The Somali Doctrine
Page 6
Jim studied Maxine’s face: her small, ski-jump nose, her long blonde hair that fell onto her shoulders, her graceful mouth. There was a certain innocence and vulnerability to her.
‘What did he take over?’ Jim said.
‘The security ops. Before Harry, money was disappearing. None of the targets were met. Harry kicked a few people up the backside, sacked some others, turned it round fast. Everyone now knows you don’t mess with him. Even the UN. Not for nothing he’s ex-CIA.’
‘Harry was in the CIA?’
‘More than 20 years. Afghanistan, Iraq.’
‘When in Afghanistan?’
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘He’s pretty vague about it. Something about the CIA’s special activities. I think he’d gone by the time you must have been out there. He said he got too old for crawling in the sand and trudging around in the boiling sun loaded with guns and stuff. To be honest, I don’t blame him. Sounds like being in the CIA isn’t just a bag of laughs’
‘When did he join UA?’
‘Dunno. Oh, look. Nomads.’ She pointed to a group of herdsmen with camels in the distance. ‘Amazing anybody can survive here.’
Jim followed her gaze. Still the same arid landscape for miles around, the bright blue sky with the searing sun. The dust, the sand, the stones. Maxine was right. How could anybody live here? They passed an abandoned armoured vehicle by the side of the road, a rusty vestige of when the region had been one of the many theatres of the Cold War.
‘Tell me about your friend who died in Afghanistan,’ Maxine said.
‘How do you know she died?’
‘I could see it in your eyes. Clearly more than just a friend.’
Jim felt a lump in his throat.
‘You’re right about that,’ he mumbled.
Maxine reached out and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. He glanced at Nasir, embarrassed.
They continued in silence. Maxine lit a cigarette and puffed the smoke out of the half-open window. She looked at him and their gazes locked. She winked, sending a shiver of excitement down his spine. He looked out of the window again, confused. Just what game was she playing at?
Chapter 11
Gabiley region, Somaliland
18 September 2003
They camped in what felt like the middle of nowhere. Nasir and the other drivers unfolded the green roof-top tents installed on each truck. The drivers sat in a circle around the fire, chatting in Somali and chewing qat. Jim had tried it once. After chewing for several hours, he’d felt a buzz, like a few cups of strong coffee, but then hadn’t been able to sleep that night. One of the drivers, his cheeks bulging with qat leaves, offered him a qat stalk. Jim declined politely.
Next day, they started soon after the sun was up. They drove past groups of nomads tending sheep eating the sparse foliage. Around noon, someone tried to get through on Maxine’s radio.
‘Stop here a sec, Nasir,’ she said. ‘Can’t hear a word.’
Nasir radioed down the convoy and stopped the truck. Maxine jumped out and walked out of earshot. Five minutes later, she came back, looking worried.
‘All okay?’ Jim said.
She turned to Nasir. ‘Keep going. We’re nearly there.’
‘What’s up?’ Jim said.
Maxine just sat there, rubbing her temple. She pulled a strand of her hair and fiddled with it.
An hour later, Jim spotted the IDP camp on the horizon. From afar, it was similar to the other such camps he’d seen around the world: a sea of makeshift huts and tarpaulin surrounded by miles of metal fencing. But as they drove in, there was something eerily different about this one. No shouting children running towards them or hordes of women gathering round.
Then he saw why.
To their left, dead bodies were piled in a heap next to a hut. Emaciated children crawled on the floor, picking up whatever they could find and trying to eat it. Some of them had the distinct signs of kwashiorkor, the disease caused by chronic protein deficiency: red or white hair, bloated stomachs and faces, scaly skin covered in rashes. Despite the African sun, they’d eventually die of hypothermia, their bodies unable to keep heat.
A group of stick-thin men was slumped against a large shipping container with the UA logo, gazing into the distance, too weak to move. Jim felt a sudden urge to wretch: the stench of rot and death was overpowering.
Maxine looked sullen. ‘This is even worse than last time.’ She pressed the button on her walkie talkie. ‘Okay, let’s stop here. You know what to do.’
