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OALLBRY

Facing Mogadishu
PORTRAITS OF LIFE IN THE CAPITAL OF VIOLENCE

by Jason Florio

from their tank hatches, the Ugandan and Burundian soldiers didn't inspire confidence. But
rom a few thousand feet above the Indian they weren't shooting, and that was something.
Ocean, where I sat with my face pressed
Six months before, in May, I'd spent fortyagainst a Perspex window, Mogadishu was re- eight hours holed up in a South African-run
splendent. You couldn't see the holes from that clinic three hundred meters from what was then
height, the gaping craters that had collected the front line. My bedroom's tin roof would have
limbs like rainwater. You couldn't see the rows of made a better a sieve than a barrier to the spring
pre-dug graves patiently awaiting the bodies that rains. All day and night, I listened to outgoing
would fill them, or the children who had been and incoming fire. Al Shabaab was firing small
kidnapped and forced to fight by al Shabaab. arms and mortars at the presidential compound
There was a good chance it would be their frail a few hundred meters away from the clinic and
adolescent frames that would wind up in those at the Villa Somaliaa semi-derelict structure
graves, but those graves would also be filled by that housed TFG officials, a few AMISOM tanks,
shopkeepers, mothers, and elderly people. The a small tea shop, and a prison. The TFG concrossfire didn't discriminate, and neither did the trolled only a few square blocks of the capital,
suicide bombers.
which they administered from the besieged Villa
It was September 2011, and al Shabaab's grip Somalia. Tiny though it was, the little world inon Mogadishu had finally begun to recede. The side the Villa Somalia's razor-wired perimeter
militant Islamic group had withdrawn to the revealed a fascinating cross-section of Somali
city limits, giving up trench warfare, they said, society and a glimpse of what life was like on
in order to concentrate on terror attacks. The the streets beyond the battered walls.
fractured African Union Mission in Somalia
One morning, stretcher-bearers brought a
(AMISOM) and Transitional Federal Govern- TFG soldier into the clinic, shot through the
ment (TFG) forces were trying to fill the vac- heart by an al Shabaab sniper. A few hours later,
uum lefr by al Shabaab in Mogadishu's utterly a mother carried her a ten-year-old daughter to
destroyed neighborhoods. Peering anxiously the gate, no trace of emotion on her face. The
woman must have known her daughter was al-4 Hussein Moalim Mahdi, 50
ready dead. The TFG soldier and the girl were
I'm a porter at a maize mill with a wife and six
both killed by what the Somalis Ccdl "whifters":
children. I can't afford to send them to school
bullets that have individual Somali fates stamped
on my salary, and unfortunately I can't talk long
on them in the Ghinese factories where they're
because I only get paid for each bag I carry
made. The pre-dug graves behind my bedroom
ten cents per bag.
had not been carved in vain.

In May, it would have been lethally reckless

to move around outside of the compound. Back
then, we'd made the ten-kilometer journey from
the airstrip to the Villa Somalia like maniac rally
racers, swerving around slow vehicles, rushing
head-on at oncoming traffic, driving on the
wrong side of the road. A South African medic
who came to pick me up commented on points
of interest. "Down that street," he said, "that's
where the Black Hawk went down." I spent two
whirlwind days inside the clinic compound in
a futile attempt to photograph life in the capital from a glassless third-story window without
getting shot by an al Shabaab sniper. No sooner
had I arrived, it seemed, than I was once again
wedged between two TFG soldiers with Kalashnikovs, hurtling toward the airstrip, with scenes
of Somali life whipping past the filthy windows.
When al Shabaab announced in August that
they would make a strategic retreat from the
center of Mogadishu, I seized the chance to
go back and get beyond the walls of the Villa
Somalia. I brought my semi-translucent background, hoping to isolate portrait subjects while
simultaneously allowing hazy glimpses of their
surroundings through the fabric. Along with
their answers to simple biographical questions,
the screen, I hoped, would help emphasize each
person's individuality.
I found on my return trip that al Shabaab, indeed, had pulled back, but the kidnapping threat
remained high, so I still had to travel everywhere
in an unimpressive Subaru Outback accompanied by two armed gucirds. Even so, Mogadishu
was more open to me than ever before, and I
hoped to photograph as much of the city as possible under the constraints of time and security.
There was still no chance of weJking around; the
portraits had to be made in walled compounds,
out of view of the throngs on the streets, hidden from inquisitive and potentially nefarious
eyes. Many al Shabaab fighters had simply hidden their weapons and melted into the population, and because the battle lines were no longer
clearly drawn in Mogadishu's streets and alleys,
my guides told me that the people were even
more nervous than usual. As the city's more them
a million residents went about their daily busi-

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ness of collecting food distributions, going to

school, seeking treatment at NGO clinics, they
were bracing for the wave of suicide bombings
that al Shabaab had promised.
Posing for portraits was no small act of graciousness on the part of these violence-plagued
Somalis. Their weary faces, their thin smiles, the
way they squared their shoulders proudly as their
eyes bore down on the camerathese were the
counterpoints to the sterility of statistics, which
is what the Somalis had become to the world.
One day, I visited a maize mill and made some
portraits of a few of the workers. The women
were shy, but Fatima Mohamud Mohammad, a
mother of nine, came forward with her husking basket. It was hard to guess her age before
I asked, but as I knew from experience that I
could expect to be surprised. She turned out to
be fortya full decade younger than I had presumed. Fatima was nervous, but happy for the
attention, and I was grateful for the opportunity
to offer a moment of relief from the choking dust
of the husking room. Fatima's pose was resolute
and strong; like the other Somalis whose portraits I made on that trip, her presence testified
to both the arduousness of her daily struggle and
her will to survive it.
Two weeks after I left Mogadishu, a suicide
bomber detonated himself a few short blocks
away from the same maize mill where I met
Fatima. He killed seventy people, including a
mill worker who was walking home when the
bomber pulled his cord.
For the people in these portraits, life goes on
with little hope of an end to the violence. Still,
life goes on. D
Special thanks to Ellen Hunter Mai and Robert Young
Pelton of Somalia Report.

