I grew up under a bridge in Hargeisa. It wasn’t a home. It was just a slab of concrete where the forgotten kids of the city gathered like shadows. Every night, we fought for space to sleep. The older boys always won. They had fists, and they weren’t afraid to use them. I still carry the scars on my face from the times I thought I could fight back.

During the day, we scattered across the streets, begging for food and stealing when we had to. People didn’t see us as children. To them, we were dibjir—rootless nobodies with no family, no tribe, and no place in society. Some of the boys sniffed glue to forget the hunger and cold. I didn’t. I couldn’t afford to lose my edge. On the streets, you either stayed sharp or you didn’t survive.

But even in the darkest corners of Hargeisa, there was one person who saw me.

She wasn’t my mother. I don’t know who my mother was, or my father for that matter. The old woman who raised me found me abandoned as a baby, wrapped in a cloth near the market. She wasn’t rich—she sold tea and sweets from a tiny stall on the street—but she gave me something no one else ever had: care.

She taught me to speak, told me stories, and held me when I cried. She wasn’t just kind; she was everything. But the streets don’t let you keep what you love.

She was killed by a police car while trying to cross the road. I remember the chaos around us—the shouts of vendors arguing, the honking of cars, and the dust swirling in the hot air. She held my hand tightly as we weaved through the crowd, her small frame moving with a determination I’d come to admire. But the streets that day were busier than usual. People pushed and shoved, everyone in a hurry to get somewhere.

“Stay close,” she told me, her voice steady, even as the crowd surged around us.

We were halfway across the road when it happened. A police car, speeding as if the siren wasn’t enough to part the sea of people, came out of nowhere. The crowd scattered like leaves in the wind, but she stumbled. Her hand slipped from mine, and she fell to the ground.

I screamed her name, reaching out to pull her back, but it was too late. The car didn’t stop. It hit her and kept going, as if she was nothing more than a piece of trash in the road. I ran to her, falling to my knees beside her crumpled body.

“Help!” I shouted, my voice breaking, my hands shaking as I tried to lift her. “Someone, please help!”

I sat there for what felt like hours, rocking back and forth, holding her close. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the road. Her blood had dried on my hands, but I didn’t notice. All I could think about was how warm her hand had felt in mine just moments before.

People passed by, stepping around us, their faces expressionless. Some glanced down at her, then quickly looked away, as if not seeing would absolve them of responsibility. No one stopped. No one asked if she was still alive. No one offered to help or even called for someone to take her to the hospital.

Then, when it became clear the police weren’t coming back, the crowd began to gather. Slowly, cautiously, as though death had given them permission to approach. They didn’t look at me—they only looked at her. A man bent down and touched her wrist, checking for a pulse. He shook his head and stood up.

“She’s gone,” someone murmured.

Another voice chimed in, this one older, resigned. “She was from those tribes. No one will do anything.”

There was a quiet murmur of agreement, and then they began to move. A group of men lifted her body, wrapping her in a thin cloth someone had brought from a nearby stall. I stood there, frozen, as they carried her away. They didn’t ask who I was or if I needed help. They didn’t even look at me.

I followed them for a few steps, calling out weakly, “Wait! Where are you taking her?”

One of the men turned, his face weary. “She’s dead, boy. Go back to where you came from.”

And just like that, they were gone. They took her away, disappearing into the crowd, and left me standing in the middle of the street.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the empty space where she had been. The sun was almost gone now, the shadows long and dark, swallowing the city. I looked around, searching for someone—anyone—who might see me, who might care. But the people who had gathered to take her body had dispersed.

No one asked about me. No one wondered if I had somewhere to go. I was just another boy in the streets, just another shadow.

It was in that moment that I realized something that would stay with me for the rest of my life: no one was coming for me. Not then, not ever.

I screamed for her, tugged at her lifeless body, but no one stopped to help. I stayed there until her blood dried on my hands. When I finally walked away, I wasn’t the same.