The aid machine swung into action. Aid workers piled out of the trucks. Sacks of grain were unloaded and stacked up. The medical team started checking survivors. Jim spotted the cameraman Oliver and the journalist Marie chatting and setting up their equipment.
He strolled over. ‘Hi. I’m Jim. Mind if I tag along?’
‘Sure,’ Marie said reluctantly, as she stepped towards a hut. ‘Just stay out of camera shot.’
‘Don’t worry. I used to be a journalist.’
She ignored him.
Jim followed her into the hut. They stood for a few moments to adjust to the darker interior. The air felt stuffy and dense. Bits of ripped plastic sheeting hung down from the ceiling. In one corner lay a pile of ragged, dirty clothes. Next to it, a frail woman and two boys lay on the ground. The woman opened bloodshot eyes. She held out her bony hand. Jim stood there, a feeling of helplessness washing over him. The skin on the woman’s face seemed so dry and thin, as if it would rip if he touched it. One of the children was shivering uncontrollably; the other one was motionless, maybe dead.
‘Perfect,’ Marie said, her smile revealing flawless white teeth. ‘Oliver, open the entrance so we can get more daylight. Put a reflector in the corner to bounce the light back. I’ll kneel here for my piece to camera. Make sure you have her and the kids in the background.’ She pointed to Jim. ‘You, move out of the way.’
She stroked her shirt to iron out any creases, pulled a comb from her back pocket and did her hair. ‘Oliver, ready? Here we go.’
She tilted her head towards the camera and smiled. The camera’s red recording light went on.
Oliver nodded. ‘Rolling.’
‘I’m here in the break-away republic of Somaliland in north-west Somalia, where famine is killing hundreds of thousands. Clan warfare, repeated droughts and a poor harvest have left millions with no food. While the United Nations is refusing to recognise this as a humanitarian disaster, Universal Action is already on the ground, feeding the hungry.’
Oliver raised a hand. ‘Do that again. She’s moving out of the shot.’
Marie turned round. The Somali woman was crawling towards her shivering child.
‘Bloody hell,’ Marie said. ‘You, come here.’ She yanked the woman back towards her. The woman let out a whimper, collapsed onto her back and stared at the ceiling of the hut. Marie faced the camera again.
‘I’m here in the break-away republic of—’
‘She’s moving again.’ Oliver stood up. ‘This ain’t gonna work. Let’s go outside.’
‘Definitely not.’ Marie pulled the woman’s arm so hard that she let out a cry.
‘Let me take a close-up.’ Oliver lifted the camera to his shoulder and shuffled over to the shivering child. He pushed the camera lens right next to the boy’s face. ‘Marie, come here with the mike.’
Marie put the microphone an inch from the boy’s mouth. The child’s breathing was shallow and weak.
‘That’s a good shot.’ Oliver stood up, but Marie grabbed his elbow and pulled him back down.
‘He’s dying,’ she said. ‘The last breath before death. Film it. We’ll get a Pulitzer Prize for this.’
Jim couldn’t take it any longer. He stepped towards them, hands raised. ‘That’s enough. Leave them alone and get out of here. I’m going to get some help.’
Marie looked up at Jim as though noticing him for the first time. ‘And who the hell do you think you are?’
‘You can’t just barge int
o people’s homes and treat them like this. Can’t you see they need medical attention?’
‘We can’t help everyone we bump into, Mr Good Guy. We’re trying to film a piece that will be seen by millions.’ She rose to her feet, but was still a head shorter than him. ‘Then they’ll get all the bloody aid they need. Now, get the fuck out and let me do my job.’
‘You get out.’ Jim said, his voice rising. ‘Before I lose my temper.’
Oliver stood up. ‘The kid’s dead. I didn’t catch any of it because you two were too busy arguing.’
‘Damn. What a waste.’ Marie threw the microphone to the ground and glowered at Jim. For a second, he thought she was going to slap him across the face. Instead, she nodded to Oliver, who picked up the mike. They brushed past Jim, nearly pushing him over onto the woman and children.
Jim took a deep breath and watched them leave. He felt something tugging his left trouser leg. He looked down to see the woman staring up at him with imploring eyes. He pried her weak fingers off and held her hand. It felt so cold, nothing but dry skin and bones.
