A Tribe Called Diaspora

I’m sure most of us have a love-hate relationship with the question, “where are you from?” How it is asked comes in a variety of ways. I walked into my class the first day of the semester during my last year in college and the professor looked at me and said you must be from Somalia. Oh my, she was quite right because I always got, you are either Ethiopian or Eritrean since there were many that live in the Washington, DC area. I’ll never forget the next thing she said and I quote, “you know when God was making bread, the first time it turned out too white, so he gave it a second try and he left it in the oven too long so it became really dark, but the third time just turned out right, brown, golden and pleasing to the eye. So you must be some of the brown bunch.” I couldn’t help but laugh……..

In the states you are always reminded about the color of your skin, whether it’s through conversations or something as simple as filling out an application. Depending on the crowd you are with you are always labeled somehow. In the white community, I am black, in the black community I am African, in the African community I am Somali, and in the Somali community I was a certain tribe. This became a role that I came to understand and accept.

When I decided to come back to Somalia and work here for a bit, to my surprise, I quickly realized that it was a whole new ball game; there was a different kind of categorization. It was not your usual tribal supremacy and tribal institutionalization that I was familiar with. Rather what I found was quite amusing, there was a new tribe called ‘Diaspora.’

During a quick outing to the local market in Garowe, the cashier asked, “So where are you from?” With an annoyed look on my face, I said, “Did you mean to ask me either what region am I from? or what my tribe is?” He chuckled and said, “No. I mean what country, because you are obviously Diaspora.”

I was taken aback by the statement because here I was in my own country, speaking fluent Somali, dressed like the locals and this man was telling me I was ‘Diaspora.’ I was not offended by the term Diaspora. It’s just that the first thought that came to my mind was, so you really have not escaped explaining where you are from.

Eventually I asked the cashier, how he came to the conclusion that I was Diaspora. He said, simple, “Diaspora girls walk differently compared to our local girls. It doesn’t matter if she is dressed identical to a local girl; I can just spot you girls out. First you all walk like you are always late for something or tight on time and you manage to walk faster than us men. While on the other hand, our local girls walk with grace, swaying their hips from side to side, using their left hand to hold their garment and take their time.”

He went on to say, “It doesn’t matter if you Diasporas are from North, South, East or West of Somalia, your dialect all sounds the same. Diasporas don’t come back here for ‘daqan celis’ (reinvigorate one’s culture) or help their country. They are here to make money off of us poor folks, confuse our system by trying to introduce these foreign concepts that are too advanced for our state at the moment. Most of you walk around with an expensive camera that weighs too heavy on your neck, taking a picture of everything that moves, interviewing anyone and everyone you meet, you are always documenting things. Take these politicians for example, some of them are running for a Governor of a region, and most likely can’t name all the districts in that region.”

Lastly he said, “please don’t take it personal as this is something I have observed throughout the years. I hope I didn’t offend you in anyway.”

The ironic thing was that as soon as I walked out of that store, I said to myself, you should write about this. I was just being told by a stranger everything I was not. You would think, one would say ‘WOW’ she came back because not a lot of Diasporas do once they assimilate to other cultures. This was epic.

I thought to myself, does the rest of the Somali population really think this way or was it just him?

One thing is for sure, I did not choose to be a Diaspora, Somalia chose it for me. I did not choose to be seen as an outsider in my own community, Somalia chose it for me. I did not choose to have lived in four different countries, and adopt few other cultures, Somalia chose it for me.

Just because I enjoy taking pictures and keep a journal does not mean I have ill intentions. Blame technology and globalization for this. Also, all these documentations and pictures that the so called ‘Diasporas’ are taking might actually be useful once we have a central information storage system for the country. I came to the conclusion that, if Somalia ever becomes united and peaceful, and expats continue to come back, there will be a

Tribe called Diaspora, his sons named America, Canada and U.K, their cousins Holland and Belgium and their friend Suju.

My Backyard: A Sight to See

When one hears Somalia he/she would expect to read about the negative light that had buried the country’s diverse rich history and existence. Use any search engine and the first thing that pops up about Somalia is piracy, Famine, failed state, corruption, armed civilians e.t.c. Every article I read starts with something like ‘Somalia has been suffering of a failed state, war torn, plagued by war lords, famine ...’

In school, when governance is mentioned Somalia is always referred to as the ‘how not to’. There was nothing but negativity being reported, no one or few were reporting the rich cultural history of it, or how Somalia is a nation of poets, or how generosity and resiliency is embedded in the social fabric of Somalis. 

As part of the Somali Diaspora, I grew up thinking that I didn’t owe allegiance to my homeland because I truly believed what was shown to me in the media and social outlets. It felt like a brain wash, an attack on Somali Diasporas to believe that we can never claim Somalia as our own and that we should be grateful not to be there, almost forgetting what our backyard is like. 

