Since I started reporting from Mogadishu in 1991, I have received 176 threats and 22 death threats. Some come from supporters of politicians made famouse by civil war, some from bandits at road blocks who suspect I earn a lot of money from my journalistic skills.
When I report the words of a politician denouncing another, people don't blame the politician, the blame me, the reporter.
"Why do you interview him? Why don't you interview me? You earn your bread by creating political confrontations."
Somali journalists meet curses, harassment, abductions, killings and torture on a daily basis. What's more, our families share the treats with us. They are told that they should stop their sons from reporting. People whisper in their ears..."They were looking for him last night. He can't survive if he goes on like this."
Many Mogadishu citizens are armed, and most of them are clannish hard liners. They try to censor the work of the journalists. Any writing that doesn't coincide with their interests is considered offensive, and they are not slow in telling you so.
"Your story," they say "is against the struggle of our clan, and you are therefore an enemy to our cause."
One of the most dangerous days for journalists was 17 June 1993, the day the UN/US bombarded General Aideed's house. When we got to the scene of the wrecked building, we met angry militiamen who did not know whom to fight or whom to protect, and they quarrelled over what they should do with us.
"Kill them," said some.
"No don't," said others.
"They support the foreigners. They are spying on us. Shoot them."
For safety I ran to the heavily fortified UN headquarters, which was guarded by the UN Turkish contingent. They refused to let me in. A Turkish soldier pointed at a photo of General Aideed hanging on the wall. On top of the photo were written the words REWARD. TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS DEAD OR ALIVE. The Turkish soldier then pointed at me and shouted, "You. You. You the same."
After a long argument and a lot of pleading and flattery, Major Stockwell, the UNOSOM spokesman, was summoned and said I could enter. The soldiers, still reluctant, searched me thoroughly.
In March this year, when the last international troops left Somalia, we went to Mogadishu's airfield to cover the events. A dozen heavily armed militiamen drove towards us, attempting to block our way.
"Who are you?" asked their leader. "We don't need journalists here."
"Then he ordered us over a 1.5 meter-high wall with barbed wire atop.
"If they turn back," he added, "shoot them."
The heavyweight editor of Xog-Ogaal (a Somali newspaper) made it to the other side, but fell badly and injured his back. Another journalist, a good athlete, made it safely without problems. With the words "shoot them" ringing in my ears, I managed to scramble over without injury, but the barbed wire tore to shreds the new clothes I'd bought for Eid al-Fitra.
Somalis are among the best listeners in the world. We have a strong oral tradition because our language was only written down for the first time in 1972. The BBC Somali service continues to have a profound influence on Somali society.
"It has been broadcast by the BBC." is the final proof that something is true.
But sometimes ther are those who don't like my stories. I am called "a foreign manipulated reporter...an evil teller."
I wear patience against the curses. As for the threats, I try to keep them from my mind.
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