By Amy Wilentz writing on recent earthquake devastation in Port-au-Prince, Haiti

As the news clips about the recent calamity in the impoverished Haiti played out in our living rooms, I came across another different and yet very similar story to some extent. I’m referring to the recent article about Somalia entitled “Georgi Kapchits Reports on Somalia, Part II” appearing on WardheerNews in Jan 29, 2010. A unique point of insight that struck with sense of awe and despair was a picture of the luxurious al-Uruba hotel taken before and after the savage conflict.

Al Uruba Hotel before and after the civil war

Whether we admit or not, this picture speaks volumes of what Somalia‘s senseless conflict has been all about in terms of what went wrong or still ailing and what the future holds for that matter. The popular English adage of picture is worth a thousand words sums up the crux of the story. Wikipedia defines it as “the idea that complex stories can be described with just a single still image, or that an image may be more influential than a substantial amount of text.” One cannot think of fitting words to give further description in this case.

If still unsure about the parallels and differences of these tales of tragedies and in what sense, there are some. Albeit physically thousands of miles apart and with different historical, cultural and environ settings, these tragic stories are very similar with regard to the loss of life, dashed hopes and immense traumas inflicted upon the populace. According to some sources, close to 230,000 people were killed in the Haitian quake ravages while 250,000 perished in the Somalia conflict so far, in addition to other millions displaced from their respective localities. Destructions of the urban infrastructure and state institutions in both cases are also massive, and that is all as far as similarity goes. The only other common factor one could think of is checkered records of the past rulers: Papa Doc of Haiti and Papa Siyaad of Somalia once ruled with iron grip though ironically strong men left behind intact nations despite politically fragile.

But the obvious difference lie with the root causes of the wanton destruction both nations sustained and amount of time it took to compel. In Haiti, brute forces of Mother Nature wrought havoc in less than a minute and humanity could not do much to avert whereas Somalia’s version is a man-made disaster that took twenty years to put on its ugly signature. Apparently anthropogenic impacts such as conflicts and ecological damages over time are comparable to the fury of nature like earthquake and hurricanes in terms of inherent destructive outcome. The Haitian and Somali catastrophes are living examples of the kind.

What’s more, Somalia’s case was preventable with minimal cost and efforts in numerous occasions of the past. There have been ample opportunities now and then to turn the page and act, but parties concerned decided to remain either indifferent to or inflamed situation further in every opportunity. A short-term selfish interest and other diabolic motives such as invoking of a façade clan cards blinded these agents of doom and disaster all along.

Meanwhile, the existence of Mogadishu and Somalia in general remain a land of virtual memory among former residents and casual visitors alike, including this author. And not just any kind of memory but one that is incompatible with today’s ghostly images. The beauty of its streets, inhabitants, land marks, institutions and so on are either gone or beyond recognition. It sounds unrealistic now, but I often prefer to dwell on with some ancient virtual memory over present haunting pictures for obscure reasons and probably I’m not alone. May be it has some thing do with some psychological comfort zone or personal manifesto against Somalia’s war criminals rather than reality on the ground. Whatever the case, I decided long ago to avoid knowing few visceral things about Somalia that I couldn’t stand anymore and among others·

Note that there are no shortages of bad news from Somalia. I often find myself reluctantly overhearing graphic details of many incidents whenever I go, specially in the smoke-filled local majlis or coffee shops, not to mention plenty of other horrific images that kept circulating increasingly in the cyber world for sometime, but I simply decided to ignore as if they didn’t exist. It felt like being in complicit of the crime scenes and other sordid platforms of perpetrators to do otherwise. I also felt that things were testing my ethical boundaries in every sense. It is the most liberating experience however symbolic and lone mission I have ever done.

Besides, there is nothing wrong living in with fond memories since they aspire to bright future and sense of historical records. “And, of course, even what is lost not is entirely lost… Over time, memories come to replace the people and places, inadequately, but nonetheless. Parents pass down the memory to children, or aunts to nephews, or friends to friends’ children, and on through generations. Books guard and concentrate those memories, and art does too, and photographs, scattered through out the world” wrote professor Wilentz of Journalism at the University California at Irvine and former expat of Haiti.

Objectively written and recorded, books, stories and other forms of recording medium along with healthy memories can play positive role in the well being of a given society and its sense of history. Somalis are not different in that regard. What Somali people need today is more than source of gloom and despair. What they need today more than ever is a sense of history, vision, memories of success to rally around and their raison d’être even if that means overlooking distraction of constant ugly images coming from back home. One particular work I’m looking foreward reading soon is a book entitled Nomad Dairies written by a young energetic Somali lady by the name of Yasmeen Maxamuud. Reading from excerpts and media sources, her works seems to resonate much with the complex, and sometimes troubled, life of Somalis in the diaspora in relation with their past and present societal challenges.