After that, the streets became my only home.

The boys under the bridge took me in, but it wasn’t out of kindness. They taught me to fight, to steal, to survive. But I was still dibjir. In Somalia, your tribe is your backbone, and I didn’t have one. People treated me like dirt because I had no roots. I grew to hate them for it—the shopkeepers who chased me away, the men who called me names, the families who pulled their children close when I walked by.

When I heard about tahriib, I didn’t hesitate. They said Europe was a place where no one cared about your family, your tribe, or your past. A place where someone like me could finally be free.

But freedom wasn’t free.

I didn’t have money to pay the smuggler, so I stole it. There was a small shop I’d been watching for weeks. The old man who ran it wasn’t careful. One evening, I slipped inside, pretending to browse. My hands shook as I reached behind the counter and grabbed the stack of cash.

He turned just as I ran out the door. My heart pounded as I darted through the streets, clutching the money like it was my lifeline. Guilt clawed at me, but I shoved it down. That money wasn’t just a way out—it was my ticket to survival.

The desert didn’t care about my survival.

The truck we rode in broke down after two days. The smuggler barked in Arabic, pointing at the endless horizon. We had to walk.

Three days. Three days of sun that burned our skin and sand that clawed at our feet. The water ran out on the first day. By the second, my tongue felt like sandpaper, and my lips were cracked and bleeding. People began to lose their minds.

One man urinated into a bottle, and others fought over it like animals. I joined the chaos without thinking. Someone’s fist smashed into my face, and I tasted blood. I clawed and swung wildly until I grabbed the bottle. The liquid was warm and bitter, but I drank it anyway. It burned my throat, but it kept me alive.

By the third day, people started collapsing. A boy my age fell beside me, whispering prayers I couldn’t understand. He begged me not to leave him, but I did. I had to. In the desert, kindness is death.

Libya was hell.

They called it a “camp,” but it was a prison. The guards made us work like animals, carrying crates and digging trenches under the blazing sun. If you moved too slowly, they beat you.

One day, I dropped a crate. My body couldn’t take it anymore. The guard slammed me to the ground and struck me with the butt of his rifle. Blood poured from my nose as he kicked me in the ribs, laughing. I wanted to fight back, but I couldn’t.

That night, I lay on the filthy floor, staring at the ceiling. My ribs ached with every breath. My face was swollen. But my hate kept me alive.

The boat was the final test.

When I saw it, my heart sank. It wasn’t a boat—it was an inflatable raft, barely holding together. They packed us so tightly we couldn’t move.

The waves were merciless. They tossed us like toys, drenching us in freezing seawater. People screamed, cried, and prayed. Some just stared blankly, their hope long gone.

I clung to the edge, my knuckles white, my heart pounding. Every wave felt like it would swallow us whole. After three days, a rescue boat found us. They pulled us aboard and gave us food and water. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at the endless sea.

Italy wasn’t the paradise I imagined. The streets were filled with people like me—immigrants who had survived tahriib only to end up homeless again. I begged for food, slept under bridges, and faced the same cold stares I’d known in Hargeisa.

When I finally made it to America, I thought things would change.

I found work in a warehouse, lifting boxes for hours. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to rent a small room. But even here, among my own people, I was an outsider.

One night, I sat in a Somali café in Minneapolis, sipping tea. A group of men at the next table were arguing.

“Tribalism destroyed us,” one said, slamming his fist on the table.

“No, it was corruption!” another shot back. “Your clan just made it worse.”

The third man laughed bitterly. “We’re in America, and we’re still talking about clans? Somalia’s problems followed us here.”

They turned to me. “What do you think, brother? Does Somalia have hope?”

I looked at them, then at the steaming cup in my hands. “Hope doesn’t matter,” I said. “Not if we keep carrying the same wounds. Not if we can’t even see each other as people.”

