'Easier Than Pirating Container Ships ', Said Abdi - How Somalis Conned The Entire State Of Minnesota

Mohammed Farah had been pirating Western shipping for years.  He learned how to maneuver his country craft outfitted with twin Mercury Marine 350 HP, fire AK-12s, the most powerful assault rifle on the market, outrun cargo ships, and climb aboard. 

He had begun as an apprentice to his uncle Abdi who had been a member of the LS-22 militia, the most powerful in Mogadishu, who had with his brothers run a profitable drug running operation through Djibouti, Egypt and on to Europe, but who turned to offshore pirating when the Liberian flag European vessels headed from Oman to Mombasa increased their traffic and, hewing to international law, remained unarmed. 

Furthermore, the navies of the United States and the European Community had very restrictive rules of engagement, and not anxious to get into naval military action, left it to insurance companies to underwrite the increasing risk.  While this was a tacit agreement to let Somali piracy continue unchecked, it was considered a win-win situation for all concerned. 

'Like sitting ducks', said Uncle Abdi to the young Farah as he took him out on his first engagement in the Indian Ocean off the Somali coast.  'Like shooting fish in a barrel' he went on, showing off the English he learned while living in the United States in the large Somali community of Minneapolis. 

Farah and Abdi had the Maersk Athena in their sights, a container ship loaded with everything from computers to frozen foods, electronics, clothing, and machinery.  This particular ship was carrying a load of rare earth minerals mined in East Africa, stolen by Hutu gangs in eastern Congo, and transshipped to Oman and on to Mombasa, the African mainland and there to Western Europe - a circuitous route, but given the high value of the cargo, the extra mileage and diversions were worth the effort and the risk. 

The twin Mercuries were almost too much for the simple Somali boat, but with the well-known ingenuity of the African villager, and with counter-weights and balances, ballast, and a careful seating of the crew, the craft could easily overtake even the fastest container ship. 

The roar of the engines was almost too much for the young Farah and more than once he was almost pitched over the side, but he held his ground as the boat approached the Athena.  Once they got within range, Uncle Abdi and his crew began firing their weapons, more as an intimidating warning to the captain rather than with any damage or injury to the ship's crew.  They were well-armed and serious, the clatter of bullets on the foredeck announced, and following protocol, the Athena slowed and allowed the pirates to board. 

The ship was rerouted to Mogadishu where Farah, Abdi, and their mates were welcomed as conquering heroes with the prize ship of the Maersk fleet in their control.  Goats were roasted on the beach, women danced, children ran around the bonfires, and praises were given to Allah. 

This idyll was to be short-lived, however, for the rules of engagement were modified for both commercial shipping and naval warships. Israeli paramilitary forces were recruited and hired to provide security on board all Maersk shipping in the Indian Ocean off the Somali coast, and European and American warships were given orders to patrol the waters and take decisive action if an act of piracy was occurring. 

'It was a good ride', said Abdi as he decided to 'hang up his spurs' and find other employment. Now, Somalis, having lived so long in a lawless, ungovernable country with few chances for legitimate enterprise, had learned and honed every trick in the book.  They had gone to Lagos to learn the art of credit card fraud, were tutored in Ponzi schemes, high-finance shell games, and the art of the scam in cities like Kinshasa and Nairobi and in the underworld of Paris and London. 

Stealing, conning, scamming, fraud, and electronic thievery became part of the Somali ethos.  There were no moral questions asked because the country had for so long been without any moral or ethical code, that the 'anything goes' philosophy was the only one in the canon. 

So it was natural that the Somali community in Minneapolis found ways and means to take municipal and state governments for a ride. The stage was set by a series of liberal governments at both municipal and state level which favored 'inclusivity' and 'diversity', and welcomed foreign newcomers to give spice and color to the largely Scandinavian heritage residents of the state. Understanding the impoverished life that Somali immigrants had in their mother country, Minnesota was particularly eager to give immigrants, legal and undocumented, a helping hand. 

