by Jay Bahadur
In the West, a public official receiving money under such circumstances would be labelled corrupt. But in the Somali context, the label is not entirely appropriate. In Somalia, clan and politics are incestuously intertwined, and political life is based on loyalty to one’s clan, not the state apparatus. When, as is generally the case, one sub-clan—in essence an extended family—dominates the machinery of government, money changing hands between its members is considered no more illicit than an aunt looking after the children when their parents are away. “From the outside, it’s impossible to determine whether Boyah giving money to Farole would be an attempt to sweeten the administration, or simply a contribution to a not-so-distant kinsman,” explained Bryden.
On a personal level, these allegations came as a shock; it was difficult for me to accept that a man with whom I had shared a table on multiple occasions, a soft-spoken academic who seemed to have a sincere distaste for piracy, and whom I genuinely admired, could be guilty of such hypocrisy. The behaviour also seemed inconsistent with his political past; while serving as planning minister during the previous administration of Mohamud Hersi, Farole had resigned his post in protest over a shady oil deal that the president had entered into with the Australian firm Range Resources—a contract that would have offered Farole as lucrative a kleptocratic opportunity as pirate handouts.8
Despite Bryden’s claimed plethora of unnamed sources, there has only been one publicly documented case of a Puntland official, Omar Shafdero, being directly involved in piracy. Shafdero, an employee at the Ministry of Finance and a relative of former president Hersi, was arrested in February 2008 and accused of links to the gang responsible for hijacking the Russian tugboat Svitzer Korsakov.9 Shafdero spent a short time in custody before being mysteriously released, after which he fled into exile in Somaliland.
But pirate cash, argued Bryden, had been particularly instrumental in funding political candidacies in the run-up to the 2009 presidential election. According to the UN Monitoring Group report, a prominent pirate leader, Fu’ad Warsame Hanaano, “had contributed over $200,000” to the election campaign of Farole’s foremost opponent (and now interior minister), General Abdullahi Ilkajir—a member of Hanaano’s sub-clan, the Warsangali. Farole, the report contends, “benefitted from much larger contributions to his political war chest.”10 During the pre-election period, Bryden claimed, “There was a lot of excitement, a lot of money was changing hands and people didn’t worry too much about where it came from. Now, because of international scrutiny, the movement of money is quieter … people are much more cautious. But according to captive pirates, the payments to the administration are ongoing.”
The accusations surrounding President Farole have been fuelled, in part, by the fact that he is a native of Eyl and belongs to the Muse Isse, the same sub-clan as Boyah, Garaad, and many other Puntland-based pirates. This affiliation with Eyl, ironically, has also placed Farole in a much better position to tackle piracy than his predecessor, General Hersi, whose bumbling efforts to fight piracy were once related to me by a Puntland journalist colleague.
In early 2008, as Hersi—who belongs to the Osman Mahamoud sub-clan—continued to lose local support and credibility, Eyl was steadily establishing itself as Somalia’s forefront pirate base. Knowing that to enter Eyl with his Osman Mahamoud militiamen would initiate a bloodbath, Hersi appointed an Isse Mahamoud supporter, Mohamed Haji Adan, to the made-up position of “deputy police commander,” with instructions to bring Eyl under government control. On June 11, 2008, Haji travelled to Eyl with an escort of soldiers, leaving them on the outskirts of the town and sending an unarmed representative to demand a bribe from the pirates. The negotiations were brief; one of the pirate leaders asked Haji’s man how much he wanted and sent him back with a shopping bag filled with $20,000 in cash. Haji promptly vacated his esteemed position and fled to the city of Galkayo, where he spent the following days and nights chewing khat. He was officially sacked four months later.11
Despite being far more capable than Hersi of cracking down on Eyl, according to Bryden, Farole has so far made no effort to impose central authority on his hometown, and has yet to even make a visit since his election. “The reason for him not doing so,” Bryden wryly jibed, “is quite obvious.”