They stared at me, confused. I sighed. “I don’t have a clan. I don’t even know my father’s name. I was born on the streets, raised by an old woman who was killed in front of me. After that, I lived under a bridge, fighting for scraps. And you know what Somalis called me? Dibjir. A nobody.”

The room fell silent. Their stares burned into me, but I didn’t care.

“I hated you,” I said, my voice shaking. “I hated all of you for treating me like I didn’t exist. And now, here we are, in a country that doesn’t care who we are, still clinging to the same divisions that broke us.”

I stood up, leaving my untouched tea on the table. As I walked out into the cold night, I realized something:

The hardest part of tahriib wasn’t the desert, the camp, or the sea. It was surviving the hatred—of others, of myself, of everything I thought I couldn’t escape.

Maybe I’ll never escape it. But maybe the fight isn’t about escaping. Maybe it’s about learning how to carry the weight without letting it crush you.

Mohamed Eid

Dear America,

As a Somali American, I want to share a perspective on racism that might feel both familiar and foreign to you. Living in the United States, I’ve come to see the ways racial divides shape American society, and I can understand even the subtle forms of discrimination because I once participated in something similar back in Somalia. I grew up in a tribal society where one’s tribe could determine one’s fate, affect one’s opportunities, and even define who one could or could not associate with. In many ways, I have seen the same patterns of social stratification, discrimination, and division that now surround me in America.

I recognize the nuanced ways racism shows up here because I’ve seen these tricks before. Tribalism in Somalia and racism in America might be different on the surface, but they share the same destructive logic that separates people, reinforces hierarchies, and leaves lasting wounds. These divisions are not natural; they are constructs, created and maintained by societies that have normalized them over generations. I invite you to understand these similarities as a step toward breaking free from them.

Social Stratification and Privilege: Determining “Who You Are” and “What You Get”

In Somalia, tribal identity dictates social status. Dominant clans hold the power, resources, and influence, while minority clans struggle for a fair share of opportunity and representation. When I came to the United States, I found a similar hierarchy—only this time, it was based on race. For centuries, white Americans have held privileges denied to racial minorities, creating a society where skin color can define one’s opportunities.

Having witnessed tribal privilege in Somalia, I understand how social hierarchies are reinforced. I recognize how subtle biases create a sense of entitlement for some and barriers for others. When I see people of color facing discrimination, I recall how I saw certain tribes turned away from jobs, excluded from political representation, or denied educational opportunities. Both systems hinge on the idea that some people deserve more than others based on characteristics they can’t control.

Discrimination and Exclusion: Creating Insiders and Outsiders

Discrimination exists in both societies, enforcing boundaries that separate the “insiders” from the “outsiders.” In America, racial minorities often face exclusion in employment, housing, and even social circles. These experiences remind me of Somalia, where one’s tribal affiliation could limit their access to resources, influence, and acceptance.

As a Somali American, I can sense the subtle ways discrimination operates here—job rejections, guarded looks, and polite but firm boundaries. They echo the discrimination I saw in Somalia, where entire clans were sidelined for generations. Whether through race or tribe, these systems create insiders and outsiders, leading to resentment and division. Living between these worlds, I recognize the exclusion even when it’s cloaked in polite indifference or unconscious bias.

Conflict and Violence: The Cost of Division

Both tribalism and racism have led to conflict, stirring tensions that, when unchecked, erupt into violence. In America, racial tensions have sparked civil unrest, with minorities fighting for justice, dignity, and basic rights. In Somalia, tribal affiliations fueled conflicts that tore the country apart, with clans vying for power and survival.

When I see protests and civil unrest in America, I empathize deeply. I know the roots of this anger because I’ve seen it manifest in my homeland. It grows out of years of exclusion, systemic injustice, and denied rights. The anger of those seeking justice is a reminder of the universal need for fairness, respect, and belonging—a need unmet in societies divided by race or tribe.

