Crossbones

12

AS SOON AS DAJAAL AND JEEBLEH LEAVE, MALIK AND QASIIR SET to work on the computer. And they talk at first about matters of no great concern to either. Malik asks Qasiir about what occupies his mind lately; how much time he spends with his family, his baby, and whether he goes to the movies, if in fact there are cinemas any longer.

“The men from the Courts have shut down all the movie houses,” Qasiir replies. “Movies are xaraam—forbidden. Nothing, not even Bollywood; no music at teahouses. It is all serious religious stuff. This is resulting in young people becoming bored and in seeing life as very tough, tedious.”

“What was it like in the days of the warlords?”

“Those were brutes, the warlords. And they perpetrated indescribable cruelties against the unarmed civilians.”

“I meant, what was life like for the young? You were young in those days and a member of a clan-based militia, weren’t you?”

“Despite the terribleness of the times,” Qasiir says, “we had some fun, in our own way. We watched films, some of them Italian or American classics, played the music of our choice, we threw parties, we danced, we did everything the young everywhere enjoy doing. We even watched blue movies. There were a couple of places run by Zanzibari refugees where you could rent those. Of course, the warlords were terrible to most people, especially anyone who belonged to one of the weaker clan families or who wasn’t armed.”

When they hear the muezzin announcing the prayer time, Malik tells Qasiir that he doesn’t mind if Qasiir stops working to pray and then gets back to work on the computer. But Qasiir doesn’t pay him any mind, and with his head inclined, his whole body still, he focuses his attention wholly on typing computer commands, intently reading the results coming up on the screen. Malik leaves the workroom, goes to the fridge, and returns with a can of Coke, which he offers to Qasiir. Qasiir pops it open, takes a sip, and says, “Thanks.”

Malik sees an opening and he takes it. “What is your rapport with your former mates, who served in the same clan-based militias as you?”

“Some currently occupy positions of power in the Courts, a few have joined Shabaab and are training their cadre,” Qasiir says.

“Are you in touch with them?”

“I am in touch with a couple on a daily basis.”

“Tell me, how are they able to distinguish the lies they told then, when they were supposedly killing in service to the supremacy and economic advancement of their clans, from the religious spin they propagate now as divine truth?”

Qasiir is comfortable holding his ground. In his early youth, from what Jeebleh told Malik, he was an aficionado of everything American, with a special fascination for eyewear of the Ray-Ban variety and Clint Eastwood westerns, which he watched so many times with his friends that he knows the dialogue from some of the movies by heart. He now gives thought to Malik’s question, taking his time, and pauses in his typing.

“Are you asking if the militiamen formerly serving the warlords, who are now members of Shabaab, are true to their characters only when they are pulling the triggers of their guns, when they are roughing up innocent folks and killing, rather than when they are in the mosque praying? Do you doubt their sincerity?”

Malik remembers an audacious remark one of his journalist colleagues made when he was in Afghanistan, that honesty is not necessarily synonymous with truth. It stands to reason that not only is it convenient to do as your fellow fighters do but also, as a militiaman, you feel more secure in a crowd, less isolated. From the distant look in his eyes, Malik thinks that Qasiir may be reliving his younger days, when he considered it fun to hang around with other vigilantes and beat up any boy on the slightest provocation.

Qasiir says, “People change unrecognizably when the country in which they live changes. The civil war opens their eyes to areas of their lives to which they have been blind — the same way going to university and receiving a good education help you see things anew. People’s attitudes toward life change with a change in their circumstances, more so in war than in peace. Nobody wants to feel left behind when others move on and do well, or to feel excluded.”

Malik, emboldened by what he has just heard, asks, “What benefits, apart from being a member of a group of idealists, do the youths who join Shabaab receive?”

“Shabaab has plenty of money,” Qasiir says.

“Where do they get it?”

“I can only repeat what I’ve heard others say.” Qasiir resumes his typing. “That they receive large sums from religious charities set up by wealthy Arabs. I’m sure you know more than I do about this.”

“Have you been tempted to join them?”

Qasiir’s voice breaks for the first time, with fear insinuating itself into the crack that has opened. He says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“I am not their sort of material,” Qasiir says.

“What do you mean?”

