Here is another collection of journals I found about Gaalkacyo by another NGO worker (This time Australian) who helped set up a clinic in Balambal, Buur Saalax and Goldogob villages etc and Gaalkacyo in Mudug. This is from a period when Colonels Jaamac Cali Jaamac and Cabdulahi Yusuf Yeey were vying for power in NE Somalia. I think its interesting to see how foreigners experience living in Somalia. They somehow always fall in love with the Somali people. The most famous of course being Gerald Hanley who lived 3 years in Nugaal among the local nomads and later wrote the book; Warriors: Life and Death Among the Somalis where he described the Somalis; “Of all the races of Africa, there cannot be one better to live among than the most difficult, the proudest, the bravest, the vainest, the most merciless, the friendliest; the Somalisâ€
http://bizarro.typepad.com/lowbagger_world/somalia/index.html
Last days
A Somali mother in the new Galcayo peadiatric ward
The last few months have been quite an experience for this stranger in a strange land. I have been trying to find words to describe what I have seen since I last wrote but even my much vaunted skills of verbal diarrhoea have failed to do it justice. Many of these experiences are perhaps better recounted in person, over a cold beer or ten.
So now I am less than a week from End of Mission and trying to put together the pieces. Now that I’m finally understanding what’s going on, it’s over. Kind of like life really…
Still, time for one last anecdote for the bush before I sign off.
Yesterday we went to Goldogb to help with an EPI (Expanded Program of Immunisation) mobilisation. Goldogob is very close to the Ethiopian border, in fact, the Thurya satellite phone says it is Ethiopia. Considering it borders an area known as the ******, a hotly disputed territory between the two countries, it’s best not to mention things like that too loudly.
We arrived to a screaming, teeming horde of children, waiting with their ninja hooded mothers to be vaccinated. As there was only one of the OPD staff there, the new nurse and her translator jumped in and helped. In true logistician style I sat back and took notes, occasionally helping to measure a child.
Meanwhile, the children struggled, squealed and generally made life difficult for all involved. Ah, the joy of it all. Strangely enough, I find Somali children don’t irritate me the same way western children do. I sat outside for a while and entertained them with my goat impressions and flinging paper planes at them. Considering my white skin is enough to fascinate them for hours, it must have been a hoot.
All in all it was quite uplifting. We helped vaccinate 31 children against diseases we take for granted in the west but are sure-fire killers here. It was also sad, seeing the way that the children struggled so much in what will probably be one of the most painless experiences of their lives. Certainly, the next time that many of the girls are dragged into a dark room with strange women waiting inside, it will be a much more painful and denigrating experience then a couple of needle jabs. Female genital mutilation is performed on 97% of females here and it is a practice that is perpetuated by the women themselves. These same mothers who care enough for their children to have them immunised will also put them through the most brutal act that could be inflicted on an innocent eight year old girl. A sad footnote for what was an otherwise very positive experience.
Undoubtedly, the highlight of the day was watching one family role up in a ‘technical’. A technical is a flatbed pickup with some form of heavy armament mounted on the back. This particular number was sporting a 105mm recoilless rifle, a deadly anti-tank weapon. Imagine what getting a lift to school with dad would be like? Better still, what would it be like when the kids grow up?
“Hey dad, can I borrow the car tonight?â€
“Alright, just as long as you fill up the tank and don’t kill anybody we knowâ€
Now I’m back in the compound, busily typing up my handover report and getting things ready for my replacement. I’m acting team leader again, and have been working 16 hour days to try and get everything done. I’m very tired and looking forward to a nice long rest before I venture out into the bush again. In the next few days I will move out of the room that has been my sanctum sanctorum for the last six months and into a hotel down the road. Thursday I fly back to Nairobi and by Saturday morning, I will be back in Amsterdam, InshAllah, dazed and confused.
It almost seems like six months has been no time at all. When I first arrived it seemed like an eternity stretching before me. In a way I regret choosing not to extend, but sometime I also think that if I stay here much longer, I may not leave. There is something about this place I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s just what you become used to, and as Abbi, the chief guard has said, I have become a citizen of Galcayo. Maybe my body won’t be here for much longer, but I doubt I will forget Somalia in a hurry.