While residing in the US I felt out of place in a sense because here I was in a country I couldn’t claim as my homeland (birth place) yet the place I call home I couldn’t go back to. Not that I am saying America didn’t welcome me or provide me with great opportunities, it’s just that home is where the heart is and I was longing for my first home. My parents and relatives were always over excited when they talked about Somalia but here I was feeling lost and thinking: are they crazy? that Somalia couldn’t have existed. I was forced to put on a mask of disguise, never express my longing to feel the warm deep red soil between the fingers of my feet and the eagerness to swim in the clear blue waters with an all year round warm weather, or enjoy the mangos and bananas we are so famous for, or wear my ‘bati’ (which I think is pretty liberating by the way cause you don’t have to worry about what you are going to wear that day and how you are going to style your hair) amongst many other things.

On November, 2012 I decided I wanted to take a leap of life and go to Somalia. What could I lose at this point? death is going to come wherever I am anyways. It could have been on the 395 highway in VA, the orange metro line in DC, or worse I could have been standing right outside my house in Fairfax and simply just drop dead. So why was I so afraid to go to my birth place if death is everywhere?  After twenty one years of living in the ‘qurbaha’ (abroad) which felt like an eternity, I got on a plane and I knew where my destination was, Somalia. 

Let me tell you my friends, the flight from Kenya to Somalia was pretty scary. It was a small 8-10 passenger plane, and it rocked like a baby’s crib in the air. For a minute I thought this is it, you came and found death. So I started reading ayatul Kursi (a verse from the Qur’an) over and over, and I just don’t know when and how I fell asleep in a rocking plane.

After four hours I landed in Bosaso, Somalia. You may know it as the ‘land of the pirates’ but I knew I was in a land where there were free coast guards, guarding what is their God given right. My God, the view of the ocean from the plane was breath taking, to die for. After the plane safely landed, the door opened and I was embraced with a fresh warm air which smelled like the ocean breeze. Almost missed a step while trying to chase that ocean smell with my nose, fortunately the young man with the warm welcoming smile standing by the steps caught my arm and said ‘ku soo dhawow Bosaso walaal’, welcome to Bosaso. I reached down for the earth, grabbed a handful of soil rubbed it between my hands and felt a sense of calmness and peace within. 

Home sweet home, I was in a euphoric state of mind.

I stayed in Bosaso for a few days, my first impression didn’t match up to the perception I had, it was better than expected. Although the planning of the city was pretty poor and old, it was distinctive; it spoke to you in a way. There was a mix of new and elaborate houses that represented hope of the future and old run down houses that sort of reminds you of the past. The market was lively; the chaotic traffic was like a jingle unique to this place. It is filled with everything and anything you can think of. I saw things that one would need to special order in the US, here you could easily walk into a store and grab it that same day. The port was right there, everything came in abundance. I used to hear people tell me Somalis are business minded by nature but to see them in action was priceless. I didn’t see an army of pirates like everyone thinks, I saw ordinary folks going about their business and living. 

These people are happier than you and I, they are content, life here is viewed as a gift not a right. There was something humbling about this that gave me butterflies in my stomach.

My next destination was Badhan in the Sanaag region, the road to Badhan was pretty rough, but the presence of the nature was loud and raw, pleasing to the eye. I just couldn’t get enough of it. There was something so beautiful and magnificent about an under developed and untouched land. Herds of camel and other livestock in hundreds grazing everywhere with young men ‘geel jire’ (nomad) chasing them around to keep them in the flock. Let me not forget about the striking hills that surrounded everywhere, great for hiking and family picnics. I was told here in some of these hills were salt, luban, and marble stones amongst many other natural resources. I’ll admit it was a pretty rocky and rough road that sometimes wouldn’t let you stay still in your seat; I was bouncing up and down, definitely nothing I was used to. I guess it’s true when they say to experience personal growth one needs to get out of their comfort zone, that I did indeed. The weather there was sort of nippy, people had their own personal gardens of fresh fruits and other vegetables in their houses. Kids in all ages playing soccer, chasing goats around and the elderly sitting outside with a cup of tea laughing from the top of their lungs was a sight to see. Badhan is the perfect location when you want to get away from the city life and enjoy nature at it’s true state.

So far I have visited the regions of Bari, Nugal, Sool, Sanaag, Mudug and hope to visit plenty more working my way down South. Mogadishu is definitely on my bucket list, hopefully visit the hospital I was born in and the streets I played in as a kid and try to imagine the Somalia my parents always told me about.

I tell you my friends Somalia is well alive, it’s not dead, claim it, own it, don’t hunch back your shoulders, put up your head up and be proud to be a Somali. The language is so rich, the traditions are rare, the land is prosperous and the people are resilient. Interesting journeys make interesting people and it all starts with a single step. It may not amount to glitz and glam some of us are used to but it’s glamorous in it’s own way.It is definitely a sight to see!