Qasiir says, “Shabaab prefer their recruits to be much younger than I, greenhorns who know no better, who haven’t developed their own way of looking at the world. They concentrate their efforts on recruiting teenagers from broken homes or young boys and girls to whom they can provide a safety net, a guaranteed livelihood after training. They brainwash them, then attach every new recruit to a trustworthy insider.” He breathes hard, as though it hurts to get these things off his chest. He goes on, “I would be a risk to them, and those among them who know me are aware of this.”

“Do you know anyone they’ve killed?” Malik asks.

“I do,” says Qasiir.

“Who?”

“Let me correct myself,” Qasiir says. “I knew someone who was assigned to bump off Grandpa Dajaal. He came and told me so himself, and as a result he ended his association with the organization and became a victim of targeted assassination.”

“Why didn’t he carry out the assignment?”

“He thought it unconscionable to kill a man who has done him no harm, and whom he has known for much of his life,” Qasiir says.

“Why did he come to you?”

“He owed me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“We were mates, and one day when he was in a shoot-out, in which he could’ve been killed, I saved him. He and I were on different sides, fighting for control of lucrative turf. He was badly injured and I took him to Grandpa Dajaal’s house and Uncle Bile treated him. Not one of his or my friends knew about this, but he remembered.”

“Does Dajaal know about the contract out on him?”

“I chose not to tell him.”

“Why not?”

“To what purpose?”

“So he would know.”

“Grandpa wouldn’t change his lifestyle, no matter what,” Qasiir says. “He is the loveliest, the kindest, but also the most obstinate man I know.”

“Do you know of any of your former comrades in the militia groups who carried out their assignments and who may be willing to talk to a journalist?”

“A Shabaab member wouldn’t dare talk to a journalist.”

“What would happen if he did?”

“Someone would follow him as he left the mosque,” Qasiir say, “and would use a silencer to kill him. A passerby would stumble on the corpse nearby. The victim would be buried, no questions asked.”

A sense of deliverance is evident in Qasiir’s body language, which strikes Malik as that of an honest man speaking the honest truth.

Qasiir says, “It will be difficult to find an active member of Shabaab ready to talk on record. It’s easier to find a disillusioned former member who will say his piece; or someone who’s lost a family member to Shabaab. A new recruit or an active member won’t want to talk. A talent spotter might. I hear rumors that Robleh, who stays at Uncle Bile’s, is one. I can’t tell if this is true or untrue. All I know is that he is very chummy with Shabaab. So why not speak to him?”

Malik feels a tug in his viscera when he hears this. Who knows, Qasiir may prove successful in tracking down Taxliil. He is the sort that can come up with the goods, if he puts his mind to it.

“Why would they want to kill Grandpa Dajaal?”

“Why have they killed the journalists? Or assassinated senior military officers, former colleagues of Grandpa Dajaal? Why have they murdered the peace activists? Shabaab view them as a threat.”

“What kind of threat do these people pose?”

Qasiir says, “Why do tyrants do what they do?”

Malik can’t think of an immediate answer.

When Qasiir says that he can do nothing to salvage the deleted files or restore the screen saver, Malik steps out to prepare a snack for them both. Meanwhile, he makes a detour to his room and brings along Taxliil’s photograph. He intends to show it to Qasiir only if he agrees to take the assignment.

Malik watches as Qasiir hungrily tucks into the warmed-up lamb dish, his fork knocking against his knife, with neither touching the salad. As they eat, they talk in greater depth about the recruitment stratagems of the various secular and religious groups vying for power in Somalia. Then Malik tells Qasiir, little by little, what is known and suspected about Taxliil’s disappearance, and about the difficult mission that Ahl has embarked on in Puntland. The family, he says, would appreciate whatever assistance Qasiir can offer.

“In what way can I be of use?” Qasiir asks.

“What I have in mind is cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

Qasiir says, “How very exciting.”

“I am thinking the real clandestine article.”

“Please explain.”

“You could get hurt,” Malik says. “Someone else may get hurt or blown up, badly maimed in the fragmentation blast of a roadside device.”

