 © Peter Malarkey
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Termites and Clans Click to read Click to |
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© Peter Malarkey
|
Termites and Clans Click to read Click to |
Termites and
Clans
In February 1993, I returned to Somaliland for the first time since I left with my
parents when I was five years old. This time I was there for five weeks, most of which I
spent in Somaliland’s capital city, Hargeisa. One clear morning at ten o’clock,
I began scouting the Shaab area, which is in the western part of Hargeisa, looking for
termite mounds.
Two days earlier, I had seen one of these mounds and instantly became curious about its odd shape, the prodigious amount of labor that went into its construction, and the fact that it was made of simple materials: sand mixed with termite saliva. It is difficult to see termites at work, but one can tell the result of their most recent efforts by the wet appearance of the new deposit compared with the rest of the mound.
After twenty minutes of searching, I spotted the reddish top of a termite mound behind some bushes. I waded through the bushes to find a five-foot high structure that looked like a female fertility figure, the kind I had seen in books.
I got my camera out, angled for a good shot, and was just about to press the button when I heard a man’s voice declare in Somali, "You better not do that."
I turned around and saw a short, light-skinned man, wearing corduroy pants and smoking a cigarette.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked, also in Somali.
"Yes," he replied.
"Are these termite mounds yours?" I inquired.
"No, they aren’t mine," he answered, "but there’s a story behind what you’re doing."
"What could this story be?"
The short guy puffed his cigarette a couple of times, moved a step closer to me, then asked, "Do you really want to hear it?"
"Yes."
He looked both ways, then said, "You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but it did happen. There was this guy who was originally from here, but who lived in Saudi Arabia for many years. Two years ago he came back here and, like you, took many pictures of these termite mounds. When he returned to Saudi Arabia, he showed the pictures to the Saudi government. He told them that most Somalis were pagans who worshipped those mounds, and that he was engaged in a project to convert Somalis to Islam, and needed help."
"And what did the Saudis do?" I asked.
"They believed him and gave him a lot of money to carry out his project. He took the money, came back here, bought a lot of real estate, trucks, and cars and kept the rest of the money for himself. He’s a rich man today thanks to the Saudis."
"But the Saudis know that Somalis are almost one hundred percent Muslim," I said.
"They must not know it," he answered, "otherwise they wouldn’t have given him the money."
I was speechless. A complete stranger was accusing me of planning to cash in on the people of Hargeisa by misrepresenting them to the outside world, and this stranger hadn’t made the slightest effort to get to know me first. A snap judgment. I was angry. Why had I listened to him in the first place?
Later that afternoon I went to the Bar Hargeisa to have dinner with two of my acquaintances. Bar Hargeisa occupies a low brick building with a courtyard, and, despite its name, does not serve alcohol—the same way that Somali coffee shops do not serve coffee but tea, although Somalis call them "coffee shops." My acquaintances Hassan and Osman were already there, sitting in the courtyard. Hassan was a grade school teacher with thick glasses and a penchant for explaining things. Osman worked at a clothing store.
I ordered lamb shanks and a side of rice. We ate and talked about the news. Hassan updated us on his marriage plans. Although it was hot, a steady breeze made it more tolerable. There were only a handful of men in the restaurant, since it was already past lunch hour.
Then I told them about my encounter with the short man and the elaborate con game he’d described. Hassan and Osman listened attentively. But as soon as I revealed the name of the alleged con artist, Hassan became angry. "He is a good man. He would never do such a thing," Hassan said.
"Yes, he did do it," replied Osman.
"How do you know he did it?" asked Hassan.
"I’ve heard it from several people," answered Osman.
"Come on, this whole story was made up by his enemies," said Hassan.
This went on for a while with Hassan insisting that it never happened, and Osman equally adamant that it had. After listening to their assertions and counter assertions, it gradually became clear to me that neither had any proof. Everything they said was based on hearsay. Also, since the one defending the alleged con man was from his sub-clan, while the one condemning him was not, and since there was no other connection between the con artist and either of them, I came to the conclusion that this was just another case of Somali clan rivalry in action. Neither Osman nor Hassan was interested in finding the truth, only in defending members of their clan and attacking those who were not.
I had seen similar arguments between Somalis abroad, but there was a major difference. If you argued or quarreled with another Somali in London or New York, and decided, as a result, not to see him or have anything to do with him, you stood a good chance of doing just that. But here in the land of Somalis, everyone belongs to a clan. Consequently, even if you succeed in avoiding your antagonist, you cannot escape other members of his clan who may number in the thousands. And clan memories last for generations.
Whenever I think of the Somali tragedy I think of the short guy who accused me of fraud without any evidence. I also imagine how easily the debate between Osman and Hassan could have turned violent. In both cases, one person was unwilling to give the other the benefit of the doubt. It is such an attitude of blind loyalty to one’s group and visceral hostility towards everyone else that is at the root of the Somali catastrophe.
Profile
Jamal is a regular at Cafe Roma, a hangout on the Ave, the U District’s busiest street. Roma looks like a warehouse with a glass wall on one side. On the opposite wall a local artist displays his or her work each month. Roma also has a balcony where people ranging from students to street kids sip coffee, chat, read, and watch the local U District hipsters, deadheads, jocks, geeks, chi chi gals, and preppy kids walking past. The place is menacing and disorganized, but this doesn’t seem to bother Jamal. If anything, it reminds him of cafes in Aden where the high and the low mix freely. Roma’s main attraction for him, however, is that people leave him alone to do his writing.
Jamal is primarily a poet, but he has also written short stories, a novel, and a play. His book of poems Love & Memory chronicles the twists and turns of his life. He is doing graduate work in comparative literature at the University of Washington, and works at Suzzallo library.
"All roads lead to Roma," Jamal says. Roads and journeys are things he knows a lot about.
—La’Chris Jordan
Bio
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