‘I’ll go get some help. Stay here.’
The weakness of his words struck him. It wasn’t as if she was going anywhere.
Once outside the hut, Jim took a few seconds to adjust to the blazing early afternoon sunshine, then started walking back towards the convoy. He went past another metal shipping container, its door wide open, and peered in. There were food aid packages everywhere. Piled from the floor to the ceiling, unopened. This didn’t make sense. Maybe the food had gone bad. He tore open one of the packages, spilling grain all over the floor. He picked a handful and let it drain through his fingers like sand. He picked another handful, wrapped it in a small plastic bag that was lying around, and put it in his pocket.
Back at the distribution spot, an argument was kicking off. Fabienne was red in the face, waving her arms and shouting at a group of Somali men and boys. Some were dressed in burnooses and djellaba, white Arab robes. Others were in filthy ripped t-shirts and tattered pants. All had AK 47s slung over their shoulders or hanging from their hands.
Andrew was trying to calm her down. Maxine looked on, her arms crossed over her chest. Oliver was a few paces back, filming the scene while Marie took notes.
‘How can we do our job if you’re obstructing us?’ Fabienne shouted.
Andrew spoke a few words in Somali to the men, then turned back to Fabienne. ‘It’s no use arguing. Let’s give them the stuff and go.’
Fabienne spun to face Andrew, who stepped back in surprise, nearly tripping over himself.
‘I’m not going to let these gun-loving bastards get away with this,’ she said.
The Somali men edged closer, forming a circle round them. A few of them slung their AKs down from their shoulders and played with the safety catches. There was a metallic clack as one of them cocked the spring of his rifle.
‘We need to go.’ Andrew pulled at Fabienne’s arm. ‘This isn’t looking good.’
A crowd of IDPs had gathered round, looking gaunt and exhausted. The stronger ones rummaged through the piles of bags next to the trucks. They split open the bags, tasted the grain, and spat it out in disgust.
Maxine rushed forward. Her eyes were wide and her voice high pitched. ‘We have to go. Now!’ She pushed her way through the militiamen and walked briskly to the lead truck. ‘I said now!’
The militiamen were closing round them. Maxine pushed through the IDPs who were crowding round the trucks. She shoved a few of them out of her way. They collapsed, too weak to stay standing.
Jim glanced back as he hoisted himself into the truck. Andrew was still talking to the militiamen, trying to calm them down. They were all around him, waving their weapons and shouting and baring their teeth like desert animals. Someone fired a shot in the air. Jim jumped back down and ran towards Andrew. He needed to get him out of there, fast.
There was a burst of semi-automatic fire. Andrew cried out and looked at Jim, his eyes wide. Another burst, and Andrew disappeared from view. Jim crashed through the militiamen, sending them sprawling. Andrew was on the ground, blood seeping from a line of bullet holes in his chest. His face was white. His lips quivered. Jim threw him over his shoulder. He sprinted back, while the militiamen argued among themselves.
As he climbed into the truck, a strong pair of hands grabbed his ankles and yanked him to the ground. The fall winded him, but the blows winded him even more. He dropped Andrew and curled into a protective ball. Feet and rifle butts rained down. His head was spinning. He was going to pass out. Then he heard a shout and gunshots. Moments later he was being carried and pushed into the truck. It drove off at full speed.
‘A bit more and you were a goner,’ Maxine said, putting her hand on his shoulder to keep him steady as the truck accelerated. ‘They were ready to tear you apart. You’ll have Nasir to thank for saving your life back there.’
Jim struggled to a sitting position. ‘Where’s Andrew?’
‘Dead,’ Nasir said. ‘I couldn’t carry him.’
‘We have to go get him.’
‘No way,’ Maxine said. ‘That would be suicide.’
‘But—’
‘Forget about it. Look.’
She pointed at the wing mirror. Jim peered into it. The militiamen were receding into the distance. But there were many more of them now. They were waving their weapons and cheering.
Jim lay back and mentally checked his body. He felt okay. Just a few bruises. Maybe a fractured rib. Not like Andrew. He’d paid with his life.