As a result they handed out money to false front Somali daycare centers without a second look.  All it took was a correct submission of paperwork including addresses, business plans, and officers, and millions were allocated.  Under the assumption that investigation into the actual operation of these daycare centers might be considered racist and hostile, those few state employees who were concerned about the unsupervised flow of millions were told to back off. 

When Abdi and his nephew arrived in Minneapolis and were briefed on the possibilities of making tens of millions of dollars for nothing - a no risk, all reward opportunity - they jumped at the chance. Scamming the white fools in the statehouse and city hall would be a pleasure. 

When they found that the government was willing to grant millions of dollars a year for one false front, empty enterprise, they doubled and tripled the scam. Investigative reporters found 5-10 registered daycare centers at one location, nothing but a nameplate here and there, and as they said, 'Not one child's footprints in the snow'. 

Seeing an almost limitless opportunity, Farah and Abdi expanded their operation to so-called 'transportation centers', services for the aged and infirm providing transport to and from medical appointments and public transportation.  Since no one in government was looking, Farah and Abdi never bothered to buy any vehicles, cooked the books to show fictitious rides, and pocketed the money. 

A Lamborghini Countach was Abdi's first purchase and an Aventador for his nephew was second.  To avoid IRS and the SEC from questioning these purchases, Abdi used laundered money cashier's checks, a reasonable amount of cash, and high-value equities as security.  A few phone calls, and both Somalis had the rides they had always wanted. 

'There's a sucker born every minute', said the American circus entrepreneur and impresario, P.T. Barnum but there were never more than in the state of Minnesota.  The level of blatant ignorance, total naïveté, and unimaginable credulousness was something that even Barnum would have marveled at.  State and municipal officials, so besotted by the progressive woke agenda, the blind obeisance to people of color, the brainless assumption that immigrants only brought the wealth of diversity and the enterprise of hope, could do no right. For the Somalis it was like stealing candy from a baby.  

Of course it take two to tango and without the entrepreneurial genius of the Somalis, the largesse of the State of Minnesota would have been wasted in incidental programs; but as it was, the two danced beautifully together, and billions of dollars of taxpayer money was bilked by the canny Somalis. 

Thanks to the same viral woke infection that allowed such a massive fraud in the state, it wasn't hard for Farah and Abdi to get American citizenship.  Fast track approvals were given to the most needy, and the State of Minnesota guaranteed the neediness of all Somalis who had escaped hell on earth. 

With an equally canny understanding of how to finagle banking laws, Abdi managed to secure his millions in offshore accounts.  His Aruba holdings alone were valued at over $100 million. Just as he got out of pirating just in time, so was he able to stay one step ahead of the law in the childcare Minnesota fraud. 

Didn't he miss Somali, he was often asked; but his reply was simple.  'I love Somalia, but I love America more'. 

Political Prisoner - Trapped In The Short, Unhappy Life Of Doing Good

Bob Muzelle looked out the bay window of his modest suburban home and over the small backyard - the old, rusting swing set, the untended rose garden, the bird feeder, and the rotting maple. 

It was not much, he admitted, but then again the fight for social justice pays no immediate dividends nor any compensation for hard work, long hours, and parsimony.  It is a fight that must be fought, no matter the consequences, the hardships, the deprivations.  It was an existential cause that had to be recognized. 

Bob didn't consider himself special - it was his duty, after all, as it was for anyone who saw the truth.  The warming climate, the persistent discrimination against oppressed minorities, rapacious capitalism, the arrogant trampling on civil rights, and the bullying foreign policy - all would not go away unless a concerted effort was mounted. 

He smiled as a cardinal flew to the birdfeeder, almost tipping it over as he pecked at the seeds, spilling more than he ate, a fine feast for the squirrels who would soon gather below.  Bob had worked hard to find and install a feeder that was squirrel-proof, but was happy that incidentally they got fed.  After all, why should he discriminate?  

