Crossbones (29 page)

“If not pirates, what are they, the Somalis?”

“Pirates are cruel seamen,” says Fidno, “and they are out totally for their own personal gain. They rob their victims, using extreme violence. They torture their prey; they are no Robin Hoods. In all fairness, you cannot describe the Somalis as pirates, in that they do not behave cruelly toward the crew, use extreme violence, or torture their prey.”

“But they are no Robin Hoods, are they?”

“There are only two cases in world history that I can think of when men described by others as ‘pirates,’ for lack of a better term, did in fact play a positive role in their nation’s political history. You may not agree with me, but I would argue the Somali are a case in point. Even though described by others as pirates, it is fair to view them as conscientious avengers fighting to save our waters from total plunder.”

“What’s the second case?”

“The other case is the Dutch pirates.”

“What Dutch pirates?”

“The Dutch pirates known as
watergeuzen
—‘sea beggars’—set aside their sea banditry for almost two years, from 1571 to 1572, to fight alongside William of Orange to bring an end to Spanish occupation of their land.”

Ahl waits for Fidno to continue.

Fidno obliges. “The Somalis are the closest in outlook to the Dutch
watergeuzen
, in that the Somalis initially set out to fight off foreign invasion of their sea in the absence of a functioning state, and then establish some kind of a coastal guard to protect our sea resources against continued foreign invasion.”

But Ahl is not sure if they are anything like the Dutch sea beggars or privateers. He understands privateers as vessels armed and licensed to attack the ships of enemy nations and confiscate their property. Historically, many European sovereigns issued such licenses and they
left it up to the licensed captains to determine the nature of the punishment to be meted out to the vessels they apprehended. A percentage of their catch went to the captain and crew, and the remainder to the license-issuing sovereign.

“What ‘foreign invasion’ are we talking about?” Ahl asks.

“I am talking of the inhumane assault on the coastland of Somalia, where the country’s trawlable zones are located. A Somali scientist who specializes in fisheries said that at night, the lights of all those foreign vessels were so numerous that they could be mistaken for ‘a well-lit metropolitan city.’”

“And who were, or are, the invaders?”

“They came from as far away as Europe, Japan, Russia, Korea, China, in vessels flying foreign flags—Belize, Kenya, Liberia, or Barbados,” Fidno says. “They arrived armed, too, prepared for war, their speedboats at the ready whenever Somali fishermen reacted. And when they fished they made use of methods banned worldwide. In addition, they dumped nuclear, chemical, and other wastes on our coast. They never attempted to engage the Somalis in any meaningful dialogue. And they were unconcerned about the damage they were doing to the fishing environment. When Somalis complained, the world turned a deaf ear to our protestations.”

“Is that when
you
entered the scene?”

“That’s when I entered the scene as an avenger.”

Ahl has difficulty here. He likes Fidno, whom he finds fascinating as one does a villain enacting his misdeeds elsewhere. Yet there is a part of Ahl that can’t take to Fidno wholly or accept his claims at face value. He seems more likely to have arrived on the scene as a financier with a nose for profit rather than as a nationalist hero. Maybe his judgment is colored by the previous brushes with professional misconduct that Fidno has described.

“What was the first boat you helped them take?”

“It was a Kenya-registered trawler fishing in Somali waters, nearly a thousand nautical miles from Mombasa,” Fidno says. But suddenly he is stumbling over his consonants, as though he has sprouted a forked tongue, the fork that tells the truth unable or unwilling to coordinate with the fork that tells the lie.

“Where did you get the money?”

“An uncle on my mother’s side lent it to me.”

“Does this man have a name?”

“He’s known by his nickname, Ma-Gabadeh.”

There is fire in Fidno’s eyes at the mention of the name. It is as if a lamp has come on, lighting the peripheries of his irises. Ahl hopes the light stays. It complements his mischievous grin, and he looks cheerful. Ahl asks, “Is it your honest view that the Somalis aren’t pirates?”

“It is,” Fidno responds, the light not yet gone.

Ahl says, “Tell me why you hold this view when the rest of the world thinks otherwise?”

