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What If I Never Left Somalia?

Memories, Dreams, and Endless Stories

By N.M.EPublished 6 years ago 7 min read
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Being a Londoner is a big part of who I am; however, I was always deeply rooted with my Somalinimo. This was thanks to my parents who themselves had a profound love for their motherland, a place they had to flee from like many due to the circumstances. Growing up, I often dreamt about my parents' lives and wished we had footage that we could watch. Instead, we have scattered photographs of their migration rather than their childhood. During their move, they even lost their wedding photographs and video, which saddens me deeply.

Storytime in the summer has to be one of my fondest memories of my childhood. My mother would put an old mattress in our narrow ground floor balcony and there my siblings and I would all patiently sit in our pyjamas waiting for the story to begin. My mother was great at storytelling—some stories were based on true events, while others were old tales told to her when she was young and growing up in Jowhar. On one of her many trips taking food to her father's shop, monkeys had attacked her, and she later learnt never to go alone. She would describe the colour of the sun as it rose or set, the hippos bathing in the distance, the crocodiles hovering the surface of the river, and the birds chirping all during her morning walks to school. Many of her stories included animals, a sense of danger, adventure, and freedom. All the things we would never experience living in the United Kingdom.

During the more chilly nights, story time was held in the girl's room since it was bigger than my brother's room. My father would describe the resident baboon that would terrorise the local shop owners and customers in his hometown Beledweyne. He would tell us about all the crazy nicknames he and his friends would give each other. One of the names I remember was Abdi Karonto and when we asked why that was his nickname, my father told us it was because he got electrocuted once. My father never told us scary stories—he left that to my mother, who loved retelling one story in particular. It was one were young kids would go missing and the rumour was that there was a woman who was killing them and draining them of their blood. My mother and her siblings feared to leave their home after dark, not a bad scare tactic to ensure your children stay at home, I guess. After hearing this story, it would take me ages to fall asleep, I was never a fan of horror films and stories. Yet I loved story time—especially when my parents told us about their childhood and would tell us about the types of games they would play. I would close my eyes and try to picture my parents' childhood and the sort of trouble they would get in.

I always knew about the civil war in Somalia. My younger brother was always more fascinated by the history of Somalia and I guess the rest of us picked up a few things by default. Despite this, the Somalia I pictured in my mind was the one my parents painted using their own memories. I remember watching Black Hawk Down for the first time and feeling really angry. I was mad not only at the fact that they used non-Somalis to play us badly but also at the state of my motherland and the way it was being presented. We were being projected as animals, with no sense of humanity and that was far from what Somalia and its people stood for. I thought to myself: this is what people are going to think we are and this is all we will be remembered for.

I was 13 the year my parents decided half of the family would go back to Somalia for a holiday. My mother had not seen her parents for over 15 years and she was not going to go alone so my brother and I went with her. I could feel the anxiety of this trip taking over. Although they loved their home, too much time had passed and a lot had changed from what they remembered. When we finally landed we patiently waited in a car until my grandfather arrived. My mother got out of the car so fast and ran towards her father as soon as she laid eyes on him. Suddenly my mother seemed like a small child again. My brother and I walked towards them. My mother, still clinging to her father, was crying; after a short while we hugged and met him for the first time.

The car journey to Beledweyne was one of the worst experiences of my life. We were told at one of the illegal checkpoints to all get out of the car in the darkness of night. Like a herd of sheep we patiently sat on the ground, men with AK47s paced up and down, demanding money. Honestly, I thought we’d die right there and then. Thankfully, we were told we could all go back in the car and continue our journey. It took us longer than expected as we decided to continue in the morning and found somewhere safe to stop. Tears endlessly fell from my mother’s eyes—she was in so much shock. Once it was morning again we were off, and the closer we got to Beledweyne the more my mother burst with excitement. I was really excited to meet my grandmother and all my extended family. I couldn’t imagine how she felt being reunited with her whole family after so long. When she left she was only 19, her siblings were really young, some under the age of ten, and one was not even born. When we arrived and went into the house, all I remember is so much crying and hugging. It was a beautiful feeling.

Fourteen years later, I am still trying to make my way back to Somalia. These memories now leave me with a sense of sadness. Had there been no civil war we would have grown up with our grandparents and extended families. I would not have seen my parents hustle for everything they gave us. I would not have seen my mother cry just because she wanted to hug her parents. My parent’s biggest desire was for their parents to see their children, which was very difficult. The war did not only rob my parents of their family and raising their children around them, but it also robbed us of having that adventurous childhood. Even after all this, I am still very optimistic about Somalia’s prosperity. My father is the most positive minded and genuine person I know. I think that is where my hope comes from. His sheer love for his country and people is easy to see. His smile would beam when a Somali person was acknowledged for his or her brilliance, or when the diaspora youth mobilised to raise money to send back. However bad we were represented, my father never dwelled on the negative images the media put out—instead he focused on the beautiful photographs of Somalia from the past and the changes we see currently. But no matter how positive my father was, my mother’s hope had been broken. After returning home twice, she no longer saw the Somalia she left behind. Nothing looked the same and the harshness of the circumstances had made the people bitter and sometimes rude. The constant news reports of bombings overpower any good that is happening in Somalia for her. Hope is a dangerous thing and I think she just doesn’t want to keep picking her broken self up over and over again. I guess my father will always carry hope for both of them.

While on my travels, I visit beautiful places, yet I get a sense of frustration knowing that my country has so much to offer. Had it been stable many of us would be constantly on the sandy beaches and enjoying the warmth. I love being Somali and if I were given the chance to move back there without fear I would take it. I will never have such stories of growing up in Somalia to pass on to my own children but I will share the stories my parents told us, in hopes that their grandchildren develop a sense of love towards a country they may never grow up in too.

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About the Creator

N.M.E

My passion is sharing my experiences through words, I've been writing poetry for over a decade and recently self-published my first book titled 'Letters on my tongue' which can be found on Amazon. Thanks for stopping by :)

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