Fatima Mohamud Mohammad, 4 0

I work as a maize husker in a milling factory.

I make $80 a month, and since my husband is
unemployed I have to support my nine children
on my salary alone. My dream right now is
simply to hold onto my job, even though the
dust causes me allergy problems.

t.

 Janelle Ali Warsame, 55

People call me "Mama," because I have eight children. I survive by working as a cook
for local workers, and I get paid $i per day for each person I cook for, which is normally ten people. I don't have long to talk as it's payday today and I need to get back
to my family.
* Beatrice Nasanday, Lance Corporal in the Ugandan People's Defense Force
am based at Mogadishu football stadium, which we took one month ago from
al Shabaab. I became a soldier so that I could afford to educate my three children.
My sister looks after them while I am here in Somalia.

J A S O N FLORIO

i Fatima Abukara Abdi, 12

I Uve at the Ky IDP camp. We came from Lower Shabelle because of the drought and
problems with al Shabaab. I can't remember how long I've been here. At eleven A.M.,
Iget in line for food, but sometimes when I get to the front there's nothing left. After
the food line, I spend the rest of the day looking after my younger brothers and
sisters. I'm in the middle of eight kids. I just started Koranic school ten days ago
at the camp. I want to be a mother when I grow up.
Medina AM Tohow, 42, Aid worker
I used to own a hotel called the Jamhuriye, but al Shabaab looted and destroyed the
place. They stole everything. Now I run the K7 IDP camp for drought victims and
families who have been forced to flee al Shabaab-controlled areas.

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A Fatima Hassan Nor Gaale, TFG soldier

f did my military training in Uganda, where I also trained as a translator. Now I work
as a translator for AMISOM. I started training as a nurse, but because oftheftghting
I missed too many classes and couldn't finish the course. Three years ago, al Shabaab
killed my husband. I was pregnant at the time and my grief caused me to miscarry.
< Dr. Collins from Kenya, Medical Director for the Villa Somalia Clinic

I've worked in a number of war zones, including the Democratic Republic of Congo
and Sudan, where I was kidnapped. It's worth it because I know I'm helping people
in very difficult environments, but it's taking a toll on me. As the only doctor in this
clinic, I face enormous challenges. Recently, I treated twenty-six gunshot victims in
one day alone.

JASON FLORIO

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A Major Abdi Abduallhi, 62

I have had three wives and have had twenty-eight kids. I'm a retired major in the
TFG, and now I am security officer. I was shot by an al Shabaab sniper in the Villa
Somalia compound in February 2011. The bullet is still in my neck, and it's hard for
me to breathe when I lie down. The surgeon said I would lose my voice if he tried to
remove the bullet.
Abdul Mohammad

Let's say I am in my late forties. I le Mogadishu in 1980 and now live in Atlanta,
Georgia. 1 earned an MBA in the United States and knew I had to return with my
skills to help rebuild my country. But it's very difficult. Security is a huge problem,
and I miss my family and my freedom. I miss ATMs, drive-thrus, and Starbucks.
I miss Chick-Fil-A most of all.

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A Ayan Muhyadin, 19, Nurse

I was bom in war, I work in war, and I live in war. At the clinic I mainly treat gunshot
wounds and urinary tract infections. When I leave the clinic, I cover myself up, leaving only my eyes visible. I don't want al Shabaab to target me because I work for the
government. In my free time I like to get on Facebook, read Tom and Jerry comics,
and watch TV. "Prison Break" is my favorite show.
< Hussein Jiinow Afrah, 28

Sixyears ago, I became a policeman, and in that time I have been hit by three
improvised explosive devices. The shrapnel still lodged in my shoulder, testicle, and
arm causes me no end of problems. But I feel luckymany of my friends are dead.
Al Shabaab calls me from time to time to try to intimidate me and tell me to quit the
force. I think they got my number from my relatives.

J A S O N FLORIO

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A Moalin Adualle AM, 66

I've been the Chairman of Dharkeynley District since lggi. I believe about ninety
percent of Mogadishu is safe now from al Shahaab. The biggest security problem today
is banditry by rogue elements in the TFG and local militias. My main responsibility
currently is overseeing the K7 IDP camp in my district, where we have about ;}o,ooo
people now who have come ftom areas many hundreds of kilometers away to escape
the famine and ftghting.
Mohammad Mohmud Ali, 22, TFG soldier ^

am in the security detail of the Chairman of Dharkeynley District. The TFG pays
me $100 a month. For twenty years, I've grown up with war, but I only realized that
our country was at war when I was twelve. I have been in many battles. The worst
moment was when al Shabaab threw a grenade at me and killed many of my friends.
I work as a soldier because I want to know peace.

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