Somali Arms Trade: 2010

Welcome!

Welcome to the Somali Arms Trade Blog. This blog was created to raise awareness of the illegal arms trade industry, specifically in Somali.

For the last several years, Somalia has remained at the top of the Failed States Index and is likely to remain there in the coming years. This is an indication of not only the depth of the country's long-running political and idealistic collapse, but also to the inability for other world powers to find an answer.

At the heart of the issue of Somalia's decline is the illegal arms trade industry that has taken over in the country. Private businesses, nation states, arms dealers, and local clans/militia all contribute to the growing number of smuggled weapons in the country. The Somali arms market is based in the capital Mogadishu, and has become a major center for arms trading in East Africa. Weapons are continuously being transported along its border to Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Although U.N. Security Council Resolution 751 placed an arms embargo on Somalia, reports indicate that the number and variety of small arms available in Somalia is greater than at any time since the early 1990s. The presence of such a high number of guns poses a threat to security in Northeast Africa and beyond.

Story of a Somali Arms Dealer

(1) I was born on December 6, 1970. Before I became a part of the notorious game of illegal arms trade, I grew up in a small hut in Mogadishu, Somalia. I lived with my father, mother, my two brothers and sister. My father was a lead commander in the Somali Military. There was no one in the world I loved more than my father because he was my hero and I was his favorite child. My mother raised me and my siblings by herself, since my father was rarely home. We had little money, and the only source of income we had was the money that our father sent us each month.

My best friend, Ali, lived in the house next to us. He and I would play outside for hours until my mother called me to come inside. Ali was a year older than me and by the age of five, he was almost twice my height. We would dream of growing up and becoming doctors and military commanders and how we would be filthy rich.

When I was six years old, I saw my dad for the first time in years. He took my siblings and I to a nearby market in the outskirts of Mogadishu. It was a scorching day so he bought each of us a cold ice cream cone. Ice cream never tasted so good in my life, but I wasn’t sure if it was the ice cream or the fact that my beloved father, who I had not seen in years, bought it for me. After we returned from the market we met mother at home. I don’t think I had ever seen my mother so happy before. Sadly, this is the last time I would see her this happy again.

A week after my father visited us, he had to leave again. Everyone was sad but he promised us that he would be back in two months. Later, we would learn that my father had never made it to the Somali Military Base and the car he was in had been bombed by Ethiopians. Later that day, Ali came over and shared his condolences to me. I didn’t say a word to him. I couldn’t. I was still shocked about what happened to my loving father. Rage and fear swept across me. Questions and devious thoughts filled my mind. How was my family going to survive with no source of income?

A few weeks went by, and I finally accepted the fact that my father is gone and will never return. My mother got a job and my older sister, Fatima, took care of us children. My mother was a hardworking and dedicated woman. She loved her children and would do anything for them. In a way, my life was back to normal excluding my father. Everything was okay, until a night that would change my life forever.

I was around fourteen years of age on that vivid December night, nearly a man. My siblings and mother were fast asleep, yet I had lain awake on my straw bed staring at the ceiling of the hut, listening to the mysterious sounds of night. I was trying to remember the faint memories of my father, yet no matter how hard I tried, the images came to me clouded, obscured. Suddenly, disrupting my thoughts, I heard several trucks driving towards our village. I quickly ran out of the hut to see who it was. There were four trucks filled with around seven soldiers each. The soldiers carried huge guns but they were a few blocks away. I looked towards Ali’s hut and I saw him appear out of the wide door. He looked to me in fear and sadness and ran back into his hut.

I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on but I knew it wasn’t a good thing. I jolted inside my hut and told my mother what was happening. My mother gave me a ghastly look and said, “It started.” I tried to ask her what started but she was already running towards my other sibling’s rooms. She told us to hide under our beds and to not come out until she tells us to do so. We all huddled together underneath our straw beds and waited in silence. Outside I can hear people screaming and cursing. Gun shots echoed throughout the small village. I wanted to see what was going on, so I ran outside into the chaos. I ran behind a huge boulder next to the hut and hid there and watched. I saw numerous dead bodies and huts on fire. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the soldiers light my hut on fire. I screamed because I knew my mother and siblings were in there. I ran towards my hut, fully vulnerable for attack. All of a sudden I felt hands grab me and I became unconscious.

