African al-Qaeda

The murderous mission of the Somali rebel group al-Shabaab.

Din Hassan is standing by a petrol station in a densely packed Somali suburb of Kampala, the Ugandan capital. Since the suicide bombers attacked football fans while they were watching a World Cup match in bars just a few miles away, the residents of Kisenyi have been keeping their heads down. But Hassan smiles widely when he sees me and beckons me over. He is tall, with a round, bearded face and a belly that tests the limits of his grey safari suit. We cross the road and walk down an alley to his modest house.

Hassan was born here 64 years ago - "I am a Ugandan!" he says - but his grandfather grew up in what was then British Somaliland. Drafted into the army in 1909, the old man fought for George V against the Germans in Tanganyika (now Tanzania) before coming to Uganda as one of the original Somali settlers.

For most of the past 25 years, Hassan has been chairman of the Ugandan Somali community. His term coincided with Somalia's descent into chaos, which has swelled Uganda's immigrant population to about 40,000. "Ugandans have always been very friendly to Somalis," he tells me. "They know the people there are suffering."

By the time Hassan handed over to a younger chairman 18 months ago, relations between the two countries had become closely intertwined. President Yoweri Museveni of Uganda sent thousands of troops to Mogadishu in 2007 to help protect the fragile Somali government from the Islamist rebel group known as al-Shabaab. Many Ugandans wondered why they were getting involved in a country where there was no strategic interest. Hassan saw the move as honourable. "Museveni was just trying to help make Somalia like a normal country."

Al-Shabaab has a different idea of normality. Hassan first heard of the Kampala attacks when he arrived at a mosque early on the morning of Monday 12 July. He went straight home and stayed there. The death toll rose to 74. As families of the victims crowded around a tree outside the main hospital in Kampala, where a list of dead and injured had been pasted, al-Shabaab was holding a triumphant press conference in Mogadishu. A spokesman thanked "the mujahedins that carried out the attack", which he said was punishment for Uganda's role in the peacekeeping mission.

There was fear among the local Somalis: would Ugandans blame them for the bombings? Hassan's mobile rang constantly. "People were saying to me: 'You were our chairman for a long time. You must be the one to explain our position on this to the press,'" Hassan says. His expression hardens. "The people who did this are criminal killers. They have destroyed Somalia, and now they want to do something very bad to us here."

Something very bad - indeed, the most deadly terror attack in East Africa since the 1998 US embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania, which put al-Qaeda on the world map - could have been even worse. At the government media centre, a flimsy black canvas bag that was found in a disco sits on a table at the front of the room. Beside the bag are its contents: a piece of thin khaki material with orange trim and swatches of Velcro - a suicide vest. Next to it are two packets containing brownish slabs of explosive, roughly the size of a paperback, with blue electrical cord.

Some ball bearings have shaken loose from the explosive casing. When the bomb detonates, the ball bearings act like so many bullets; similar evidence has been recovered at the bars where many of last month's dead were torn to pieces. The device was probably meant to strike the disco at the same time, the police chief says.

Alien values

Who are al-Shabaab? So far, the militants have brought order to the areas they control in southern and central Somalia. Some aid agencies there have complimented them on their administrative capacity. But most of al-Shabaab's professed values are deeply alien to Somali culture - and to Islamic norms in most parts of the world. Western songs, films and ringtones are banned. Men used to strolling around in sandals and sarongs as they chew the narcotic khat leaf are expected to grow beards and attend mosque five times a day, or face beatings.

Women who previously covered only their hair must now wear full face veils. Alleged criminals have limbs hacked off while local residents are forced to watch. Whatever the Somali government's faults - and the list is long - it is for fear of al-Shabaab that people risk their lives to reach countries such as Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda and Yemen.

A short walk up the hill from Hassan's house is a modest hotel. In the restaurant, a few dozen Somali men are having lunch: rice mixed with potatoes, cabbage, raisins and large chunks of goat meat. The television is tuned to al-Jazeera.

I order some food and sit down. Eventually I strike up a conversation with the restaurant manager, Abdi Mohamed. He arrived in Uganda from Somalia in 2009. He says his reaction to the bomb attack was "like any Ugandan . . . scared. I was expecting to find peace when I arrived here." Mohamed knows all about al-Shabaab. His family lived in Kismayo, a port city in southern Somalia that is under the Islamists' strict control.

“If you are not one of them, it is very difficult," he says. "They are doing in Somalia what they have done here. Only 100 times more."

Xan Rice is Features Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 09 August 2010 issue of the New Statesman, The first 100 days

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State