The year was 2002. The call came late in the evening from the head of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) office in the southern port city of Aden. He requested that I grab the first available flight out of Sana’a, the capital city, the next morning. Somali refugees had detained members of his local staff as well as the international non-government humanitarian organization (INGO) implementing partners. The reason for the detainment situation was not immediately clear. The Yemini barracks commander, an army colonel, was threatening violence against the refugees holding the detainees, and nobody seemed to know why. Radio communications with the camp were spotty. I was at that time, in my second year of service as the UN Security Advisor for Yemen.
He told me that one of his drivers would be waiting for me at Aden Airport to pick me up and take me directly to the refugee camp. I had been there several times previously. For reasons of its own, the Yemeni government placed the camp in an isolated desert locale. Consequently, there was no landline telephone to the camp.
I called James, my UN boss, to let him know why I would not be at my desk in the morning. I took the early flight from Sana’a to Aden, carrying only a black canvas rucksack, issued to me when I was assigned to US Joint Special Operations Command some years earlier. As promised, the driver was waiting for me at Aden Airport. Three hours later, in the mid-morning hours, I entered the UN compound adjacent to the camp. It was already hotter than my grandma’s frying pan. I was briefed by a staff member at the vehicle-side immediately upon arrival.
What follows below is what the man told me:
All UN local staff and implementing partners (INGOs) were detained—meaning they were not permitted to leave. This no doubt also included me now. I glanced over the way I had come in. There were three Somali males standing just outside the gate with hefty clubs.
The Yemeni Barracks were on full alert—meaning ammunition had been distributed and leaves had been canceled.
Everything had gone sideways late the previous day, when a camp resident made the public accusation that the Yemeni barracks commander had raped a teenage Somali girl.
The Elders, the Somali camp leadership, called for immediate action. They wanted the Yemini commander’s head on a spike.
The Yemenis pulled all their troops into their barracks. The Elders informed the UN and INGOs that they would not be permitted to leave until justice was served.
I had no idea what to do, and time was not on my side. A new report came in that the refugees were in an ugly mood and now headed toward our compound. I glanced over in the direction of the camp proper, where there was a huge dust cloud in the distance, suggesting that most of the camp, and perhaps all, was on the move. Everyone in the UN compound seemed to be looking to me for answers. I had none.
Just then the Yemenis came out of their barracks, which was perhaps a football field distant. All of them were armed. I knew that if the two groups met, it would be a bloodbath. The accusation of rape in both Somali and Yemeni societies, as elsewhere, is highly emotionally charged. Finally, refugee camps in general are tinder boxes of pent-up emotion. I felt the coming danger like static electricity in the air. I saw fear in the eyes of my colleagues. I instructed them to remain within the compound before I headed out in the direction of the Yemenis. I saw the barracks commander in the distance. We were acquainted with one another. I adjusted my walking trajectory for a rapid intercept. We met. We did not shake hands. I asked the commander to immediately return his troops to their barracks. Surprisingly, and after only a few moments of argument, he agreed. I heard him yelling in rapid-fire Arabic. The troops returned to their barracks, with their boss. I had not expected to be successful so quickly.
I was now alone. The troops were off the game board. The UN staff and INGOs remained in their separate compound under guard by the club-carrying Somalis. For no reason that I could then imagine, those guards did not attempt to impede me when I left the compound on foot to go to the barracks.
I turned toward the refugee camp proper. The huge dust trail created by thousands of angry Somalis was rapidly headed in my direction. Behind me were the barracks. To my right front was the UN compound. I still had no idea what to do. So, I began walking slowly toward the mob of Somalis. I remember having no special thought in mind. I just started walking. I was afraid, but this was my job. It was my duty to protect UN staff, and by extension INGO implementing partners, and, finally, to safeguard the refugees themselves. These words played themselves out over and over in my mind until they were a jumble. Still, I managed to keep my feet moving in what I felt was the appropriate direction, toward the mob of pissed-off camp residents numbering in the thousands.
The distance between the center of the refugee camp and the Yemeni barracks was a third of a mile. The gap between me and the mob was fast diminishing. When we were roughly fifty yards apart, I sat down in the dust, legs crossed, while the thousands of Somalis closed fast on my position. They were close enough now that I could hear their voices. Although I did not understand their words, they were clearly yelling in anger and frustration. I bowed my head and waited.
Time passed. I do not know how much. It could not have been long. I finally found the courage to look up. There was choking dust and heat-upon-heat everywhere. But there were also seated cross-legged to my immediate front and sides the Somali Elders—many of whom I had previously met and recognized, even with the much-reduced visibility. The mob consisting of thousands of Somalis had halted. My heart slowed a few beats.
I took a deep ragged breath. I felt rivulets of sweat rolling down my face that I tried to ignore before greeting the Elders in a croaking dry voice in Arabic. They responded in kind. We were surrounded by the mob on all sides. Everyone crowded in closer and closer, trying to hear what was being said. The dust was omnipresent—a physical force.
Fortunately, one of the mob spoke some English. Although it may have taken as much as forty-five minutes working the translation from English to Somali and back again, I managed to hammer out an agreement with the Elders that permitted me to investigate the accusation of rape, and once my investigation was complete, to report my findings back to them. The only glitch was that they would permit me only the remainder of that day to interview knowledgeable people, determine guilt or innocence, and tender my report.
