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EDITOR'S NOTE: This analysis is the final of a four part series from Dr. Kapchits’s visit to Somalia, where he served as a translator and consultant for a Russian Television team which has done an in depth report on Somali piracy. WardheerNews is pleased to share Dr. Kapchits’s thorough analysis of the situation with its readers. Dr. Kapchits's understanding of Somali culture and language has given him an unparalleled edge on Somali affairs. 4. MeetingsNARRATOR: The Voice of Russia observer Georgi Kapchits has just returned from Somalia where he served as an interpreter and consultant for a Russian television crew. He visited numerous parts of this formerly integrated country, met with political leaders and cabinet members, as well as fishermen, pirates, city residents and rural villagers. His fourth report is entitled "Meetings." KAPCHITS: My family was quite familiar with the volatile and dangerous conditions in Somalia and strongly opposed my traveling there. They rejected all the arguments I put forward to them about why my trip was important - to get odd jobs, to gather material for a new book, to simply have a change of scenery, not to anger the fate, etc. Finally I resorted to citing Gogol, reminding my family of Taras Bulba's words about the "sacred bonds of comradeship" and I was let go.
My wife understood that while in Mogadishu I would see Abdi, who was a witness at our wedding and that in Bosasso I would likely meet up with Khalif, a brilliant language connoisseur, who studied in Moscow in early 1980's and visited us daily when I was working on a book of Somali proverbs. This report will include brief summaries of my meetings with these old friends along with a new acquaintance Sayid to whom I was introduced by Khalif. Abdi Haji GoobdonI embraced Abdi soon after I got off the plane in Mogadishu. In the early 1970s, this talented and energetic man worked as an announcer in Somali at Moscow Radio. After he returned to Somalia his journalistic talents and experience enabled him to become chief of the press service of President Mohammed Siyad Barre, a post he held for a long period. In 1989 I Abdi disappeared as the dictatorial regime collapsed in early 1991 under the onslaught of armed opposition and the civil war began. After a few years, I heard that he had been killed and eventually was informed of the circumstances. Before I had time even to mourn over his death, it turned out that Abdi was alive and well, and in charge of the press service of the new leader of the nation who had overthrown the previous regime. Since the 1990s, several presidents and their governments have come and gone in Somalia but every one managed to retain Abdi in the same position. When we met in May 2009 in Mogadishu, my friend (hardly aged but somewhat heavier) was "merely" the advisor to the head of the press service of the new president. As he had been for over 30 years, he was well received in all the corridors of power and I witnessed the profound respect shown him by his much younger colleagues. The phenomenon of Abdi Haji Gobdon deserves an explanation. I turn to Somali folklore, which, after decades of careful study, I find offers answers to many questions concerning Somali way of life. The following folktale is appropriate: In a certain flock of sheep and goats there was once a small ram with horns. One day the head of the Somali family said: "Let's slaughter a ram." Hearing this, the ram lifted its head up and joined the goats. After some time the man said: "Let's slaughter a goat." The ram turned upon him its fat tail, lowered its head and joined the sheep. In this clever way the shrewd ram, by sometimes mingling with the goats and other times immersed amidst the sheep, lived to see a new grazing season. In my view, at a time when Somalia was seemingly captured by madness and “on principle” people were slaughtered as cattle, Abdi made flexibility and adaptation his strategies for survival and thus managed to stay alive. It is deeply offensive nowadays to hear some people, whose "principles" are soiled with blood, deride or criticize him. Abdi knows the exact number of women he has married, but cannot recall how many children he has. Although scattered around the world, they still revere their father. Several times after delivering a lecture in one of several Western cities a young Somali would approach me and say proudly: "I am a son of Abdi Gobdon." Not long ago my friend brought home another wife. She had been previously married but being unable to give birth, had been divorced. Nine months after her wedding to Abdi, yet another Gobdon came into the world! Khalif Nur Ali "Qonof"My second friend Khalif, a remarkable engineer and poet, was waiting for me in Bosasso, a port city on the northern Somali coast and the final destination of our trip. Many people assured me that he would meet me and Khalif himself called several times a day as our communications grew more regular as the distance between us shortened. Khalif had graduated from the Moscow Institute of Fine Chemical Technology, then returned home to Somalia where he worked to adjust power station grids and joined the search for mineral deposits, which many Somalis long insisted had been found by British and American companies who kept them concealed.
