Somalis may soon be receiving letters from abroad for the first time in more than 20 years after a deal was struck with the United Nations’ postal agency – the latest step towards ending Somalia’s isolation following two decades of civil conflict.
But the challenges to bringing the Horn of Africa country back into the global postal community are manifold – there are no functioning post offices, only the main roads are named and most houses do not have a number.
Add to that the ongoing struggle with al-Qaeda-linked insurgents, who still control much of the countryside, and parts of the coastline infested with pirates, and it is clear the UN’s Universal Postal Union (UPU) and its partners have their work cut out.
The Swiss-based UPU said in a statement last Friday that international postal services could start operating again in Somalia within the next few months.
Somalia’s Minister of Information and Communication Abdullahi Hirsi signed a memorandum of understanding with Emirates Post Group this week for Dubai to act as a hub for handling mail destined for Somalia, it said.
(Pic: donovanbeeson/Flickr)
The UPU, which brokered the deal, said its 192 member countries could resume sending mail to Somalia once the arrangements were finalised.
About 2-million Somalis live abroad and 9.9-million in Somalia, served by a postal network that is “basically inexistant”, the UPU said, having dwindled from 100 post offices in 1991.
UPU spokesperson Rheal LeBlanc said Somalia had created an office at the airport to handle mail moving in and out of the country, initially to service the government, embassies and universities, “but they seem to have plans to phase in postal services across the country over the next few months and years”.
Hirsi said his country would need help getting the post going again.
“We ask for all means of assistance as we have to start from ground zero,” the UPU statement quoted him as saying.
In the latest sign of optimism that Somalia was emerging from its violent recent past, Britain opened an embassy at Mogadishu airport last week after its previous mission closed in 1991 as civil war broke out. – Reuters
“London or Minneapolis?” a soft female voice asks. It comes from a few tables behind me at Village Restaurant – a popular hangout for Somali diasporans in Mogadishu – as I finish a call to my friend.
“Eastleigh,” I respond, trying not to disclose my London background. Eastleigh is a district in Nairobi, inhabited mainly by Somalis.
Clutching a shisha pipe in her right hand that is patterned with henna flowers, she blows thick white smoke that fills up the dimly lit corner of the restaurant. “You may dress like a local but you don’t sound like the Eastleigh type. You definitely don’t look like one.”
Moving her chair to to my table, she introduces herself as Hamdi from Hamarweyne, a district in Mogadishu. In the dim lights her gold necklace and rings are hard to miss, and one can smell the incense smoke she perfumed her long, black, orange-highlighted hair with from a mile away.
Her two female friends soon join us. They’ve come here in the hope of mingling with their preferred type of men – diasporan guys.
With fragile peace holding up in Mogadishu, Somalis who have been living abroad are flocking back home for a visit. Most of them are single men – eligible bachelors. They are to Somali women what English Premier League footballers are to London women: the cream of the crop.
Most local women think Somalis living abroad, especially in the West, have lots of money. It’s easy for diasporan men to seduce them with cash, the perceived chance of a better life abroad or love. There are unproven theories that diasporan men are more romantic than local men; that only a diasporan man will drive for miles to the one flower shop in town to buy his lady flowers; that, unlike local men, diasporan men listen to their ladies while romantically gazing into their eyes.
I ask Hamdi how she knows I’m not a local. She smiles. “I can even tell what you do for a living.”
She and her friends reckon there are three types of diasporan men in Mogadishu. Like spots on the skin of a leopard each group has unique features, they say. They dress and carry themselves differently.
1. The government workers
This group is mainly made up of former taxi drivers from London, Minneapolis, Toronto and Sydney who have returned home to work in government.
They wear oversized two-piece suits and walk around with briefcases whose contents are a mystery. To finish off the look, they sport dark glasses (plastic). This group, the girls say, don’t have the most amount of money. They’re very visible at the beginning of the month just after they’ve received their meagre pay cheques. Their strong point is that they have access to power, which means they can potentially help you land a job if you play your cards right. This group attracts unemployed female university graduates looking for work in government offices, Hamdi’s friend Fartun reveals.
