by Hawa Abdi
“Okay,” she said. With Asha, it was always, “Okay,” and no more. I felt unsettled—she had left me before, and I didn’t like the way she had treated my children in the camp—but she was my sister. I didn’t have anyone else.
How I dreaded the moment when I had to say good-bye to my children. How I worried: Deqo was very humble; she never raised her voice. Amina understood everything, but she had a hot temper, and Ahmed was still just nine years old. “Amina, you are my daughter,” I told her, my arms around her skinny, twelve-year-old body. “Your name is the same as my beloved sister. Please protect yourself, your sister, and your brother.” When I walked away, she cried as she had when she was small.
When photographs of starving Somali children were finally broadcast by all the international news networks in 1992, the world woke up to the fact that hundreds of thousands of people were dying. While more aid shipments were making landfall, we still could not count on anything reaching us. I began a new routine with the camp’s elders, similar to the morning meetings that I was accustomed to as a member of a hospital staff: Each morning the elders and I discussed the situation in the camp the night before—I found out who was sick and who was starving, and together we determined the best ways to settle disputes. This small sense of order helped me, even as the number of wounded continued to flood our hospital hallways, and our cleaners struggled to keep up with the sand and blood tracked over the floors. Now we had a system: The people went to the guards, who went to the elders, who came to me.
As I worked, I tried to imagine my children in school at the same moment. Seeing their life in Nairobi had helped me to feel calm, even when we were far apart. On my second visit, I was able to stay for fifteen days—long enough to take the children to see some of the sights of the big, colorful city, like the zoo and the beautiful, green Uhuru Park. That time with them under the trees inspired another new routine: I spent part of every Friday afternoon away from the hospital, so I could write my children letters and meet some of my friends for sweets and tea under the big mango trees. It was my oasis; I had begun to call it my Camp David, after the American retreat where Russian president Boris Yeltsin had recently met U.S. president George H. W. Bush.
As more people came to our Camp David, we received more support, and my worry lessened. Most of the aid workers I met were Somali, although some were from Ireland, Switzerland, Turkey, China—all over the world. They gave of themselves freely, and I tried to find small ways to reward them, with fresh fruits or small bottles of Coca-Cola or Fanta or just an afternoon under our trees. Finally, I was living among people who understood what we needed to survive.
One beautiful September day, a journalist from Nairobi came to me there. “How are you?” he asked, surprised to see me relaxed. “How is the situation today?”
I remembered a book that I had read when I was living in the Soviet Union—the diary of a young girl who had survived the siege on Leningrad and who kept a log of the horror that her family suffered: Today, Mama died, she wrote. Today, Papa died.
I looked at the journalist, with his sunglasses and his wrinkled oxford shirt, and remembered the next thing she wrote in her diary. “Today we are happy,” I said. “Nobody died.” He scribbled in his notebook, and the next day, his article appeared in a newspaper with that as the huge headline.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Operation Restore Hope
My lifeline to my children, in those days, was a CB radio—mine in Bakara Market and theirs in an Eastleigh office—and the goodwill of the international organizations such as ICRC and the UN, which generously shuttled me back and forth free of charge on their flights to Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta Airport. I thought of them constantly. As more and more refugees flooded Eastleigh, Kenyan president Daniel arap Moi began cracking down, filling the streets with gun-toting soldiers. I heard on the radio from Amina that the police came into our place one night, terrifying the children and demanding to see their documents.
I went to the Ugandan Embassy the next time I was in Nairobi. Uganda had a better relationship with Somali refugees than Kenya and a better infrastructure—even after surviving their own terrible civil war. Someone at the embassy office suggested that we send the children to a program at Makerere University in Uganda’s capital city, Kampala; they gave us thirteen visas—for all the children, and for Asha and me.
The bus ride from Nairobi to Kampala was eleven hours long, and we all went together. I enrolled the children in school and found some tutors to help fill in some of the gaps in their knowledge. I remember a conversation I had with one of the professors at Makerere University, who marveled that after just two or three years of civil war, we Somalis had no wires, no pipes, no phone lines. “Your people are not patriotic,” he said. “We are fighting for twenty years and everything is the same. You? When you open your water, you either get nothing or a dark, poison stream.”
I didn’t debate with him or dwell on how far our country had fallen; I just enjoyed the relief I felt to walk with my children in that place, where the people were beautiful, dressing well, and sitting together in cafeterias and restaurants. I said good-bye, blessing the children and praying for their safety. I threw myself back into work, seeing patients and talking with visitors, but when a month passed with no word, I worried. Our personal savings were almost gone, so I couldn’t afford a flight to Kampala. I learned of a UN plane going from Mogadishu to Nairobi, though, and with a bit of negotiation, I got a seat the next day. I bought a round-trip bus ticket from Nairobi to Kampala, driving across the border town of Busia, which straddled Kenya and Uganda.
