When Khadar had finally sent some financials, they were fraught with inaccuracies, including double counting some items and putting too high a number on others. The math still had him owing the school about $30,000. He agreed to meet in person to discuss it but then canceled a few minutes before, when I was already in Hargeisa. By this time, I’d had enough and demanded that he meet me at once.
That’s when all my fears came true. “Jonathan, you will leave the country immediately,” he demanded. “The teachers will leave with you, and you can take the students, too.” He concluded with, “You are on my land.” After months of Khadar denying this was his intention, it was at least a relief to have his position out in the open.
Now, here he is on campus making a scene. The students stare in disbelief, unsure what they are witnessing. I’m too angry to be bewildered.
Before this step, Khadar had made mistakes, but he still could have maintained his reputation as a respected contributor to a great new school. Sure, he’d dug himself a hole, and people would learn that he didn’t own Abaarso, but he could have called that an innocent misunderstanding. With the school’s success, the Somali community would be congratulating everyone involved, and Khadar would have been a big part of that. What’s more, he would have been a benefactor to his countrymen, as well as his clansmen, whose village hosts the school. Unfortunately, that’s not the direction he took.
The day after his visit to campus, the gang of villagers shows up at the school’s gate telling Harry they will kill me if I don’t leave the country. A parent visiting campus even hears one of them saying they are going to turn the school and the campus into a hotel. Since the school had opened, nothing like this had ever occurred, and suddenly it happens right after Khadar has ordered me out of the country? I don’t need to think hard to know who is behind our unwelcome visitors.
The future of Abaarso is now in question. In the world I come from, this has an easy solution. It’s not Khadar’s land, nor is it the village’s land. The land belongs to the school. What’s more, the students, parents, teachers, and largest funders are unequivocally behind me, and they want the school protected from Khadar. Legally, Khadar has no claim. He is only a board member, and short of a board vote to send the teachers, the students, and me home, he has no legal grounds whatsoever. But, of course, we are not in the world I come from. We are in a clan justice system in Khadar’s subclan’s territory. I am not from that subclan or any other. I am not even Somali. We are huge underdogs.
28
NOTHING IS EASY
For the next two weeks I am dealing with nothing but this problem. I go to see Somaliland’s president, who promises to help, but after the visit I am forced to stay in Hargeisa, supposedly for my own safety. School is closed for the summer, and I am leaving to take my students to the United States for their scholarships at Worcester Academy.
Sadly, a few days before we leave, there is a delay in Fadumo’s visa processing, and she can’t go with us. She is devastated, and I am for her. We are beginning to understand the visa process, which is not easy for Somalis. There is no U.S. embassy in Somaliland or Somalia, and the United States has no formal diplomatic relations with either. Therefore, anyone trying to travel to the United States must go in person to the U.S. embassy in Djibouti.
Early in the morning of August 5, 2011, Mubarik, Deqa, and I take a bus to Berbera Airport. I dread most long trips, but today I am fueled by the excitement of watching my travel companions as they discover a whole new world. While my frustration with Khadar continues to weigh on my mind, for now I focus on the success of my kids.
The short flight from Berbera to Dubai is the first time Deqa and Mubarik have been on a jet plane, their flights to and from Djibouti having been flown on an ancient Soviet propeller plane. They are excited, but it is Dubai International Airport that really wows them. One could say Dubai International is a microcosm of all that is Dubai, but there is really nothing “micro” about it. A full assault on one’s senses, it’s a cross between Disneyland and Las Vegas—glitzy, gilded, and filled with huge displays of the fanciest cars and most desirable shops. It isn’t just the size and luxury, or the ceilings, which are taller than any building in Somaliland; it is also the incredible range of people—well-heeled Europeans on vacation; American businessmen in Western suits; Arabic women fully covered, with just slits in their gold face masks; immigrants struggling with children and baggage. Among the shops, there are rooms for prayer, one for men and one for women. More international travelers go through Dubai than any other airport in the world, and its central location means they are off to India, the Pacific Islands, the Middle East, Africa, Europe, and even stops throughout the Americas. Our flight would be serviced by British Airways the whole way, changing planes in London.
Once at the airport in Dubai, Deqa and Mubarik see a world they could not have imagined existed. Deqa is so excited by what surrounds her that she declares, “I could stay here forever.” She adds, “I love Dubai and I’m excited to see London next.” Explaining that this is not really Dubai and our stopover at Heathrow would not really be London isn’t worth bringing her down.
“I don’t understand something, though. Who owns this?” she asks.
“Who owns what?” I ask, unsure of what she is referring to.
“Who owns this airport?”
In Somaliland, pretty much everything is owned by someone. Dahabshiil Money Transfer is owned by Mohamed Saeed Duale and his son Abdirashid, the Maansoor is owned by Abdulkadir Hashi, the Ambassador Hotel by Khadar Adan, and so on. Dubai Airport comprises a larger project than constructing all of Hargeisa, and Deqa cannot imagine anyone being rich enough to build it. Seeing a world of mass structures sparks questions she couldn’t have previously conceived of, just as my coming to Somaliland has made me rethink assumptions. I explain in simple terms the concept of pooling funds through large corporations and government projects. I am not sure it all clicks, but Deqa seems captivated.
