Off the coast of Somalia, former fishermen, robbed of their livelihood by commercial trawlers operating illegally in their waters, have banded with ex-militia and tech-geeks, and taken to acts dubbed by the world media as "piracy."

International cargo ships traveling off the Somali coast are often intercepted and hijacked by small boats and held for ransom.

The hijacked crews are usually well taken care of for the duration of their capture until an agreement can be reached between the so-called pirates and the shipping companies.

While the general media refer to the small bands of Somalis as "pirates," they refer to themselves as "Coast Guards."

The capital city of Mogadishu is practically a ghost town - devastated by war. The population is all but starving. There has been no stable government in almost 17 years. In the presence of this kind of despair, the international community has taken advantage of this country's inability to protect its maritime boundaries.

Enter the fishermen.

In the absence of formal authority and diplomatic power, the fishermen have taken matters into their own hands, using what is available to them to eek out a living. While affected companies and interested media may catalog Somali acts as criminal, advocates for national sovereignty might consider such acts justified and within the context of the defense of Somali national security.

In-fighting has been replaced with co-operation between clans. The "ransoms" they excise from various governments aren't much different than tariffs other countries impose (usually associated with protectionism), its just that there is no formal authority to regulate the amount.

In an era of malfeasance and greed dominating corporate interests, to the tune of exploiting those who cannot or do not know how to protect themselves, it is refreshing to see African patriots putting their foot down and calling the giants of global commerce to task.

Some may refer to them as "pirates" but they sound like Coast Guards to me.

My dad asked what the other parent had done. When I answered that he had called his ex to keep her appraised of what was going on, my Dad asked what I thought I should do. Reluctantly I picked up the phone with the eight year old boy sitting on my left and my daughter sitting on my right.

I was sitting on the couch, on the phone with my ex, explaining that one of the boys in my charge had just lost family members to a tragedy and that I didn't know what my immediate plans would be with our daughter who was with me. She asked if I knew about the Jennifer Hudson killings and I said that they were related to the boy I was referring to. She asked if I had learned that the grandmother had a stroke. I did but asked the boy if he had heard about his grandmother. He started crying assuming the worst and fell over onto my lap sobbing while I patted his back.

We went to church and my dad sat in a pew with one seat available, my daughter sat in a pew with one seat available a little further up, and I sat in a pew with many seats available a few rows back. I felt uncomfortable sitting away from my family but understood this to be a house of the Lord and that each of us has a unique relationship with God.

When it was time for alter call, the woman in front of me stood up - in the visage of an old principal, but in the spirit of my best friend's mother. She stood and walked to the front and turned to instruct me to follow her. I had already been baptized but she insisted. The minister mentioned another reason to come forward and so I acquiesced.

As I rose I felt the eyes of the church asking why I had risen from my seat because many of them had known me as having been baptized. I was worried that they thought I was doing it for attention.

When we got to the front of the church, we had to shake the hands of the deacons we passed. Many of them looked at me with surprise - as if I were picking the wrong time to be joking - as if I were being irreverent.

When we got to the stage, "my mother" stood at the pulpit to speak while the choir sang. I stood behind her underneath a beam that was hiding my face from most of the congregation. I remember my Dad still being in the congregation.

I resolved to tell the congregation that "my mother" had made me come up and initially felt the need to explain why she was "my mother." I decided against it so as not to exploit the name of my best friend, who belonged to the church and who was, by the way, deceased.

One of the ushers was upset with an officer in the church because she was so long in dismissing people from the restroom. I smiled and thought I should write down a prepared statement for the congregation - something about me being "thrice a grinch" and "a lewd adulterer." I also wanted to remind the church that none of us is perfect - how quickly we grow impatient with others and criticize them for their human frailties as if we have none ourselves.

I wish I could remember what the choir was singing.

Is it just me or does the world look a lot like an Ayn Rand novel (i.e., Atlas Shrugged)?