Me against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan, and Rwanda: A Journalist Reports from the Battlefields of Africa

Me against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan, and Rwanda: A Journalist Reports from the Battlefields of Africa

Me against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan, and Rwanda: A Journalist Reports from the Battlefields of Africa

Me against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan, and Rwanda: A Journalist Reports from the Battlefields of Africa

Synopsis

As a foreign correspondent, Scott Peterson witnessed firsthand Somali's descent into war and its battle against US troops, the spiritual degeneration of Sudan's Holy War, and one of the most horrific events of the last half century: the genocide in Rwanda. In Me Against My Brother , he brings these events together for the first time to record a collapse that has had an impact far beyond African borders. Filled with dust, sweat and powerful detail, this book graphically illustrates how preventive action and a better understanding of Africa - especially by the US - could have averted much suffering.

Excerpt

But 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 Somalis.

-Gerald Hanley, Warriors

The morning turned hot, but kept still; too early for anyone's bile to rise, too early to show anger. Nevertheless, Abdi Kadir sat resentful in a derelict tea stall, his worn assault rifle by his side. Already he was enraged today. The journalists he had escorted to this southern Somali town had been too demanding, too dismissive of his youth, and too ready to command him and to complain. It had been as though he was not a gunman, not worthy of respect despite the violence that his childish fingers could inflict. The sweet dark tea trickled down his throat, soothing his empty stomach.

They had wanted to move from Bardera that morning in September 1992, but they were delayed because he had forgotten to fill the vehicle with fuel. They shouted abuse, swearing, offending his fragile pride. The money for compliance was good: a total of $300 each day, split between Abdi, two other gunmen, and the owner of the land cruiser. Most of the journey had been fun, rich with pleasure and deep laughter. But how quickly that had changed.

Abdi looked out the stall door, his narrow features struck head-on by the sun. Dust coated everything. A sour sweat spread between his skin and the metal of the uncomfortable chair. He controlled his emotion, a latent antagonism checked so far but simmering, ready to boil up with the heat of the day. Abdi was with the other gunmen, far from the car. So what if

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