I flew to Mogadishu from Nairobi with Star photographer Peter Power in October 2006 as the only foreigners on a commercial flight into the newly opened airport. Pete is an affable, tough Newfoundlander and an excellent partner. Aside from his mighty photography skills, he had spent a brief stint in the army before entering journalism, which came in handy in tense situations or when the military mindset confounded me to the point that I was ready to scream. Besides, Pete had a superhero-like last name that people loved wherever we travelled. Somalis especially delighted in greeting him and always seemed to do so with gusto: “Mr. Power! Time to go.” “Welcome, Mr. Power!” “Mr. Power! Over here.” It was hard not to like Pete. He laughed often, talked openly (and incessantly), told bad jokes and after a few beers you might even hear traces of his Newfoundland accent. Like most photographers he also possessed an endearing blend of bravado and insecurity.
Before leaving for Somalia, we had hired one of the country’s best “fixers.” That’s a term used by journalists for local contacts who will fix everything from setting up interviews and security, arranging hotels, telling you what to wear, what to eat, providing translation, driving and, although it’s not part of the job description, almost always becoming cherished friends. Foreign journalists are often only as good as their fixers. They’re especially important when the journalist arrives in a country for the first time.
There have been cases since 9/11 when fixers have sold journalists to kidnappers offering a higher price. Others talk a bigger game than they deliver. But most fixers are respected local journalists, and hire themselves out as a lucrative side business. The journalism community worldwide is small (and more collegial than most would expect), so reputations—both bad and good—spread quickly. Fixers are paid well, but they put themselves at risk to help us. Aside from facing danger alongside us, fixers working with foreigners can be targeted as traitors. We have passports and go home. Most fixers have nowhere else to go.
Abdulahi Farah Duguf came highly recommended as a skilled and trusted fixer in Mogadishu. Even though the city was the safest it had been in years, there were always risks for foreigners. Swedish freelance photographer Martin Adler had been shot in the heart by hooded assailants as he covered a street protest just a couple of months before we arrived. Months before that, BBC producer Kate Peyton had been killed within hours of arriving in Mogadishu. Even the most prepared or experienced journalists can be killed or kidnapped, but having a good fixer was the first step in reducing risk.
Duguf was a close friend of Ali Sharmarke, a Somalia-born Canadian and a giant of journalism, and also a friend of mine. Ali came to Canada as a refugee in 1990 and built a life with his family in Ottawa, becoming a citizen and completing a master’s degree in public administration at Carleton University. In 1999, Ali left a good job with the Canadian government’s finance department, and with two other Somalia-born Canadians, started HornAfrik, Mogadishu’s most popular radio station. Somehow HornAfrik had managed to survive amid the chaos. Ali was one of those people who always seemed untouchable, even physically, since he was taller and more robust than most Somali men. When he strode through my newsroom during a visit in the summer of 2006, people turned to watch because he had a presence—you just wanted to know who he was.
It wasn’t hard to find Duguf as we disembarked from African Express Flight 525 and dozens of excited passengers ran onto the tarmac. He was the only person coming toward the plane. Duguf walked with arms outstretched, the morning sun bouncing off his bald head and a grin consuming the lower half of his face.
After brief introductions and hugs, he ushered us into a small office where, as the only two non-Somali visitors, we were told by bored-looking officials of the Islamic Courts Union that we would have to pay a “visa” fee of $250 U.S. They were not a governing force, but our passports were stamped anyway with a very professional-looking ICU symbol, an entry that would cause many raised eyebrows among airport immigration officials in the years that followed. Mogadishu’s airport security consisted of having our bags thrown in a pile and being “inspected” by men armed with handheld metal detectors, who, descending seemingly out of nowhere, pounced upon the luggage, eliciting a cacophony of beeps. I kept my knapsack on and one of the inspectors tentatively came over and waved his wand around my back as if he were conducting an opera, before nodding me on.
We climbed into our Jeep, with Duguf at the wheel. We were the middle car in a convoy of three we had hired, armed guards representing a variety of clans hanging out of Jeeps in front and behind us in case we had any troubles. We set out to meet “Somalia’s Taliban.”
THE BLUE DOORS of Al-Furqaan University opened to reveal a driveway with intricately laid chipped tiles, upon which a rusted red Vespa was parked. It was an idyllic snapshot, with chirping birds and students, clutching books, who stopped to stare and smile at the foreigners. The cool breeze in this oasis of education brought relief from Mogadishu’s sun-baked, sandy streets.
We were here to meet Canadian Abdullahi Afrah, known to friends by his nickname, “Asparo.” His involvement in the ICU is what convinced my editors that the transformation of Somalia under the ICU was a story worth telling.
The Star may be Canada’s largest circulation newspaper, but our readership is largely based in Toronto and the surrounding region, known as the Greater Toronto Area, or GTA. As with many papers, the Star gives precedence to stories with a local connection—which is why, after 9/11, I sought out Cindy Barkway. Many reporters like to poke fun at old-school Star editors who believe every foreign story needs a Toronto connection. How far would we go to seek our “gta man”? Earthquake in Pakistan? Find that injured guy who once lived in Toronto or has a cousin in Mississauga and suddenly your story is moving from A17 to the front page. Crime wave in Mexico? Only important if Oakville tourists were hurt. Asparo was our GTA man in Mog.
Surya Bhattacharya, a Star intern and a friend of mine, had come across an ICU press release in August 2006, announcing the group’s executive members. One of the leaders was Asparo, which surprised many in Toronto. Asparo had come to Canada in the early 1990s, and by all accounts he led a life in Toronto like that of many struggling newcomers. He was quiet—almost shy—and religious, but no more so than most Somalis. Asparo moved between jobs, working for a brief time as security supervisor at Toronto’s Catholic school board, and he once ran a hawala bureau—a money transfer service popular for wiring funds home to Somalia—that would come under intense focus after 9/11. Ahmed Yusuf, a well-known community leader in Toronto, knew Asparo when he lived in Canada. “No one could believe it,” he said about the ICU press release. “We thought it couldn’t be the same man.”
Asparo stood at the university’s front doors, shaking Pete’s hand and acknowledging me with a nod. He appeared neither annoyed nor pleased with our visit and was certainly in no hurry to talk. In fact, he was reluctant to speak at all. The fifty-four-year-old insisted that we visit one of the university’s professors before our interview. Leading the way up the stairs, he laughed and said to no one in particular, “There are so many lost Canadians here.” After introducing us to Professor Ibrahim Hassan Addou, he dipped his head and departed, leaving us to wonder if our GTA man would return.
Many were also surprised to see Professor Addou listed as one of the ICU’s executive members, because, like Asparo, he was not considered an aspiring religious leader or politician. He was a Western-trained academic, a scholar, and that’s exactly what he looked like standing behind a desk in his sunny classroom, with students’ papers piled high on it and a chalkboard behind him. He gave us a wan smile as he peered over the rim of his owl-like glasses. We had a feeling we were about to get a lesson in Islam rather than an interview.
Addou had returned to Somalia in 2002, having lived for twenty-four years in Georgetown, where he worked as an administrator at Washington’s American University. He was proud of his American citizenship and enjoyed life in D.C., but like many other expats he felt a responsibility to his country of birth. His philosophy? “Educate the lost generation,” he said. Enlightenment was the only way out of poverty. He was also an environmentalist, which may have seemed like an insignificant vocation when war and poverty consumed Somalia. But Addou believed fixing problems such as deforestation, illegal commercial fishing or the polluting of