‘Fucking Somalis,’ Maxine said. ‘Harry always said we should never trust them. A murderous bunch of trigger-happy bastards.’
The trucks hurtled through the camp, scattering any IDPs in their way and nearly running over some children who were too feeble to run.
Jim turned to Nasir. ‘Thanks for saving me.’
Nasir didn’t reply.
‘Don’t think he heard you,’ Maxine said.
‘He did. He just doesn’t speak much.’
‘None of them speak much,’ Maxine said.
‘At least, not to us,’ Jim mumbled.
‘What?’
Jim hung onto the passenger handgrip. The convoy was now out of the camp.
‘I said it’s no surprise they don’t speak much to us,’ he said, wincing from the pain in his chest. ‘They have nothing in common with us. We’re just the latest wave of Westerners invading their country.’
‘And getting killed in the process.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Poor Andrew. What’s Fabienne going to do now?’
Jim looked in the wing mirror at the camp disappearing behind them. The militia had clearly decided not to launch a pursuit. How odd, considering all the food that was still in their trucks. Food aid was valuable during conflicts. It could feed troops or be sold in exchange for cash to buy weapons.
Maxine was still talking, very fast, as though trying not to dwell on what had just happened. ‘Harry says we should bring back colonialism. Show these people how to run the place. Everyone says it was better when we still ruled here. I mean, look. You have to admit it’s a total mess.’
‘Not as bad as in Somalia,’ Jim said. ‘At least here they’ve had democratic elections and they’re trying to rebuild the country.’
‘Yeah, right. Big deal. Complete mess, if you ask me.’
Jim held his head in his hands. Maxine was getting annoying. From what he’d seen of her so far, she didn’t seem like the racist type, but she was starting to get close.
They continued in silence, lost in their own dark thoughts.
Chapter 12
Awdal region, Somaliland
19 September 2003
Jim woke up with a start. The convoy was charging through the desert, which stretched as far as the eye could see, covered in scattered undergrowth and the odd withered tree stump. The sun was going down, the sky ablaze with rich shades of red and orange. Even the smallest pebbles cast long shadows.
‘Looks fantastic,
doesn’t it?’ Maxine squeezed his hand. ‘Feeling better?’
He groaned as pain shot through his chest. ‘Where are we?’
‘Still a few hours away.’
‘How are the others doing? Fabienne?’
‘She’s not talking.’
He peered ahead. It was getting dark, fast. Some lights flickered ahead.
‘Looks like a vehicle checkpoint coming up,’ he said, pushing the pain to the back of his mind.
Maxine grabbed the radio mike. ‘Checkpoint. Keep calm.’
Blocking the way ahead was a row of battered vehicles known locally as technicals: pick-up trucks, with huge machineguns mounted on their back. Nasir slowed their truck to a crawl. Three young men in combats with ammunition belts round their necks hopped off the back of the technicals and waved Nasir towards them. Others spun the machineguns round to point them at the convoy. Half a dozen more men in shirts and jeans were scattered by the sides of the road among the wreckages of burnt-out cars. They were leaning on their rifles and chewing qat.
‘They don’t look too friendly,’ Maxine said. She spoke again into the radio. ‘Lock your doors. Stay in your vehicles. We’ll do the talking.’
Jim stuffed a roll of US dollars in Nasir’s shirt pocket.
‘You speak to them,’ he said.
One of the militiamen was pointing a torch right into Nasir’s eyes and walking towards them. He looked such a young lad, barely 15, with boyish looks and the beginnings of a beard. Yet here he was in army attire, a dark look in his eyes and a scar all the way down his right cheek. He barked questions at Nasir, who opened his window a crack. Jim glanced in the wing mirror. The convoy had come to a standstill behind them. Some of the militiamen were walking towards the other trucks.
The young militiaman shone his torch in Maxine’s face, then in Jim’s, then back at Maxine’s, where it lingered. He popped another qat leaf into his mouth and eyed her up and down. Jim tensed. In Kenya, men would boast about raping a white woman. Was it the same here? He glanced at Maxine out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead. Jim was impressed by her cool.