Don't Tell Me You're Afraid (3 page)

Some nights, after
griir
or playing ball, Ahmed and Said ended up scuffling, sometimes joking around and other times for real, and Aabe and Yassin would have to pull them apart. Once Said punched Ahmed so hard that blood spurted from his nose and stained his white T-shirt. He looked like he'd been hurt badly.

After a while Aabe made them shake hands, and the next night, as if nothing had happened, they were friends again.

One of the nicest things about those summer nights, however, was Hodan singing.

Often, after Hooyo and we girls had finished washing the pots, we would all sit in a circle for hours, listening to her velvety voice transform familiar tunes.

Aabe and Yassin sat smoking, their languid eyes turned to the sky, and I wondered what a big, handsome man like Aabe could be asking the stars. Every now and then my sisters and I and Hooyo, moved by Hodan's words, would wipe our eyes and noses with our handkerchiefs; the older brothers and Ahmed sat in the dust, arms hugging their legs, staring at the ground.

Once in a while Ahmed looked up, and those icy green eyes flashed in the moonlight; he seemed to want to defy the moon. When he did that I turned my head away and brought my focus back to the face of Hodan, who, seated in the center, her eyes half closed, went on singing songs about peace and freedom.

T
HE
NIGHT
BEFORE
the annual race, before our fathers came home from work, Alì and I did a forbidden thing: We ventured out to run.

It was six o'clock in the afternoon, the sun was low on the horizon, and the smell of the sea drifted right into the courtyard. Driven by a fresh breeze that was redolent with aromas beginning to rise from the braziers of the neighboring houses, the sea's scent had seeped in and drawn us to it. There were only a few hours left before the race and we wanted to stretch our muscles and lengthen our strides. We felt a need to, like two real athletes.

Often the militia decided to have the curfew begin in the hours preceding Friday. That evening, in fact, no gunshots could be heard. Then too there was a full moon, enough light that it wasn't too risky.

We wouldn't go very far.

We set off with the idea of going around the block, as far as
avenue Jamaral Daud, turning around at the national monument, then heading back.

Twenty, twenty-five minutes in all.

Alì had told me to put on the veils, but I hadn't listened to him. Hooyo—who was bent over a steaming pot, cooking, wrapped in the gauzy white veils she wore around the house—hadn't even noticed that we were going out. Nor had Hodan, inside the room with our other sisters.

Making as little noise as possible, we sneaked under the red curtain covering the opening in the boundary wall, sure that no one would spot us.

The war didn't scare us; it was our “big sister.”

Often, when mortar strikes or machine-gun shots were heard, Alì and his friends Amir and Nurud would go up close to the militiamen to see how they fired. They crept up ever so slowly and hid behind a car or around the corner of a house and watched. The sound of rifles, of machine guns, excited them. When they came back to the courtyard, they talked a mile a minute, and I stood there gaping, listening to them; talking over one another, each of them wanted to tell me about a detail that he thought only he had seen. Their eyes were lit up, fiery as the opening of a rifle barrel.

Anyway, that night we ran for about twenty minutes. The air was cool and we didn't get sweaty like during the day. That was the hour I liked; everything had slowed down, the day was drawing to a close, and instead of the afternoon's blinding sunlight a suspended glow hovered in the air, the sun's rays bouncing everywhere, reflecting off every particle of dust, but lower, more restful.

We were already on our way back, not too far from home,
when we were forced to stop. Suddenly, at the end of a deserted alley, a jeep carrying fundamentalist militiamen appeared.

They were neither Hawiye nor Abgal nor Darod but members of Al-Shabaab, an Islamist militant group.

Ethnicity in this case had nothing to do with it. They were militants backed by extremists of Al-Qaeda who were doing everything they could to seize power, taking advantage of the divisions among the clans.

The Al-Shabaab men were recognizable from a distance by their long beards and dark jackets. Unlike the clans' militiamen, who usually wore camouflage jackets they'd recovered from some market or obtained secondhand from the Ethiopian army, the soldiers of Al-Shabaab wore real uniforms, new ones, which made them look like rich warlords.

