Sixteen years ago, it was even then business as usual attacking Soomaalida in Koonfur Afrika. Read on. Somalis find uneasy refuge Johannesburg - ABDI Hussein (30) grabs a fistful of spaghetti and, with great skill, swings it into his mouth. Hussein is one of the 3 000 Somali refugees who have come to South Africa since their country erupted into civil war six years ago. I meet Hussein in a hotel that is unlikely to be listed in any travel guide. The hotel's Fordsburg address is passed from one Somali refugee to the next. The room is full of men watching The Bold and the Beautiful on television, sipping shah (sweet tea) and eating spaghetti -a result of Italian influence from the days when it administered parts of Somalia before independence in 1960. A bowl of spaghetti costs the refugees R4 and it's R20 a night for a room. Signs on the wall prohibit smoking and chewing mirra - a sort of twig that stimulates the senses. Mirra is to East African culture what boerewors is to the Free State. Hussein's home village is on Somalia's border with Kenya. He recently completed his master's degree in History at Rhodes University and has been accepted for a PhD in Conflict Analysis and Resolution at George Mason University in Virginia in the United States. "Africa is going to need those skills," he says. Unfortunately, they didn't help him last month. The evening he celebrated handing in his thesis, he was assaulted. Somebody broke a beer bottle over his head. He boasts a forehead full of scars. "I came very close to losing my life," he recalls. Nevertheless Hussein claims he is one of the more fortunate Somalis in South Africa. He left the country before the war to take up a teaching post in Swaziland and managed to raise enough funds to study. When civil war broke out, many of his compatriots fled, leaving behind families and qualifications to put themselves at the mercy of foreign governments. "We've crossed many borders to come here and on the way many people contracted malaria," says refugee leader Mohammed Hirsi (41), who left Somalia in 1992. He travelled along the coast from Tanzania to Mozambique and then went to Swaziland. It took him two weeks to get to South Africa. "We travelled without documents and were harassed by officials in many countries. A lot of refugees were turned back when they reached Tanzania. It's only the lucky few who make it," he says. The Somalis in South Africa recently formed a committee to represent their interests. Hirsi was given the social activities portfolio and is responsible for looking after newcomers. Why did they choose South Africa? "Because it's the most economically developed country in Africa and offers a lot of opportunities," he says. There are not many opportunities for 60- year-old Mohammed Jama, or M-J as he is affectionately called. He clutches a walking stick to his chest and explains that he spends most of his time going to hospital to get treatment for his legs. When fighting broke out in his village, he fled on the back of an overloaded truck. Soldiers ambushed the truck, killing the driver. The truck overturned. ** jumped. His legs were crushed. He was lucky, though, because many people in the back of the truck were killed. In Mayfair, about 8km from the Fordsburg hotel, is the Somali Community Centre. Forty young men are squeezed into a small room. The only noise that breaks the silence is the sound of lips smacking together. Bundles and bundles of mirra are stacked in the middle of the room. The mirra, which costs R50 a bundle, was flown in from Nairobi and arrived that afternoon at Johannesburg International Airport. "It's not illegal," Hussein says, "they bring it in as vegetables and cover it in dried banana skins to keep it fresh." Mirra is farmed in northern Somalia, Ethiopia, Yemen and, according to Hussein, is now grown by a farmer in the East London area. Hussein. who says he started chewing mirra when he was 12, peels the bark off the twig and chews the bark strips. "It's not like dagga or beer, it doesn't make you dizzy or aggressive," he says. "It's very sociable. It helps you tell stories. It's also a painkiller and very good for flu, because it keeps you warm." M-J and Hirsi and some other Somali elders are sitting in another room, also chewing mirra. Hirsi explains that in Mogadishu he was a wealthy businessman and now in South Africa he is a hawker. He says he studied political science for four years in Cuba, before working for Somalia's communist government. He switched to a business career in 1984. When the Somali capital turned into a battlefield after faction fighting erupted, Hirsi fled to South Africa. "Our plight is a hellish nightmare," he says."We've come to South Africa as asylum- seekers and we are only given temporary status. Because of this, we cannot get help from the Red Cross or any other non- government organisations and we struggle to find jobs." The dozen Somalis gathered around the table nod in agreement. Hirsi continues: "Some of us are hawkers, some of us are security guards and some help out in stores. As casual labourers, we earn between R150 and R180 a week. " I sell shoes and clothes that I buy from Chinese wholesalers. I was chased away from hawking in Secunda because the locals there accused me of stealing their jobs. These days I hawk in Benoni." Hirsi says that most of the refugees who do not have jobs spend the day glued to the television set and at night they chew mirra. "One day while we were sitting in the house, thugs with guns came inside. We could not defend ourselves. They stole our money and beat us. We went to the police station, but because we only had temporary documents we were told to go to the Department of Home Affairs. One policeman said that whoever doesn't have a permanent document has no rights in South Africa. We are powerless." One of the reasons the Somalis congregate in Mayfair is to be near the mosques. They have received some support from the South African Muslim community. "We stick to ourselves. We live in one country, but we are in a different world. You are the first white person we've had contact with," says Hirsi. According to Hirsi, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees suggested the South African government set up camps for the Somali refugees. "But the government rejected the whole idea. We don't have the power to contact the big shots in government to help us. We are refugees. We share rent and sometimes 15 people share a room. If a newcomer comes to South Africa we help him. We don't even ask R1. We know how tough it is to survive." I get the impression that the Somali refugees are reluctant to answer questions about the problems in Somalia. They come from many clans, but in South Africa they only have each other to rely on, so they stick together, rather than quarrel about politics thousands of kilometres away. Hussein believes that they will return to Somalia one day. "Yes," agrees Hirsi. "One day when there's peace." Mail and Guardian (May, 1997)

