The staff enters the meeting hall in April 2013 with the same serious look we have worn so many times before. Our students have been through so much: school closures, attacks from their own countrymen, a visit from the Higher Education Commission, even defending themselves to the religious council. And those events account for just a fraction of the times we’ve gathered to discuss the latest threat to their school and their futures. Unexpected assemblies rightfully trigger fear.
I walk to the center of the stage with several other teachers wearing the outraged look our students have unfortunately come to know. Our situation has suddenly turned so joyous with all the college acceptances, and now they anxiously await what bad news could once again turn our fortunes to the negative.
I quiet them and start my announcement. “They’ve told all kinds of lies about us. We’ve had to suffer injustices and attacks from everywhere. Well, what are they going to say now that Mubarik is going to the best engineering university in the world? He’s going to MIT!”
After a second of shock, the students start screaming, hugging each other, even crying. Boys and girls alike could not have been happier if they were the ones accepted. For Mubarik’s victory is their victory, too. They’ve all fought to reach this point, and they are proud that once again Mubarik will be leading them forward. As for me, I am lost in the power of the moment. There is nothing that needs to be done now, no imminent press release, no defending the school. I finally shed some tears.
There are other victories. News of Nimo and the other female students being awarded scholarships has struck a chord with Somali women. Between colleges and boarding schools, there are six new girls headed for American private education, and many of the fanciest women in Somaliland society host a dinner to congratulate them. In attendance are our girls, our female teachers, parents, a female representative of the Higher Education Commission, and even the vice president’s wife.
Nimo speaks at the event, so when our bus returns to campus I ask her how it went. “Terribly,” she says. “I made them all cry.”
One of the Higher Education commissioners is supposed to speak after Nimo, but she is too choked up to get the words out. Finally she says, “This is a great night. Seeing young girls so educated. So trained. Able to speak so well. Somali women have gained something so great.” She compares how advanced Nimo is, her ability to deliver such a speech, to where she herself had been at that age. She congratulates all of our young women, as well as Amran and the other parents who have been fighting for the school.
One thing I hear but can’t confirm is that in her emotional state the commissioner has said, “I never knew.” I’d like to think she was saying, “I never knew there was so much at risk here.” As Amran would say to me, before the college admissions, no one really knew what our school could accomplish. Students earning scholarships to U.S. universities had been beyond anyone’s reasonable expectations. This is true not only for this commissioner, but for the Higher Education Commission and the government as a whole. I think it is true for everyone, even the parents. They have fought hard, but if they had known all that they were fighting for, they would have left even less to chance.
Billeh flies to Somaliland in June 2013 for our first graduation, staying at the Maansoor Hotel in town. It has been some time since we’ve seen each other, as unfortunately all of Abaarso’s trouble has come between us. Billeh is a peaceful man, and I had been angry that he had taken so long to see the evil in Khadar. That is another thing that Khadar’s media attacks changed. Until then, Billeh had still wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but after the public attacks, this was not possible. Billeh wanted nothing more to do with him.
When I walk into the Maansoor Hotel, I see Billeh standing in the lobby. My uncle is not normally a sappy guy, but he pulls me in for a hug. The bad days for Abaarso are over, and it is time for the two of us to also put them behind us.
In his short stay at the Maansoor, Billeh can see that Abaarso is now the toast of the town. We are walking out of the hotel when, coming right toward us, is Khadar’s close cousin, the hotel owner who had hosted the TV bashing of Abaarso and me. He has been Khadar’s most loyal supporter, even taping a video that Mohamed Hashi should stay out of Abaarso business. Now, he, too, opens his arms to give me a hug.
“We are so proud of you. We are so proud of Abaarso,” he says. “And I told Khadar that, too.”
We have so much to celebrate at our first graduation. We will have twenty-five students studying at colleges and boarding schools around the world, including nineteen who will be in the United States. We decide to invite parents and society leaders to campus for a celebration. Mohamed Hashi and a few members of the Higher Education Commission are among the first to arrive. We are on the same side now, the side we should have been on from the start, the side of the children. Suddenly, we hear there is a group of villagers at the gate trying to stop the event. This has been happening for months, anytime anyone comes to the school. I am told that the editor from Khadar’s Gollis is in the village paying some guys to cause trouble.
“Well, they can’t do that,” one of the commissioners says, hopefully getting an even clearer idea of what we’ve been dealing with. He joins Mohamed in walking over to the gate. They tell the group to leave and to knock off this behavior. The group turns around, leaves, and never causes trouble again. A few dollars for qat does not buy conviction, and it isn’t enough to stand up to Mohamed Hashi for a cause they don’t even understand. These aren’t bad guys; they are poor kids being used, and we don’t hold this against them. In fact, one of them would later work for the school, making good money as a contractor.
Graduation, which includes a lot of dignitaries, opens with a speech by Nimo, and ends with Mubarik, our valedictorian—two of my heroes bookending it. Mubarik’s speech is all in Somali. The crowd, which includes Somaliland’s vice president, clearly are hanging on his every word. This former nomad once again shows his immense talent.
Seemingly every paper but Gollis covers our good news; Khadar’s hypocrisy at work, Billeh happily points out. Word is that Khadar now argues that Somaliland students shouldn’t go abroad for higher education, a laughable position since “I’m the PhD from America” is essentially his one claim to fame. He tries a few last-ditch attempts, including a video in which he suggests there should be an investigation into whether I have a girlfriend among the students. He pays the TV network to run the video, so it does, but nothing comes of it.
Khadar continues to run the Hargeisa Programs in a manner that looks like we are one and the same. When we change our school seal, he changes his school seal to match in color, shape, even design. When we benignly post that we are two different organizations, his organization posts that it isn’t true. People continue to get confused, thinking that we are running these Hargeisa Programs; but over time, this will also catch up to him. Once anyone figures out the truth, they ask, “Why would he do that?” The look on their faces shows they’ve answered their own question.
The last time I laid eyes on Khadar was at a meeting that previous summer, the summer of 2012, and I am hopeful that will be true for the rest of my life. The horror he inflicted on us was traumatic, and whenever I think back to those times, I can’t help but relive them. I tell one of the students that I still have this problem, my mind going back to the dark days, and my needing to remind myself that the students are okay. “We are more than okay” is her response. The roles have somewhat shifted. Now they worry about me.
Despite everything, I feel the whole experience has made me a less vindictive person. Having fought for Abaarso against so many wrongs and with so much at stake, I no longer need to fight all the small stuff. That even includes Khadar. If he cuts out the Hargeisa Programs nonsense and makes a proper public apology, then I believe I can truly forgive him. However, I’m not holding my breath.
Of course, I can only speculate about what makes Khadar finally throw in the towel. Unfortunately, here I have nothing more than speculation. Many students, parents, townsfolk, and ministers have helped us win the battle for respect and approval. But I like to think it is Miss Marple who saved the day. I’ve been told that she has kept good relations with Khadar for some time after, which I don’t find surprising. Like a good Somali, she values peace and balance. She would not permit him to destroy a good thing, but that doesn’t mean she needs to see him crushed.