Hot nights and cold receptions
Well, things have been relatively quiet around here. Last Monday night we heard our first big fire-fight. It lasted for about 20 minutes with about 100 rounds fired. It was about 300 metres from our compound and I heard several of the bullets whistle over our roof. The problem with most gunshots is that you are unlikely to hear the one that kills you. The round from an AK-47 travels at over 1100 metres a second, faster than the speed of sound. Hence it will have passed right through you before you even heard it being fired. The fire-fight turned out to be nothing more than a robbery. Somalis generally don't believe in things like stealth or subtlety, since they all carry automatic weapons. They just blaze on in and hope for the best. Aiming is also optional, which is why most casualties are bystanders caught in the crossfire.
There are almost as many guns here as in the US. You don't actually see many, but you know they are there. This was brought home to me on Tuesday when we were unloading the monthly drug order at the hospital. Being the only Gaal (white person) presently in Galcayo, I tend to draw a crowd of children wherever I go and this morning was no exception. One child, about 6, came right up to the car door to look inside and I noticed he was sucking on something. Now, this isn't unusual for kids anywhere in the world, except that it was an AK-47 bullet!
Shining through the dust, spent shells, dead batteries and used needles litter the ground surrounding the hospital. The children, who have never known anything else, innocently play with discarded syringes and used examination gloves as they run around barefoot. Waste management in this place isn’t an accident waiting to happen, it’s an accident in progress. The work of a Log is never done…
Bitter old men and their fading dreams of power
Sadly, the Ethiopian peace talks between Jama Ali Jama and Abdulai Yussuf have failed. Both have returned to their respective centres of power and begun preparations for war. Word from Bosasso is that the supporters of Jama Ali Jama don’t intend to give in without a fight. Abdulai is insisting he will take the town no matter what it takes. Generals never raise armies that they don’t intend to use. Both Abdulai and Jama are classic examples of why Somalia has been wracked by brutal civil war for over 10 years. Political figures in the former government of Siad Barre, both think they are the only suitable president for Puntland and they are willing to sacrifice the lives of hundreds, if not thousands to prove it. Abdulai is a tough old ******* - a general in the various campaigns against Ethiopia in the 70’s and 80’s, he hasn’t let a liver transplant slow him down. Jama is the younger of the two but that isn’t saying much, as he’s now pushing 50.
The road to Bosasso winds through a rugged mountain range, which Abdi jokingly calls “Torra Borraâ€. It is has always been the stumbling block for any warlord wishing to take Bosasso. The fighting here will surely be bloody and brutal. Abdulai is preparing to risk it all in one last desperate push for power – an old mans dreams of faded glory.
You would have thought that after so many years of bloodshed that the Somali people would have had enough, but like a haggard old heroin user, they keep convincing themselves that the next hit will be the last… As with all conflicts it is those who have the least to gain that will suffer the most. Women, children and the poor are the real victims, even though they may be miles from the fighting. In a patriarchal society like Somalia, the death of a women’s husband can leave her stranded without any means to support herself or her children. Many Bantus (nomads) and poor people of Bosasso will be displaced by the fighting or killed in the crossfire. With no clan to represent their interests, they are disposable. So much suffering just so one old man can proclaim himself the president of Puntland. A hollow victory, for the winner will inherit a state scared by war, wracked with disease and poverty and brutalised to the point of madness.
I suggested that they should have a wrestling match to decide who the president should be. The last one standing wins! ‘The Bosasso Strangler’ Jama Ali Jama versus the ‘Mad Mullah’ Abdulai Yussuf. Let’s get ready to rummmmmble.
Somehow, I don’t think so…
Road worriers
On Thursday, we went to Balanbal to inspect the progress of at health post we are rehabilitating. The drive is quite long – one and a half hours on the ‘tarmac’ as the Somalis call the only piece of sealed road in the entire country, and one and a half hours cross country. The off road part of the journey is the most spectacular, as you traverse the prairies and perennial creeks of this rugged landscape. It is a lot greener since the rains, but not quite enough for the nomads to start moving their flocks.
Despite the arid, harsh conditions, life, as always, finds a way. Squirrels dart about underneath shrubs and make nests in the roofs of huts. Tiny gazelle like creatures called ‘deg deg’ (Somali for ‘quickly’) dart about. Deg degs pair up for life, so you will never see just one by themselves. It is said that if a deg deg loses its partner, it dies of sorrow soon after. Then there are the numerous lizards of all shapes and sizes which slither about in the undergrowth and on the walls of the buildings. Lumbering across the plains come the camels, in their hundreds, usually with a small boy not far behind. You’re never sure who is the one being herded.