When I woke up I was in a moving vehicle with the soldiers that burned down my village. I was chained to the truck’s wall and wasn’t able to escape. A young soldier looked at me in disgust and turned away. I asked him “What did you to my village? Where are my mother, siblings, and Ali?” He slowly turned to me and laughed. He said, “They’re dead. We killed everyone in your village but you. You seem like a strong young man and we need you for our army.” “No!” I screamed at him. “I will never help you and your army. You killed everyone I ever cared for.” He took his gun and hit me in the head with it and I became unconscious again.

When I regained consciousness, I woke up in a military base. Some guy glanced at me and told me to come with him to the storage cabinet. He opened the cabinet and there were hundreds of guns and rifles in a huge pile. He grabbed a gun and held it out toward me. He said “Here is a gun for you. Either take it and help us, or I will shoot you right here with no regret.” I didn’t know what to do. Should I help the people that killed my family and best friend or should I not help them and die. The beautiful gun was dangling in front of my face. I had always been fascinated with guns and seeing one up close was a magnificent experience. I reached my hand out for the gun without thinking as if an evil force took over me. It was the first time I had ever held and seen a gun up close. For once in my life, I felt powerful and strong and all my memories of my family and the people I loved faded away. I forgot about my hardworking mother and my innocent siblings. I forgot about my caring best friend Ali. They didn’t matter to me anymore because they were dead and there is nothing I could do about it. Holding that gun would change me forever.

(2)The sun had just begun to rise over the roof of the adjacent building, sending a brilliant burst of light into my bedroom. I checked my watch and saw that it was already 6:00. Yawning I casually got dressed. I wasn’t able to shower because the hotel I was staying in, like most in this city, didn’t have any running water. However, this was normal for me having grown up where running water was unheard of and never available. The time was now 6:20. I still had and hour to kill, so I decided to go over the details of today’s transaction.

The meeting would take place at one of Bosaso’s many old, abandoned shipyards. Bosaso was the natural location for the majority of my business. It was growing at a remarkable rate and was now one of my native Somalia’s main ports. This meant it was the natural spot from which to smuggle either a buyers goods or mine in and out of the country. Today I would be meeting Funsani. He was an ugly and untrustworthy Egyptian. However, he was willing to pay premium and had many powerful connections. I also knew this deal would likely be one of my most dangerous yet.

At about 6:40 I left the small, shabby room that contained nothing other than a small cot, two chairs and a dilapidated table. Nevertheless I was content in the fact that I was able to pay my way into a private room where I wouldn’t be required to share with other foul smelling and thieving individuals. Leaving the hotel, although by western standards it barely deserved that name, I met my right hand man, Abdi. As we walked through Bosaso’s central market, we discussed today’s sale.

As usual the market was already busy. Poor gangs of children ran about begging for food and stealing money. Peddlers sold their ware from their little tables. The pungent odor of unwashed bodies was strong in the hot air. The sound of automatic weapons fire was also ever-present. This noise was mostly caused by street traders showing off their deadly merchandise. This had been me several years ago. After fighting for years throughout Africa I had returned to my native Somalia and started on the street but slowly worked my way up. This was primarily due to Abdi. Abdi had a way with people. He could convince, connive or persuade anyone into buying whatever it was he might be selling. He too had lost his family at a young age, which had strengthened our friendship through a kind mutual understanding.

Once through the market we arrived at the house that acted as the headquarters for my business. Several members of my “crew” were already there loading the merchandise onto the two somewhat old and decrepit cars outside. The weapons being sold today were not the ordinary, low quality AK-47s sold by the average street dealer. This order contained two boxes of fragmentation grenades, ten brand new RPGs, several thousand rounds of ammunition and five large crates of M-16s, AK-47 and Uzi submachine guns. I had also decided to throw in a large case of assorted handguns as a gift for Funsani’s business.

Once ready I rationed out the usual amount of khat to my men. This common drug would keep them alert and wired for about two hours, enough time to cover today’s transaction. I liked having them that way in case Funsani should try to rip me off. I didn’t have any as I normally would because I preferred to keep my head clear, at least for now.

Once everything was loaded all six of us piled into the cars and headed to the old shipyard where the meeting would take place. “Where do you think this order will end up?” I asked Abdi. Although I had no regrets about the damage they might have on the world, I liked thinking about what destination they would inevitably reach.

“Funsani will likely sell them to the Iranians, or maybe smuggle them directly into Iraq to fight off the Americans” He replied, and spat out the window.

“That will probably be the case” I answered with a little pride.

Over the past six years of my profitable business, I had managed to sell weapons all over the world. From Uganda and Iraq to Nepal and Thailand. As long as conflict exists, there will always be a demand for my product. The UN had tried to stop it before but I had always found ways around their obstacles.