Identity Politics: When Identity Drives Alliances

Both racism and tribalism shape political identity and alliances. In America, race frequently determines political alignments, just as clan affiliation has a significant impact on Somali politics. When I first encountered American politics, I realized that it wasn’t simply about ideas; it was about identity. Racial identity frequently determines which leaders, policies, and social issues people support.

Having grown up in a system where clan alliances dictate political allegiance, I understand how difficult it can be to move beyond these boundaries. The way Somali politics operates around clan interests has shown me that identity-based politics can prevent real progress, creating a cycle of division rather than unity. In America, where race still heavily influences political alignment, the divide often feels similar, limiting the possibilities for real unity.

Barriers to Unity: Preventing Progress

Ultimately, both racism and tribalism present barriers to unity. In Somalia, tribal affiliations prevent us from imagining a nation that works beyond clan interests, leaving us fragmented and unstable. In America, race has the same effect. Racial divisions weaken the idea of a united national identity, creating a polarized society where people struggle to trust one another.

When we allow these divisions to define us, we create fear and mistrust, impeding efforts to build a more inclusive society. In Somalia, this has made it difficult to establish a stable government or a cohesive national identity. In America, racism hinders the possibility of a truly united nation where all citizens, regardless of their background, enjoy equal opportunities and rights.

A Call for Reflection and Change

Dear America, I’ve lived in two worlds shaped by division, and I share this perspective not to criticize but to encourage reflection. Somalia has shown me the cost of allowing tribalism to divide us, from lost potential to generations scarred by conflict. The price of division is high, whether based on race or tribe, and it leaves scars on individuals and societies alike.

Recognizing these similarities is a step toward breaking free from these divisions. America, with its diversity, resources, and ideals, has a unique opportunity to move beyond its racial divides. The strength of any society lies in its unity, in its ability to respect and embrace differences without letting them define who deserves dignity, respect, and opportunity.

I invite you to reflect on these parallels to see the shared human cost of these divisions and envision a path toward unity that includes everyone. Together, we can create a society that embraces its diversity not as a weakness but as a source of strength, recognizing that our differences are only one part of a larger, shared humanity.

Gabayga “Tallan” wuxuu si qoto dheer uga hadlayaa halganka nololeed, rajo-beelka, iyo dhibta ay la kulmaan bulshooyinka hoos yimaada cadaadis siyaasadeed iyo dhaqaale. Inkasta oo gabaygu u muuqdo mid shakhsiyeed, haddana wuxuu si weyn ugu hadlayaa xaaladaha ay bulshooyinka Soomaalida Itoobiya la kulmeen ee ku saabsan gumaysiga, fursado lumay, iyo nolol adag oo aan sahlanayn. Fariimaha gabaygani wuxuu dhalinyarada barayaa in ay muhiim tahay fahamka taariikhda iyo halganka, si ay ugu diyaar garoobaan mustaqbal wanaagsan.

Tuducyada Muhiimka ah ee Dhalinyaradu Wax Ka Baran Karaan

1. Sabarka iyo Halganka Joogtada ah:

“Mana quusan tooxsiga halkaan bidayo toosnaane,

Inkastoo tabcada layla helay waan tukubayaaye.”

Inkastoo tabcada layla helay waan tukubayaaye.

Af-Magaaxshe

Gabaygu wuxuu muujinayaa in halganka nolosha u baahan yahay dulqaad iyo sii socod, xitaa marka wax walba u muuqdaan kuwo guuldarro ah. Dhalinyaradu waxay ka fahmi karaan in, inkasta oo caqabaduhu badnaan karaan, ay muhiim tahay in aan la niyad-jabin oo la sii socdo.

2. Nasiib-darro iyo Gargaar La’aanta:

“Ruux aadan taakulin raboow guul ma tooxsado’e,

Aramidaan la tafantoofayiyo gocosho taahayga.”

Aramidaan la tafantoofayiyo gocosho taahayga.