As I have come to expect, Somalis rate each and every creature they see in terms of how tasty it is. Cats, which are abundant in the towns, rate poorly. Abdi was positively smacking his lips as we passed through herd after herd of well fed goats.
The life of a Somali nomad is spartan and harsh. Most of their lives are spent moving from one area to another, tending their herds of goats and camels and looking for water and suitable grazing land. For a few weeks of the year they may settle down and build a small hut, mostly of twigs and plastic bags. Around the wet season, if Allah has been kind to them and the grazing has been good, they will camp outside the villages and have dances and feasts. This is the traditional time of courting for Somali nomads and stories abound of couples eloping in the night to avoid paying the ‘bride price’ of 50 camels.
We chose Balanbal to establish a health post as it lies halfway between the ‘tarmac’ and the coast on the main ‘road’ or track and as such provides the best possible access for the nomadic people of the region. Access to health care, sanitation and clean drinking water that we consider essential are luxuries to these people and as such, life expectancy is short. The people in Balanbal are friendly and very receptive, despite having been let down by NGOs in the past. We aim not to repeat those mistakes and already have progressed further than our predecessors, much to the satisfaction of the village elders. The clinic rehabilitation was much further advanced than I had expected and it is apparent they are making a real effort.
We sat with the elders and talked (and talked, and talked…) and they killed a ‘young’ goat for us to feast on. While we were waiting for it to arrive, I was a little concerned that they may misconstrue my refusal to eat the goat as an insult, so in the name of proximity, I resolved to at least make a show of eating as small a portion as I could. When they brought it in though, the stench was just too much for me and I jumped up and ran outside before I threw up. Dr Malweyi, the Medical Coordinator, Abdi and the drivers and guards just laughed at the silly Gaal and proceeded to rip off huge chunks of flesh and gorge themselves on it. I was concerned that I might have made a huge gaff, but it seemed that the gusto with which Malweyi attacked the steaming piles of meat well and truly made up for it.
The trip back was uneventful, aside from a broken accelerator cable and some confusion amongst the Somalis when they should stop for their afternoon prayers. It did seem to take forever though. Our driver was Alas, who I fear is a bit short of sight, as he seems to hit every pothole and bump on the road. A gentle man in his fifties, he seems to have a sorrow about him, especially since his mother died recently. Home, to Galcayo, vege samosas, Star Trek on TV and a Friday of lying in bed and reading. Sometimes the simple pleasures are the best.
The Qat in the hat…
Another of my friends wrote and asked what the hell Qat is, since I never really explained it. Well…
Qat or Miraa is the leaves and stem of the Khat plant grown in Ethiopia and Kenya. The stuff they consume here comes from the Miraa valley in Kenya. To get high, you chew the leaves and stem. I haven't tried it myself, but apparently it is sort of like ephedrine - it speeds you up but makes you feel relaxed. Somalis call getting stoned on it 'building castles in the sky'. Almost every Somali male, from the age of about 6, chews Qat. You see them everywhere, with a little stalk like a toothpick and yellow crumbs around their mouths. Apparently it takes quite a lot of Qat to get really high, so they usually start chewing around 1pm and continue until 1am. They have the Somali equivalent of 'Coffeeshops' where they sit around and chew, smoke cigarettes (which supposedly enhances the high) and drink unbelievably sweet tea. It's probably the kilo of sugar in the tea that helps the Qat buzz, not the tobacco.
They generally buy it in bushels of about half a kilo, which is enough to get you off your face. It looks pretty much just like thin branches with small oval green leaves. The stalks vary from the width of toothpick to 7mm. Bigger than that is impractical to chew. Given that there are no laws of any sort in this country, it is perfectly legal To clarify that, the only type of law which is upheld is Moslem Sharia Law, which forbids the consumption of alcohol. Qat is acceptable to most Moslems, as is Hash in many Islamic places (namely Lamu...). None of National Staff chew and they generally disdain those who do. Our guards and drivers, however, are another matter.