Yet, according to Puntland government insiders, Farole has established new leadership in Eyl, including a mayor and a police commander equipped with a fleet of technicals (armed flatbed trucks). Since late 2009, Eyl had all but lost its status as a pirate base, with ships hijacked by Puntland gangs being taken to the more southern (and isolated) port of Garacad. Whether the pirate exodus was a result of Farole’s leadership, or the general decline in the number of hijackings in the Gulf of Aden, is difficult to say for certain.
Bryden, for his part, was not convinced by the efforts of the Farole administration. “What’s alarming,” he said, “is how foreign governments have been duped into believing that Puntland is a real partner in anti-piracy, closing their eyes to the complicity.”
Under mounting international pressure, said Bryden, there had been signs that Farole was starting to take the piracy issue more seriously—particularly since the US Treasury Department had placed Boyah and Garaad on a sanctions list in April 2010 (the US government, it appears, was not convinced by Boyah’s quest for redemption). “Now that the US has designated Boyah and Garaad as wanted men,” Bryden said, “he is in a position where he can no longer dodge the issue. If Farole wants good relations with the US, which by all accounts he does, he will need to get serious.”
Indeed, Farole has made rapprochement with the international community—and in particular the United States—the cornerstone of his foreign policy. In July 2009, Farole accepted an invitation from the US State Department to appear before the House of Representatives Committee on Foreign Affairs. In his speech, Farole proposed a four-point counter-piracy plan to be financed with US money, which included the establishment of a coastal task force operating out of bases situated in eight towns along the Puntland coastline. So far, this plan has not materialized.12
The UN Monitoring Group’s accusations elicited a predictably irate reaction from the Puntland government. In a press statement shortly after the release of the group’s March 2010 report, President Farole hit back, attacking the credibility of the report’s sources as well as Bryden himself. “The report’s authors used sources that include politicians who are opportunists or are opposed to Puntland’s self-development,” he said. “Even some of the report’s authors are politically motivated to discredit Puntland as a way of achieving another hidden goal.”13
This claim was not entirely hollow: Bryden has openly campaigned for the international recognition of Somaliland—with which Puntland has a hostile relationship—indicating a political stance that made him an unusual choice to head up a UN body. Nor was it the first time that Bryden, who has familial ties to Somaliland politicians, had been accused of partiality: the pro-Somaliland reports he issued while director of the International Crisis Group’s Africa Program in the mid-2000s earned him the criticism of the Intergovernmental Authority on Development states (Djibouti, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Kenya, Somalia, Sudan, and Uganda), while the Puntland government declared him a persona non grata. This order was still standing as of 2010; the group’s March report had been compiled without Bryden ever having set foot in Puntland.
* * *
Though the Puntland government, as Bryden suggested, has become increasingly willing to pursue the pirates on land, enthusiasm alone may not be sufficient to offset its lack of capacity. With an annual budget in the range of $20 million, derived almost exclusively from Bossaso port taxes, the Puntland government cannot afford an effective police force, let alone a justice system capable of processing hundreds of suspected pirates.
With such meagre resources at his disposal, Puntland’s president can perhaps be better described as an inter-clan mediator than as the leader of a modern state. Even to fund basic state services, the president is routin
ely forced to beg for handouts from unconventional sources. Addressing an assembly of Bossaso businessmen at a dinner one evening, Farole appealed for donations to pay for a list of absurdly modest projects: replacing road signs, long ago stripped bare for the valuable metal; building a six-kilometre road from the livestock inspection station to the port; constructing a small hospital.
Given Puntland’s capacities, the counter-piracy potential of the local military forces is limited. The Darawish’s five to six thousand soldiers are garrisoned at Garowe, Bossaso, and Qardho—far from the locus of pirate activity—so any land operation against the pirates involves transporting troops hundreds of kilometres across roadless terrain. The logistical difficulties in deploying such a response make successful results extremely rare, and almost entirely dependent on timely local intelligence gathering.