Dhagahaaga ma maqlaan afkaaga? Waqooyi Galbeed Soomaalia inaa ka goysid rabtaa, intaana ka leedahay 'against'. Micnaha against maa si kale u fahantay?

No need for shisheeyaha to propagate Soomaaliya's so-called division - you yourself is a classic epitome of it.

This looks like outskirts of Jasiira, a public land. Marka yuu ka gatay dhulka maadaama dowlad lahayd. I bet he just paid a few dollars to unknown unscrupulous men and now claiming to own the land.

Xabashi Soomaalidaa 'legjar' u wado wali asagoo minankooda marti ku ah.

Nin-Yaaban;957063 wrote: 9kii bilood oo lasoo dhaafay, 7 qof oo aan aqaano ayaa wadankii ku laabtay oo hadana soo noqday. Hada waxaad moodaa xoogaa sidii hore ineey soo dhaameyso oo dadka caadi u noqoneyso in diyaarada Somalia kashaqeeyo la raaco. Waxa kaliya oo eey ka eed sheegtaan waa 'Lost luggage' iyo 'rude customer service'. Yaabanoow, kuwaa ka hadleysid diyaarado waa weyn caalami raaceen, sida diyaaradda Turkiga. Maqaalka wuxuu ka hadlloyaa domestic airlines. It is mostly a new one airline, Central Air. It flies between Xamar-Baydhabo-Kismaayo-Beledweyne-Cadaado-Gaalkacyo-Garoowe.

It is tragically comic. This brother has a knack for writing a fine piece. Laakiin qofkii arkay diyaaradaha ka shaqeeyo Soomaaliya waxaan kuma cusbo. Eebbe ka sakoow wax kale wado ma jiro diyaaradahaas, siiba kuwa shirkadda cusub ee Central Air la leeyahay. Basaska Koronto ka shaqeeyo ayaaba 'first class' ah compared to those airlines and much, much more safer.