After about fifteen minutes of driving through the packed streets my convoy, we arrived at our destination. It took several minutes to unload the heavy crates and bring them into the large abandoned building. I looked around and saw no sign of Funsani or his men. Nearly twenty minutes went by before three black trucks pulled up. Funsani and five of his men exited the vehicles and advanced on my group. They, like us were armed, not trusting the other party to uphold the deal. Few words were exchanged and the meeting was over in a matter of minutes, leaving me five thousand U.S. dollars richer. I smiled as I walked away. Business was good.

(3) I stare across the expanse of blue ocean outside my villa in Mogadishu. I had become a major forerunner in the Somali arms industry, and after the influx of riches I had compiled over the years, I had bought this seaside villa as a place to focus on my business. Lately however, I frequently found my mind straying from my commitments.

Today I have several business ventures to attend to, including a large order of small arms to a few wealthy militia men in Ethiopia. My two mobile phones continuously ring, with hardly a break in between. I answer the calls of placement orders, confirmation calls, and the occasional threat, but my mind is elsewhere. Struggling to focus as I speak with one of my regular and somewhat trusted customer, Berhanu, my mind drifts homeward to central Mogadishu, to my wife, Iman.

I relive the moment of our meeting; a chance encounter in the crowded central market in the days of our youth. Our eyes had met unexpectedly as I walked with a few friends through the throngs of people. Her grey-green eyes were striking against her elaborate red guntiino, and I had been stopped in my tracks. Although I knew I had no chance of courting such a beautiful and likely prestigious woman, I found my feet betraying my mind, and before I knew it we were facing one another, not even a foot away. In that infinate moment of time, the world around us blurred, and everything else became so insignificant. For weeks after our first encounter, we carried on a secret courtship, meeting in unpopulated areas, away from the city. Eventually she was able to convince her father that she was in love, and he set up the formal courtship we had longed for.

"Is two-thousand units achievable? Hello?"

My mind jolted back into reality as Berhanu threatened to take his business elsewhere.

"Yes, yes. I can have your supplies ready within the week."

The conversation ends shortly thereafter, with the exchange of a few shipping arrangements. I absentmindedly close the phone and return it to the pocket by my left breast.

My thoughts are now on my only child, Daahir. At six years old, my son rarely sees his father, for I am often away from home on business, much like my father before me. My father however, was in the military, and he had no choice in the matter. I wonder though, if he did have the choice, would he give up the small amount of money he was making to provide for his family in order to be there for us? Unlike my father before me I have the choice. I try to convince myself that I am doing what I must to provide for my family, and with arms trade, I am able to give them the life that I could never have, but I know in my heart that I am lying to myself. When I was young, all I had ever wanted was a father that I could look up to; that would be there.

Again my phone rings, and I am knocked back into reality. I take one last fleeting glace at the vast expanse of ocean outside my window before finally answering the phone.

"Five hundred units? Yes. great."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

International Arms Trade

Citation: Norbu, Pema. International Arms Trade. Youtube. Web. 09 December 2010.

Graph Concerning The Illegal Trade of Weapons on a Global Scale

Citation: World Arms Trade. Sevencolors. Web. 09 December 2010.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

http://warincontext.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/somalia.jpg

Sights such as these two heavily armed Somali men are not uncommon in this violent country. Without any stable government, Somalia is the natural location to procure and trade weapons.

Citation: Somali Holding Loaded Gun. War in Context. Web. 09 December 2010.

http://images.huffingtonpost.com/2010-07-09-angolanboy1024.jpg

Some of the many chlidren impacted by the illegal arms trade. They are just one example of the many victims that have resulted from the mass sale of illegal of weapons.

Citation: Illegal Arms Trade Makes Neighborhoods like this Possible all over the World. Controlarms. Web. 09 December 2010.

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pEfVJ93Cwa8/TC43GilY8bI/AAAAAAAAGcg/6xgxdpHa5fc/s400/1.jpg

Buyers and dealers negotiate during an illicit arms deal.

Citation: Melman, Yossi. Illegal Arms Deals. The Naked Truth in a Confused World. Web. 09

December 2010.

http://www.finalcall.com/artman/uploads/1/somalia_arms10-16-2007.jpg

A Somali police officer with a stockpile of small arms confiscated by Somali authorities. Without their seizure these weapons would otherwise have been sold on the black market, fueling conflict and violence around the world.

Citation: Somali Police Official. 2007. Finalcall. Web. 09 December 2010.

Somali Arms Trade