There were eight men in the truck bed, the barrels of their machine guns sticking up from behind their backs like metal antennas.

The jeep was moving very slowly when one of the bearded men turned his head toward us and saw us coming.

Two harmless little specks, tired and sweaty.

A half-naked little Abgal girl and a Darod boy with a flat nose and ebony black skin.

The man banged his fist on the roof of the cab, and the jeep stopped. Everything happened in a few seconds. Two militiamen jumped down and came toward us.

They were short and had no beards.

Only when they got close did we realize why: They were young boys, twelve, maybe eleven years old. Sporting rifles bigger than they were over their shoulders. At that time it was
rumored that Al-Shabaab had started recruiting children to teach them about holy war. In return, they guaranteed the parents that their children would receive an education, learn Arabic and the laws of the Koran, be fed three meals a day, and sleep in decent housing, with a real bed and all the comforts that almost no one could afford anymore. Those two must be new recruits.

The closer they came, looking at me disapprovingly, the more aware I became of how I was dressed: shorts and a T-shirt. Damn it! The veils. And Alì was Darod, one of the clans the fundamentalists hated the most because they considered them inferior, a clan of niggers, as they said, while we Abgal had lighter, amber-colored skin and features more closely resembling those of the Arabs, from whom the Al-Shabaab extremists liked to think they were descended.

They stopped about twenty paces from us.

“What are you two doing out and about at this hour?” said the shorter, chubbier one of the two, in his nicely ironed black shirt and creased dark trousers. In our minds a nearly perfect outfit like that pertained only to Europe or America. We were used to dressing any old way, in hand-me-down clothes. Only a few adults loved to parade around on Fridays, in the square by the parliament or along the seaside promenade, wearing the same pants and jackets they'd worn during the years of peace.

“We're training for the race tomorrow,” Alì replied, looking boldly at him, unafraid. The questions were routine. Though it had never happened to us, there were numerous stories of similar incidents going around; there was nothing to fear from those questions.

The two burst out laughing, the fat one scratching his behind with one hand. Then they took a few steps forward, and the
solitary streetlight lit up their faces. Their eyes were watery and bloodshot.

“So you're both athletes. . . .” the fat one said after a pause, his tone ironic as he started laughing again.

“Right,” Alì replied. “We're training for the annual race. . . .”

At that point, the other one, a lanky kid with a long scar on his forehead and eyes that looked possessed, yelled: “Shut up, Darod! Don't even open your mouth. I could take you away, you know, and no one would say a word about it. Maybe your father would even be happy if you came with us. At least you'd have some decent clothes to wear.” They burst out laughing again like little children, while the chubby one continued scratching his backside.

Alì lowered his eyes and looked at himself. He wore a T-shirt riddled with holes and food stains, which had been his brother Nassir's, and a pair of shorts way too big for him, held up at the waist by a string. On his feet were a holey pair of moccasins that his father, Yassin, had salvaged somewhere, who knows how many years ago.

Out of the corner of my eye I sensed movement.

Alì was shaking like a drum skin. He was sobbing silently out of anger and shame. I turned around and saw a tear, just one, roll down his cheek.

Like a predator sniffing around a wounded animal, the skinny one with the scar came five or six steps closer. He wore a men's cologne with a penetrating odor, like Acqua di Colonia, but too strong; it hung in the air around us.

“You're just a dirty little Darod,” he said. “Remember that. You're just a filthy Darod.”

Alì didn't answer. I was scared.

Then Scarface came up to me and grabbed me by the arm. “And maybe we'll take your little friend away. That'll teach her to dress like a
wiilo
. What do you think you are, huh? A boy?”

I tried to wriggle free, but he kept a tight grip on me, like claws. He tried to drag me, but I resisted, digging my heels into the ground.

All of a sudden Alì exploded and, like a cat, pounced on the kid's hand and bit it. Scarface let go of my arm and Alì gave me a shove, shouting at me to run home.