One such operation occurred when I was with the president’s entourage in Bossaso. Acting on a tip-off, Farole led an impromptu raid on the village of Marero, a well-known human trafficking and piracy launching site just east of Bossaso. In what was more a public relations exercise than a model for future action, Puntland security forces captured two speedboats, several outboard motors, barrels of fuel, food, and ladders. The seized equipment was proudly displayed to local media in lieu of the would-be pirates themselves, who had absconded in a speedboat as the troops approached.
If provided with sufficient financial and technical support from the international community aimed at overhauling its police and justice system, the Puntland government would be in a good position to tackle piracy on land. Like other kinds of undesirables who move and find shelter amongst civilians—militants, revolutionaries, even common criminals—the pirates’ success depends on the goodwill and protection of the local people. Though initially welcomed as heroes, they have become increasingly unpopular amongst the local inhabitants due to their perceived un-Islamic influence.
It was perhaps with a view to mending community relations that Boyah’s redemption movement had proved so popular amongst his former colleagues. Of these ex-pirates, perhaps none had expressed a greater desire to reform than Momman, a taciturn and thoughtful man whom I had first met at the khat picnics outside Garowe. Two weeks after the picnics, in July 2009, the two Omars procured me an invitation to visit Momman at his home.
8
Momman
MOMMAN’S HOUSE STOOD ALONE AMID A FIELD OF RUBBLE ON the outskirts of Garowe, past the ruins of the long-abandoned airport, a vast tract of stone and concrete slabs struggling to poke through decades of layered dust. Nearby was a Japanese-funded settlement for internally displaced persons, ramshackle rows of tent-like structures cast in cracking concrete and tin—a damning testament to what a million dollars buys with Somali contractors. The only human activity in the early afternoon heat was a lone woman labouring over a wash bucket with a few haggard, half-naked children scampering in orbits around her.
As with many upscale Somali dwellings, the wall ringing Momman’s compound was a vibrant sky blue, decorated with brilliant yellow and red circles and triangles, like a child’s finger painting. We parked outside the walls beside another 4×4; this area of town was so deserted that there was no serious risk of theft. We had come directly from the khat suq, where, as a friendly offering, I had financed the purchase of several hefty bags of the drug.
Momman had once been Boyah’s running mate, a founding father of the core group of Eyl fishermen-cum-pirates, before he split off to form a group of his own. Judging by the size of his house, he had enjoyed a fair measure of success prior to joining the recent pirate redemption movement.
We moved through the gate and into a courtyard carved up by weeds and empty except for a lonely gazebo. My two Special Police Unit guards secured themselves a ration of khat and found a spot under the gazebo to settle down and chew. We were told to wait outside as Momman prepared the house for us.
After about five minutes we received permission to go inside. The dim hallway leading into the house hit my eyes as a formless smudge of black and blue as I left the bright sun of the courtyard behind. Following the Omars’ example, I slipped off my sandals and stepped barefoot into a low-lit, spacious room serving as a joint dining and living space. The cloying smell of Arabian perfume hung heavily in the air, reminiscent of the scented tissues provided at Somali restaurants following a meal. To my immediate left a sleek stainless-steel fridge and freezer rested flush against the door jamb; further down the adjoining wall, a brand-new twenty-one-inch TV and DVD player shared a beige wall unit with neat stacks of china. At the room’s midpoint it cast off its modernist airs and morphed into an approximation of a sultan’s tent: a three-piece divan framed an ornate crimson carpet, itself encircled by thick crimson drapes that blocked the daylight struggling through the barred windows behind them. Reddish, gold-tasselled bolsters sat propped on the floor against the base of the divan, while a few smaller similarly coloured pillows were scattered on the cushions above.
This was one of the nicest houses I had yet seen in Somalia, and I paid Momman the compliment. He was quick to correct me. “This is not my house.” he said. “It belongs to my wife and kids.” I felt like a tax agent investigating the assets of a mafia don.