2. The business types/MBA
More often than not, these men are dressed in expensive sarongs and polyester shirts. They’re older than the government workers and tip the obese end of the scale, but they have deep pockets.
What they lack in looks and charm, they compensate for in gifts. They usually have at least one wife outside Somalia and half a dozen children. These men are commonly referred to as MBA – Married But Available. They attract women who dream of shopping trips to Dubai and are okay with being the second, third or fourth wife.
3. The cool guys
According to the ladies, this group has the most fun but the lightest pockets. They’re the new cool kids on the block, sent back to Somalia by their families because they’ve become too westernised in their adopted home countries. They depend on donations from relatives in the West and have the worst reputation among the locals.
Young and fashionable, they sport the latest hairstyles like mohawks and some have tattoos hidden under their long sleeve shirts. If they don’t conceal them, they risk facing the wrath of conservative Muslim locals.
You can find the cool guys chilling on Liido Beach or Hamarweyne, the most liberal district of Mogadishu. They know how to throw underground parties on a budget among the bullet-battered buildings of the city, and supply all kinds of illegal recreational stuff. To be seen with them is to play with fire but the girls who want to be “Hollywood cool” feel at home in their company.
Liido Beach, where the ‘cool’ diasporan men go to mingle with the ladies. (Pic: Hamza Mohamed)
Fartun prefers the business types because they can afford the things she likes in life, like dining at the few nice restaurants in town. A decent meal for two at one of these spots can start at US $25. In Somali culture men always pay for the meal, which means high-end restaurants are out of budget for many of the local men.
With the summer holidays coming up, an influx of diasporan men are expected in Mogadishu in the next few months. Hamdi and her friends say they’re happy about this – the more fish in the sea, the better the chance of a good catch.
Before leaving the restaurant, I again ask Hamdi what she thinks I do and what group of eligible bachelors she’s put me in. After inspecting me from head to toe, she says: “Judging by the sandals and the T-shirt you wearing, you look like they’ve deported you from London.”
Hamza Mohamed is an independent British-Somali journalist. Connect with him on Twitter.
Balcad is the hometown of my father, his father, his father’s father (you can see where I am going with this). It’s about an hour’s ride to Mogadishu depending on what kind of bullshit you have to encounter to get there on that particular day. My dad complained how back in the day the trip took only 30 minutes and provided a great source of daily entertainment, gossip and scandal. Balcad is a farming and agricultural town, where goats compete with humans for control of the road. Men and women wake up at the crack of dawn and spend hours sitting by the main road drinking copious amounts of tea and arguing about absolutely nothing. One of most powerful people in the town is the humble bus driver who we rely on for our movement in and out of Balcad.
I had previously only made quick visits to Balcad (the last time was in 2004-2005) but this time I was staying for a few weeks, in the same house my parents married in and my siblings were born in. There is something quite peculiar about sleeping in the room in which your parents promised to spend the rest of their lives with each other over two decades ago.
I arrived in Balcad in the heat, bothered by dust and sand clouds hitting me in the eye. From the moment I stepped out of the car, I could feel people’s eyes on me. Their stares followed me as I surveyed the main road, the shops, the women who all wore full jalabeebs or burkas. It was as if ‘outsider’ was printed in bold font on my forehead. Thankfully my first visit to Somalia in 2004 had already prepared me for this.
The stares were most intense on the bus rides from Balcad to Mogadishu. The bus never left on time. The driver would sit outside, leisurely drinking his tea, waiting for the bus to fill up with passengers. I’d be sitting in my seat, open to the various curious looks and questions by fellow passengers. It didn’t matter how I dressed, they could always identify me as the outsider. Sometimes they didn’t even ask me anything; they were content to sit and discuss me loudly. During my stay I managed to perfect a blank expression mingled with confusion. It usually saved me from further questioning.
