Somali-on-Somali violence in the Twin Cities rivaled Somali-on-Somali violence in their civil war–torn homeland.
The next time misfortune called, Taxliil was ready to follow. It took him back to Somalia, his route an enigma, the source of the funds that paid for his air ticket a mystery, his handlers a puzzle, the talent spotters who recruited him a riddle. When Ahl decided that he would goto Somalia, Yusur asked him why he would risk his own life in pursuit of the hopeless case of a young boy who had disappeared to God knows where. Ahl replied that he wished to reduce the number of unknown factors. He added, “I do not want to regret later that I did not go in search of our son. Taking the risk is the least I can do.”
News arriving from Somalia is often no more than hearsay bolstered by scuttlebutt, fueled by rumor. Essentially this is what Ahl and Yusur have come to learn: Taxliil has joined the volunteer Somali youth brigade, recruited from within Somali communities in the diaspora and earmarked to train as jihadis. Ahl shakes at the thought that an innocent Taxliil, misled by an imam on whom he modeled his life, might come to harm. He doesn’t know what would become of him and Yusur if something terrible were to happen to Taxliil.
When he has waited long enough and Malik has still not rung, he heads toward the Baraka Mall, to get additional phone numbers in Bosaso from a relative of Yusur’s who owns a stall there. As soon as he gets out of his car, his gaze meets the stare of one of Taxliil’s uncles, who rudely turns his back on him without so much as a smile or greeting. That the man does not bother to ask if there is news of his nephew disturbs Ahl. He probably wouldn’t tell the man much; certainly not that he is off to Somalia in search of the runaway boy. Ahl is aware that Yusur’s former in-laws blame them for what has happened, given that he and Yusur have had custody of Taxliil. He walks away downcast, then looks up at the sign that reads, Welcome to Baraka Mall. He reads it softly in English, and then loudly in Somali.
The Somali mall in the Twin Cities has been open for a number of years. It was the idea of a Pakistani émigré who bought it dirt cheap when it was an abandoned auto repair shop, and subdivided it intoten-by-ten-meter shops and six-by-eight kiosks. He rented these out to Somalis who needed to establish businesses to supplement their families’ meager incomes from the welfare department. The scheme worked to the Bangladeshi’s advantage and he was able to recoup his investment. Ahl can’t tell if the contention that he levies rents higher than market rate is true or just loose-lipped Somali talk, but clearly the venture has been successful.
In the warren of narrow passageways, Somali merchants sell clothes and memorabilia from Somalia, and goods imported mainly but not exclusively from the Arabian Gulf and the Indian subcontinent. Somalis, with no English or qualification in any profession, and no possibility of finding other work, have set up these stalls and opened restaurants, barbershops, music shops, and outlets for DVDs in Somali. This all-Somali mall has created a symbiosis, with many Somalis coming to exchange news about their country. The Somalis in charge of running the mall have agreed not to show TV news such as CNN or BBC, fearing this might cause flare-ups; they play only sports channels.
Ahl walks through the narrow hallway, bright with fluorescent lights. He passes a travel agency, a fabric store, and stalls specializing in jewelry imported from the Gulf. A large shop with metal bars in front of it promises to transfer your money into the recipient’s hands anywhere in Somalia in less than twenty-four hours.
Up the steps to the first floor, two more shops down a shorter corridor, and Ahl enters a shop. The owner is on the phone, talking loudly—Somalis have the habit of speaking at deafening levels when they are making long-distance phone calls, as if the
The next time misfortune called, Taxliil was ready to follow. It took him back to Somalia, his route an enigma, the source of the funds that paid for his air ticket a mystery, his handlers a puzzle, the talent spotters who recruited him a riddle. When Ahl decided that he would goto Somalia, Yusur asked him why he would risk his own life in pursuit of the hopeless case of a young boy who had disappeared to God knows where. Ahl replied that he wished to reduce the number of unknown factors. He added, “I do not want to regret later that I did not go in search of our son. Taking the risk is the least I can do.”
News arriving from Somalia is often no more than hearsay bolstered by scuttlebutt, fueled by rumor. Essentially this is what Ahl and Yusur have come to learn: Taxliil has joined the volunteer Somali youth brigade, recruited from within Somali communities in the diaspora and earmarked to train as jihadis. Ahl shakes at the thought that an innocent Taxliil, misled by an imam on whom he modeled his life, might come to harm. He doesn’t know what would become of him and Yusur if something terrible were to happen to Taxliil.
When he has waited long enough and Malik has still not rung, he heads toward the Baraka Mall, to get additional phone numbers in Bosaso from a relative of Yusur’s who owns a stall there. As soon as he gets out of his car, his gaze meets the stare of one of Taxliil’s uncles, who rudely turns his back on him without so much as a smile or greeting. That the man does not bother to ask if there is news of his nephew disturbs Ahl. He probably wouldn’t tell the man much; certainly not that he is off to Somalia in search of the runaway boy. Ahl is aware that Yusur’s former in-laws blame them for what has happened, given that he and Yusur have had custody of Taxliil. He walks away downcast, then looks up at the sign that reads, Welcome to Baraka Mall. He reads it softly in English, and then loudly in Somali.
The Somali mall in the Twin Cities has been open for a number of years. It was the idea of a Pakistani émigré who bought it dirt cheap when it was an abandoned auto repair shop, and subdivided it intoten-by-ten-meter shops and six-by-eight kiosks. He rented these out to Somalis who needed to establish businesses to supplement their families’ meager incomes from the welfare department. The scheme worked to the Bangladeshi’s advantage and he was able to recoup his investment. Ahl can’t tell if the contention that he levies rents higher than market rate is true or just loose-lipped Somali talk, but clearly the venture has been successful.
In the warren of narrow passageways, Somali merchants sell clothes and memorabilia from Somalia, and goods imported mainly but not exclusively from the Arabian Gulf and the Indian subcontinent. Somalis, with no English or qualification in any profession, and no possibility of finding other work, have set up these stalls and opened restaurants, barbershops, music shops, and outlets for DVDs in Somali. This all-Somali mall has created a symbiosis, with many Somalis coming to exchange news about their country. The Somalis in charge of running the mall have agreed not to show TV news such as CNN or BBC, fearing this might cause flare-ups; they play only sports channels.
Ahl walks through the narrow hallway, bright with fluorescent lights. He passes a travel agency, a fabric store, and stalls specializing in jewelry imported from the Gulf. A large shop with metal bars in front of it promises to transfer your money into the recipient’s hands anywhere in Somalia in less than twenty-four hours.
Up the steps to the first floor, two more shops down a shorter corridor, and Ahl enters a shop. The owner is on the phone, talking loudly—Somalis have the habit of speaking at deafening levels when they are making long-distance phone calls, as if the
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