Born and raised a Methodist - the Biblical injunctions of which he, no matter how ingrained his latter day secularism might be, could never fully forget. God notices the death of a sparrow, he remembered. 

 

Bob was now in his advancing years, well beyond most men's pull date, still in his traces pulling a heavy load.  Decades of social justice could not simply be packed away, shelved, and forgotten.  There was such a thing as moral inertia.  Once you started on a career of doing good, it picked up steam and was hard to stop.  While others retired to Florida, Bob tirelessly spoke, wrote, and acted in the name of progress. 

The N6 was filled as usual with young women on their way downtown, many to work for the new administration, others simply making their way and hoping for a break.  Washington was no different from Hollywood or New York where opportunity was everywhere but hard to grasp and harder still to hold on to. 

Bob smiled, wished them well, and as he did every morning allowed himself a bit of fantasy, what it would be like to be loved by one of these sweet young things, taken care of, admired, shown off.  What he wouldn't give to be years younger, to lean over the aisle, to join them, squire them...And there his daydreams turned to the inevitable luxury of imagining himself in bed with the most beautiful. 

The decades of good works were not without their limitations.  The progressive crowd had always been unpleasant and unkempt.  Since it was bourgeois to spend time or money on something as superficial as one's looks, by and by a certain ugliness became the physical zeitgeist of the movement. Beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed women such as those on the N6 would be looked at askance, not trusted, outsiders, a marginal, incidental bother. 

Bob smiled and remembered his days at Yale, his bright college years spent without a care in the world. The trips to Smith and Vassar, the long weekends on the Cape.  What was the name of that inn? The one with a white picket fence and a trellis of roses...? or am I imagining it, something I missed? So stock an image, it couldn't have been real. 

By the time the bus reached Farragut Square Bob had shaken off this allotted twenty minutes of reverie and prepared for the day ahead - LaShonda Evans from the Black Women's Caucus, Ahmed al-Zarqawi, Deputy Director of Free Palestine, Bobbie Benson, a former truck driver recently transitioned and looking for work in advocacy. 

Bob's wife was repeatedly asking him if he hadn't finally had enough.  A man who had given his whole life for the uplift of others deserved a rest; but Bob was adamant.  The problems facing the country, especially now that Donald Trump was wreaking havoc could not be ignored.  If there was ever a time for social activism, it was now. 

Yet, while that might be true, there is something about advancing age which makes such things less compelling, less important, less worthwhile; and Bob found himself distracted and uneasy.  

Death? The Great Void? Never had that thought been anything but a distant personal possibility.  Real death resulted from starvation, at the hands of Trump's gestapo, from viral infection, from earthquake, fire, and the rising seas, and had nothing to do with him, certainly; but yet there it was, hard to shake, impossible to come to grips with. 

'You've done all you could', his wife Corinne said to him in a particularly disconsolate moment. 'You have left a legacy', but the words 'Fuck legacy' were almost out of his mouth before he nodded and thanked his wife for her commiseration.  

On his way up the stairs long after Corinne had gone to bed, he said them out loud again and again. 'Fuck legacy, fuck it, fuck it fuck it' and shaky from the effort, held tighter to the bannister. 

The Yale Alumni Magazine was where he had left it on the night table. He picked it up and leafed through to the pages where his classmates wrote in about their lives.  Huntington Cabot was enjoying skiing at Gstaad, 'not bad for a man of my age', he added, 'but more suited to my grandchildren'.  

'Fuck him', said Bob. 'And fuck his grandchildren', which he immediately regretted saying in an act of contrition. Just because his life of social duty had been too important for Wall Street, a Park Avenue marriage, and homes on St. Bart's and Palm Beach there was no reason to carp about others' good fortune. 

 

At the same time there was no doubting his regret.  His office was no mahogany-appointed boardroom, his suits were not tailored and many, his wife was not exquisite, and he had no mistress, no cinq-a-septs, no affairs. 

