1969: Abdirashid Ali Shermarke is asassinated. In a Cold War move, Russia insists that the US Peace Corps be expelled from the country, as part of a patron/client deal. On a few hours notice, Volunteers across the country scurried to comply. This description of part of the evacuation and a personal sequel is by one of them. (Today, this Volunteer teaches TEFL in Mexico.) (!!)
Exit Memory
"Only fragments come to mind, some bitterly recalled, some laden with a wave of regret. Did the asassination take place in the morning? What are the details of the event? Was it an ambush? Was he shot by someone in whom he had put his trust?
I remember being on my way to school, to the classroom which had been built by other volunteers. Things had been going well on the teaching front. I had grown more confident, and the students who I inherited from The Italian language teachers had become resigned to learning English.There were fewer confrontations with them and with fellow teachers. I had actually begun to hold morning calesthenics classes for the boys, and imagine my amazement when a committee formed of the girls told me that they also wanted to to have physical education in the mornings as well. Picture this: Beautiful Lul in a magnificent dress of something like aqua film, clumsy Huda whose too –big feet kept tripping her, tiny Asha,her face covered with a veil that did not quite hide the look of studied concentration…all assembled outside of the school house ,ready and waiting for my instructions.
I think that those morning classes were for me and for the girls a monumental cultural shift.I probably felt better about that little success than I did about anything else I had accomplished as a teacher.
I had not really taught more than a few to master spoken English.
I certainly had not shaken their absolutist way of viewing the world(“ Maalin, you are a good teacher. It is only too bad that you not a muslim. It makes me sad that you will die an infidel and never know the joy of Paradise”)
I had not gotten through their still strong clan loyalties, had not changed their prejudices. I certainly had not convinced them that the capitalist, democratic system from which I had sprung was in any way superior to their way of life.
But we had reached some form of understanding, and yes it still thrills me to remember what I considered the breakthrough of the morning exercise classes.
So, a bright morning(the possibility of later rain) and I am heading optimistically to my students,once again full of anticipation and that yes I could make a difference.
But suddenly, coming in my direction and away from the school, teachers, and students ,some running, some with fear and wonder in their eyes, coming towards me with the news of the assignation.
What I seem to most remember was the oh-so Somali wit .The ordering of chaos with the powerful use of words.
The assination was reported to have taken place in Los Anod. So now they could say that Los Anod and Los Angeles”wa es squimid.”,referring to the assination of Robert Kennedy. Los Anod and Los Angeles are now the same.
Such eloquence of speech. So Somali.(The other instance of this eloquence that comes to mind now were the words of the beggar woman who used to come to my door in the morning and simply state: ”What I have given birth to is no longer here”.And that was her claim to my charity and one that I could never refuse. And it was part of the relationship that I had with my mother until her death.) The funny way that our values and characters are shaped…
Now I am not at all sure of the sucession of events. I believe that prior to the assination our headmaster had advised us to leave our post for a vacation because of sme anti American feeling on the part of the army. I think that we consulted with the chief of police and he concurred, so we had taken a short holiday and just recently returned To Belet Wein. And now from somewhere came the news that we were to leave the town by the next day.
I packed what I could. Left the Henry James novels to whomever and went to where the dray trucks assembled. I had what was left of my personal belongs in a trunk and did not trust that it would arrive in Mogadishu with me unless I kept my eyes on it so I opted for a seat in the back of the truck and we headed down the dusty road,headed into the beautiful star filled sky.
I was in a kind of shock. I had not had the opportunity to say goodbye to more than a handful of the people who had shared my small world for almost two years.Too many emotions to make sense of…to “process” as they say.An identity that I had struggled to forge, just gone.
It was going to be a long night. It was uncomfortable in the truck. There was a lot of jostling for space, small disturbances and harsh words.It was cold ,dusty and I had not really slept for a few days. A fight broke out between two of the Somali guys near me and one used a rumi stick to gouge out the other´s eye. There was a sense that the truck should stop and find someone to adjudicate the matter. I was near hysteria
and insisted that we not stop, that we should press on to Mogadishu and the intensisity of my argument won the case.
We arrived in Mogadishu , were found seats on a flight to Nairobi, and left behind all that we had grown to accept.
Nairobi was a holiday. The hotel where we stayed had a wonderful sauna and I became almost addicted to the hot steam and then the plunge into the cold water of the pool. Was I trying to wash away the confusion and discomfort of the time in Somalia?
We made travel plans and I went with Mike and Carol and Richard first to Ethiopia, then Greece, Amsterdam and finally to the hospitality of the Johnsons in London. One afternoon with them we called on a Catholic priest whom they had known in Hargesia and who had also had to leave the country….where he had lived and worked for many years.I recognized that I was in some sort of shell shock, and was amazed at the calm of his demeanor.Was it his faith? His ability to accept that made his reactions so different from mine. “ No, he said. If you had lived in Somalia for longer you too would be able to deal with this. You would have learned how to deal with this”.
I like all the other volunteers was curious about newly arriving volunteers when we were in Somalia for some time and I remember a conversation I had with one of the nines(could have been Marlene…). We were waist deep in the eternity of the Indian Ocean and as she stared into the distance she told me that she would not be staying to serve in Somalia because she was sure that the experience would change her in ways that she did not think she wished to be changed. I remembered those words and wondered at the ways that I had been changed…
Life took me on many roads after Somalia. In the mid nineties I had the opportunity to go to Sweeden and by this time there were many refugees from the land of camels being sent to live in a little town in the Arctic circle. Wearing donated clothing that had been choosen more for style than practicality(I remember a shivering teen in a rhinestone studded denim jacket) I was amazed at the resilency of these people.
I still had enough Somalia at my command to explain to a crowd of these kids that I had lived in Somalia, had been a teacher, had lived in Belet Wein,had left many years ago. I even could remember the words to a song that I had particularly liked and which I had taught myself to sing,one about flowers blooming(Obiheyi bahia) and watched their astonished faces as I performed right there in the street. In the Arctic circle. And it connected me to an experience that I always knew had changed my life.A circle within the circle.
I was scheduled to leave by train in just a few hours but they pleaded with me to come with them to the community center where they were being taught to speak the language of their now home. We hurried across the fields hurrying again as I had done that morning in Belet Wein. They presented me to their new teacher, and helped her in their rudimantry Sweedish to understand that I had been a teacher in Somalia. My emotions were overwhelming . I finally felt as if I had been given a chance to say “Good-bye” to my students in Belet Wein, had entrusted them to this teacher in Sweeden. It made no difference to my heart that these kids were almost a generation removed from those whom I had taught. I felt the release from a pain that I did not even know had been within me for years.
I finally had a chance, with a generous flow of tears, to say”Nabad-gel-u”"
I just got back from the Philippines and found this in my mailbox. It got to me. From time to time, I must confess, Somalia does jerk me back, also.
i was one of those Somali refugees in 1990s who use to live northern Sweden in pole circel town name Kiruna. i was living there from summer of 1991 to mars 1992. 