Taking a domestic flight in Somalia is an experience that can best be described as travelling to the brink of death and coming back. The airplanes on the domestic routes are commonly called express flying coffins and those who survive a flight on them are fittingly referred to as coffin dodgers. Due to the appalling state of the country’s roads and poor road safety more and more Somalis are choosing to fly instead of drive. On a recent hot humid Thursday afternoon more than 150 of us gathered in the lounge of Mogadishu International Airport to take a flight to Kismayu, Somalia’s third biggest city. The passengers crowded around the few windows in the lounge, their eyes locked onto a sky-blue plane at the far end of the runway. Dark smoke, the kind that billows from burning tyres at protests, was coming out of the plane’s exhaust. We just knew that plane was going to be our ride for the 45-minute flight. When the gates at the departure lounge opened, everyone rushed towards the plane. I, along with some other quick-footed passengers, chose to run. As with many domestic flights in Somalia, there are more passengers than available seats. If you don’t literally grab a seat on the plane, you’ll stand for the whole journey despite having paid for a seat. I was lucky to be one of the first to get on the plane. Seats filled up fast and 25 unlucky passengers were left standing in the aisle. Competition for seats on a flight can be humbly described as fierce. If you leave yours to go the bathroom, another passenger will grab it before you’ve even negotiated your way through the packed aisle, and you’ll find yourself among those standing when you get back. On a Somali flight, when nature calls you don’t answer! Most of the seats on this plane were faulty. They had no seat belts and reclined 180 degrees if you touched them. Each passenger had to hold the seat in front of them with both hands. If we didn’t, the seat and the passenger in it would be in our laps during take-off. Once everyone was on board, a loud male voice pierced through the cacophony of noise. The voice asked all the passengers to be quiet for prayers before take-off. Then, in an impeccable Somali voice, the teenage-looking steward in a half-buttoned baggy pink shirt said “welcome on board” and proceeded to recite a prayer at the top of his voice (the plane had no PA system and the steward had no megaphone). It was the kind of prayer Somalis normally recite at the graves of their long-gone great grandparents. For a few seconds everyone was totally silent. Even the crying babies were quiet. I guess reality hit: we were on a plane not fit to fly. But instead of comforting and reassuring us, the prayer caused silent panic. A lady sitting a few rows in front of me was overcome by fear and the thick smell of sweat in the air. She threw up on the feet of a standing passenger. A few minutes later, two old, pot-bellied, sun-burnt, sweat-covered, cigarette-smoking, booze-smelling, Eastern European male pilots wearing only shorts climbed up the creaky metal ladder attached to the emergency exit. It had been left open to let air into the plane since the air conditioning had long since seized to function. Passengers who’ve been on this plane before – and survived – had come prepared with prayer beads and cardboard pieces to use as makeshift fans. Because of the intense heat and lack of air, babies started crying and parents shouted at the young steward to do something. Since the standing passengers were blocking the main exit, he rushed out of the plane through the emergency exit and returned with empty boxes. He ripped them into small pieces and started distributing them to passengers who did not bring their own cardboard. The situation calmed down a bit then and soon we were in the air. I was travelling with my colleague Awil and his three-year-old son Lil Abdi. Despite paying for three seats we had two. Children under the age of 14 aren’t allowed to have their own seats even though they are charged for one. They have to sit on one of their parents’ laps. If they’re travelling alone, they have to ride on the laps of strangers. Lil Abdi was spoilt for choice compared to the other kids on the flight. He had the pick of two laps to sit on for the journey. But he preferred to sit on mine because I was seated next to a window, which had a small crack that let in cold air. The little things like a window crack are attractive bonuses when you’re on a Somali flight. I should mention that there were no cabins to store our possessions in. Everyone held their bags on their laps. If there’s a child on your lap – which will most likely be the case if you’re flying during the high season – then you leave your bag in the aisle. If there are passengers standing in the aisle, you have no other option but to hold your luggage over your head until you land. Somalis are usually not scared of death. In fact, death is treated like an intimate neighbour. Sitting on the seat in front of me was an old man who had returned from Milan. He had his grandchild on his lap. He wasn’t worried about dying, just about where his bones would end up if something fatal happened mid-air. “Do you think our bones will land on the ground or disappear in the air?” he asked the passengers around him. No one responded. A few minutes later he looked out the window, pointed to the green vegetation on the ground, and said: “Even if my whole clan went out there looking to collect our bones they will not find them.” By this time, forty-five minutes had already passed so I asked the steward if we should prepare for landing. Looking visibly irritated he said: “It will take us a further twenty minutes because the plane is overloaded and has to fly at slower than normal speed.” On hearing this, some passengers voiced their displeasure and asked that the plane fly faster. Frustrated with our constant complaints, the steward reminded us all that a few weeks ago another plane that was flying at high speed was targeted by the Islamist rebel group al-Shabaab as it prepared to land because they suspected the flight to be carrying government officials. Our hearts sunk and fresh panic set in again. Suddenly passengers were scanning the skies for incoming rockets. It was bad enough being on this plane without the fear of being struck down by al-Shabaab. Fahad, a passenger standing next to our row of seats, tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was married. “No,” I said. He wasn’t married either, he told me. “I’m not scared of death but I want to marry and have at least one son before I die. I want to leave something behind on this world.” I told Fahad the plane could have other plans for us and that al-Shabaab sheikhs may not want to wait for him to marry and have a son. Perhaps he was looking for reassurance but I just wanted to finish listening to the Dhaanto track on my iPod and then pray for a few minutes in case things went pear-shaped. With every word I uttered Fahad got more tense. Sensing this, Awil jumped in to comfort him: “If the sheikhs kill us up here we’ll be closer to heaven than if they killed us on the ground.” I guess the sheikhs were busy with other business that day because we landed all right. As soon as the plane touched down in Kismayu every passenger was on their feet, rushing for the exit. Some prayed enthusiastically on the dusty airport tarmac, thanking God for allowing them to survive the flight. As we exited, I told Awil I’d be writing about this experience. “If you do, we could get banned from future flights,” he said. “That might just extend our life expectancy,” I replied. Xigasho

