The Pirates of Somalia_ Inside Their Hidden World - Jay Bahadur [58]
If provided with sufficient financial and technical support from the international community aimed at overhauling its police and justice system, the Puntland government would be in a good position to tackle piracy on land. Like other kinds of undesirables who move and find shelter amongst civilians—militants, revolutionaries, even common criminals—the pirates’ success depends on the goodwill and protection of the local people. Though initially welcomed as heroes, they have become increasingly unpopular amongst the local inhabitants due to their perceived un-Islamic influence.
It was perhaps with a view to mending community relations that Boyah’s redemption movement had proved so popular amongst his former colleagues. Of these ex-pirates, perhaps none had expressed a greater desire to reform than Momman, a taciturn and thoughtful man whom I had first met at the khat picnics outside Garowe. Two weeks after the picnics, in July 2009, the two Omars procured me an invitation to visit Momman at his home.
8
Momman
MOMMAN’S HOUSE STOOD ALONE AMID A FIELD OF RUBBLE ON the outskirts of Garowe, past the ruins of the long-abandoned airport, a vast tract of stone and concrete slabs struggling to poke through decades of layered dust. Nearby was a Japanese-funded settlement for internally displaced persons, ramshackle rows of tent-like structures cast in cracking concrete and tin—a damning testament to what a million dollars buys with Somali contractors. The only human activity in the early afternoon heat was a lone woman labouring over a wash bucket with a few haggard, half-naked children scampering in orbits around her.
As with many upscale Somali dwellings, the wall ringing Momman’s compound was a vibrant sky blue, decorated with brilliant yellow and red circles and triangles, like a child’s finger painting. We parked outside the walls beside another 4×4; this area of town was so deserted that there was no serious risk of theft. We had come directly from the khat suq, where, as a friendly offering, I had financed the purchase of several hefty bags of the drug.
Momman had once been Boyah’s running mate, a founding father of the core group of Eyl fishermen-cum-pirates, before he split off to form a group of his own. Judging by the size of his house, he had enjoyed a fair measure of success prior to joining the recent pirate redemption movement.
We moved through the gate and into a courtyard carved up by weeds and empty except for a lonely gazebo. My two Special Police Unit guards secured themselves a ration of khat and found a spot under the gazebo to settle down and chew. We were told to wait outside as Momman prepared the house for us.
After about five minutes we received permission to go inside. The dim hallway leading into the house hit my eyes as a formless smudge of black and blue as I left the bright sun of the courtyard behind. Following the Omars’ example, I slipped off my sandals and stepped barefoot into a low-lit, spacious room serving as a joint dining and living space. The cloying smell of Arabian perfume hung heavily in the air, reminiscent of the scented tissues provided at Somali restaurants following a meal. To my immediate left a sleek stainless-steel fridge and freezer rested flush against the door jamb; further down the adjoining wall, a brand-new twenty-one-inch TV and DVD player shared a beige wall unit with neat stacks of china. At the room’s midpoint it cast off its modernist airs and morphed into an approximation of a sultan’s tent: a three-piece divan framed an ornate crimson carpet,