Decade of Fear. Michelle Shephard

a “moderate Islamist,” an ambiguous term that in Somalia generally meant the person supported a more tolerant interpretation of Sharia law. Before leaving Toronto, I had been in contact with Addou, since the only safe way to travel in Mogadishu was with the ICU’s consent. Addou had emailed me a form titled “Visa Regulations by the Islamic Courts.” The application stated that foreign nationals could not enter Mogadishu without written permission. Within ten working days, they would respond as to whether we could come—all very formal, professional. “Finally, please be informed,” the form concluded, “foreign nationals who attempt to enter the country illegally as well as their sponsors (if any) will face swift penalty.”

      As Addou finished talking about the merits of education about an hour later, Asparo slipped silently back into the room. He seemed surprised that we still wanted to talk with him. Haltingly, he answered our questions, his eyes turned down to his hands or stroking his red, henna-dyed beard. His lined face looked older than fifty-four. He kept insisting he couldn’t understand why we were curious about his involvement with the ICU. “This is something that just happened. When things happen, someone’s lucky to be moved up. It’s not something I was looking for. It’s not something I even enjoy doing, but it’s something I have to do.”

      He echoed what others were saying about how the ICU had transformed Mogadishu and brought order, and urged other Somalis around the world to return and help. “There’s a bright future if things go on like this. We can say people will be saved, resources may come back, international relations may improve, construction may happen, people’s trust in each other may be renewed. Many, many things that were happening before. People were running around doing whatever they wanted to do. Law and order may now be restored. Somali people are talented people if they get some sort of environment where they can work on their own. Somalis have something in their hearts that they’re attached to their country even though they’re better off over there. He has a nice car, a good life, but he needs to get back to see his broken home.”

      Like Addou, Asparo wasn’t interested in answering questions about perceptions in the West about their group, or to debate the ICU’s restrictions on women’s rights and harsh punishment under Sharia law. Just exaggerations, he said.

      Before we left, Asparo had one more message for me, something to put in the newspaper he used to read every day: “You have the power. Use your pen in the right way.”

      IF ASPARO AND ADDOU were considered the moderates, then Hassan Dahir Aweys was one of the ICU’s radicals. The night before we left Nairobi, I sat with Pete in our hotel, discussing the trip on a conference call with our editors. One senior editor wanted to know how likely it was that we would get an interview with Aweys. When I said I had no idea, the reply was something to the effect of, “Well, can’t you get his address and knock on his door?” I lied, unsure if he was joking or not. “Good idea.”

      The thing is, you don’t drop in on Aweys. He lets you know if you are welcome, and when. Luckily, we were. While sitting on rugs in the shady cool comfort of HornAfrik’s media compound, we got a call to see him. The call meant we had to leave now, before he changed his mind. “Go, go,” yelled Ali Sharmarke, who was delighted and surprised that Aweys would meet a female reporter.

      Duguf knew exactly where Aweys lived, but when everything started to look the same as we sped along the sandy streets, I was sure we were lost. Mogadishu’s main street, named 21 October for the day General Mohamed Siad Barre seized power in a 1969 military coup, was lined with vendors’ shacks hawking everything from goat carcasses to cellphones. Merchants stared as we passed. Ribbons of purple from the bougainvilleas, and the reds and blues of the women’s abayas, created a colourful blur beyond the car window. Down a small alley off the unmarked Ballad Road, we neared Aweys’s home. Children scattered as we roared in, except for one boy, who curiously cradled a dusty blender as he waved furiously with his free hand.

      Two months after the 9/11 attacks, Aweys was put on the U.S. terrorist list because of his alleged connections to Osama bin Laden. He became one of the men U.S. President George W. Bush liked to call the “evildoers.” The reclusive seventy-one-year-old former army commander was a well-known figure in Somalia. He was nicknamed “the Red Fox” because of his shrewd military career—but his red, scraggly beard and long face certainly didn’t hurt.

      Aweys had been a powerful leader with Al Itihaad al Islaam, a group that was formed in the final years of Barre’s dictatorship, and fought against Somalia’s most powerful warlords in the early 1990s—General Mohamed Farah Aideed and Colonel Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed. (Aideed, of Black Hawk Down fame, was the warlord U.S. Special Forces targeted during their disastrous 1993 mission. Ahmed became the unpopular president of the Transitional Federal Government. A month before we arrived, he survived an assassination attempt that killed his brother and several others; he publicly accused Aweys of orchestrating the attack.) Aweys and other former Al Itihaad leaders were some of the founders of the ICU and held sway in the various Islamic courts across the south.

      On MSNBC’s Meet the Press, three months before our trip, U.S. Senator Russ Feingold criticized the war in Iraq and inaction in Somalia during an interview with host Tim Russert: “You know, Tim, today it was announced that a guy named Hassan Dahir Aweys is now the head of the government that has taken over in Mogadishu, in Somalia. He is on the State Department’s terrorist list. He is known as an al Qaeda operative or somebody that is connected with al Qaeda. While we are asleep at the switch; while we are bagged—bogged down in Iraq; while we are all focused on Iraq as if it is the be-all and end-all of our American foreign policy, we are losing the battle to al Qaeda because we’re not paying attention. I asked Ambassador (Henry) Crumpton at a hearing the other day how many people in our federal government are working full-time on the problem in Somalia. He said one full-time person. We spent two million dollars on Somalia in the last year, while we’re spending two billion dollars a week on Iraq. This is insanity, if you think about what the priorities are in terms of those who have attacked us and who are likely to attack us in the future.”

      The day we met, Aweys had the flu and sat listlessly in a stuffed velvet chair with a blue-and-white crocheted doily on one of the armrests. He didn’t stand when we entered, but motioned to some chairs. His lethargy likely wasn’t helped by the fact that we were visiting during Ramadan, so he had not eaten or had water since dawn. Flies buzzed around the house, which was humid and dark, except for a narrow ray of sunlight slicing through heavy gold and green curtains.

      “Ask me anything,” he began, peering through filmy round glasses.

      But after more than an hour, it was clear that Aweys was happy to talk in circles. Many of our questions were met with questions. “Ties with Osama bin Laden? If I met Osama bin Laden, did I make a mistake?”

      “We don’t care what they say,” he said eventually, about reports of the ICU’s formal allegiance to bin Laden. “We don’t have any links to al Qaeda.” Finally, exasperated, he almost pleaded: “Why don’t they give us a chance?”

      I snapped shut my notebook, and we emerged squinting in the punishing sun, saying our final goodbyes. We wanted to be careful not to overstay our welcome. Aweys had undoubtedly agreed to an interview because he wanted us to tell the story of Mogadishu’s pacification. More than once, he mentioned the fact that he was meeting a Western woman as proof of his modernity. But despite this desire for good pr, Mogadishu was Mogadishu and not all of his followers appreciated our presence. The scowling faces of some of the youths lounging on soiled mattresses in Aweys’s courtyard were starting to unnerve us. We were keen to get back to the guarded walls of Horn-Afrik, or to the Peace Hotel, where we were staying—its name made us feel safe.

      As we turned to leave, however, shouting began. Or it sounded like shouting. Aweys was speaking loudly. Quickly. Passionately. I tensed, wondering what we had done wrong, self-consciously touching the rim of my hijab. Thinking we had been set up, I turned slowly around, locking eyes with Duguf before looking at Aweys. The Red Fox had come out onto the porch and was staring at my feet, which I had just slipped into my boots. He was grinning. In the bright sunlight his age was more apparent and he looked frail, and, well, goofy, with his toothy white smile slicing through his red beard. My eyes went to my scuffed Blundstones, durable if not fashionable