It is a HUGE industry here. On average three planes arrive daily from Nairobi carrying about a ton of Qat each. The companies which organise the deals have offices in the CBD of Nairobi and the latest communications equipment. Qat that arrives here is distributed by road as far north as Bosasso (500Km north) and Garacat (300Km East). It is also the source of a lot of fighting, either over the Qat itself or money to buy it. Waiting at the airport for a UN or EU flight when the Qat flights arrive is an experience! Especially watching the over laden, rusted out cars of the Qat runners rattling away at reckless speeds. Many of them don't have lights or doors, some even without windscreens. Tres Mad Max!
I understand that Qat is legal or at least not recognised as a drug in most countries because it is generally so inert that you have to chew a lot of it to get high. The Kenyan stuff is another story in terms of potency though, and is illegal there. Being a thoroughly corrupt country means that this is no hindrance to the Qat growers. Qat does appear to have long term mental health effects, contributing to what the Somalis call 'bufus' which is sort of like an exacerbated form of post traumatic shock syndrome with a nasty dose of psychosis thrown in. Never trust a Qat chewer...
Cholera, guns and men in skirts
Unloading supplies at Galcayo international airport
The wet season has finally come to Somalia and with it, cholera. The initial word we received of an outbreak in Garacat, a small coastal town 250Km west of Galcayo turned out to be a false alarm. No sooner had we begun to relax than reports of an outbreak in Bosasso to the north began filtering in. First it was 20 cases, than 40 and by yesterday, 140. So far, 10 people have died from cholera induced dehydration. Bosasso is the base of nearly 40 international NGOs, including WHO and Unicef, yet they seem to be unable to intervene in any meaningful way. The source of this outbreak is uncertain and therefore the situation in critical. Already, too many people have died from this easily prevented and managed disease. How many more will perish in the slums and rural settlements that surround the city will not be known for months, if ever.
Bosasso is the seat of power for Jama Ali Jama, one of the key players in regional politics. He has been in constant struggle with Adulahi Yusuf, the former president of Puntland, the region that encompasses both Galcayo and Bosasso. The two have been locked in a bitter and violent struggle for power since July last year, when Jama ousted Adulahi from the presidency and forced him back to Galcayo, his home town and traditional power base. In the months between, a bitter Adulahi has been preparing to take power again and has allied himself with Ethiopia, who has supplied him with troops and weapons.
Even as cholera ravages Bosasso, the two factions prepare for war. Rumours abound of a major offensive any day. Technicals, the Somali equivalent of light armour, with 25mm cannons and 105mm recoilless rifles roar past our compound daily, their crews preparing for a bloody confrontation. Business men in Bosasso and Galcayo have swelled the war chests of both Jama and Adulahi, hoping that this will be the final and decisive battle for control of Puntland. The coming of the wet season is also the traditional time for war, when men are able to leave their wives and children to tend their herds of camels and goats.
Here in Galcayo, we are steeling ourselves for a massive influx of trauma cases caused by the fighting. Tomorrow, myself and the doctor will do a stocktake of a our trauma kits and medical supplies. The possibility of cholera spreading here from Bosasso cannot be discounted either, whether it is by IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) escaping the fighting or returning soldiers. The thought of both hitting us at once is a daunting but very real possibility. Today we are making sure we are well rested, as we have no way of knowing what tomorrow, the start of the Moslem working week, will bring. I am concerned for the NGO teams in Bosasso, who will have more than enough on their hands with the cholera epidemic. Considering the weakened and distressed state of the population, this is an ideal time for Adulahi to attack. Rumours also abound of Ethiopian troops massing on the border, secret rendezvous in the US embassy in Addis Abba and house to house searches looking for Al Queida operatives.
All this has happened since the Project Coordinator left on Wednesday for a month, leaving me as acting team leader. Only four weeks into my first mission and I am now responsible for the safety of the team and our preparedness for both the war and a possible cholera outbreak. Ay carumba!
The nurse and midwife had another confrontation with a local nut case yesterday in Bursalah. The man, a cripple, threatened them and threw a thong (flip-flop to non-antipodeans) at Mette. Needless to say, they got the hell out of there as quick as they could. M is glad that she is off on R&R in just under a weeks time.
I’ve been keeping myself busy by organising the pharmacy/store and fixing up the electrical system. I climbed up on the roof and found that there were more cables running along the rafters that were connected to nothing than to anything useful! The rain has also brought its share of impressive electrical storms and the colour of the sky when they come is a dusty red and black, like a scene out of hell itself.