Colonel Omar, dressed in his usual striped tracksuit, stocking cap, and scarf, lay staring at the ceiling on the divan across from me. He cradled his AK across his chest, almost caressing it. He was still khat sober: fifty days and counting. On the ground, the smaller Omar reclined against the cushion propped beneath the Colonel’s legs. To his left sat his driver, a blithe, lanky man named Mahad.
Momman settled at the head of the gathering, leaning on the floor against a bolster. Behind his head on the divan lay a loaded Belgian semi-automatic pistol—the little brother, around these parts, to the AK-47. Momman was flanked on either side by two of his former foot soldiers, Mohamed and Abdirahman (not their real names), who casually lounged, fastidiously picking at khat stems.
Momman, like Boyah, looked to be in his early forties, with broad shoulders that gave him an air of great physical strength. But in place of Boyah’s free-flowing goat’s tuft and traditional elder’s garb were a meticulously trimmed goatee and an equally dapper combo of striped red dress shirt and olive slacks. His face was hard, his eyes old and almost fatigued, their gaze producing the impression—impossible to feign—that he did not care at all what I thought of him. He studied me intently, his eyes tracking over my face, and I found it difficult to meet them. His rare smiles slipped by with obvious reluctance, as if his facial muscles had briefly triumphed over his brain for control of his expression.
His austere gaze remained unchanged even when I produced the copious bags of khat I had brought with me. We dropped the black plastic bags in the centre of the carpet and clustered around them, like children around a campfire, an atmosphere that was instantly dashed when Momman rose and threw open the drapes, flooding the room with daylight. I settled back against the cushions, letting my ma’awis cascade comfortably over my folded legs, and picked apart the binding of a bundle. Selecting a stalk, I stripped away the tough, leathery leaves until only the soft shoots remained. As I lifted it to my mouth, the hint of bitterness hitting my nostrils carried with it a vision of the day to come: the stomach pains, the nervous chain-smoking, the tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. Time itself doesn’t seem quite real when you’re chewing khat; the activity is perfectly in tune with Somalia—the slow, lethargic chewing keeps pace with the plodding of the days, lives measured out in pulpy mouthfuls. “Khat days” are endless, and there was no rush to begin the interview. I relaxed and waited for tongues to loosen.
In the meantime, I produced my backgammon set and played a few games with my interpreter Omar. Mohamed and Abdirahman glanced over as we played and asked some idle questions, but before long Colonel Omar descended from his perch on the divan and snatched the board away from his cousin, pulling it close to him where the others were unable to see it. He pointed aggressively
at my chest, indicating a challenge.
The Colonel’s militaristic philosophy on life was nowhere better expressed than in his backgammon game. He hit checkers in a mad frenzy whenever it was possible to do so, bellowing in victory each time. I tried to explain through Omar why restraint was necessary, but my interpreter lacked the translational nuance to properly convey backgammon strategy. I did what I could, uttering the Somali word for “dangerous”—khatar—after each ill-advised move, but it was of little use. After each inevitable loss, the Colonel scowled and half-jokingly accused me of cheating, wagging his finger.
Ignoring our game, Momman remained fixated on the television set, which was showing the latest Somali Broadcasting Corporation footage of Mogadishu in flames, the result of yet another Al-Shabaab suicide bombing. The conversation somehow turned to the multiple foreign journalists who had been kidnapped in Puntland, some by their own guards. “Here, in the Nugaal valley, we don’t kidnap people who are working with us,” Momman said, smiling at me for the first time. “It’s not our culture.”
Someone produced a tall thermos containing the saccharine tea that traditionally accompanies khat to counteract its bitter taste, and I poured a small helping into a cup. Every so often, Momman’s wife wandered into the room, arranging the already tidy chairs or checking the placement of the immaculately stowed chinaware.
Momman picked up his handgun and absently began to toy with it. Bored and anxious to develop some kind of rapport, I nonchalantly requested to see it. He removed the clip and passed it through an assembly line of hands until it reached me. I fiddled with the safety for a few seconds and examined the barrel, then cocked the hammer a few times for good measure, nodding approvingly.