By the time we finally crossed into Uganda, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept the night before, as I was performing surgeries that I knew could not wait for my return. I hadn’t been able to sleep during the eleven-hour ride, as we were jostled along the way. The official who met us at the border saw my Somali passport and demanded money to let me cross; I’d tied up in my dress only $200 U.S., which was to buy supplies for the children. Deliriously tired and anxious, I burst into tears, fearing that I would be held up at the border for so long that I wouldn’t be able to see my children. After hours of negotiation, the official settled on a $100 bribe, and I eventually arrived in Kampala, head pounding, at eleven o’clock in the morning.
First I saw Ahmed playing outside with Khadija’s youngest daughter; they ran to hug me, and I felt so relieved.
“Where is Mama Asha?” I asked, stroking my son’s hair.
“She hasn’t been here for two weeks,” said Ahmed as he searched through my bag for the sweets he knew were there. He was just a child—eleven years old. “She went to Nairobi.”
“Who is with you?” I asked.
“Only we are here.” When Deqo and Amina came home later, I learned that Asha had gone back to Nairobi. She’d simply left. “I am going to sleep for a while,” I told the children. “When I wake up, we will make dinner and have a long talk.”
I was trapped, forced to control my anger. Again my sister, like my husband, had chosen to follow her own fortune. I had saved her life and the lives of her children, but she was not able to do the same for me. I was frantic, knowing that I could not stay long in Kampala, and knowing that the danger at home prevented me from bringing the children back. We talked the next morning, as I had promised, and afterward I took Deqo to a branch of the Standard Chartered Bank and opened up an account for us. “I will sell some of our property,” I told her calmly, “and I’ll put money there so that if you need it, you can take it.” She acted as an adult, nodding and taking the papers from me.
That afternoon, as the children rested, I went to see one of the few Somali men I knew in Kampala—a middle-aged man who had opened a hotel. “Please,” I said to him, handing him the remaining $100. “Watch over my children and give them anything they need. I will come back in a few weeks.”
While I was in Kampala, the first American Marines arrived in Mogadishu, bringing with them television crews and tons of food and more mon
ey than we’d ever seen. The day they landed was December 9, 1992, and their mission was called Operation Restore Hope—to disarm the warlords and their militias and to clear a path so that the aid could reach us. I first saw the American Marines when I landed at that small airport in Wanlaweyn, and I was afraid.
“No, no, no,” said one lady who had been on my flight. “Somalia has changed—the Americans have come!” I could see a change in people’s faces, which was surprising but hopeful. We had been waiting, for so many years, for peace.
By then we were high profile, one of the largest camps along the Afgoye Road served by ICRC. One of the heads of the U.S. mission, Lieutenant General Robert B. Johnson, came to my place, and a group of soldiers followed soon after, surveying our camp and offering to help in many ways. I admit that when the American soldiers first came to my camp, I was as wary as I was at the airport, fearing that their presence would bring more violence to our area. They actually did bring peace. They brought a huge convoy of food into Baidoa, where the relief organizations were burying even more people than we were—at one point, as many as three hundred people per day.
The Navy came to our camp following the Marines, although it was hard to keep track of so many faces and titles. They built another big kitchen, this one with three huge stovetops where we could cook at once three big drums’ worth of rice. Out of plywood, they built a big hall near the opearting room with an additional thirty-five beds for soldiers—and eventually for patients. They also decided that they would build a primary school. While they worked to dig a big hole in the ground for the foundation, they threw candy to the curious children who came by to watch.
All I could offer in exchange for their work was some very small hospitality, and like the staff of the international organizations, they seemed to enjoy it, delighting in our sweet fruits and resting under our trees, as Wim had. While I tried to give them more, they’d brought their own soda and water and other supplies—so much food, including fruits we didn’t have and peanut butter and chocolate, which we gave to the children whenever we could.
A rumor spread that President George Bush would make a trip to Somalia; it was big news, to hear that a U.S. president would come to Africa, let alone to our suffering country. We knew that the two big warlords in the area, Aidid and Ali Mahdi, wanted to meet with President Bush, so I was shocked when General Johnson returned to me to say that the president would pass through my camp on the thirty-first of December, at 2:10 p.m. I couldn’t believe it. A U.S. president in our place? It was a top-secret mission and a lot of preparation: A different official group came to me each day, asking me to show them where I would take the president on his visit.
“Here,” I said, walking along my property to ICRC’s outdoor kitchens, which each had orderly lines stretching out behind. “Here,” along the path between the tents we’d set up outside the hospital, where the most severely malnourished lay on carpets or else right on the ground. And then “here,” beyond the hospital, to the people’s huts, where many mothers and children sat inside—six, seven, eight at a time—to avoid the strongest heat of the day.
As we repeated the drill, American troops assessed the security situation, and our committee of elders planned ways for our society to welcome the president and his delegation. At times it felt almost as though we were preparing for a party, bringing out art supplies and straightening up the tents as best we could. I was happy to see everyone working well, but I wished my children were with me to see the camp running so smoothly, full of food and people wanting to help.