We sit down in one of the airport coffee shops for tea and hot chocolate. For the first of what will be about twenty times, I check them for their passports. Deqa is pure fascination, but Mubarik has a different reaction. Despite the whipped cream on his hot chocolate, he looks depressed. “It is hard to find out that everything you thought was good was really nothing,” he states, obviously comparing Somaliland’s limited development to what is here. The boy who a decade earlier had learned that a truck was not an animal is struggling with the latest shock.
I am enjoying my students’ wonder right up until it is time to board our flight to London. We are halted in the boarding area by a British Airways representative, who puts me on the phone with someone from the British government. This person tells me that Deqa and Mubarik will not be allowed to board the flight.
“They have perfectly valid U.S. visas,” I protest.
“We know that, and we don’t question that,” the official says. “But we don’t recognize the Somalia or Somaliland passport. They can’t come to England.”
“They don’t want to come to England,” I argue. “They just want to transit from one British Airways flight to another in Heathrow Airport. They have scholarships in the United States.”
My pleading doesn’t have any effect. “It doesn’t matter. They can’t board” is the final answer. And with that we are stranded.
On the inside I am quite unhappy and nervous. It doesn’t help that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours, a lot of the sleep deprivation on account of Khadar. As far as I am concerned, there is no good reason to deny entry to Mubarik and Deqa when they are obviously headed to something better than Heathrow Airport. I have no idea how many countries will block our entry, even though our final destination is the United States.
Not wanting to take any more risks, I decide we need to fly directly to the United States, to whichever city it might be. I look at the options online and see that there are direct flights to San Francisco, Houston, and New York. A New York flight has just close
d, but another will be departing in eight hours. I rush to the ticketing line, Mubarik and Deqa in tow. I am trying to appear calm, not wanting to ruin their experience or worry them. Even before I reach the counter, I learn that there are five seats left on the flight, which leaves no time for delay. But there is still a complication. We are traveling on different itineraries, with Mubarik staying in the States for one year, and Deqa and I for a shorter time, meaning I cannot book all of our seats at once. What if after I book Mubarik, the other seats get scooped up before I have a chance to book Deqa and me? If that happens, Mubarik will have to figure out how to get from New York to Worcester on his own.
Then comes the next glitch. My credit card company blocks the purchase, for which I don’t blame them. They should be suspicious, seeing my itinerary change mere hours before takeoff. Getting the authorization is hard. I don’t have a phone that works in Dubai, so I borrow one and try to reach customer service. Finally, an agent picks up, and he authorizes Mubarik’s flight first, then Deqa’s and mine. I remain uneasy, wondering what other challenges await us. I hadn’t expected to lose Fadumo in the visa issuance fiasco or be unable to change planes at a British airport, either—all lessons that prove it isn’t easy to be a Somali trying to get to the United States.
As soon as the plane is in the air, I feel great relief, as I was silently waiting for someone to escort us off the flight. Every flight attendant who walked by made me nervous. I’m now overtired and almost delirious, but I don’t sleep more than thirty minutes during the fourteen-hour flight, worrying about what is to come at Homeland Security. When we land and approach border control, my fears are realized when an officer tells Mubarik to follow him to a back area. Then, Deqa, too, is instructed to follow the officer. At first, I wait for them to reappear. But as it becomes clear that this is not going to resolve quickly, I ask if I could join them and am surprised to be let through. I find Mubarik and Deqa sitting on chairs, waiting to be called. No one has talked to them yet. They are tired and resigned that they have no control over anything going on. I still maintain the illusion that I have some.
At the desk, I ask why they are being delayed, and a nice gentleman explains, “They need extra processing, but the system is down. No telling how long it will be.” Eventually, they are summoned and, without too much fuss, allowed entry. As we pass through the doors to where families await, I realize they can’t stop us now. My first kids are officially in the United States! That I haven’t slept in days, we are in New York and not Boston, and we now learn Mubarik’s luggage is lost are small-time, solvable problems.
Despite my relief, I can’t help but wonder why Mubarik and Deqa needed to go to border control in the first place. Their visas are in order, so being detained for extra screening seems unnecessary. It reminds me of how suspicious the Somalis are of me. We in the West have certainly had more interaction with those of other cultures, but we are still anxious and afraid of the unfamiliar.
Just being in a new society will teach Mubarik and Deqa so much. I am learning so much, too, even if it is the hard way.
29
HARRY’S MAD DASH
Harry sends me an e-mail. His communication reads:
It has become clear to me that [a Ministry of Education official] is actively trying to stop Abaarso from receiving entry visas for its new teachers.