For a brief moment, Qasiir looks at Malik with a mix of shock and curiosity that gives way to an expectant thrill. He says he is up for his share in this “cloak-and-dagger stuff, the real clandestine article,” like in the movies. Clint Eastwood locating a runaway boy. As if to reassure himself that he can play the part, he touches the holster strapped to his shoulder.

“You still haven’t told me what I would have to do.”

“I’ll give you all the details you need,” Malik says. “When he was last seen and where — I’ll provide you with his particulars.”

“And a photograph. Photographs are important.”

Malik says, “That goes without saying.”

“OK.” Qasiir nods. “Where and when do I start?”

“Here is what I’ll want you to do,” Malik explains. “Seek out any information you can get on him. We know that he is in Somalia, supposedly to join Shabaab as a volunteer trainee in explosives.”

Qasiir has a hint of pride hovering around his eyes as he stares at Malik, his body relaxing into the status of a man with a mystery to solve, a runaway youth to locate, fearlessly ready to employ coercion if need be. But, in keeping with what is expected from him, he suppresses any outward show of eagerness.

He says, “I am game.”

“We’ll talk some more,” Malik says. “We’ll also let Dajaal and Jeebleh know, and lay down the terms of our agreement. Until then, mum’s the word.”

The doorbell rings twice, the first time gently; the second time rushed, almost discourteous, and a third time more agitated, with jarring harshness. It is as if someone being chased by a mob wants to gain entry.

Malik thinks. It can’t be Dajaal, because he always telephones ahead; and such behavior is unlike Jeebleh. Who might it be?

He refuses Qasiir’s offer to go and see.

“Be careful,” Qasiir whispers.

Malik tiptoes softly toward the door, Qasiir on his heels. Both stand to the side, away from the spy hole, in order to avoid casting their shadows on it. Then carefully Malik puts his eye to the opening. He spots a figure in khaki trousers and rubber sandals. He gives himself time to get the measure of the person on the other side; he does not move or speak. After a while, he hears a mumbled exchange between the trousered man in rubber sandals and another figure out of view. After several attempts, Malik eventually catches a glimpse of the second figure: a man in a sarong, right hand hidden behind him, and wearing a pair of pink flip-flops. Malik looks around to make sure that the apartment’s fortifications, including the metal sheeting and other security contraptions, are in place. Then, turning, he nods his head with his thumb up when Qasiir removes the pistol from its holster. Speaking in an assumed voice, he asks, “Who is at the door?”

The trousered, sandal-wearing figure that moves into the spy hole says, “It is I, Gumaad. Is that you, Malik? I know Jeebleh is out, because I spoke to Dajaal, but I thought I would bring you some news, the latest from the war front.”

Malik is torn about whether to open the door, but Qasiir signals him not to. Then, improvising, Qasiir says, “Malik is not here at present. Any messages?”

“That can’t be,” insists Gumaad.

Qasiir asks, “What can’t be?”

“He goes nowhere without Dajaal,” Gumaad says.

“I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”

“But who are you, anyway?” Gumaad wants to know.

Qasiir explains, “I am a plumber and am here fixing the hot water tank. I have strict instructions not to admit anyone in their absence.” He waits, then says, “It’s up to you. If you leave a message, I’ll give it to them; if not, not.”

“Tell him I may return later, if I am able.”

When Gumaad and his mate are gone, Qasiir and Malik confer in the workroom. Qasiir, never one to give up easily, resumes feeding the computer a new series of commands and introducing small variants, in the persistent way of computer specialists.

Malik asks, “What do you think Gumaad is up to?”

“He is not always truthful,” Qasiir says. “He boasts too much, claims to be a journalist when he is not trained to be one, but, because he is convinced he can write, he thinks he is a journalist. He has published very little, no more than half a dozen brief articles. I’ve known others like him, others who believe their own lies.”

“But is he dangerous?” Malik asks.

“He is not bright,” Qasiir says.

“I can see that.”

“He is also a name-dropper and a liar.”

“Still, you wouldn’t think he is dangerous?”

“He isn’t someone with whom secrets are safe.”

Malik’s phone rings. Dajaal is on his way; he will pick them up momentarily if they want to purchase a new computer and a printer.

Qasiir wants to have a word with Dajaal, so Malik puts the phone on speakerphone. “Grandpa,” Qasiir asks, “have you by any chance spoken to Gumaad today?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to Gumaad today. Why?”