A New Dawn

The beginning of a new year is always promising and full of hope. We spent much of December and beginning of January planning the dreams and aspirations we hope to achieve in the new year. I for one had a very fulfilling 2012 and so my only real goal for 2013 is to try and stay on course.

I was very lucky to have been able to travel to Somalia last year and play a small part in the political changes the country was going through as well as help highlight some of the developmental challenges that still plague many regions. One of the main issues that weighed heavy on my heart, and that I wish to focus on in this brief note, is the haphazardness in the way many people were operating and this is largely due to people meddling in areas that are outside their skill-sets. It sounds very elementary but chaos certainly rises from people trying to do jobs they are not equipped to do. And this is across the board from politics to media, education and humanitarianism, I saw people young and old with lots of enthusiasm and zeal but zero clue of what ought to be done. I sadly also noticed how many people are in it for the wrong reasons, seeking praise and recognition without putting in the hard work. This is an underestimated and overlooked issue that can be costly if it is not addressed.

That being said, I remain inspired by the few that are the exception to the above issue, especially the youth both from the diaspora and within Somalia that put their degrees and professional experience to good use in places where they are really needed. It's these kinds of efforts that need to be sought out, empowered and promoted. The youth really can make the necessary change, if equipped with the right guidance and support as their hearts are often clean from the traumas of clannism.

This is the time where the older generation needs to put their differences aside and come together to inspire the next generation of leaders and in order for that to come to fruition, older generation need to start reflecting on the kind of influence they have on their youngsters and whether this can bring positive changes in the long run.
More than anything,sincerity and a revival of moral conscientiousness needs to take place among all that wish to work towards the rebuilding of Somalia.
May this year be the year she starts to shine.....

Will the real Somali please stand up?

Before my grandmother came to live with us when I was 7 years old, I had forgotten a lot of my spoken Somali. We were still refugees in Sweden and I had just started school, eager to keep up with the Swedish kids and my mother, who was struggling to learn this new language, encouraged me to speak Swedish at home so that we could both practise it with each other. At my pre-school, a year or so earlier, it was obvious that I was learning Swedish at a faster pace than the other refugee kids and so was placed in a Swedish kindergarten where I thrived but at the cost of losing my Somali. Looking back now, I think the other foreign children struggled to keep up because their parents were speaking their native language to them, perhaps realising that we were at a key age where the language you speak at home is the one you will grow up to speak fluently. But then came my grandmother who had been in Kenya with my aunts during the two years since we all fled from Somalia and it was immediately clear that she had no intention of speaking anything but Somali and if I wanted to be a part of our home life, I had to re-learn my mother’s tongue. You want to know the best way to learn a language? Share a room with someone who can’t understand anything else.

So over the years I learned to not only speak proper Somali but ended up speaking exactly like her; imitating her phrases and older generation words which, at times, made me sound like an old lady in a child’s body. It became an unspoken rule that we would all speak Somali at home at all times. Even though I had my own room, I continued to share my grandmother’s and we became much closer than I was to my mother. I think that whilst my mother was doing her best to balance Swedish lessons and work (not to mention setting up charities for Somali women and newer refugees), my grandmother and I remained in our own imagined Somali bubble of folktale, stories and recollections of a lost life. She raised me on stories of our people, our land; the entire nation captured in each hero and villain. She was my Somalia.

As I got older I started to realise that my cousins and peers hardly spoke Somali and when I did, they looked at me as if I was weird for speaking a language that only the adults did. I had cracked the code on how to understand the big people. When I was 8 or 9, a group of Somali girls around my age one day jumped out of nowhere after school and started to beat me. I’ll never forget how one of them, the elder, slapped me right across my face and said that I should stop pretending to be Somali because I’m not due of my lighter skin tone and lack of hijab. There was a rumour circulating that I was of mixed race, which apparently took away from my claim of being Somali because I wasn’t ‘pure’ enough. Within a year or two, I grew taller and bigger than all of them and made sure that no one ever pushed me around after that but it really stuck for a long time how someone can try to take your nationality away from you when you don’t tick all their boxes. Are you the right shade of black? Do you speak Somali fluently? Are you veiled? What’s your tribe? Are you enough of yourself?

Those of us born in the 80’s of Somali origin are now a part of a generation uprooted and scattered, a worldwide diaspora of a people either trying hard to shove their identity down or emphasise it in misguided ways by trying to take it away from others. As a generation with either very little or no memory of Somalia - what will we pass on to our children or each other when our parents pass away? One of my post-colonial heroes Frantz Fanon once said that to speak a language is to take on a world, a culture and I think that rings most true to the millions of refugees around the world who will never be able to return to their country. So how do you keep Somalia alive? Share her by embracing the fact that all of us can claim her, love her and have the right to be with her and deserve her. Talk to her, talk with her and talk about her in her own tongue and you might end up keeping the best part of yourself alive in the process.