The FBI launched an investigation into the missing teenagers, and 21 people have been indicted for allegedly assisting a terrorist organization — none of them officially attached to the mosque and most still thought to be at large in Somalia or Minnesota. None of the young men who disappeared have returned to their families.
“It is one of the most significant post-9/11 investigations that the FBI has undertaken, and it is definitely ongoing,” said FBI Special Agent E.K. Wilson, who supervises the counterterrorism squad in Minneapolis. “We were dealing with a community that is huge and has a high mistrust of the government.”
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Bihi believed he could orchestrate a more effective response from within the community, so he started his program and experienced some initial success. Local elders donated money, and Bihi convened a monthly youth summit, started a local television show about al-Shabab recruitment and pushed the city to build an AstroTurf soccer field near the high-rises. Sometimes, when he had money to spare, he bought a dozen pizzas and distributed slices to teenagers, talking to them about Islam and al-Shabab. He called them “my guys.” They called him “uncle.”
Now, three years later — the $20,000 all gone, his personal savings depleted, his gas tank back on empty, his wife and daughters so fed up that they often tell him, matter-of-factly, “Give up. Burhan is dead” — Bihi’s workday began with an early-morning text message from one of those kids who had once called him “uncle.”
“Hey old head, why you lieing man?”
He had promised this teenager a ride across town and some pocket money, but he didn’t have any. He also didn’t have the $10,000 he had promised a local soccer coach for a tournament to celebrate Somali Week. Or the jerseys for the basketball team. Or the apartment for a convicted felon he believed was being recruited by al-Shabab. Or any answers for the grieving stepmother about her suicide-bomber son, Beledi.
“I need today to be a good day,” he said.
He hitched a ride to the nearby Starbucks, where he sat in a circle of 15 elders and asked for money. “I know that I already owe most of you here,” he said.
He met with Dan Severson, a Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate, and showed him a flier for the Somali Week soccer tournament. “If you can help, we can put a big banner up on the stadium, something like, ‘Vote Republican,’ ” he said.
He talked to a young man who had spent time in prison with Beledi and asked if any al-Shabab recruiters had visited the jail. “Really?” Bihi asked. “You don’t know anything?”
By sundown, he had elicited one vague commitment for a $50 donation. He had learned nothing more about Beledi. He called a friend who worked for the United Nations.
“I feel like a street beggar, with nothing to offer but persuasion and promises I can’t deliver,” Bihi told him.
His black hair was upright and disheveled, and the frames of his glasses dripped with sweat. As he walked home, he repeated a popular Somali proverb: “Nin wax cuney xishoo” — a boy will listen to those who provide for him.
In the past year, Bihi had tried and failed to secure government funding for his programs from officials at the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security and the White House. They all said they consider it safer to start their own outreach efforts than to entrust money to community leaders.
He had flown to Washington to testify before the House Committee on Homeland Security in March, hoping the trip might result in some money for his programs. Rep. Peter T. King (R-N.Y.), the committee chairman, heralded Bihi as a “real master of these issues.” But the congressman’s support wavered when their conversations turned to money.
“Funding community groups for counterterrorism is just too risky,” King said. “There’s a real danger of federal dollars ending up in the wrong hands.”
Bihi had no money left to distribute in the community. Al-Shabab recruiters, meanwhile, were giving plenty, according to findings from the ongoing FBI investigation. Cellphones. Meals. Shuttle rides to malls. Plane tickets to Africa worth $3,000 or more.
“This country spends so much money fighting terrorism,” Bihi said. “So where is it?”
Later that night, back at his quiet apartment in Minneapolis, Bihi skimmed an e-mail about the latest congressional hearing on radicalization.
“What’s the point?” he asked. His own trip to testify in Washington had resulted only in more controversy, with media outlets reporting on his 2008 conviction for driving while impaired and a handful of anonymous callers chastising him, saying he cast suspicion on mosques.