Maxishoodaha flying to his masters. Nothing new. Waala soo sabsabaa, madaxa loo soo salaaxaa. Nothing will change.

The true 'secessionists' maanta ayaa la arkaa. Dadkii hoosguntidii dhigtay bilaa xishood, dalkiina rabo inay kala gooyaan, shisheeyana u adeego. Not surprised, though. Xishoodka looma dhasho, waa dhaqan.

D.O.C;954815 wrote: This is embarrassing for Somali government, don't these ministers know who to meet when they came to a country? This defence minister is meeting with soldiers not his counterpart, does he not know that? It says more about your ignorance than anything. He is MEETING his counterpart, the the defence minister of Suudaan, Mudane C/raxiin Maxamed Xuseen

Where did Keynaan get the script from? From our own SOLer who penned it a decade ago.

Meeshii mirifka iyo dhoobada badneyd maa joogtaa horta? Islii ka wadaayee. Ar habeen wacan, waa seexday.

Dameerkii aroortii maalinta xigtay qosol ka dhamaan waaye miyaa adiga sheekadaada. Maxaa ku qoslee markii la yiri, sheekadii xalay daanyeerka sheegaaye hadda fahmay yiri. Duurjoogtada kale markee wada qoslaayeen habeenkii lasoo dhaafay asaga ma qoslin maadaama uu sheekada fahmin.

Wuxuuba ugu wici doonaa 'Maano Caddeey.' That is the full name of protagonist when the film comes out.

Darn, he stole the title of my future book, maanokoobiyo, about crazy qurbojoogto. N.B. - To those who are not familiar the meaning of 'maanokoobiyo' -- it was the famous name of mental hospital in prewar Xamar.