I spent my days in Balcad watching Somali music videos and a lot of badly dubbed Bollywood films. One night the entire road seemed to be in my room: their electricity connection had failed them and the thought of missing their Turkish soap opera was unbearable. Friday soccer games would see half of the town trickle into the green grounds to watch various teams compete against each other. The animosity towards the Mogadishu teams was fantastic!
Some days my dad took me on walking tours, pointing out the ruins of his childhood. I could sense his bewilderment and confusion at times when buildings that used to stand large and proud now appeared before him bullet-ridden. Balcad felt more freeing than Mogadishu, with local residents staying outside till late at night. Residents walked around freely and generally the atmosphere was less anxious than it was during my previous visit.
On other days, my grandfather’s housemaid would chaperone me despite my loud and angry outbursts that I was perfectly capable of roaming around by myself. She was a decade younger than me and refused to leave my side while I explored Balcad. Young children would run and scream at the sight of my camera before cheekily returning and asking to have their photo taken. I’d often spend a good 20 minutes taking personal photographs for people.
In Balcad, my grandpa’s town, I was merely my grandpa’s blood. People referred to and introduced me by his name, wherever I went his reputation and presence followed. It was nice. Even though my grandfather is in his eighties, he still treks by foot to his farm each morning to check on his crops, his animals and to basically get away from it all. I did not know grandparents while growing up. My maternal grandfather died shortly before my arrival in Somalia years ago. My paternal grandmother died decades ago. I’m fully realising how limited my opportunities are to understand my grandparents and their stories. Time is definitely never on our side. Hopefully through the stories and photos of my visit, I will have something of them to hold on to.
This post is part of a series by Samira Farah about her recent visit to Somalia. She is a freelance writer and events organiser based in Sydney, Australia. Visit her blog at brazzavillecreative.com and connect with her on Twitter.
Growing up in Mogadishu in the late 80s in a house full of young single women, the standard dress code for us was a traditional costume called a dirac (a long transparent loose dress), worn with an underskirt, bra and a light shawl. Women did not cover their hair until they were married. My aunts were allowed to date once they turned 16. There were only two rules: date men who had cars so they could pick them up and drop them off, and be back home before 10pm. When their potential suitors came to fetch them, they would politely greet family members with the customary “Galab wanaagsan” (good afternoon) or “Habeen wanaagsan” (good evening).
Just before they left for their dates, my aunts would burn some of my grandmother’s homemade unsi (incense) and apply it under their clothes for a long-lasting patchouli-mixed-with-vanilla-like sweet scent. It was amazing. I would sit in the room with them and hope for some of that perfume to get onto my clothes and hair. I often tried on their beautiful, multi-coloured diracs and high heels. I could not wait to turn 16, get my hair highlighted and straightened just like my aunts, and go on dates.
But in 1990 the civil war rudely interrupted my plans and, at the age of 13, I fled Somalia with my family and thousands of others. There was no more talk among young women about dates, fashion and hairstyles. All I was left with were three younger siblings to look after, a disabled and unemployed father, and desperate poverty. My world was turned upside down and I had to find something else to look forward to, now that my aunts were married off and I was the eldest female in the house.
During 1991 and 1992, we lived in Eastleigh, then one of Nairobi’s slums populated by other Somalis also escaping the civil war. My focus in life changed considerably during this time. I realised I had only two options to escape poverty and the miserable living conditions I found myself in: marry or study. Most of the women in my family only studied as far as high school, and I was not impressed with how their lives turned out after they got married. They seemed unhappy, and some of them were even beaten by their husbands.
To me, marriage seemed like a trap. Women were burdened with too many babies and no time to enjoy life. I was also surprised by the rise of a strict version of Islam that had women get rid of their colourful and beautiful diracs and wear ugly umbrellas. The music stopped, perfume became haraam (forbidden) and “Subax wanaagsan” (good morning) was replaced with the Islamic greeting of “Assalamu alaykum”. It seemed that our Somali culture and way of life was erased, overnight.
