Trafford Publishing: Memories of Somalia

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Memories of Somalia

by Maurice O'Neill

251 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0506; ISBN 1-4120-0138-2; US$22.50, C$28.00, EUR18.20, £12.70

In a God forsaken, war torn Somalia O' Neill found himself trying to make sense of the brutality, carnage and an United Nations Organisation geared towards self-preservation while a gun totting transport staff daily challenged every human moral he aspired to. The result is a fascinating insight into a United Nations Peacekeeping Mission and a wonderful voyage of self-discovery and reaffirmation. That this book is non-fiction makes it all the more stunning.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts or Table of Contents catalogue info

About the Book

The year was 1994, but it could be today. The setting is an United Nations Peacekeeping Mission in Somalia on the eve of the American Troops withdrawal after incurring heavy losses in a confrontation with the Warlord, General Mohammed Farah Aidid, leader of the Somali National Alliance. Remaining behind were twenty-two thousand multi-national troops and five hundred United Nations civilian staff.
The famine had receded, but destitution remained rampant. Infrastructure lay in ruins. There was no electricity, no telephones, few hospitals and scant transport. There was no government and no institutions. Gun law settled all arbitration. The country was consumed to anarchy and the general population were terrorised as two major warlords battled fiercely for the spoils of Mogadishu the capital and the provincial towns.
The United Nations (UN) struggled desperately to install the semblance of a government but expecting democracy to tame insurgency proved most elusive than any could have imagined. The UN quickly found itself as the golden goose, while every Somali seemed to be wielding a stick.
As the UN retreated into secured compounds and assumed a defensive stance, the plight of the Somali people continued to plummet. Amongst this confusion, a small group of UN civilians, movie-chair veterans, found the perfect playfield and imagining themselves invincible had the mindset to police Somalia.
Having worked on Humanitarian programmes in East Africa, Asia, including a tour in the Balkans, Maurice O' Neill found himself immersed in the paradox of Somalia. He quickly found that Somalia challenged more than his professionalism, it dug at the roots of his moral beliefs forcing him on a journey of self-discovery.

About the Author

Maurice O' Neill was born in Drogheda Co. Louth, Ireland in 1956. Educated by the Christian Brothers he afterwards trained as a vehicle mechanic. In 1981, he moved to Dublin and worked for the National railways before departing for Ethiopia in January 1987 to work voluntary with Concern Worldwide. Maurice has since worked in Sudan, Kenya, Tanzania, Nigeria, Pakistan, the Balkans, Afghanistan and Turkmenistan and continues on assignments with various humanitarian movements. Never married, between missions Maurice studies, travels and writes.

Sample Excerpts

Three nights after returning to the Southern Compound I am awoken by heavy shooting. Red tracer bullets coming from the direction of the airport pass low over the roof. I guess this fire is from the Egyptian positions. As per the UN mandate they always fire high with their first response. Of course their bullets still must fall to earth, but this occurs far away, beyond responsibility or reprisal. My windows rattle as rockets explode nearby. Suddenly gunfire erupts from all around. From the closeness I am sure that our guards downstairs are also shooting. My two lovely windows that I enjoy so much in sunshine are now cold black eyes staring in at me. Another explosion. It sounds as if our front gates have been blown in. I know I am supposed to go down stairs during heavy shooting but I lie on my mattress on the floor too afraid to move, too afraid to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Silly thoughts fill my head. I desperately want to pull on my pants. If a rocket crashes through the window the shrapnel will surely kill me. But Jesus I don't want to be found naked. Still I am unable to move. I close my eyes, but cannot shut out the sounds. I just want the noise to stop. I want it to go away and not come any closer. After three hours the battle cedes to the familiar spits of anonymous death. I lie awake chewing on the echoes in my head.

Nobody is surprised when we are informed by radio the following morning to pack all our possessions for evacuation and to remain indoors until further instructions. Our front gates have not been blown in, but our security guards are clearly extra vigilant and anxious. Their fingers never stray from the triggers of their weapons. Evelyn, a personnel assistant who resides in our residence is collected by a special team of Zulus and taken to her office in the Embassy Compound. We take this as confirmation that an evacuation is being considered. Sporadic shooting continues throughout the day. From the bathroom window I can see large groups of armed Somalis roaming the street outside. They can easily overrun our residence. Our guard's efforts would prove futile against such numbers. We can do nothing except sit tight and wait. The handset radio sitting in the centre of the dining room table becomes our lifeline. We pay attention to its every crackle and search in the static for the whispers of voices.