Last night I turned off all of the lights in the compound and lay on the bonnet of one of the cars. The sky at night here is beautiful, the lack of city lights makes the stars so much more visible. Shooting stars sporadically streak across the sky and the constellations, including the familiar Southern Cross are easily discernable. Gazing at the Cross I felt homesick for the first time. My mind wandered back to the many times it had guided me home through unfamiliar territory and I thought of comrades distant who had shared my journeys under Australian skies.
Of late, I have taken to wearing a Marweyis, a Somali sarong. Comfortable, if not vital in the searing heat, it has also improved my standing amongst the men here. Strange how wearing a skirt in one culture is seen as a sign of manliness and as something else altogether in another. Somali men also casually walk around holding hands, lye all over each other and sleep in the same bed. Women with hairy legs are considered to be extremely sexy, not that you would ever see one in public, of course. Yet homosexuals are cast out, even stoned to death sometimes. Another one of the many contradictions in this land of confusion.
Stay tuned for the next instalment of ‘Holy shit, it’s cholera’ coming to a tainted water source near you.
Poet's day
Ah, Friday – "poet’s day" as an old boss of mine used to say. I never liked working on Fridays, well, not on most days come to think of it, but Fridays particularly. It’s one of those things that has made me realise how well Moslem immigrants around the world have adapted to our culture, despite the accusations of many one-eyed ignorant bigots who masquerade as commentators and journalists. How many of you knew that Friday was the Moslem sabbath? I’m learning more and more about this grossly misunderstood religion every day and how much the media manipulates our perceptions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to change my name to Mohammed and start demanding the head of Salman Rushdie! It’s just that the proximity is helping my understanding. It’s not like the other world religions are paragons of virtue either with the western churches under siege for their complicity with the predatory child molesting practices of their priests.
Last Friday I went to the town markets - an amazing experience. A sprawling mass of people selling just about everything you could imagine, from stereo systems to photocopiers, all in amidst the squalor and filth of one of Africa’s poorest nations. A strange kind of desperation seems to hang in the air, as if Somalia can buy itself out of this deep humanitarian crisis that envelops it. Somalia is a glowing advertisement for laisser-faire capitalism, anything you want is available – for a price. Narrow minded ideologues like John Howard and Dubya must fantasize about places like this, where the state has no control over commerce and where supply and demand is a reality of life rather than a vague notion from a bygone era.
I nearly threw up when we got stuck in the meat section. Huge slabs of goat and camel covered in a thick layer of flies. My god, the smell - I can't find words to describe it. Feeling a bit wobbly, we went and had some Chai at one of the cafes down the road. As we sat down, one of the Somalis began rambling at me in a yankee accent, blathering on about black slavery at the ranch. I tried to tell him that I wasn't a Yank, but it seemed like he didn't actually understand English. He rambled on some more and I recognised what he was saying as lines from a Public Enemy rap he must have memorised word for word. The venom in his eyes said it all though - burning hatred and the strange, disjointed glare of psychosis. Our guard suggested we politely get the **** out of there before he had to start killing people and we buggered off back to the compound.
Later on that night, we heard several exchanges of gunfire and one of our translators, Abdi, called us saying there had been a shoot-out at the airport. Three guards had been seriously wounded and the attacker shot in the chest. Abdi rushed to the compound and collected a trauma kit (a euphemism for a box of stuff to treat shot people with). When we asked Abdi if we should be concerned he just shrugged his shoulders and said that this was just another night in Galcayo. Later on we heard numerous volleys of automatic gunfire, but no reports of any fatalities. It has to be said that these Somalis are worse shots than the Indians in John Wayne movies! I have no desire to find out first hand though.
The next day, the nurse, went to the Emergency Room at the hospital to do her morning rounds. Lying on a stretcher with a weeping chest wound was the same guy who had hassled me at the cafe. He began 'yo-ing' her and doing that gangsta hand thing. It came out that he was the guy who had gone 'boofy' (crazy in Somali) the night before and attacked the guards at the airport! Now he's back on the street and probably crazier than ever. Usually under these conditions, he would be dead the next day from a reprisal by the clan of the guards he shot, but as my PC says 'the bad grass never dies'. He is the son of one of the clan elders and as such, will have his gun taken off him (!!) and slapped on the wrist. The guards will get a few goats or camels in compensation and that will be the end of the matter. That is, until he goes down the market and buys another gun. US$100 buys an AK-47 or US$150 a berretta 9mm pistol. I'll be watching my back every time I leave the compound from now on.
