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David Axe and John Masato Ulmer | 11 Sep 2009
World Politics Review
How young Somali immigrants searched for belonging, and found jihad. Second of a three-part series. Part I can be found here. Part III will appear next Friday.
When 26-year-old Shirwa Ahmed, a Somali-born immigrant living in Minnesota, blew himself up in Puntland, Somalia, on Oct. 29 last year, he became the very first American suicide bomber, and a harbinger of a looming crisis. Ahmed sneaked into Somalia in late 2007, followed by potentially scores of other young Minnesotan Somali-Americans.
Since the first wave of "travelers," as they are known, left America, Minnesota has become a quiet battleground. The miniature, homegrown war on terror has pitted government authorities and their allies in the Somali community against fiery youths, hardline mosques and angry, alienated Somali immigrants.
Both sides claim to represent the voice of Minnesota's roughly 70,000 Somalis. All agree, however, that the issue has its roots in broken families, neglected kids, alleyway bullying, and many Americans' all-too-casual racism and xenophobia. In our post-9/11 world, Somali immigrants' race and faith "pushed those buttons of fear," says Dr. Peter Rachleff, a professor specializing in immigration, labor and African-American history at Macalester College, in St. Paul. And the backlash that fear created has contributed to a sense of alienation among many Somalis that sometimes results in desperate actions.
In America, Somali immigrants represent a minority within a minority within a minority. They're black. They're native Africans. And they're Muslims. "Somalis face language and cultural barriers," explains Abdirizak Bihi, a Somali community organizer and uncle of one of the travelers. Bihi's 17-year-old nephew Burhan Hassan sneaked into Somalia in November, and reportedly died of a gunshot wound seven months later.
Many young Somali-Americans live in broken homes -- their fathers either dead or working abroad. "We have the highest [number of] single-mom households in this community," Bihi says. "It's very bad, especially for the boys. They need a mentor."
Omar Jamal, a Somali-born civil rights advocate, estimates half of missing fathers were killed in the Somali civil war. The absence of a strong father figure might make young Somali-Americans "more susceptible to recruitment from charismatic male authority figures," FBI Associate Director Philip Mudd said.
To be clear, we don't really know who's doing the jihad recruiting. Jamal and Bihi say the Abubakar mosque is involved, especially through its youth programs, which are basically Islamic versions of Christian youth groups. "Fiery sermons and fiery teachings and indoctrination -- radical indoctrination -- were definitely taking place," Bihi says. All of the travelers, he adds, "were prominent members of the mosque." Fueling Jamal's and Bihi's accusations, a federal grand jury reportedly subpoenaed a female organizer of the youth programs. "People . . . blame her for the missing kids," Bihi says.
The mosque denies any involvement in the travelers' recruitment, and several new non-profit groups have sprung up to defend it against the accusations, including Somali Voices and United Somali Movement. The Minnesota chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations has also come to the mosque's defense. Unfair accusations against the mosque are amplified by the media, says 17-year-old Ackowme Abokar. He accuses the media of "attacking" his religion.
What's clear is that Abubakar is one of the few activity centers available for Somali youths in Cedar-Riverside -- and a ready stand-in for missing parents and mentors. The mosque is also a refuge for youths whose lives outside the mosque can be confusing, discouraging, and even dangerous. All Somali-Americans, but especially boys and young men, face levels of violence -- and an allegedly tepid government response -- that most Americans would find shocking.
An apartment complex in Cedar-Riverside, a Minneapolis neighborhood where many Somalis live (Elliot Dodge deBruyn).
Feeding resentment is the widespread sense that the government turns a blind eye to crime targeting black, Muslim immigrants. Last year in Minneapolis, Somali youths staged protests, accusing police of being slow to investigate the murder of Somali university student Ahmednur Ali. And the death of Muhidin Yahye Mumin, a 42-year-old Somali health worker, following a fight that broke out last October between Somalis and a group of white men has also become a rallying cry for the Somali community.
In Somalia, "justice is swift," Bihi says -- and it often takes the form of immediate reprisal by the victim's clan against the clan of the offender. That kind of eye-for-an-eye justice just isn't the American way. But the American way -- filing charges for alleged crimes, then navigating a carefully balanced judicial process -- hasn't worked for many Somalis, as the direction of the Mumin and Ali cases might indicate.
Ironically, the legal system often works quite swiftly when Somalis' immigration status is the focus. That's something Omar Jamal knows all too well. Jamal was born in Somalia and came to the United States in 1997, when he was 30 years old. Today, the balding father of four runs the non-profit Somali Justice Advocacy Center in Minneapolis.
In March 2003, federal agents arrested him on charges of lying about his background to U.S. immigration authorities and using a fake passport to enter the country. His arrest was part of a surge in retroactive immigration investigations following the 9/11 attacks. Jamal handily beat all the charges. Other members of the Twin Cities Somali community weren't so fortunate. Ten were deported in 2002, sparking outrage in the community.
Looking around their communities, many Somali-Americans see a pattern of abuse and neglect, both official and unofficial. "Prevalent discrimination," is how Sahra Mohamud, a member of the Twin Cities' United Somali Movement, describes it. "There's definitely a feeling of ghetto-ization," fellow member Ramla Bile adds.
For protection and justice, many young Somalis turn to gangs with names like the "Hot Boyz" and the "Somali Mafia." Minneapolis community organizer Shukri Adan estimated in a report to the city that between 400 and 500 Somali youths are in gangs, according to the Associated Press.
What's striking is the similarity between the Somali gangs and Shabab, which not coincidentally means "youth" in Arabic. Like the Somali gangs in Minneapolis, Shabab originally formed to defend innocent victims of violent crime, before evolving into the armed wing of an Islamic political movement from which it subsequently split. Today, the group mainly functions as a loose alliance of mercenaries, religious zealots, criminals and, yes, street gangs.
During our visit to Mogadishu in November 2007, city residents told us they feared the gangs more than they did any Shabab army, for the gangs would stop cars and steal drivers' cash and cell phones. Over the years, Shabab has become what it once despised. So, too, have the Somali-American gangs. Formed to protect Somali youths from white violence, the Minnesota gangs are now suspects in a number of killings . . . of Somalis.
For young Somali-Americans already deep into gang culture, the step to joining a group that is, in essence, just a bigger, better-armed and more strictly religious gang, based in another country, is a short one. Even FBI official Mudd acknowledges that "a range of socioeconomic conditions -- such as violent youth crime and gang subcultures [has] played some role in the recruitment process."
For many of Minneapolis' Somali travelers, it was the Ethiopian invasion of Somalia that finally propelled them to take that next step, and answer the call to jihad.
Part III of this World Politics Review three-part series will explore the travelers' perceptions of an "imaginary" Somalia, and their rapid disillusionment once they saw the country for what it was.
David Axe is an independent correspondent, a World Politics Review contributing editor, and the author of "War Bots." He blogs at War is Boring. His WPR column, War is Boring, appears every Wednesday.
John Masato Ulmer is a freelance journalist.
Title Photo: A Somali coffeeshop in Minneapolis, August 2009 (Elliot Dodge deBruyn).