LaShonda Evans came bursting into his office unannounced, full of something nasty, some issue about black this or that, racial umbrage, hatred of white people.  Her eyes, already her worst feature - yellowish, protruding, and set as far apart as her face could manage, were as wide as could be.  She chicken-necked a 'Whassup, muthafucka?' which was supposed to pass for congeniality but which Bob hated, and he gripped the arms of his chair waiting for it. 

This was not what he signed up for long ago on the Freedom Rides with Martin and Ralph, the halcyon days of racial integration, side by side with his black brothers and sisters marching across the Pettis bridge singing We Shall Overcome.  This uppity bitch was ruining his day like she always did and he wanted her out and gone, but  he had to sit there patiently while she aired her gripes and demanded action. 

'It's not too late to live a little', Corrine reminded him. 'We do have a bid on thatTampa Bay condo', her hedge against a life leading to the same airless, featureless place they had lived in for so long; and for once Bob paid attention.

The raggedy, ugly women of his social justice years were a fact, his choice, his community, his colleagues; and no matter how much he dreamed of the blonde young things on the N6 they were nothing but reminders of the emotional and sexual penury of his younger years.  'Wasted', he thought; but of course that idea had to be shaken loose or it would bugger him for all of his final days.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Donald Trump had not been in the White House destroying every last one of the pillars of social justice he and his colleagues had worked so hard to erect.  Had he retired during the Biden years when the progressive dream was still vital and very much possible, the condo would have looked very different; but now that the house of cards came falling down and his progressive vision had been erased, he was faced front and center with the fact of a life that had indeed been for naught, wasted, irrelevant when he could have been Huntington Cabot. 

When you end up with nothing to show for your life, where are you? and what are you? A historical cipher at the very least, an emotional pauper at best. 

'The Gulf shrimp at DiCarlo's is to die for', said Corinne, anticipating her first real night out in years and on the beaches of Florida at that. 

Faith And Evangelical Terror - Islam, American True Believers, Idolatry, And Political Excess

 'Muslims are wacko', said Donald Trump, never a man to mince words, always full of hyperbole and wild accusations; but he was, as always, expressing a common belief among many. In the name of Islam, an evangelical religion more so than any other, the most radical groups - al-Qaeda, ISIS, al-Shabab, Boko Haram, and the Houthis among others - have terrorized populations from Western Europe to Mindanao. 

    

They know no temperance, no considered thought; have no reflection, historical understanding, logical exegesis, or simple, basic rules of tolerance.  They believe that God handed the Koran, complete with references to the Pentateuch, Moses, David, and Jesus, outlining proper behavior and making clear His intention to wipe the slate clean, eliminate all apostasy and infidelity from the earth, and create a brave new world of true belief. 

The book, written in Arabic and given to an Arabian peasant who could neither read nor write but who, upon opening the book became literate, infused with the true word of God, and filled with a missionary ambition to spread it worldwide. He raised an army and set off on a bloody crusade across north Africa and up through the Middle East, and in less than a hundred years had brutalized, murdered, and tortured his way to Islamic hegemony. 

Thanks to Charlemagne, Frankish armies defeated the Saracens at Roncesvalles, and Mohammed's military assault on Europe was halted.  To this day France considers itself 'the eldest daughter of the Church' for having saved the continent from barbarism. 

The religion is simple, without the complexity of Christianity.  There are no mysteries, no philosophical conundrums, no mythical underpinnings, no legacy of high intellectual and academic thought. Islam has no Augustine, Aquinas, or Athanasius because it doesn't rely on sophistication. Submission to the will of Allah, conviction that Islam is the world's only true religion, and promise to defeat and destroy the infidel is all that is required. 

First appealing to the ignorant masses of the deserts of the Middle East - nomads, camel drivers, raiders, and bandits, Muslim evangelists soon discovered that by joining politics and faith, the vision of a worldwide unified faith and a political caliphate was possible.  Thanks to its heady mix of true belief nd political liberation, Islam spread to developmentally backward regions beyond the Middle East. 