Anyway, that's life (and death) here in crazy ol' Somalia. A world and a century away from the life I knew in Australia. Sad to think that only a decade ago, Somalia was becoming a modernised, progressive nation. How quickly things can change. Over 66% of Somalis have been personally brutalised by this war. 80% know someone who was raped or tortured. Add religious fundamentalism and widespread addiction to a psychosis inducing drug like Qat and you've got a powder keg waiting to go off.
Yet, I still see hope here. On Tuesday we went back to a health post we established with the local community in a town called Bursallah, about 2 hours cross country drive from Galcayo. The people here are genuine, committed and enthusiastic. They still talk a bit too much about money for my liking (everything is a business here - everything) but at least it’s a lower priority to them than most other Somalis. I had a moment here the week before that made my heart melt into a little puddle on the ground. I was unloading some drugs and medical supplies from our vehicle and this gorgeous little Somali girl, maybe about 4 years old, came up to me and said 'Thank you'. I nearly cried. It's moments like this that make it all worthwhile.
We have 'mains' power for a few hours every day, a huge battery bank and a generator which we run on days that we don't get grid power. We also have a solar array which powers all the communications equipment. I’m getting my hands dirty and loving every minute of it. I am getting a mite bit pissed off with the kerosene fridges here, which seem to break down every other day. This makes maintaining a cold chain for our vaccines a real head ache and nothing tastes worse than a warm Canada Dry Cola (the local, non-imperialist version of Coke) after a stinking hot dusty day.
The compound water supply is teeming with E.Coli (the bacteria that makes your shit stink) so the only way to stop ourselves from getting diahorrea is to drink and brush our teeth with bottled water. I got so pissed off with my shower stinking of shit that I bung a few grams of Chlorine in the water reservoir. Okay, I might die of liver failure when I'm 60, but the anti-malaria drugs are going to do that anyway. It’s about the only thing that really drives me boofy here. I wake up most mornings dreaming of hot showers that don’t stink.
Our Yankee Catholic Fundamentalist Financial Controller (FinCo or YCFFC if you want to go anagram crazy) has been staying for the last few days. Surprisingly, I quite enjoy his company, and not just because he’s such an easy target for taking the piss. For somebody who embodies four of my most loathed aspects of humanity, he is a genuinely nice guy, very intelligent and unlike the majority of his countrymen, he understands irony. Admittedly, he is a vegetarian and a kick *** cook, which wins him automatic brownie points in my book. I would hardly call him patriotic either, but it’s fun to watch him squirm when Jerry Springer is on television. He does get his revenge when they show the Crocodile hunter though.
Speaking of vegetarianism, I have rejoined the fold. After me experience in the food court and several days of not feeling quite right, I asked the cook if she could stop cooking meat for me. She was extremely puzzled and wanted to know what I was going to eat then? To her credit, she has been making an excellent effort and today is now the end of my first meat free week since I got here. I’m feeling much healthier and happier. The Somali diet is high in meat and low in just about everything else and the women do all the work. As a result, most Somali men are weedy, pot bellied creatures. I sometimes wonder how much of the gun culture here is a form of compensation for this.
Now we are waiting for word on a possible cholera outbreak on the coast. If it turns out to be true, than my next few days will be hectic to say the least but currently it looks unlikely. Cholera is one of the medical emergencies that we deal with that has more to do with logistics than medical. There is only so much you can do to help the ill, the rest is in containment and prevention.
Today is also prophylaxis day, when I take my 250mg of Mefloquin to keep Malaria at bay. So far I haven’t experienced any of the nasty physical side effects, but I have been having some far out dreams. I call it the ex-girlfriend drug, because I keep having nightmares where all my exes come back to haunt me. I also have dreams about my ex boss ranting at me in Italian. I guess Jung would have a field day with what’s going inside my head when I’m asleep.
Well folks, that’s all for now. There’s a lot more going on, but sometimes I just find it so hard to describe what I’m seeing here in a way that does it justice. At the very least I will have to record some of the sounds here – mosque bullhorns wailing at 4am, the cries of children mingled with the sounds of mewling goats and the ever present pop-pop-pop of kalashnikovs in the distance.