Imagine my surprise when, in 1989, having arrived in Mogadishu I learned that Khalif had retired from public affairs and spent his days in a small shop on the outskirts of the city. It was there that I found him. "Yes,” confirmed my old friend, sadly surveying the shelves of men's shirts, women's headscarves and bolts of silk fabrics, “here is where I trade." Khalif answered my many inquiries with reluctance and chose not to elaborate on what had happened to him. When we finally met in Bosasso, amidst embraces we confessed that had we been somewhere on the same street we would have passed each other without recognition. I admitted that I had worn out the shirts he gave me 20 years ago and needed new ones. "Do you mean that shop?" laughed Khalif. “That was a secret address. It was there that opponents of the regime used to congregate, and where they made plans to overthrow it. The idea of Puntland, in which I am having the honor of receiving you, was born there too.” I knew that Khalif was chief of staff for the administration of the President of Puntland who retired a few months ago, supervising all economics projects in this fledgling state. "Is there water in your hotel?" inquired my friend, and getting an affirmative answer replied, "Water is in all settlements of Puntland, electricity - too. It is my doing. My dream is to go to Moscow and to visit my Institute and to thank for what I was taught.” Then he asked, "But where are Russians? Why don't they come? We have oil, gold and uranium, which we could mine together. There is nothing worse,” Khalif sighed, “than a man whom you have fed who does not leave, and a man you are waiting for who does not come."
Sayid Osman KenadidOn the second (and last) day of my stay in Bosasso Khalif came to the hotel with an elderly man. He exited the car with one hand on a walking stick and the other waving the book of Somali folktales, which I had given Khalif. "This is Sayid Osman Kenadid,” said he. "I shan't return him your book" said Sayid having greeted me and quoted: "One day somebody said to a bustard: 'Woe is me, the Prophet had died!' The bird did not answer. 'Hey! The Prophet has died! Why aren't you crying?' 'What about it?' said the bustard. 'When he was alive I pecked at shit. Now he' dead, I'm doing the same!'" "It's about us", laughed Sayid. Sayid Oman Kenadid is a well-known Somali writer, a son of Osman Kenadid, a chieftain and a poet, the creator of the original Somali script Osmania, named after him. Sayid is a younger brother of Yassin Kenadid, the author of famous "The explanatory dictionary of the Somali language." Sayid opened the book of folktales and pointed to the photograph taken in Mogadishu in 1951. In it the future patriarch of international Somali studies Bogumil “Goosh” Andrzejewski (an Englishman of Polish origin) had been embodied with a group of Somali intellectuals as members of the newly established Commission of the Somali Language. Except for Andrzejewski with whom I had met several times, in the photograph I knew only two - poet Muse Haji Ismail Galaal and Yassin Kenadid. Sayid named all the rest, but one. "And who is this?" I asked about a boy shown seated next to Yassin in the bottom row. "This?" asked Sayid and smiled. "This is me." On the day of my departure from Bosasso, Khalif brought gifts: derin (a well-made mat for a chieftain) for which he had gone to Erigabo famous for carpet weaving, and two heavy packages, which he asked me to open only in Moscow. One turned out to be full of aromatic gum resins and the other contained frankincense for which the ancient Egyptian pharaohs, thousands of years ago, used to dispatch naval caravans to the fabled Land of Punt. George Kapchits The author is grateful to Charles Geshekter who edited his English translation. Related articles* Geroge Kapchits REPORTS ON SOMALIA (Part I) :The Country of Poets and Pirates _____________________________________________________________________ We welcome the submission of all articles for possible publication on WardheerNews.com
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