Bihi closed the e-mail and opened his Internet browser to begin one of the most productive parts of his workday: three hours each night spent navigating a back channel of al-Shabab Web sites. A group of friends in Somalia helped Bihi find the Web sites, often created one day and then disassembled the next to avoid detection. They provided Bihi with insights into the whereabouts of missing Americans and al-Shabab’s latest recruiting tactics. It was here, he hoped, where he might uncover more information about Beledi.
Bihi navigated first to SomaliMidnimo.com, a Web site run out of Minneapolis. The main story on the page detailed two suicide bombings that day in Mogadishu. Bihi listened to a speech by an al-Shabab general and grabbed a pen to take notes.
“Two believers of God have done their duty today, and many, many more are in line,” the general said.
Next Bihi opened Facebook, where fighters for al-Shabab congregate on Web pages named after famous markets in Mogadishu. A message appeared at the top of Bihi’s page alerting him to one new friend request. Bihi clicked open the message and fell back into his chair. For several seconds, he stared at the name.
Cabdulaahi Faarah.
“Unbelievable,” Bihi said. “This guy must be mocking me.”
Faarah, better known to the FBI as Cabdulaahi Ahmed Faarax, has recruited at least eight men from Minneapolis to join al-Shabab in the past three years, including Beledi, investigators said. Faarah was a naturalized U.S. citizen who had traveled to Somalia in 2007 to fight with al-Shabab before injuring his leg, sneaking back into Minneapolis and driving a taxi.
He began recruiting other Somali Americans to join al-Shabab in 2008, according to federal court documents, telling them he had fired “fun” guns, married two Kenyan women and experienced true brotherhood while waging jihad. The recruits referred to him as “Smiley,” and those he lured to Somalia were indoctrinated with anti-American beliefs and trained in “small arms, machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades and military style tactics,” according to investigators.
Late in 2009, Faarah left Minnesota again and traveled to California with Beledi and two other young Somali Americans. He brought a passport and $4,000 in cash, and he and Beledi took a taxi to the U.S.-Mexico border. They flew from Tijuana to Mexico City, according to court documents. They eventually made it to Somalia, where Beledi would detonate his suicide bomb 18 months later.
Bihi clicked open Faarah’s profile page and started to read. Religious views: “Muslim – Sunni.” Political views: “Islamic Action Front.” Employer history: “Ace Driving School.” Education: “Minnesota.” Faarah had posted photo albums of his young daughters next to a picture of Osama bin Laden; testaments to the Los Angeles Lakers next to others about jihad.
“Oh, boy,” Bihi said. “This guy is slick. He’s smooth.”
Faarah and 13 others were indicted in 2009 for providing material support to al-Shabab and conspiring to kill, maim and injure persons abroad. The FBI and the Justice Department held a joint news conference to announce the charges, which Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr. heralded as an “unmistakable warning to others considering joining or supporting terrorist groups like al-Shabab.” But Faarah had escaped to Africa by then.
Now, one year after Holder’s warning, Bihi looked at recent pictures of Faarah on his Facebook page. Here he was playing basketball on a dusty court, with a caption that compared him to NBA star Carlos Boozer. Here he was on a red motorcycle, his hands revving the engine. Here he was leaning against the hood of a jeep, and then lifting weights in a rustic gym, and then lounging back in a hammock, eyes heavy, arms folded behind his head.
“Is this a terrorist on the run?” Bihi said, shaking his head. “Look at this guy. He’s laughing at us.”
A while later, Bihi found another Facebook page that appeared to be a tribute to Beledi, updated a few days after his death.
At the top was a picture that had been distributed by the FBI after Beledi first disappeared, of a young man with a wispy mustache who cocked his head and glared into the camera. Beledi’s page had been visited by only a handful of people, and his basic profile was left mostly blank.
But there was one piece of information — enough by itself to send a chill down Bihi’s spine and remind him, he said, that “a few radicals are hijacking and distorting” his beloved faith. The suicide bomber’s work had been summarized in two words.
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