Zulu Base instructs us to remain in a prepared state for immediate removal and that the Chief of Security would personally visit each residence during the day. I can't stop eating and take a packet of biscuits to my room while packing. Each half hour Zulu base requests that everybody remain calm and keep the phone line and radio channels free. For the best part of the morning five of us sit around the dining room trying to bolster each other's confidence, trying to make light of our situation.

"Look! Maurice is writing a book."

"No." answered Mayaha. "He is writing his diary."

"No, both of you are wrong I'm writing my resignation."

Early in the afternoon Mr. Mattitini, Chief of Security, arrives and we are informed that General Aidid has captured the area and is proposing unreasonable terms, which include payment of all house rents directly to him in US dollars and the disarming of all Hawadle security. We are to be ready for extraction the following morning between seven and eight.

That night proved to be relatively quiet. The next morning everybody sat in the dining room waiting for our transport. In the hallway our packed suitcases and trunks were stacked against the wall. We were edgy to leave and grew more impatient as each minute passed. It was nine o' clock and there still was no sign of our transportation. Cooped up for three days was feeding on our nerves. We didn't wish to endure a further minute, not another second. Drenched in our respective thoughts we don't speak very much to each other. At ten o' clock Zulu security arrived with a fleet of buses and locally hired trucks. They stopped outside the residence. We boarded quickly, quietly onto a bus. As our bus pulled away I saw my two cases being flung carelessly onto a truck. We drove the five hundred metres to the transport yard where we joined buses from other residences to form a single convoy to the Embassy Compound. There was finality in the air. We knew we'd never return to the Southern Compound. This was the end.

Once again I found myself queuing in the Embassy Compound car park awaiting accommodation and meal vouchers. I stood for over two hours in the sun and my head got badly sunburnt. Sandy was there. Despondently she sat on her luggage drinking liberal measures of scotch. She told me that she missed her holiday to Ireland and had forfeited the fifteen hundred dollars deposit. Consumed with frustration she had terminated her mission and was flying home on the next available flight. It was sad for such a lovely lady to finish this way. Unfortunately in her inebriated state I couldn't communicate that I was sorry it had worked out like this and that I would miss here. She was too drunk. I left her for the last time, sitting dejectedly on a suitcase and drunk. It was a poor way for friends to part.

I was issued room number twenty-seven in the former Norwegian camp. The camp was constructed from fifty, twenty-foot cargo containers. Each container was divided into two separate bedrooms complete with a dainty window and curtains. The roof of the container was covered with sandbags and the outside walls were also stacked with sandbags to window height against shrapnel. The furnishings consisted of a solid bed, a bedside locker and a tiny built-in wardrobe. The walls and ceiling were panelled with false pine. I surveyed the room. Everything was so miniature, petite. I couldn't take one full step in any direction. It was not a room I would choose for myself but it was an agreeable enough place to finish my mission, in a converted cargo container buried in sandbags.

*********

A stinging pain wrenched me from sleep. I sprang to a sitting position. Tears were in my eyes as I flailed my arms to ward off an attacker who tried to gag my mouth. I spat some obstruction onto the floor and in my defensive flailing banged my elbow off the wall. The pain rattled up my funny bone. The room was dark. I don't know what has happened. I struggled to get a grip on myself. My first thought was that I had been shot? But the pain was already subsiding so I guessed I wasn't. Still disorientated I squatted on the bed and stretched along the wall searching for the light switch. The single fluorescent flickered several times before bathing the room in sterile light.

On the floor there was an enormous, black cockroach struggled on its back. It was attached to the floor by a white string of its own innards that extended from the wound my teeth had inflicted. Its spiked legs were aimlessly thrashing the air. I ended its pain with the heel of my shoe. It must have been eating something off my tongue or its spiky legs pricked me as it crawled into my mouth. I scraped my tongue with my teeth and spat on the floor and checked it for blood. I was relieved to find none.

In the mirror of a nearby ablution unit I was able to see that my tongue was not cut. Unfortunately, there was no water. It had been switched off to conserve supplies. I rinsed my mouth with undiluted disinfectant from my medical pack. Back in my room further sleep did not come easy.

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