Given our history of government challenges, I wouldn’t normally welcome the sight of two Higher Education commissioners walking through our gates. But one look at their faces tells me the dynamics have changed. “Apologetic” isn’t exactly the word to describe it, though that might also be true. Upon seeing me, their shoulders shrugged, as if to say, “Sorry. If we had known Khadar was this bad…”
Khadar’s strategy of launching a full-on attack of Abaarso, both by trying to have me deported and by generating negative media, won him support from those who didn’t know better and those who were all too happy believing the worst—some competitor schools, for example. It was a bold move that raised his prospects for a quick and decisive victory. But the strategy was also a risky one, as his true intentions would be revealed. Until this recent attack, he’d painted the Abaarso battle as Khadar versus Jonathan, which in Somaliland terms was a total mismatch. But now it wasn’t Khadar versus Jonathan. It was Khadar performing a full-on assault of a Somaliland institution and everyone connected to it.
The latest attacks, particularly those in the media, could also be viewed as serious condemnations of the Somaliland government itself, as he’d implied that the government had failed to protect the society from our Western invasion. In addition, Somaliland had spent decades trying to project a reputation as being safe for foreigners. As Khadar’s media attacks could incite physical violence, this was serious business that the government could not support.
In fact, the Higher Education commissioners are now on campus to clarify that they in no way support Khadar’s actions. They are sorry that we are going through this, and they want to help. While the government might not yet trust me unreservedly, Khadar has unwittingly pushed us closer together.
As it would turn out, an Abaarso government alliance would form shortly after this visit, and it would come from the most unlikely of places—Minneapolis. One weekend during our college tours, Eli and I found ourselves in Minneapolis where Tom, our former math teacher, was then living. He knew some Somalis who, on my behalf, arranged an informal evening gathering for me at a local café, where I could talk about Abaarso, our mission, and our success. There were a couple of dozen Somalis in attendance, which was an excellent showing for such a casual event. My presentation was going well when someone suddenly interrupted me. “Tell us about the troubles you’ve dealt with,” a man at one of the tables said.
I didn’t know who he was, but I decided to tell it all, particularly the parts about Khadar’s attempts to destroy the school. I didn’t use names; I didn’t even pause to consider the risk involved in speaking my mind, or maybe I just didn’t care anymore. But I was ready to spill.
“I know exactly who you are talking about,” the man who had opened the dialogue said. “He’s a close relative of mine.…” Here we go, I thought. Prepare for the irrational battle.
His next comment shocked me. “… and I know he is a liar!” I’d be less surprised if it snowed in June.
It turned out that when Khadar had been involved in the opposition party in Somaliland, this relative had watched him behave in a scheming manner, and had even videotaped some of his bad behavior. He had then watched Khadar utterly deny the allegations. Clan loyalties run deep, but to this gentleman, there were limits. When I walked out of the café that night, the man promised to help the situation with Khadar by arranging a meeting with his cousin, an older woman who lived in Somaliland. I was skeptical, not because I questioned his intentions but because I didn’t know how his cousin could assist.
Back in Hargeisa, I am now at the cousin’s gate, where a gentleman brings me to a lovely covered terrace garden, lush with potted plants and flowering vines. He shows me to the seating area, which is furnished with cushioned wicker chairs and a wicker couch. On the glass table in front of the couch, our tea is steeping and ready to be served. Then enters a spitfire of a woman dressed in a bright blue hijab.
One of my favorite literary characters is Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, the little old lady genius who solves murders while maintaining an unassuming demeanor. In A Murder Is Announced, she explains her method: “A policeman asking questions is open to the grave of suspicion, but an old lady asking questions is just an old lady asking questions.” The not-so-old lady in the garden is Somaliland’s Miss Marple, and that is how I’ll refer to her.
Miss Marple’s English is quite weak, though still better than my Somali, so we speak in English. I use simple words, staying completely on topic, and she understands everything because she knows all the players involved. Not that she shows her hand. She is just Miss Marple, the not-so-old lady asking questions.
She speaks to me in short phrases directly on point. She has insights and advice that, while not commands, are to be taken seriously. All of this comes with an abundance of tea and cookies her British counterpart would have enjoyed.
Many meetings follow, wherein Miss Marple heals my damaged relationship with the government. She sees Zamzam, the minister of education, a close relative and friend of hers, as the kingpin, and she masterfully works with us both until we are all in sync. My conversations with her go like this:
“No problem with ministry,” she says.
“Well, I am upset because of…”
“No problem. Zamzam likes Abaarso. Zamzam likes Jonathan. Zamzam knows Jonathan works hard. Zamzam wants Abaarso to be good.”
I’m reasonably sure she then has the same conversation with Zamzam.
“No problem with Jonathan.”
“Do you know what that American did…?”
“No problem. Jonathan respects Zamzam. Jonathan respects the ministry. Jonathan appreciates all Zamzam’s help.”
After a few of these tea and cookies sessions, I start thinking that maybe I’ve been unfair and the government is on our side after all. Miss Marple gets me to see all of them, especially Zamzam, in a new light. In my frustration, I’d been rash in response to what happened with the exam in Burao. I am now ready to move on, and my guess is that the government feels the same way.
Another of Miss Marple’s little tricks is to invite me for tea, at which it just so happens that someone she wants me to meet is also there, such as a consultant for the Ministry of Education.
“Sit down,” she says, directing me to a chair across from her surprise guest. “I check on the tea.” At that point, she leaves the two of us to talk. When she comes back, she makes sure we are on the same page.
Step by step, this little lady takes two sides with deep mistrust and brings them together. It is masterfully done, without my realizing it at the time, but in the end, Abaarso and the government are on the same side. Khadar has broken what alliance he has, but it is Miss Marple who has made sure the government now partners with Abaarso.
I am told that during this time, Miss Marple is also meeting with Khadar, working her magic with him, too. Somaliland needs good schools. It doesn’t need this war.
Losing the government’s support is a major blow to Khadar. Without it, he has no position at Abaarso. He has taken a risk to gain a quick and decisive victory, and he hasn’t succeeded. In the meantime, he’s angered Somaliland’s leadership, and, in doing so, damaged his own reputation.