Af-Magaaxshe

Gabaygu wuxuu ka hadlayaa sida midnimada iyo taageerada bulshada ay muhiim u yihiin guusha. Dhalinyaradu waa inay ka bartaan in taageerada iyo is-kaashiga bulsheed uu yahay mid muhiim ah si loo gaaro horumar iyo yoolalka nololeed.

3. Rajo iyo Hamiga Mustaqbalka:

“Intaad tacajab dhawrayso shalay yay tagtaa barriye,

Tamanniga riyadan dheer marbay iman tisqaadkeede.”

Tamanniga riyadan dheer marbay iman tisqaadkeede.

Qaybtani waxay dhalinyarada baraysaa in rajo la haysto xitaa marka xaaladdu adag tahay. Inkasta oo riyadu qaadato waqti dheer, mar uun ayay rumoobi doontaa haddii aan la quusanin. Waxay dhalinyaradu ku dhiirran karaan inay riyadooda ku taagnaadaan oo mustaqbalkooda u hawlgalaan.

4. Qiimaha Taariikhda iyo Waayo-aragnimada:

“Taariikh dhigaal weyn kolkaad tubo u jeexayso,

Lama tiriyo iimaha wakhtigu kaaga turi waayo.”

Lama tiriyo iimaha wakhtigu kaaga turi waayo.

Af-Magaaxshe

Gabaygu wuxuu dhalinyarada xasuusinayaa in taariikhda iyo waayo-aragnimada ay yihiin hage muhiim ah. Waxay baranayaan in dhibaatooyinku ay yihiin qayb ka mid ah nolosha, balse kuwa aan ka quusanin halganka ayaa ugu dambaynta guul gaadha.

TASHI IYO DADAAL BAYSKA DHALA NOLOSHA TOOLMOONE
TARBIYADA NAFTAADAA U WAYN GUUL LA TIIGSADO’E

Af-Magaaxshe

Gunaanad: Casharka Dhalinyarada

Gabayga “Tallan” wuxuu dhalinyarada barayaa in adkaysi, dulqaad, iyo isku-duubni ay yihiin furayaasha lagu gaari karo horumar. Wuxuu sidoo kale xasuusinayaa dhalinyarada Soomaalida Itoobiya in fahamka taariikhda iyo suugaantu ay muhiim yihiin, maadaama aysan jirin horumar la gaaro iyada oo aan la fahmin waayihii hore.

Dhalinyaradu waa inay ogaadaan in noloshu mararka qaar noqon karto mid adag oo aan sahlanayn, balse kuwa aan ka quusan halganka iyo riyadooda ay ugu dambaynta guul gaadhi doonaan. Waxay ka faa’iidaysan karaan gabaygan si ay u dhisaan niyad adag iyo rajo aan dhammaanin, iyaga oo isla markaana isku xidhaya aragtidooda mustaqbalka iyo taariikhda facooda. Gabaygu wuxuu noqon karaa il dhiirrigelin ah oo u horseedda in dhalinyaradu ku baraarugaan muhiimadda suugaanta iyo halganka ay bulshada Deegaanka Soomaalidu soo martay, si ay iyagu qayb uga noqdaan mustaqbalka ifaya ee ay rajo ka qabaan.

Three Habits That Add No Value to Your Life and Can Harm Your Well-being if They Become Addictive

In today’s fast-paced world, it’s easy to fall into habits that seem harmless at first but can slowly erode our well-being and sense of self. There are three specific habits that not only fail to bring meaning to your life but can also endanger your mental health and sense of identity. Let’s explore these habits and understand why they hold us back.

1. Obsession with Celebrities and Wasting Time on Their Lives

Celebrities are everywhere—on our screens, on social media, and in conversations. The allure of fame can make it seem like knowing every detail of a celebrity’s life might somehow improve our own. But the hard truth is, no matter how much you admire or defend them, celebrities have no direct impact on your personal life. They do not know you, nor can they offer anything that adds value to your day-to-day existence.