I am back home in Massachusetts, having turned Mubarik and Deqa over to their new educators at Worcester Academy. It’s nice to be back with my mother in my childhood home. She provides some grounding in what is an otherwise awful time. I fear for Abaarso’s very survival and the urgent e-mail from Harry Lee is a big part of that.
Harry had been completely new to education when he came to Abaarso in our second year. But he has been a great fit from the start. Intensely logical and analytic, he sees both the big picture and the fine details in a way that few people do. Harry was born in northern Nigeria, lived briefly in the United States, then moved to Cairo when he was four. His mother was in the Peace Corps and his father was in the Foreign Service. Harry was two years out of the University of Virginia when he joined Abaarso.
His e-mail refers to a problem we’ve been having with Immigration. The situation has become so combustible that we are not even sure if our incoming teachers will be allowed to enter the country. Indeed, Harry is right about the visas being blocked. The official from Education has gone to the Ministry of the Interior, which oversees immigration, to tell him that visas are not to be issued for our incoming teachers. Harry protests to the official on the school’s behalf, but for weeks the man keeps inventing excuses, including one about not being able to get into his e-mail account.
Harry’s e-mail continues:
It’s extremely frustrating and draining to work non-stop, without salary, to provide this country with a service while someone in the government does everything possible to obstruct our work.… We urgently need someone to intervene so he does not destroy our school. We must get these visas on Saturday. The teachers are coming, and we must get them into the country.
Unfortunately, the visa issue isn’t getting fixed. Instead, the stalling and excuse-making continues, along with a lot of avoidance. Harry, accompanied by parents and board members, makes numerous trips to Immigration to pick up the visas, and each time they are denied. Now it is just a couple of days before the teachers are supposed to arrive. Some would soon be in the air. What would happen if they landed at the airport and were then sent back after a trip of more than thirty hours? If they were sent home, not only would it jeopardize the school year; it would seriously damage our ability to recruit American teachers again, partly because these guys would tear us up in the blogosphere.
Finally, I decide I need to take action. I call the official.
He picks up, so I know he’s there, but then he hangs up on me. There’s no question that Harry is right about this man’s intentions. I e-mail Abaarso’s supporters and everyone else I can think of and copy the official and my uncle Billeh on all of my communications:
Dear Board of Trustees,
[The official] is blocking visas for the teachers who arrive in 2 days. He has made up every excuse imaginable to avoid giving them to us and now is claiming that he can’t unblock them without permission of the Higher Education Commission. This is of course complete nonsense. If these don’t come through and the teachers get stuck in Dubai with no choice but to go home, then all credibility of Abaarso is gone and we will never be able to recruit teachers again.
Early the next morning, I receive a nonchalant e-mail from Billeh:
The matter of the visa is taken care of. The office of the president ordered that the visas be released and that MOE [Ministry of Education] be at airport to meet the teachers.
It turns out Billeh has gotten through to the chief of cabinet, a man named Hersi, who is in China with the president of Somaliland. Hersi, in turn, calls the vice president of Somaliland to have him issue the visas from the presidency. Yet even this order doesn’t quite solve the problem.
The day the teachers are due to arrive, Harry and one of our board members, a man named Munir, who runs the local airline, Daallo Airlines, go to see the official at his office in Hargeisa. They are accompanied by our armed guards, protocol for any foreigners in the country who have passed a government checkpoint. The official tries to slip out of his office, telling the men he’ll be “right back.” Harry has been dealing with his excuses for weeks and there is no time left for more obstruction. He snaps and calls him a liar, causing the official to order our Abaarso guards to place Harry under arrest. “Finally I have you!” he declares, revealing his hand. Munir manages to calm the situation, as the guards stand there frozen, not knowing what to do.
Nobody is arrested, but the tension is making me frantic, as the teachers arriving without visas would be an enormous setback. I stay glued to my computer as the action or the lack thereof continues to unfold. Why is the official putting up such resistance in the visa process? Whatever the rea
son, it is more than aggravating and annoying, it is outright obstructionist and nearly deals a severe blow to the school. The issue is finally resolved when another official from the Ministry of Education goes to Interior, and the visas are approved and dashed to the airport in time to meet the arriving teachers, who were none the wiser.
While the visa situation is behind us and many of the initial doubters are now on our side, the root cause of our problems remains. I have only seen the tip of my original miscalculation. The question is no longer whether I can create a high-quality school but rather whether I can create such a school in Somaliland. Comparatively, the school part is looking easy.
Fortunately, I was not alone in fighting all of the challenges facing the school. Harry is an exemplary employee; he is like a partner in this start-up. He is willing to throw all of himself into Abaarso, to be creative in his solutions, even to take on personal risk, just like a great entrepreneur. And he isn’t the only one, either. There are others like him, and we are about to get great folks in the new class of teachers. Like Harry, they will bring passion and ingenuity to the school, and their day won’t stop until the job gets finished. Normally one doesn’t find that kind of passion unless there’s a profit motive involved, but there is nothing normal about the people who choose to work at Abaarso. Few people are willing to sacrifice so much.
It Takes a School Page 14