Until now Fidno has not smoked in Ahl’s presence, but now he makes the gesture of a smoker flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, then issues sucking noises from his lips, as if inhaling smoke from a cigar. He says, “Let us separate the two questions. First, why do I argue that Somalis cannot be accurately described as pirates? Because pirates take pride in living outside the law and in pursuit of loot. Their presence invokes fear as a consequence of their crude treatment of their hostages. Theirs are stories of adventure, tyranny, mutiny, and they sail the wide seas, having no respect for borders. They stalk a ship for days, waiting for the right moment to attack. They fly false flags to dupe or conceal their intentions. They surprise their victims and then disappear without leaving behind a trace. These features
describe the foreign invaders of our seas, but not the Somalis. The Somalis operate for the most part in their own seas. They torture no one, they harm no one, kill no one, not even their hostages, and they do not conceal their identities. It leaves me with a sour taste to listen to the aspersions circulated about us. We are cast as villains of the piece, and no one listens to our side of the story.”

Ahl asks, “What of the millions given as ransom?”

“For starters,” Fidno says, “what makes you believe that the ‘pirates’ receive millions of dollars as ransom?”

“Don’t they?”

“That’s why I want to talk to a journalist.”

“You’re not saying that they don’t?”

Fidno says, “I would compare the pirates to pickpockets.”

Ahl recalls a number of interviews with crews and captains of the hijacked vessels in which there was talk often of the pirates pilfering away their watches, their jackets, their telephones, and other small items. If Fidno is arguing that the pirates risk their lives for a pittance and do not receive millions of dollars as ransom, then it stands to reason that he compares them to pickpockets. After all, anyone making giant killings from taking tankers captive is unlikely to resort to pilfering. Unless the person is a kleptomaniac.

“Even though the amount that a man picking pockets makes on his best day may be more than a beggar’s,” Fidno says, “I know of no pickpocket who has become a millionaire. The Somalis receive little from the takings.” Fidno pauses and then reiterates, “This is why I wish to speak to a journalist.”

Fidno now has his nicotine-hungry look focused on the waiter, who is smoking nearby. As he takes the cue at last, Ahl orders a packet of cigarettes. Why, he thinks, if Fidno or the pirates were flush with money, would he need a near stranger to buy him a meal or a packet of cigarettes?

When he has lit his cigarette and taken a huge cloud of smoke into his lungs, Fidno continues. “In the absence of a central sovereign state, the community is the authority. Initially, the fishermen had the endorsement of the coastal communities that suffered at the hands of the invading foreign vessels.”

“What percentage of the ransom did the community receive from those early adventures?” Ahl asks.

“Initially, the community received a lot.”

“And lately?”

“Almost none.” Fidno starts another cigarette.

“One question for my benefit,” Ahl says. “Why would the UN Security Council pass a resolution authorizing countries to contribute to an anti-piracy coalition if this august body is aware that these same countries are fishing illegally and in an unregulated manner in the waters of Somalia?”

“Because the UN is at the service of the powerful veto-wielding countries that fund its programs and pay its electricity bills, the salaries of its staff,” Fidno replies.

“What’s in it for the nations footing the anti-piracy bills?” Ahl wants to know. “What do they expect to gain from their financial commitments?”

Fidno observes, “You might well ask.”

Ahl says, “Is there truth to the media reports that insurers enjoying the support of European governments cite rampant piracy as a compelling reason for creating private navies to take on the Somalis?”

Fidno says, “Basically, a number of the nations contributing to the anti-piracy outfits or setting up private navies are keen either on safeguarding the ability of their vessels to fish illegitimately in our seas, or they are hunting down Al Qaeda.”

“Your reply may not wash with others,” Ahl says.

Fidno announces unnecessarily loudly that he is off to the bathroom.

Alone and sipping his coffee, Ahl jots down notes, aware that he will need to convince Malik that it is worth his while to interview Fidno. The stark reality, the dire conditions of most Somalis, the absence of food and environmental security, the never-ending conflict: each of these will have an impact on the future. From this perspective, Ahl views the future as one might view a troubled country marked by despoliation, devastation, and more poverty.

When Fidno returns, he orders another coffee and says, “It is your turn to tell truths. Why are you here?”

