Barclays vs Dahabshiil: when a Somali money transfer company takes on a banking giant

The Somali money transfer service Dahabshiil has won an injunction against Barclays, which had been threatening to cut off services to the company.

Yesterday, the Somali money transfer service Dahabshiil won an injunction against Barclays, which had been threatening to cut off services to the company over money-laundering fears. It’s hard to underestimate how significant this decision will prove for ordinary Somalis. Every year, British Somalis send around ₤500m home to relative and friends, and for many in Somalia, this is their primary source of income.

Overall the Somali diaspora send around $1.3bn home annually, and as years of civil conflict have left the country’s economy and banking sector in tatters, remittances are worth around 50 per cent of Somalia’s economy.

The main money transfer companies, like Western Union, which in 2012 was responsible for global money transfers of $72bn, do not operate in Somalia. Barclays is the only bank still offering services to small operators like Dahabshiil. If Barclays had been allowed to sever ties with Dahabshiil the effect for ordinary Somalis would be much greater than the cutting of all UK aid to Somalia: DfID pledged to deliver 63m in aid in 2012/13. No wonder the campaign to preserve this Somali lifeline has attracted high-profile supporters, including Mo Farah.

If Barclays had succeeded in cutting its relationship with Dahabshiil, this might have absolved it of responsibility to implement tough money-laundering checks, but it wouldn’t have stopped money flowing from the UK to groups like Al-Shabab. Removing formal channels would only force Somalis to rely on more expensive, less reliable informal money transfer agents. British-Somalis would find it harder to send money home, and UK authorities would struggle to monitor cash flows into Somalia.

Unfortunately, Dahabshiil was only granted extra time, and next year there will be new hearings to determine if it can still use Barclay’s services. Millions of Somalis may breathe a sigh of relief, but this problem isn't over yet.
 

A Somali money changer. Remittances from abroad make up half of the country's economy. Photo: Getty.

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in Cairo. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war