Officer Bridges Gap Between Two Worlds

One community that claims him consists of industrious, hard-nosed cops, versed in street smarts. Another is a population of often-disoriented refugees, many traumatized by violence and war.

His ability to merge both of these worlds has been the key to success for Abdiweli Heibeh -- the first Somali American to become a police officer in San Diego and possibly the first nationwide.

As Somalia dissolved into civil war in the early 1990s, refugees arrived in San Diego -- about 6,000 to 8,000 eventually -- concentrating in an area east of downtown that has come to be known as Little Mogadishu.

“The city was overwhelmed, the Police Department was overwhelmed, the schools were overwhelmed,” Heibeh said.

Many Somali teenagers, who had been exposed to rape, torture and other acts of violence in their homeland, drifted into crime. Police also dealt with domestic violence and conflicts between the refugees and the city’s large population of Southeast Asians, who share many of the neighborhoods in which the Somalis congregated.

Efforts to resolve those issues were hampered by the refugees’ mistrust of police. The Somalis were familiar with repressive, cruel and corrupt government authorities back home, and many expected similar treatment from police here.

“When they see a police car, they get scared. They will run away,” said Abdulahi Aidid, employment case manager at Horn of Africa Community Assn., a nonprofit agency based in San Diego’s City Heights section, that assists East African immigrants. “Back home -- and in the refugee camps in Kenya -- they were robbed, arrested, tortured. The uniform reflects all of those things for them.”

Heibeh’s role has been central to efforts by police here to bridge that gap. He is passionate about a career that allows him to serve his adopted homeland while assisting those from his motherland.

“I can relate to both sides,” said Heibeh, 43, who won political asylum in the United States in 1988. “I am a police officer and I was once a refugee, so I know how these people feel.”

In Somalia, the dispensing of justice is typically swift and brutal. Law enforcement officials often decide a suspect’s fate on the spot. People can languish in jail for years, sometimes even those who have not been charged with crimes. Many violations, and almost all civil disputes, are mediated and resolved by clan elders.

“Back home, being a police [officer] is not an honorable job because of the brutality and the corruption,” Heibeh said.

Cultural differences also can complicate encounters between immigrants and police. Beckoning someone with the index finger -- a common gesture here when police summon a suspected offender -- is considered an obscene gesture in Somalia. Most Somali women and children interviewed by a police officer will refuse to make eye contact -- a sign of respect that an American might view as evasive or insolent.

Somalis are prone to touch other people and infringe on their personal space to get attention -- actions that are generally considered aggressive in American culture. They also are used to paying a fine to police officers in the field, behavior that might be perceived as an attempt at bribery by an American officer.

Being familiar with both legal systems, Heibeh is able to dispel many of the stereotypes Somalis have about cops and stop problems before they explode into a crisis.

“He’s really smart, really sharp, just a good guy,” said Sgt. Roy Moody, who heads the police department’s Multi-Cultural Community Relations Office serving the City Heights neighborhood, which has a large concentration of Southeast Asian and East African immigrants. “We’re lucky to have him,” Moody said.

Heibeh’s beat is Little Mogadishu, a two-mile stretch of City Heights on University Avenue between 58th Street and Fairmont Avenue.

On a typical day, Somali women dressed in brightly colored jilbabs -- a strip of cloth that covers the head and neck and hangs to the waist -- can be seen frequenting the numerous Somali-owned businesses that have sprouted in the neighborhood.

Men wearing long skirt-like wraps and box-shaped skullcaps huddle for often-impromptu forums on street corners and at sidewalk cafes, a common pastime in their homeland.

“My ears and eyes in reporting crime is the community,” Heibeh said. “Unless we have that kind of trust, we are not going to be able to fight crime.”

Heibeh was born in Ethiopia to Somali parents, grew up in Somalia, and is fluent in Amharic and Somali, the principal languages of the two countries. Like most Somalis, he is a Muslim.

He was a major in the army of Somali dictator Mohamed Siad Barre when he was sent to the United States in 1986 for advanced training at the air defense artillery school at Ft. Bliss in El Paso, Texas.

A week before his 1987 graduation, he learned of trouble in his homeland and was advised by his brother not to return. Word came soon after that his father -- a member of the country’s ruling elite -- had been executed. By 1991, the political turmoil had devolved into civil war.

“I was fatherless, stateless, and my language skills were very poor,” Heibeh recalled. “Instead of flying to Mogadishu, I flew to San Diego, and I’m still here.”

In the early years, he flitted from job to job: ice cream truck driver, security guard, cabdriver to name a few. He went back to school to study electronics, then accounting. He was able to hone his English, and soon secured part-time work as an interpreter at the San Diego courthouse.

When an opening for a civilian community service officer arose in 1988, Heibeh knew he had found his calling.

“I could teach Somalis about the laws in the U.S. -- child abuse, domestic violence, personal safety, truancy and juvenile gangs,” he said, noting that newcomers often were unaware of the most simple rules, such as when to dial 911.

He was called on to educate recruits of the San Diego Police Department about East African culture. He and a fellow Somali who works in the department’s civilian community relations office have written an 11-minute training video for police working in areas with large Somali populations.

In 2000, Heibeh graduated from the police academy as a policeman, and he hasn’t looked back.

Some City Heights residents gush with pride when they talk about the achievement of this refugee-turned-cop.

“He’s a role model for the younger generation,” said community leader Sahardid Ismail, who has been in this country for 11 years. “It will show them that if they go the right way, they can be like him. They can avoid crime and contribute to law enforcement in this country.”

Falis Budul, who runs a sewing class for the community’s women, said Heibeh had helped Somali immigrants tackle “the basics.”

“Some people didn’t even know what to do with a traffic ticket, where to go,” said Budul, 34. “He has made it easier for everyone to adapt here.”

Heibeh, however, simply sees this as part of an honest day’s work, and he is thrilled at being able to make a contribution in his adopted homeland.

“The only thing I can do for this nation, to give them back what they gave to me, is to put my life on the line for this nation,” said Heibeh, who counts about 100 relatives who have come to San Diego as refugees.

“I’m happy when I am able to break down the barriers between the community and the police,” he added. “And I enjoy doing what I do.”