Duguf at the wheel. We were the middle car in a convoy of three we had hired, armed guards representing a variety of clans hanging out of Jeeps in front and behind us in case we had any troubles. We set out to meet “Somalia’s Taliban.”
THE BLUE DOORS of Al-Furqaan University opened to reveal a driveway with intricately laid chipped tiles, upon which a rusted red Vespa was parked. It was an idyllic snapshot, with chirping birds and students, clutching books, who stopped to stare and smile at the foreigners. The cool breeze in this oasis of education brought relief from Mogadishu’s sun-baked, sandy streets.
We were here to meet Canadian Abdullahi Afrah, known to friends by his nickname, “Asparo.” His involvement in the ICU is what convinced my editors that the transformation of Somalia under the ICU was a story worth telling.
The Star may be Canada’s largest circulation newspaper, but our readership is largely based in Toronto and the surrounding region, known as the Greater Toronto Area, or GTA. As with many papers, the Star gives precedence to stories with a local connection—which is why, after 9/11, I sought out Cindy Barkway. Many reporters like to poke fun at old-school Star editors who believe every foreign story needs a Toronto connection. How far would we go to seek our “gta man”? Earthquake in Pakistan? Find that injured guy who once lived in Toronto or has a cousin in Mississauga and suddenly your story is moving from A17 to the front page. Crime wave in Mexico? Only important if Oakville tourists were hurt. Asparo was our GTA man in Mog.
Surya Bhattacharya, a Star intern and a friend of mine, had come across an ICU press release in August 2006, announcing the group’s executive members. One of the leaders was Asparo, which surprised many in Toronto. Asparo had come to Canada in the early 1990s, and by all accounts he led a life in Toronto like that of many struggling newcomers. He was quiet—almost shy—and religious, but no more so than most Somalis. Asparo moved between jobs, working for a brief time as security supervisor at Toronto’s Catholic school board, and he once ran a hawala bureau—a money transfer service popular for wiring funds home to Somalia—that would come under intense focus after 9/11. Ahmed Yusuf, a well-known community leader in Toronto, knew Asparo when he lived in Canada. “No one could believe it,” he said about the ICU press release. “We thought it couldn’t be the same man.”
Asparo stood at the university’s front doors, shaking Pete’s hand and acknowledging me with a nod. He appeared neither annoyed nor pleased with our visit and was certainly in no hurry to talk. In fact, he was reluctant to speak at all. The fifty-four-year-old insisted that we visit one of the university’s professors before our interview. Leading the way up the stairs, he laughed and said to no one in particular, “There are so many lost Canadians here.” After introducing us to Professor Ibrahim Hassan Addou, he dipped his head and departed, leaving us to wonder if our GTA man would return.
Many were also surprised to see Professor Addou listed as one of the ICU’s executive members, because, like Asparo, he was not considered an aspiring religious leader or politician. He was a Western-trained academic, a scholar, and that’s exactly what he looked like standing behind a desk in his sunny classroom, with students’ papers piled high on it and a chalkboard behind him. He gave us a wan smile as he peered over the rim of his owl-like glasses. We had a feeling we were about to get a lesson in Islam rather than an interview.
Addou had returned to Somalia in 2002, having lived for twenty-four years in Georgetown, where he worked as an administrator at Washington’s American University. He was proud of his American citizenship and enjoyed life in D.C., but like many other expats he felt a responsibility to his country of birth. His philosophy? “Educate the lost generation,” he said. Enlightenment was the only way out of poverty. He was also an environmentalist, which may have seemed like an insignificant vocation when war and poverty consumed Somalia. But Addou believed fixing problems such as deforestation, illegal commercial fishing or the polluting of Somalia’s coast by foreign companies was key to securing a stable future.
Addou, like Asparo, was considered a “moderate Islamist,” an ambiguous term that in Somalia generally meant the person supported a more tolerant interpretation of Sharia law. Before leaving Toronto, I had been in contact with Addou, since the only safe way to travel in Mogadishu was with the ICU’s consent. Addou had emailed me a form titled “Visa Regulations by the Islamic Courts.” The application stated that foreign nationals could not enter Mogadishu without written permission. Within ten working days, they would respond as to whether we could come—all very formal, professional. “Finally, please be informed,” the form concluded, “foreign nationals who attempt to enter the country illegally as well as their sponsors (if any) will face swift penalty.”
As Addou finished talking about the merits of education about an hour later, Asparo slipped silently back into the room. He seemed surprised that we still wanted to talk with him. Haltingly, he answered our questions, his eyes turned down to his hands or stroking his red, henna-dyed beard. His lined face looked older than fifty-four. He kept insisting he couldn’t understand why we were curious about his involvement with the ICU. “This is something that just happened. When things happen, someone’s lucky to be moved up. It’s not something I was looking for. It’s not something I even enjoy doing, but it’s something I have to do.”
He echoed what others were saying about how the ICU had transformed Mogadishu and brought order, and urged other Somalis around the world to return and help. “There’s a bright future if things go on like this. We can say people will be saved, resources may come back, international relations may improve, construction may happen, people’s trust in each other may be renewed. Many, many things that were happening before. People were running around doing whatever they wanted to do. Law and order may now be restored. Somali people are talented people if they get some sort of environment where they can work on their own. Somalis have something in their hearts that they’re attached to their country even though they’re better off over there. He has a nice car, a good life, but he needs to get back to see his broken home.”
Like Addou, Asparo wasn’t interested in answering questions about perceptions in the West about their group, or to debate the ICU’s restrictions on women’s rights and harsh punishment under Sharia law. Just exaggerations, he said.
Before we left, Asparo had one more message for me, something to put in the newspaper he used to read every day: “You have the power. Use your pen in the right way.”
IF ASPARO AND ADDOU were considered the moderates, then Hassan Dahir Aweys was one of the ICU’s radicals. The night before we left Nairobi, I sat with Pete in our hotel, discussing the trip on a conference call with our editors. One senior editor wanted to know how likely it was that we would get an interview with Aweys. When I said I had no idea, the reply was something to the effect of, “Well, can’t you get his address and knock on his door?” I lied, unsure if he was joking or not. “Good idea.”
The thing is, you don’t drop in on Aweys. He lets you know if you are welcome, and when. Luckily, we were. While sitting on rugs in the shady cool comfort of HornAfrik’s media compound, we got a call to see him. The call meant we had to leave now, before he changed his mind. “Go, go,” yelled Ali Sharmarke, who was delighted and surprised that Aweys would meet a female reporter.
Duguf knew exactly where Aweys lived, but when everything started to look the same as we sped along the sandy streets, I was sure we were lost. Mogadishu’s main street, named 21 October for the day General Mohamed Siad Barre seized power in a 1969 military coup, was lined with vendors’ shacks hawking everything from goat carcasses to cellphones. Merchants stared as we passed. Ribbons of purple from the bougainvilleas, and the reds and blues of the women’s abayas, created a colourful blur beyond the car window. Down a small alley off the unmarked Ballad Road, we neared Aweys’s home. Children scattered as we roared in, except for one boy, who curiously cradled a dusty blender as he waved furiously with his free hand.
Two
