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  The EU's First Combat Deployment: German Navy Mission Encounters More than Pirates

The EU's First Combat Deployment German Navy Mission Encounters More than Pirates

By Walter Mayr

Part 2: Small Place, Big Ambitions

Germany's return to the world's military stage from the base in Djibouti is a rather modest undertaking. Anyone set on reaching the eight trailers in the "Milbe," or "Mite," as the German logistics center has been dubbed, doesn't just need good luck. They'll also need the goodwill of the French officers. On long weekends, the officers of the grande nation who operate the naval base take off as early as Thursday as they head for sun and fun on one of the neighboring islands. It can sometimes be days before they are available to speak to their allies.

The roughly two dozen Germans operating in Djibouti are joined by about 5,000 French and 2,000 American soldiers from all branches of the military. This tiny country on the Horn of Africa is not much more than a natural harbor surrounded by crumbling slopes and a desert beyond.

Since gaining its independence in 1977, the country has occupied a key strategic point on the coast of eastern African. The United States, for example, operates Camp Lemonier there. Lying behind sand dunes, barbed wire and cement barricades, the base serves as a command center overseeing anti-terror activities in East Africa and nearby Yemen.

The fact that the Americans have had to create bunkers for themselves there -- as if preparing themselves to survive the final storm -- is no reason to question the ultimate strategy. "This is a dangerous part of the world," says Lieutenant Colonel Michael Pierson, "and we have to protect ourselves."

A Complicated Situation

The Hotel Kempinski, built on the coast by the sheikhs of Dubai, has long since become a bizarre mixture of beach hotel, military camp and conference center. Burly American security people in camouflage shorts and flip-flops share the lobby with female Spanish soldiers in combat gear and African conference attendees, who are learning about security on the high seas from representatives of the US Coast Guard before migrating to the hotel bar for draught beer and potato chips.

Less visible are the droves of lawyers, who are already worrying about the details of the operations in the Gulf of Aden. They ponder what would happen, for example, if the US or Russia -- which like the EU are also operating in the area -- were to rescue a German merchant vessel north of Mombassa flying a Panamanian flag with a crew from the Philippines, arrest the Somali pirates and take them to Kenya for the sake of convenience? Comparable cases already exist, such as that involving the 23 Somali and Yemeni pirates who were arrested and have been sitting onboard the Indian warship INS Mysore for days. None of the nearby states -- whose interest in fighting piracy is limited -- wants to take them.

Djibouti is like an umbilical cord for the forces fighting terrorists on the high seas. It's far less hospitable to its own inhabitants, though. The average life expectancy here is 43 years, a prolonged drought has devastated the country and only 0.04 percent of the land is arable. If rain or aid doesn't arrive soon, 25 percent of the population will die of malnutrition, warns Muktar Osman, a friendly young project leader for the Red Crescent (the Muslim sister organization to the Red Cross) in Djibouti, before he sends out a jeep full of aid workers to the "BK12" suburb.

There, in the stone and garbage-strewn desert on the edge of the city of Djibouti, the ribs of the goats and camels stick out from their fur like contorted struts beneath parchment, and tens of thousands survive in shacks made of plastic covers and boxes.

Looking down from here, the Karlsruhe lying at anchor in Djibouti's harbor appears tiny. And the world of the people who were sent down here to deliver peace couldn't seem any more distant than it does from here.

'Sitting on a Powder Keg'

"We have nothing," says an old man standing next to his hut with a henna-dyed beard. "We are dying of hunger." Around him stands a group of women accompanied by a gaggle of children, who reinforce his words by moving their empty hands from their mouths to the stomachs.

Then, Douksiye Bouh, a nomad from the area bordering Ethiopia, steps forward and recounts his story. This summer, Bouh still had 100 sheep and goats and 50 cows. For years, he has gone with his animals to where the rain fell, but this summer his animals died of thirst. Bouh then brought his seven children to the city of Djibouti because there is water here -- or at least water for people. A 200-liter canister costs 100 Djiboutian francs, or as much as four loaves of bread.

The nomad has heard on the radio that the Germans and their allies are arming themselves for the hunt against pirates. What he doesn't realize, though, is that what each of those countries is spending per year to do so would feed all 800,000 of Djibouti's inhabitants.

Very few children in the slums north of Djibouti go to publicly funded schools. Instead, most of them attend Monsieur Dabah's private Koran school. There, they learn Arabic and the precepts for leading a God-fearing life. "The youngest are the most influenced," says Michael Schlick, a German pastor who runs a school at a local Protestant church. "They have started throwing rocks at the cars of white people. We are sitting on a powder keg here."

Schlick was one of the first people in Djibouti to learn that the Karlsruhe would be mooring at Pier 9 shortly before Christmas. He found out when some female members of the crew contacted him about doing something good for the local children. They had a Christmas party in mind.

"I told the female sailors that my children are Muslim and from the middle class, as well" Schlick says. "But that didn't faze the women; they were just brimming with goodwill."

In the end, a compromise was found between the Karlsruhe and Djibouti. Instead of singing Christmas carols, they agreed to lead the Muslim children in some arts and crafts -- and to eat spaghetti with a simple sauce from the galley.