“Because he says he has spoken to you,” Qasiir says, “and that was why he knew that Malik was alone in the apartment.”

“He is lying,” Dajaal says, clearly agitated. “I haven’t seen or talked to him today. But why? What is the problem? Are you and Malik okay?”

Malik reclaims his mobile phone to reassure Dajaal. He says, “See you shortly.”

When he rejoins them, Dajaal is in an awful mood. He curses, mumbles imprecations, and, naming no names, showers all manner of damnations on men who have never fought a war and who are now having recourse to war, mistaken in their belief that God is on their side and will help them prevail. Inarticulate in his rage, Dajaal speaks of the harsh war of words exchanged between the Ethiopian premier, who announced “imminent retaliation for the provocation against the integrity of our country’s borders and the sanctity of its security,” and the provocative rebuttal from the Courts, whose executive director has said, “I trust to Providence that invaders of Muslim lands will be defeated.”

Dajaal goes on, “The entire city has the jitters, many people are going to the mosques to pray, or preparing to go away; many more are buying a week’s provisions, just in case. Now, tell me, one of you. Did Gumaad say he is leaving the city? Could he have been calling on you on his way out?”

“He said he would return later, if he is able.”

Dajaal says, “I wonder what he was up to.”

Qasiir volunteers, “Someone else was with him.”

“Who?”

Qasiir shrugs his shoulders in silence.

Malik has had enough of their speculations. He says, “Shall we go and buy the computer?”

He goes into his bedroom to organize the funds. He counts out several hundred U.S. dollars in easy-to-carry, high denominations and throws in an extra, just-in-case hundred. Malik knows that there are money changers in the markets who sit at low tables, wads and wads of highly devalued Somali shillings on one side, and on the other, heaps of cash in several other currencies, including U.S. and Canadian dollars, euros, Saudi dirhams. Unlike many other countries, where movement of money is tightly controlled, in today’s Somalia buying any currency you fancy is as easy as buying groceries.

When Malik reemerges from his room with the cash counted, he and Qasiir wait in apparent deference to Dajaal, who is still psyched up, not yet done with his tirade.

“I’ve known what it means to go to war and lose,” he says. “I fought in the Ethiopia — Somalia war of 1977, as a major in the National Army. Somalia was much stronger then — we had an army, one of the strongest on the continent — and we lost the war, and were run out of the Ogaden. We haven’t recovered from that debacle, and it resulted in the current strife.”

“Grandpa, we are ready to go, if you are.”

Dajaal remains fired up and says, “Men like Gumaad and the so-called defense spokesman of the Courts who have never held a gun in their lives have no right to invoke Allah’s name in support for an ill-planned cause.”

Qasiir drags Dajaal by the hand, and they make it to the car in silence. Qasiir asks if he should drive, to which Dajaal retorts, “I am not mad in the sense of being dangerous. I am mad in the sense of being angry with what these men from the Courts are doing to our nation, endangering its continued existence.”

He sits at the wheel and sobers up fast as he prepares his mind for the next task. He reverses into the vehicle parked behind him as he drives out of his parking spot. It is unlike Dajaal to be so careless, and not to stop and check the damage he has caused to someone else’s car. But that is what he does: the world is not what it used to be; Dajaal is not the man he was an hour before.

They have barely rounded a corner when they come upon a familiar scene, of men and women fleeing their homes, carrying their worldly belongings on their heads. Antlike, people are escaping ahead of the coming fire, not wanting to burn in it. At one point, Dajaal barely avoids colliding with a heavily laden donkey that resists the commands of the young girl attempting to pull it forward by the rope tied around its neck.

The columns of those in flight lengthen and shorten, like the long and short shadows that define the various hours of the day. As they approach the market, Malik taking notes furiously, they notice that people are streaming out of it, carrying what looks like days’ worth of food. Some of the women, wearing expensive body tents, climb into the backs of SUVs. Qasiir observes that these are the people who are not likely to leave the city, out of concern that squatters might move into their properties and vandalize them.

Malik looks up from his notebook and stops scribbling as Dajaal brings the car to a stop, and they prepare to enter the market.