Defying mayhem, one squid salad at a time

Surviving Somalia | Instead of giving up on their war-torn country, some die-hards believe in a future, writes Christian Putsch

WHEN the injured had been taken care of and the dead carried away, Ahmed Jama went to his kitchen. He tied the white apron around his waist and began cooking: soup with spinach, pumpkin, potatoes and herbs from his own vegetable garden.

Deciding what spices to use, the muffled bubbling of boiling water, the familiar motions with pots and pans - these things had often calmed him during a crisis. He felt safe here. Even on the day when the dusty smell of destruction was stronger than the smell of the food.

In September last year, two attackers targeted Jama's Mogadishu restaurant, The Village, killing 15 people. Six of them were employees.

Jama's voice becomes softer on the phone as he relates the events of that tragic day. But just briefly. Soon he sounds like his determined old self again.

"If I give up they win," he said. "Even if only one person shows he won't be broken, soon a second one will follow, then others."

It was not the first attack by al-Shabab, the Somali Taliban, on his restaurant. There was one in September 2012 that killed 14, and a few months later a car bomb cost another life.

Six years ago in London, when Jama told his friends he was going back to Somalia, they thought he was crazy. His wife cried. Jama, 47, had spent half his life fleeing the misery in his home country. He had earned his way driving trucks in other African countries, and finally travelled to England without a valid passport. Twenty years later, he had British citizenship, qualifications from a prestigious cooking school, a successful restaurant in London and three kids.

Why, his wife asked him, would he want to exchange all that for war-torn, bombed-out Somalia? Islamic groups - and in recent years mainly al-Shabab - have been fighting the central government since 1991, trying to establish a religious state. Jama says he reflected for a long time before answering his wife, then said: "When I die, I want to leave something behind - something that people will remember when they think of me."

Back then, in 2008, al-Shabab was at the height of its power. The militia controlled large areas in the south and centre of Somalia, including about half of its capital city. Anyone who offended strict Muslim laws was stoned or had a hand hacked off. Sports and listening to music were forbidden. Although the African Union sent in additional troops, few Somalis believed al-Shabab could be vanquished, much less that peace was achievable. Most Somalis had never experienced peace.

When Jama returned to his country, the words of his friends - that he was completely crazy - rang in his ears. But he also remembered how, in his London restaurant, rival clans sometimes gathered and friendships formed that everybody said could never happen. There was no place like that in Mogadishu. Few people even dared to go into the streets. Somali cuisine, influenced by hundreds of years of trade with India, Italy, Turkey and Arab countries, was quietly being forgotten. People in Somalia were just trying to survive, not enjoying life.

Jama describes himself as "this skinny, bald guy". But what stands out more is his courage. And his stubbornness. Many exiles who returned to Somalia when he did went into politics. In fact, the failed transition governments have mostly been made up of returned exiles. Jama, however, was one of the first entrepreneurs who believed in the possibility of peace.

He returned to his home country with $50000 of savings. His choice of a place to start a restaurant was in "Kilometre Four," as the African Union army in Somalia (Amisom) calls the stretch of land between the airport and the presidential palace. Because of its strategic importance, it is one of the best-guarded parts of the city. But politicians and diplomats who came here wore bulletproof vests and the sound of gunshots provided permanent background noise.

Just days after acquiring his land, Jama found building materials and workers. To the sight and sound of military vehicles driving by, they put up a small building and planted trees. There was finally an espresso bar in Mogadishu. Jama had flown in from Europe an espresso machine that weighed nearly 100kg. It used great amounts of electricity that cost a fortune - if it was available at all. Finally, an engineer replaced the electronics with a charcoal system.

People came to his bar and Jama started cooking exclusively with fresh ingredients, a trademark that had helped to make his London reputation. The Village is particularly well known for its squid salad and kingklip with green chilli sauce. But what he is doing is not just about food.

"My dream was always that people would have a restaurant where they could meet, shake hands and talk around a table," Jama says.

It is noon in Mogadishu, and over the telephone line voices and the clatter of dishes can be heard in the background. To Jama, this is a beautiful melody. His dream has been fulfilled, even if it is accompanied by continual nightmares. In the last few years the Amisom army has been pushing back al-Shabab, but the threats are still there.

Jama now has taken over three more restaurants and a hotel in Mogadishu. He employs 130 people. It was not long before his wife came round to his way of seeing things, and she now manages the restaurants.

After the September attack, though, the Jamas faced bankruptcy. They were saved by a donation of $14500 collected and sent by Scandinavian cooks. This made rebuilding possible.

Jama remembers the note that came with the monetary gift. One part in particular resonated with him: "Ahmed, since the sound of a falling tree is always louder than that of 1000 thriving ones, may the fallen tree begin to grow again." - www.worldcrunch.com