For those who may suspect as being benefactor of a bygone era and thus prone to nostalgia affliction of sort about pampering days could not be more wrong. In fact, the opposite is true. Coming from remote and disadvantaged region in terms of state negligence and history of colonial exploitation, I arrived in Mogadishu at the end of 1979. It was also at the end of, technically speaking, disastrous Ethio-Somali war that permanently affected my roots in one way or another. I call it disaster because the war was a serious blunder for Somalis in terms diplomacy, political and military cost however morally justifiable and short-lived victory it might have.

Though conflict between regimes was officially over, another low intensity war that affected some regions more than others and consumed slowly the rest of Somalia ensued. “Liberation” outfits led the unholy march and regardless of what some entertain, the doomed mission was nothing more of Ethiopian proxy war to dismantle Somalia as we knew. By the time I left, the area (Awdal), it was a war zone caught between the terror of skilled Ethiopian forces tipped off by informants within and cross-border attacks from the same groups along with Ethiopian regulars, on other hand. In one instance, about 60 schoolchildren died in a deadly air raid and God knows what role collaborators had played in that massacre.

From that day on many people knew fighting was not about justice or liberation but something far sinister and history has proven it as such. The biggest irony is that though both SSDF and SNM affiliates were known waging war for non-patriotic cause, which they take pride even today. They have chosen to fire their first shots, the staging ground so to speak, in the Awdal borders, to say nothing of spending much of their military and political capital there causing unforgivable public damage in the wake. There was no denying of the an existence of an oppressive regime at the time, but given the done damages, platform and employed tactics, was the effort worth of it?

Back to Mogadishu’s memories, the only recollection in my first experience is a scorching sun and dusty winds, known as Istakhfurulow, blowing from the Indian Ocean during the days and followed by soothing ocean breeze at night. Volkswagen (the bug) and Fiat small cars populated much of its streets. In the evenings, residents had a love affair with Italian speaking (though few were able to understand) Hollywood action movies. Within days I was rubbing shoulders with veteran crowds in the nearest movie center that was playing classics of the Lawrence of Arabia. But another one that left me with a prophetic impression to this date, after mastering the language at the Faculty of Agriculture in Afgoi where the medium instruction was Italian, was entitled Il Cento Cinque Giorni a Palermo or the siege of One Hundred and Five Days in Palermo, capital of Sicily. It was about a true story of coup d’état staged by Sicilian Mafia in which the governor, police chief and other institution officials were either killed or taken in hostage. Incidentally, little did we know a similar bloody siege led by imaginary liberators will occur in this city eight years later.

The living standard was reasonable and there was not much class disparity among citizens whereas one could ride as little as 1 Shilling and 50 cents on a street bus or cab. Outright greed and loots of public and private properties that would cripple the system few years later were limited or at least hidden from public view. Effective security and public order--two commodities in short supply in Mogadishu and rest of Somalia over decades -- were in place. One could not care less whether police or dreaded NSS agents were in charge as long as the public safety was kept against the menace of tribal mob masquerading as liberators that would unleash hell on earth in the streets years later.

As per al-Uruba hotel, though sightings and passing around the site was routine for years, I had limited intimate knowledge as far as its coveted hospitality or function goes. All I knew is a state-of the art building with imposing oriental architecture that was magnet for tourists and government big shots. I’m sure among the would-be future leadership of “liberators” and associates had better chances of throwing in cocktail parties as they pleased than average Somali in streets. The closest I went to it was in 1981 where an acquaint of mine from upstart class family, who was departing to America for further studies after high school graduation, invited us in farewell party. We had few soft drinks in a spacious entertainment room in the ground floor and played loud Somali cum American popular music from old school including Stephen Wonder, Ahmed Moge, and et.al.

To close, existence of Mogadishu and Southern Somalia in particular remain a land of fond virtual memories, which are in stark contrast to the nightmarish reality on the ground for years now. And unlike the recent violent earth trimmers that laid waste Haiti in a few seconds, Somalia’s ruins were perpetrated by non other than its primary benefactors over decades and acted against a backdrop of genuine calls from concerned friends and foes alike to deal with it. One can only hope that things will not last forever as they are today. We can only hope that its stakeholder will come to their senses and desist from addiction to a culture of violence, criminality and plunder. In the meantime, let the fond memories fill the void and assume better days for Somalia are yet to come.

Mohamed Awale
E-Mail:Moe-awale@hotmail.com

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