The only way to escape this systematic silencing of women and the oppressive new culture was to study my way out of the slum. Despite wearing a hijab (forced on me by my father and “society”), I registered for the cheapest and only English classes I could afford. They were held in the local church a couple of blocks away from the dingy two-bedroom flat I shared with my dad, three siblings and five other relatives. This initially caused a lot of heated arguments with our Somali neighbours. How can a Muslim girl in hijab enter a church?! Where are her father and male relatives to stop and discipline her? I calmly tried to explain that I was attending English classes and not going to the church to pray. What I could not say out loud (my first lesson in carefully picking my battles) was that I did not care much for their opinion and there was nothing they could do to stop me. If I could not wear the beautiful Somali dirac, put highlights in my hair, and look forward to dates, then I was going to find other ways to get excited about life. What better way than learning English as part of my get-out-of-poverty strategy – and irritating the self-appointed moral police at the same time?
Fatuma Abdulahi.
My lucky break came in mid-1992, a few months into my English classes. A British charity, The Hugh Pilkington Trust, was sponsoring refugee students to complete their war-interrupted studies and offered free English classes. My kind and dedicated Kenyan English teacher encouraged me to apply and told me that if I did well, they would send me abroad to complete my studies! In addition, the charity gave students a small monthly stipend to help them make ends meet so they could focus on their studies. This was the ticket I had been praying for. I threw myself into that English class like my life depended on it; I listened to the BBC World Service religiously; I told my siblings that from then on I would not speak anything but English. Everyone thought I had gone mad but I had a plan and nothing was going to stop me.
A year after I enrolled in the class, I won a scholarship to attend the prestigious United World College, an education movement comprising 12 international schools and colleges. I had to choose from three colleges in Swaziland, Canada and Hong Kong. I did not know where Hong Kong was, but I knew where Swaziland was and I wanted to get the hell out of Africa. All I experienced in this continent was war, poverty and stifling cultures. Many Somalis were immigrating to Canada, so that was a no-go. I needed a break from Somalis also. I asked about Hong Kong and how far it was from both Somali culture and Islam, and when they told me it was the furthest from both, my decision was made!
I studied in Hong Kong for two years and obtained an International Baccalaureate (IB) pre-university diploma. I went on to receive undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in politics in the United Kingdom, also on full scholarships. Studying, living and working abroad widened my perspectives. After nearly 20 years away, I have returned to Africa for good, grateful for the wide open spaces and eager to contribute to the changes necessary in Somali culture so the next generation of Somali girls lead better lives.
In November last year, I made my way to Dubai airport to catch the early African Express flight to Mogadishu. To my surprise, several other Somali-Australians who I knew at home in Sydney were already in line, waiting to board the same plane.
One woman had brought her two teenage sons with her. It would be their first visit home. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I recognised the fear and irritation etched on their young faces. I wore the exact same look seven years ago when I made my first trip to Mogadishu from Sydney. I lived in the city for a year, and was now returning for a short visit.
While waiting to board, I got into an argument with a random man who tried to trick me into checking in a mysterious box of ‘dates’ under my name to Mogadishu. I refused but he kept insisting. My friend yelled at him and he hurried off. I still wonder what exactly was in that box of alleged dates.
The group of women I was travelling with cheered as we stepped off the plane at Mogadishu International Airport. They did what homesick citizens would do: they posed for photos under the Somali flag. An airport official immediately began yelling at us to move on. It was the start of the first pointless argument out of a series of pointless arguments I had to witness in Somalia.
The sun was blistering hot on my skin and I was uncomfortable in my abaya. I never wore it back home, and it seemed ridiculous and restrictive in this heat. I awkwardly tried not to trip over it as I hurried into the arrival lounge. As I queued with the rest of the passengers, I was told I was in the wrong line. A weird feeling passed over me as I realised I was being directed to the foreigners’ queue. There is something humbling about arriving in your home country, the land of your birth, and having to wait in the foreign citizens’ line. Indeed, I was a foreigner who could not tell left from right in this city; a foreigner whisked away as a toddler only to return when it suited me. I left Somalia in the nineties during the outbreak of the civil war and emigrated to Australia with my parents and siblings.