Ahl reminds himself that he has the right to edit his story, censoring portions of it and altering its general thrust for his own privacy as well as for Taxliil’s and Malik’s safety. However, he’ll tell enough of it to stoke the fire of Fidno’s curiosity. For now.

“I am in Puntland for a family reason.”

Fidno says, “We’re trading truths. Remember.”

Ahl is about to elaborate on what has brought him here, when he suddenly feels ill at ease. He sits still and unspeaking for a long while, disturbed, his lips atremble, his breathing uneven, and his heart beating nervously faster. But then he senses Taxliil’s presence stalking him and prowling in the outer reaches of his conscience. When he infers that Taxliil wants him to trade his truth with his man, his resolve firms up. What is there to lose?

He stumbles a bit, then begins. “I am in Puntland searching for Taxliil, my runaway stepson, a teenager, believed to be somewhere in Somalia, sent, the last we heard, to Puntland as a liaison between his religionist mentors and the pirates.”

“Why Puntland?”

“Because it is his mother’s ancestral home.”

“Any other reason?”

“I’ve been told that he is in Puntland because it is a transit point for
the religionists to Yemen and beyond. Would you say it is true that some of the pirates and some of the religionists, especially those with bases in Xarardheere, have struck a deal—that they collaborate? I’ve heard it said that some young Somalis pretend on the way out that they are migrants, and on the way back, escort the foreign recruits in boats that are virtually empty anyhow.”

“You think Taxliil is one of them?”

“Do the pirates collaborate with Shabaab?”

Fidno says, “There is a rumor that some do.”

“Do those that bring in foreign jihadis, who aren’t necessarily young men, receive in exchange protection from the religionists?” Ahl asks.

“There is a lot of movement between Somalia and Yemen,” Fidno says, “by means of dhows laden with goods, which return either empty or with illegal passengers. As for the human trafficking, that is part and parcel of the link; this is seasonal, with thousands of Ethiopians, Eritreans, Somalis, and other Africans trying their luck to get to Yemen in hope of making it to Saudi Arabia, where there are jobs, or Europe. I know some of the coastal villages from which they depart; I also know where the boats dock when they return. If you like, I can take you to some of these villages.”

“I’d be happy to go anywhere to find my son.”

“By the way, how old is Taxliil?”

Ahl tells him, and in addition, promises to provide him with a photograph of his stepson, taken a month or so before his disappearance.

“If he’s in Puntland, we’ll find him.”

“I’d be grateful for any help.”

Fidno says, “I’ll get things moving soon.”

For an instant, Ahl keeps at bay a clutch of worries snatching at his
heart. It is as if he is in a fast-moving car, hurtling beltlessly down a ravine, moving perilously forward at an extraordinary speed, destination unknown, fellow passengers unfamiliar. It frightens him that he has been here for only a day and he has already formed a working relationship with a man who funds piracy, a man who, for all he knows, is on first-name terms with the owners of the dhows in the human trafficking business. Is it too late to withdraw? More to the point, is there any other means by which he may pursue his aim, to locate his stepson? After all, one devil knows another devil best—and it is best he gets to know Fidno, who may lead him to Shabaab’s redoubts in Puntland.

He asks, “How will you get things moving?”

“For a start, I’ll establish contact with the known big shots in the human-smuggling business and arrange for you to meet them,” Fidno says. “I’ll take you to a village called Guri-Maroodi, not far from here, from where the migrants depart. I have a mind to start with a man who has extensive connections among the top people in Puntland, the insurgents, the pirates, the lot. He is respected and at the same time feared everywhere in this country.”

“Won’t you tell me his name?”

“I’ll give you the information only on a need-to-know basis,” Fidno says. “And since I haven’t been in touch with him yet, I can’t tell you his name.”

“Please explain how meeting a man in the human-smuggling business will help locate Taxliil, when what I need is to burrow into the underground structures of Shabaab?”

“You are going about the matter in the way God-fearing, upstanding individuals do when they are dealing with a straightforward problem, when what you require here is to know the mind-set of those with whom you are dealing,” Fidno says. “If you are taking on men who operate
outside the law, then you must approach the matter at hand from an equally shady angle.”