K'naan tries his hand at filmmaking with Sundance workshop Script about orphan who joins a mercenary squad while searching for his sister Somali-Canadian rapper K'naan has long drawn musical inspiration from his troubled homeland. Now he says he's ready to make a film about his war-torn roots. The Toronto-bred poet, rapper, singer and songwriter has penned a screenplay he hopes to direct and shoot in Somalia, about an artistic orphan named Maano who joins a mercenary killing squad. K'naan says he's excited to fine-tune the script and develop his director's vision on Monday, when he begins a month-long stint at the Sundance Institute's annual directors and screenwriters labs in Utah. "I'm so curious, that's what it is, more than anything else," K'naan said in a recent interview from Los Angeles, where he was working on a new album. "I'm really genuinely sleepless from curiosity. I don't know how that all comes together and I'm like that about music also — I get obsessive over work, over the idea of a song or the feeling of a song or something I have to do when I get to the studio. But I always wonder how what's in my head, the song in my head, and now in this case the film in my head, will look like." K'naan's script Maanokoobiyo , is among 13 projects that have been chosen to take part in the prestigious workshop, where creative advisers will include institute president and founder Robert Redford, The Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow, actor Ed Harris, No director Pablo Larrain, The Motorcycle Diaries scribe Jose Rivera, Argo writer Chris Terrio and actress Alfre Woodard. But despite the huge vote of confidence in his point of view, K'naan says he's not so much interested in becoming a filmmaker as he is simply driven to express himself in the best way possible. "It's not really that I'm interested in filmmaking. I'm interested in the instrument of it, you know," says K'naan, who spent his childhood in Mogadishu and was on one of the last commercial flights out of the country before its collapse. "I'm interested in telling this story in particular through a visual medium. So if the story was best suited for a book I would probably would have been sitting down and writing a book. And if it was for a song, that's what it would have been. But there are certain stories that are best suited for a visual medium and so it's not that I would like to be a filmmaker, it's just that I have a film to make." Story drawn from real people, own story As part of the directors lab, K'naan will work with professional actors and production crews to shoot and edit key scenes from his screenplay. Other emerging filmmakers attending the labs come from the United States, Europe, Mexico and Peru. The Wavin' Flag rapper, who now lives in New York, says his tale is inspired by real people, with the central character — 21-year-old Maano — sharing more than a few traits with himself. "He's got a lot of me [in him] and his sister is really based on someone that I love and have been very, very close to all my childhood who recently passed away," says K'naan, who also attended the Sundance Institute's five-day screenwriter's lab in January, which he calls "life-changing." "The film opens as Maano is learning that he has one last family member remaining that's alive. He has a sister that's alive and on the other side of the country and it's just how it changes him in the process of searching for his sister, how finding such news, what that does to someone's soul." Onscreen appearance unlikely While he's committed to directing his own script, K'naan says he doesn't expect to also appear in the movie. "I just feel like it would be too much to take on writing the film and then assembling a cast, and directing it and probably making music for it," he says. "I don't want to diminish the work by doing too much. So that's a part of the concern but in this process I've had ... do acting scenes and monologues off of the film for people who are advisers and friends who are around and they just go: 'It's so obvious you have to act in it.' But I genuinely don't have the ambition to act." K'naan says he'd love to actually shoot the film in Somalia, suggesting the region appears to be stabilizing somewhat. "It's really changing. The country is having its first rebirth and turnaround now ... economically and governmentally it's really incredible," he says. "It's a lot to hope for — for Somalia to be safe and stable for good — but that's the dream and that's what people are working for and if that happens I'd love to shoot there." The Sundance labs begin Monday and run through June 27. CBC

I used to read and hear 'Ford Nation.' I used to imagine a fat, lonely white men who lived on the fringes of Etobicoke and Scarborough were the core of this 'nation.' Never I thought a Soomaali was one of them.

There is so many ways to serve dalkeena. Dad badan ayaa aqaanaa, doing their own little 'servings' to our country in Xamar.

Yes, after what happened to their late aabo, they would be the last people to carry guns in Xamar. Wax kale ay ka shaqeystaan mee Xamar ka waayeen. Eniwey, all the best Rabi ugu rajeynaa. I know when the heat gets hot...

So no 'deranged, demented, crazed' individuals yet. Kii ra'iisul wasaaraha ahaa iigu daranba. His favourite 't' word lasoo boodayba because he thinks they are dad Muslim ah.

Che, almost lix sano ayaa dambeysaa nooh. By the way, Muqdisho is historically older than the existence years of Nayroobi, Kambaala,Darasalaam, Kigaali, Bujumbura and Adisababa -- their combined years of existence. All those named cities are less than 150 years old each, most being founded in 19th century or early 20th century by the colonials.

When is he going to fly with Kiinyaati tanks in tow to Baardheere, Luuq, Ceelwaaq, Saakoow, Bu'aale, Jamaame, Jilib...?

Dad ayaa hoosgundidii dhigtay, xishoodkiina ka tagay in the name of bililiqo iyo sandalusnimo dhul iyo meel aynan u dhalan. Iyagoo waliba meel gaarin. The new xaaraankunaax. Xoosh ayaa waday axdigaan aad taageeri jirteen, haddana lagu tumanaayo, la jibinaayo qodobadiisa.