What could possibly go wrong?
I asked the Elders to return to their camp and await my findings. I also asked them to actively protect the lives of the UN staff and INGOs under their detainment. They agreed to my stipulation. So now, in addition to being detained, they were also under the Elders’ promise of protection. The Elders tended to keep their word.
When the Somalis left to return to their camp, following goodbyes in Arabic, I stood up very slowly. I was tired and thirsty, and covered in dust from head to foot. My lower back ached badly from a military parachuting injury that I sustained years earlier. The lesson was, never jump a chute recently designated “experimental.” I never did again. After stretching my back out, I turned and moved at a rapidly increasing pace toward the barracks.
What had I done? For a brief period, years earlier, I led a multinational group of military instructors teaching conflict resolution in Cambodia. I remembered that one of our teaching points was that a sitting man is seldom considered a threat. Accordingly, I sat down in the dust. It was a desperation move. At multiple levels it made no sense. But it was all I had. Fortunately, it worked. This is proof positive, yet once again, that it may be better to be lucky than good.
The Yemeni barracks commander was waiting for me outside as I arrived. I asked him for water in my poor excuse for Arabic. He motioned to one of his subordinates, a sergeant, who handed me a half-full plastic bottle of cloudy water. I drank the entire contents in a few seconds. It tasted fantastic. I then thanked the sergeant, returning the now-drained bottle to his care.
The commander was clearly curious about what had transpired during the forty-five-minute meeting with the Elders. Although I was at that time unaware of it, the Yemenis were all watching me from their barracks windows. I was evasive and avoided an answer. How could I tell him that my job was now to investigate him? I suspect that such admission would not have gone down well. I requested that he confine his troops to barracks until further notice. He immediately concurred, turned on his heel and gave the order. I think he saw that our interests were at least temporarily aligned.
He then pulled me aside, and in a faint voice, swore to me that he did not violate the Somali girl. I knew nothing of his guilt or innocence. I merely listened. I told him simply that I would require everyone’s cooperation and patience. He nodded his assent.
It was now sometime around noon. The sun was directly overhead. The heat at this time of day became a blunt hammer-like force, unyielding and unforgiving, as I returned to the UN compound. The club-carrying Somalis guarding the front gate once again allowed me to pass unmolested. I headed directly for the classroom, the area where I requested that the camp staff wait for me.
The classroom was large with a blackboard that covered one entire wall. There were approximately thirty plastic chairs inside occupied by a half-dozen people. Without going into any detail, I informed them that I was immediately beginning an investigation concerning the events of the past twenty-four hours, and the accusation of rape leveled against the commander. I also assured them that I had secured a promise from the Elders that, although still under detainment, they would not be harmed. I first interviewed them. It did not take long to determine that there was not one among the group that had any direct first-hand knowledge of the alleged rape.
I then asked to interview a group of reportedly knowledgeable Yemeni soldiers. The result was the same. No soldier had any direct first-hand knowledge of the alleged event. This investigative technique of mine was going nowhere fast. However, there was a method to my apparent madness. I knew that I had to put on a good show, even if it took additional time. Essentially, I had to ensure that the Yemenis, UN staff, and implementing partners (the detainees), and most importantly, the refugees themselves, perceived me as acting in the role of an impartial agent of justice.
Finally, I asked to interview all knowledgeable Somalis. A large group came and joined me in the classroom. Working again from English to Somali and back again, I pieced together that a new arrival to the refugee camp, a male, was the one that had made the accusation. The allegedly raped girl was reportedly his daughter. I was also informed that I could not interview the girl. She was being held in the protective custody of a group of Somali women. Interestingly, not one Somali present had direct first-hand knowledge of the sexual assault. The accuser was strangely unavailable. That troubled me.
I demanded to speak with the accuser. I was, after all, investigating this matter for the Elders. My report would go to them. Under these circumstances, I could not be refused. One of the Elders departed, promising to return with the father of the girl. Time passed. The Elder returned, but alone. He reported that the accuser had developed cold feet. He did not wish to be interrogated by me. Moreover, he was now not altogether certain that an actual rape had occurred after all. The cat was out of the bag.
The assembled Elders now knew that there had been no rape, and that the accuser had made a false statement for reasons unknown. They were clearly unhappy to hear that one of their own had lied. The Elders subsequently made a big display of apologies. Each in turn thanked me for my investigation and honest handling of a clearly explosive situation, as they departed to return to their camp. The relief I felt was profound. I would not have wished to be the false accuser at that point, though. I suspect that refugee camp justice is swift, painful, and perhaps even permanent.
My return to Sana’a was marked by poor judgment on my part. I had been waiting in a long line for a long time at the airport in Aden to be issued my ticket. I was hot, tired, and dirty from my time spent in the refugee camp. Three men in local garb brushed past me at the front of the line and went straight up to the ticket agent demanding his attention. I immediately spoke up and was subsequently ignored. That tore it for me. I walked forward and placed my hand on the shoulder of the man who appearing to be the senior of the three and spun him around to face me. The other two immediately pulled concealed handguns and pointed them at my head. I came to understand thereafter, and in short order, that the man I had just laid hands on was the son of Yemen’s President Saleh. This was not my finest moment, not by a long shot.
