed my quaking hands south of his crotch to his inner thigh.
I arrived at Washington’s National Airport after that week with fake blood still on my cargo pants and my dirty hair tamed in two braids, so exhausted that I fell asleep at the gate. I woke only as my name was called over the speaker and ran breathless onto the flight. Startled passengers looked up and I am sure more than one thought, Great, we’re about to be hijacked by a deranged Pippi Longstocking.
How any of this would help me in Somalia if things got bad I had no idea, but I packed a big first aid kit anyway. There were two such different versions of what was taking place on the ground, it was hard to know what to expect. Was this the long-awaited chance for peace, or the startup of al Qaeda’s next franchise?
I could never have imagined that over the years my tour guides into this part of the world would be a Toronto grocer, a wanted terrorist, a stubborn tortoise, a primary school teacher who would become president, a Somali-Canadian journalist and a teenage boy named Ismail who broke my heart.
FLYING HIGH OVER Mogadishu’s chiselled coastline, looking at the soft haze beyond the airplane window, I could imagine what once was: the beachfront cafés, lively soccer games and vibrant markets that only Somali elders nostalgically recall. At the safety of ten thousand feet, all that was visible were the outlines of the bone-white Italian architecture, built by the capital’s former colonial rulers, and the turquoise Indian Ocean. Descend farther and see Mogadishu today: the broken, pockmarked, crumbling city of bombed-out buildings, the sun relentlessly beating down on arid red dirt, a city that has been ravaged by two decades of war.
I flew to Mogadishu from Nairobi with Star photographer Peter Power in October 2006 as the only foreigners on a commercial flight into the newly opened airport. Pete is an affable, tough Newfoundlander and an excellent partner. Aside from his mighty photography skills, he had spent a brief stint in the army before entering journalism, which came in handy in tense situations or when the military mindset confounded me to the point that I was ready to scream. Besides, Pete had a superhero-like last name that people loved wherever we travelled. Somalis especially delighted in greeting him and always seemed to do so with gusto: “Mr. Power! Time to go.” “Welcome, Mr. Power!” “Mr. Power! Over here.” It was hard not to like Pete. He laughed often, talked openly (and incessantly), told bad jokes and after a few beers you might even hear traces of his Newfoundland accent. Like most photographers he also possessed an endearing blend of bravado and insecurity.
Before leaving for Somalia, we had hired one of the country’s best “fixers.” That’s a term used by journalists for local contacts who will fix everything from setting up interviews and security, arranging hotels, telling you what to wear, what to eat, providing translation, driving and, although it’s not part of the job description, almost always becoming cherished friends. Foreign journalists are often only as good as their fixers. They’re especially important when the journalist arrives in a country for the first time.
There have been cases since 9/11 when fixers have sold journalists to kidnappers offering a higher price. Others talk a bigger game than they deliver. But most fixers are respected local journalists, and hire themselves out as a lucrative side business. The journalism community worldwide is small (and more collegial than most would expect), so reputations—both bad and good—spread quickly. Fixers are paid well, but they put themselves at risk to help us. Aside from facing danger alongside us, fixers working with foreigners can be targeted as traitors. We have passports and go home. Most fixers have nowhere else to go.
Abdulahi Farah Duguf came highly recommended as a skilled and trusted fixer in Mogadishu. Even though the city was the safest it had been in years, there were always risks for foreigners. Swedish freelance photographer Martin Adler had been shot in the heart by hooded assailants as he covered a street protest just a couple of months before we arrived. Months before that, BBC producer Kate Peyton had been killed within hours of arriving in Mogadishu. Even the most prepared or experienced journalists can be killed or kidnapped, but having a good fixer was the first step in reducing risk.
Duguf was a close friend of Ali Sharmarke, a Somalia-born Canadian and a giant of journalism, and also a friend of mine. Ali came to Canada as a refugee in 1990 and built a life with his family in Ottawa, becoming a citizen and completing a master’s degree in public administration at Carleton University. In 1999, Ali left a good job with the Canadian government’s finance department, and with two other Somalia-born Canadians, started HornAfrik, Mogadishu’s most popular radio station. Somehow HornAfrik had managed to survive amid the chaos. Ali was one of those people who always seemed untouchable, even physically, since he was taller and more robust than most Somali men. When he strode through my newsroom during a visit in the summer of 2006, people turned to watch because he had a presence—you just wanted to know who he was.
It wasn’t hard to find Duguf as we disembarked from African Express Flight 525 and dozens of excited passengers ran onto the tarmac. He was the only person coming toward the plane. Duguf walked with arms outstretched, the morning sun bouncing off his bald head and a grin consuming the lower half of his face.
After brief introductions and hugs, he ushered us into a small office where, as the only two non-Somali visitors, we were told by bored-looking officials of the Islamic Courts Union that we would have to pay a “visa” fee of $250 U.S. They were not a governing force, but our passports were stamped anyway with a very professional-looking ICU symbol, an entry that would cause many raised eyebrows among airport immigration officials in the years that followed. Mogadishu’s airport security consisted of having our bags thrown in a pile and being “inspected” by men armed with handheld metal detectors, who, descending seemingly out of nowhere, pounced upon the luggage, eliciting a cacophony of beeps. I kept my knapsack on and one of the inspectors tentatively came over and waved his wand around my back as if