Around one o’clock on December 31, hundreds of American soldiers came to surround my property—more than we’d ever seen. At 2:10 p.m. exactly, they sent up a flare, and a helicopter came flying in from the direction of the ocean. It landed in a clearing we had designated, near the displaced people’s homes. President Bush walked out, wearing military dress, and at first I didn’t recognize him—I was thinking that he’d be wearing a suit and a tie. Just as the senior officers had said, he came over to greet me. I thanked him for coming, and together we walked the path that I’d set out.
Earlier that day, ICRC had delivered maize and beans, so we saw at the kitchens our usual staff feeding and distributing, and many people waiting. Every person held a plate and some held containers to bring back extra dry food for their families. President Bush stopped to take a few photos with a group of people waiting in line, and he joked with them, trying to make them forget their pain and hunger. When the president entered the tents sheltering our severest cases, the mothers who had the strength stood up, saying “hello.” Some of them also had legs swollen with edema.
“Hello, how are you?” he asked, trying to make them happy, to get their attention; he spoke loudly to the men whose faces were so swollen that their vision was obscured. He even shook some of their hands.
The elders and I had decided we’d show off the construction of our new school by gathering a group of the camp’s children to stand inside the foundation. When President Bush and I passed that way, the children stood up and said in English, “Welcome, President, welcome.” They held some of our signs: we somalis never forget george bush. welcome president bush. He smiled, and some of them applauded; he then walked over to the group of soldiers, to talk with them and wish them a Happy New Year.
When news of the president’s arrival spread, people lined the streets of Mogadishu and the Afgoye Road to welcome him. They had different requests, depending on who controlled their area: In some neighborhoods, the crowds carried photos of Aidid in one hand and of President Bush in the other; in other areas, they carried Ali Mahdi and the president. But President Bush walked back to the helicopter and flew directly to Baidoa, to meet the people suffering there, while the demonstrations were still happening on the streets.
“He’s already come!” said some of the people who had been in my place as they returned to Mogadishu. “He visited in the Hawa Abdi place, and he has flown south. It’s too late.”
Oh, you can imagine, the warlords didn’t like to hear that, and neither did many of their supporters. “The world’s biggest Christian came to you?” hissed one man when I remarked that the hand he was shaking had also shaken the hand of the American president.
“Yes, that was a pleasure,” I said. “And you will never get that pleasure.”
On January 3, 1993, UN Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali came to the camp, taking a photo with me and Aden’s father, who was living with us at the time; Colin Powell, chairman of the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff, also made a stop that year, greeting the leaders of our religious community and saluting the entire group before climbing back aboard his helicopter. While most people in the camp were happy for the attention, some began to fear reprisals from the warlords. “They say that President Bush gave you a suitcase full of millions of U.S. dollars,” said one man, who came back from Mogadishu. “They say that Hawa will never be poor, now that the Americans are supporting her.”
How could I make them understand that a single visit didn’t change anything? The truth is that delegations come, they see you, they write a report, and then, after much time and bureaucracy, maybe you get a small donation. Without understanding this logic, many people talked behind my back.
“These people protesting may hurt your feelings,” said my father-in-law, “but they will never reach your level.” I decided to believe him. It was a new year, 1993, and with so much goodwill coming to us, anything was possible.
I spent almost all of our family’s savings to fly to Kampala and then, from there, to buy eleven more airline tickets for the children’s return to Nairobi. A Somali businessman who had a private plane planned to meet us there and fly us all back to the camp. While we waited for him in the airport, we watched the inauguration of U.S. President Bill Clinton on the television there. The children returned to a home where food was more plentiful and people were living peacefully. Although the suffering was everywhere, for the children, it was paradise: No matter where you have
been, your home is the best.
The American soldiers came every morning, in their heavy dress and heavy boots, marching in together in groups of four or eight or ten. We all celebrated the opening of the school they’d built, with its seven classrooms and a big hall where the students could get their lunch. Deqo began teaching mathematics there and spending the late afternoons talking and laughing with the troops—many of whom were around her age.
Khadija came back to us around this time, carrying news that the sheikh and Aden had left Saudi Arabia and were now living in Djibouti, a part of northern Somalia long before colonized by the French. I didn’t have many feelings about the matter, I told her, and I was too busy with the people who needed me, and the people who wanted to help. I tried to close my mind to the idea of him: I did not want to talk or to think about someone who had left me at one of the worst moments of my life.
Around that time, the United Nations Operation in Somalia (UNOSOM) collected a group of prominent Somali people to draft a new constitution; since I had a law degree, they invited me to join. For more than a month we sat, from about 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., taking some language from our 1960 constitution and some from the best of Siad Barre’s, and writing new provisions based on what we saw during this dark, lawless time. Each of the members of this constitutional committee received threatening letters from the warlords—from Aidid, the strongest one, but from the other ones, too. “You will die if you come back here,” read one paper, tacked up in the hall where we met. While we mourned one peace activist we knew, the owner of an electronics store who was shot and killed by Aidid’s men, we continued our job. We handed in a draft constitution, thankful that most of us had come through the experience safely.