I paid US$ 50 for my foreigner visa, and stepped outside, right into the arms of my uncle and father. I wrestled myself away from the eager taxi drivers offering to provide a lift and followed my family out of the airport. I stopped abruptly as an envoy of African Union tanks passed by, followed by a truck full of Somali soldiers. The African Union troops are in the country to bring peace and order after a long and brutal civil war. This envoy would become a frequent sight during my stay. As I looked at them in bewilderment, one of the Somali soldiers cheekily winked at me. My uncle was quick to reprimand him. I smiled, shook my head and made my way towards our car where my grandfather was waiting for me. I was home.
Street life in Mogadishu. (Samira Farah)A food and hangout spot. (Samira Farah)
We snaked our way through rush hour traffic as we drove from Mogadishu to Balcad, my family’s home town that’s an hour’s drive away. The drive gave me a chance to get reacquainted with the city. Some things were exactly as I had left them: the noise, the smells, the goats and donkeys stopping traffic, the war-torn buildings brimming with people. But there were also new sights: soldiers in uniform, a myriad of construction projects competing with each other, people counting money in public, the Turkish flag waving proudly from various buildings, teenagers texting away on their smartphones. There were school children in their brightly coloured uniforms walking in groups to catch the bus home; elderly men sitting under trees for shade, quietly sipping on tea; the constant yelling of bus drivers trying to hustle passengers into their vans.
Mogadishu is a noisy city. It has to be. Everything in the city happens while the sun is up. You get a sense of frantic energy but at the same time nobody is in any real rush. The people here subscribe to the philosophy “whatever happens, happens”.
I noticed that every woman and even young girls were now wearing either the burka or jalabeeb (head-to-toe burka). I left Somalia after a one-year stay in Mogadishu in 2005, before the Islamic Court and before al-Shabab. In that time – which honestly feels only like months to me – it seemed like the bodies and behaviour of Somali women changed. The traditional baati (long dresses) were replaced with head-to-toe jalabeebs. I stared at the women wearing them. In turn they stared at me.
Women dressed in jalabeebs. (Samira Farah)
As we made our way out of Mogadishu, we stopped at a government-run checkpoint. I was quite familiar with militia-run checkpoints from my last visit, so this was a welcome change. Then I remembered that I was carrying a large amount of US dollars on me. I froze. As I got out of the car, I fumbled and quickly hid the money in a hole inside my handbag. I had no idea if my money would be taken but I decided it was better to be safe than sorry. The Somali female soldier went straight for my handbag and then my wallet. I stared at her blankly as she examined them and tried not to smile. She let me go.
This checkpoint manned by Somali and Ugandan soldiers became a daily ritual for me as I shuttled between Balcad and Mogadishu. The men were searched in the open while the women were privately body-searched by female soldiers. I started a curious relationship with a Somali female soldier who nicknamed me Camerista. Whenever she saw me coming, she would yell, “Camerista! My friend!”
Halfway between Mogadishu and Balcad, a group of soldiers stopped our car to catch a lift. I was taken aback but not completely surprised at their nerve to barge their way into our car. One of the soldiers tried to chat to me but my uncle sternly put a stop to it. “Don’t concern yourself with girls that are not concerned with you, how about you do the job you are paid to do!” It doesn’t matter if you have a knife or an AK-47, my uncle will put you in your place.
I chuckled, closed my eyes and took a nap. When I woke up, I was in Balcad, the home of my father, his father, and his father’s father.
This is the first of a series of posts by Samira Farah about her recent visit to Somalia. She is a freelance writer and events organiser based in Sydney, Australia. Visit her blog at brazzavillecreative.com