 

To this day Muslims are evangelical, insular, rabid, and intolerant.  Fueled with the belief that Allah, the Koran, and Islam are indisputable, true, right, and permanent, they have continued to defy secularism and democratic societies.  The law of God supersedes all, they say, and have no patience with or respect for other laws. 

Now a case can be made that modern American progressivism is no different from radical Islam. Its adherents are convinced that theirs is the only way, that all else is apostasy, and that those who deny its fundamental, absolute truths must be eliminated. 

Progressivism has its Koran - a canon of reformist beliefs - and legions of evangelical crusaders for whom the end of history, a righteous secular caliphate, is more important than the means.  Anything goes in progressives' pursuit of their vision of Utopia. Antifa militias, armed and dangerous, are the frontal edge, the first phalanxes of true believers to confront the infidel.  The current violent attacks on federal officials deployed within a Constitutional framework to address issues of crime and illegal immigration, is but one example of this faith-based brutality. 

The reflexive hatred of the infidel and the desire to eliminate the scourge of conservatism, and to establish a unified, centric, perfect world of communal and collective harmony is no different than radical Islam's intentions. 

Muslims believe that Mohammed is God's last prophet, i.e. the end of religious evolution, disparity, and disagreement.  Islam by extension is the world's last religion, and God's will must be obeyed.  Until the last days of judgement and the fiery holocaust of Armageddon, Muslims are bound to spread the world of true belief. 

Progressives believe no differently.  Anything but this communal, collective, socially-inclusive world is impossible.  The ethos of individualism, free enterprise, opportunity, competition, and Darwinian progress is simply wrong and unacceptable - absolutely, totally, irrefutably wrong, and as such must be destroyed. 

In order for such a caliphate to be realized, not only can there be no dissent within the Muslim community, but that community itself must be at the heart of revolutionary conquest.  There must be an invincible solidarity, an unbreakable common bond of true belief, an irreproachable unity. 

American progressives value community like no other.  Each jamboree on the National Mall, heady protests for transgenderism, abortion, the black man, or the dismantling of private sector, predatory interests is an expression of good feeling, conviction, and solidarity.  

All progressive causes are welcomed in the big revival tent.  All fighters for climate change reversal, unrestricted abortion, socialism, the gender spectrum, open borders, and the distribution of wealth among other causes are welcome.  The common denominator is capitalism - all the ills of America are a result of the most aggressive, oppressive, manipulative, and exploitive economic system ever developed.  Destroy capitalism and replace it with socialism, and America will be well on its way to a progressive idyll. 

'Intellectual idolatry' was how Theodore Mackay, a leading political scientist, described the American scene - a conviction that one's political theories are no less than divine, received wisdom.  Progressivism and Islam are no different, he went on, in their absolute belief in an anointed mission; and given the holiness of that mission, any and all means to achieve its ends are legitimate expressions of purpose. 

The hatred for Donald Trump comes as no surprise.  Not only was a Republican elected to the White House despite the progressive campaign run against him, but he is dismantling each and every program, policy, and political initiative instituted by the opposition. It is not the usual changing of the guard, moving the needle a little to the left or right; but a counter-revolutionary putsch.  At this rate not only will no vestiges of progressivism remain, but the entire country will be under a malevolent dictatorship of the radical Right. Venomous hatred is par for the course. 

While conservatism has its core political beliefs its philosophy is one of Epictetus and the Stoics, a deterministic nihilism that supposes nothing but change and nothing of absolute value.  There is, nor has there ever been a Stoic evangelist. 

It is only progressives who have been infected with true belief, a viral epidemic, a personal, unavoidable nastiness that is the result of a kind of native intolerance.  The Biden years were awful - hectoring, badgering, insulting affairs all over confected, impossibly irrelevant and downright silly propositions taken as articles of faith. 

Thank God they're in the rearview mirror, and historical perspective, Machiavellian insights, and Nietzschean have replaced them.