I looked at him, not knowing what to do. I didn't want to leave him there alone, but I knew we needed help.

The skinny one kept waving his hand in the air as if to dry it and wipe away the teeth marks; rather than getting back at Alì for the bite, he smiled, his expression ominous. Then he said: “Hey, this Darod is gutsy.”

The fat one stopped scratching himself, nodded, and with the same hand smoothed back a strand of hair.

“You've got balls, Darod,” he said. “Who's your father?”

“It's none of your business who my father is, fatso,” Alì replied.

“Well, if we can't talk with whoever should have taught you good manners, then we'll have to take you in the jeep. . . .” They came up and grabbed him under his arms. Alì tried to shake them off, but there were two of them and they were bigger than him.

“Maybe some of the adults might like to teach you good manners, Darod. And to be smarter. It's not smart to bite someone who's carrying a gun. . . .”

While Alì continued to struggle and I stood there petrified, a third man got out of the jeep.

In the dim light you could see that he was much taller than them; he must have been older, but he too had no beard. Maybe he was still young. Maybe he was reasonable.

He approached us and told the two to release the Darod. “Let him go. Get in the jeep. I'll take care of him.”

Alì and I turned to that shadow. We had recognized the voice.

Together we looked up at his face.

He was maybe five yards away from us. The streetlamp gave off little light, but the icy green eyes that flashed, though clouded by the same strange watery film as those of the two kids, were his.

Ahmed.

Nassir's friend, with whom Hodan was secretly in love.

The two boys muttered something and reluctantly let Alì go.

When they reached the jeep, Ahmed said in a soft, low voice, so he wouldn't be heard by his companions: “Be careful, you two. Going out alone is dangerous.”

Then he turned on his heel and signaled the driver to restart the engine.

Before jumping into the jeep bed, as the vehicle was already moving, he stared at Alì with an ominous expression. A split second that seemed like an eternity.

The green eyes glinted in the moonlight. That look made my blood run cold. A mixture of pleasure and promise. It was not a challenge, just an air of insidious alliance.

Then, as slowly as it had arrived, the Al-Shabaab soldiers' jeep moved off again.

I was shaking like a leaf. Alì, instead, was all worked up.
“Damn fundamentalists! That's all we needed in this city; it's not enough that we have all those other armed groups!” he burst out.

Such inspection checks could happen, of course, but it was better to hear about them from other people's stories. I went over to hug him and try to calm him down, but he pushed me away.

“I'm okay. Leave me alone. Those filthy extremists didn't do a thing to me,” he muttered without even looking at me, staring at the ground.

“Those two had something about their eyes that seemed unnatural. . . .” I said.

“Of course. They were all high on khat,” Alì replied.

A pause.

“What's khat?”

“It's that filthy narcotic that Al-Shabaab gives its soldiers.”

“They get high and then go around shooting?”

“No. It's
so that
they will then go around shooting that they give it to them. They offer it to the young ones, so they'll become addicted.”

“They seemed lost, as if they were possessed by an evil spirit,” I said to myself, hoping the feeling would quickly pass.

As if he'd been lost in thought, Alì came back. “That fat one kept scratching his ass.”

“He must have had ticks in his briefs, never mind the new clothes.” I smiled.

“Yeah, in fact, that shitty ass of his must have been full of ticks. . . .” he said, laughing. He turned to look off toward the spot where the jeep had been stopped shortly before, as if to make sure that it was really gone.

I took his hand and this time he didn't pull away.

Slowly we made our way back home, spouting one silly thing after another. We went all the way without ever mentioning Ahmed.

In the courtyard Hooyo, sitting on a chair, was still stirring, bent over the steaming pot heated by the brazier. She had covered her hair with a white veil, which she avoided wearing at home when she wasn't cooking.

Seen from the entrance, the skin of her face—illuminated by the moon and firelight and beaded with drops of moisture from the steam—seemed very smooth. Firm and shiny like the rind of a watermelon at noon.

Just for a change, that night we ate rice and vegetables.