Spending time following their lives can distract you from focusing on your own goals and growth. As the American author and educator David McCullough Jr. put it, “Fame is a vapor, popularity an accident, and riches take wings. Only one thing endures, and that is character.” Instead of getting lost in the lives of others, concentrate on building your character, and your success.

2. Trying to Please Others, Whether They Are Close to You or Online

We live in a world where social validation has become a currency. Whether it’s likes on social media or approval from friends and family, many of us spend a significant amount of energy trying to please those around us. But the more you focus on pleasing others, the further you move from your true self and your authentic purpose.

The renowned psychologist Carl Jung once said, “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” Yet, many people sacrifice that privilege in the pursuit of external validation. They lose themselves in the opinions of others, forgetting their path. In the words of Tyler Durden from Fight Club, “We buy things we don’t need with money; we don’t have to impress people we don’t like.” It’s a cycle of self-deception that pulls you away from living authentically.

Rather than seeking constant approval, invest time understanding your desires and aspirations. Let your actions reflect your values and goals, not the expectations of others. Only by doing so will you find lasting fulfillment.

3. The Constant Need to Be Right

There’s an adage: “You can be right, or you can be happy.” Many people spend an enormous amount of time proving their correctness in arguments, debates, and even minor interactions. But constantly needing to be right doesn’t add to your wisdom or peace. It can rob you of valuable opportunities to grow.

As Aristotle said, “The more you know, the more you realize you don’t know.” Being open to learning from mistakes and others is what fosters growth. If you always strive to prove you’re right, you close yourself off from learning something new. The best use of your time is not to prove others wrong but to correct and learn from your mistakes.

Adopt the mindset that every interaction is an opportunity to learn. When you approach life with curiosity rather than the need to be right, you’ll find that your understanding deepens, your relationships improve, and your sense of fulfillment grows.

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In conclusion, these three habits—obsession with celebrities, the constant need to please others, and the desire to always be right—do not enrich our lives. They take away from the time and energy we could use to cultivate our true selves, learn from our mistakes, and pursue what truly matters to us. By letting go of these habits, you’ll free yourself to live a more authentic and meaningful life.

@murtidamaxamed

Part 6: Coming Home and Finding His Voice

Isma’il returned home after a couple of years in Kenya, his heart heavy with a mix of anticipation, resentment, and fear. The long flight back to the U.S. had given him too much time to think—about his parents, their rigid expectations, and the emotional distance that had grown between them. He had changed, but he wasn’t sure if his parents were ready to see it. The boy they sent away was different, and he wasn’t sure how they would react to the man who returned.

As he stepped through the door of their home, the familiar smell of his mother’s cooking hit him, but it didn’t bring the comfort it once had. His parents stood there, waiting for him with cautious smiles as if trying to read the mood. Isma’il forced a small smile in return, but the tension in the room was palpable. They sat down at the dinner table, exchanging the usual pleasantries, but no one addressed the elephant in the room—why he had been sent away, how it had affected him, and what their relationship would look like now.

It wasn’t until later, when the dishes were cleared and the house was quiet, that Isma’il finally spoke.

“I’m not the same person you sent away,” he said, his voice steady but tense. “And I need you to understand that. I need you to understand how much it hurt that you sent me there—to Dhaqan Celis—without ever talking to me about what I was going through.”

His parents exchanged glances, their expressions guarded. His father, the first to speak, cleared his throat.

“Waxaan kuugu dirnay wadankii waayo dan bay ahayd,” his father began. “Qorshuhu wuxuu ahaa inaad soo barato dhaqankeena iyo meesha aad ka timid. Waad kasii fogaanaysay, waxaan u aragnay inuu yahay xalka keliya oo kugu habboon,” which meant, “We sent you because it was necessary. You needed to learn our culture and where you came from. You were drifting away, and we thought it was the only solution.”

Isma’il shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Xal ma ahayn, waad i tarxiisheen, waanad i fogayseen,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “It wasn’t a solution. You exiled me; you pushed me away.”

“You didn’t listen to me. You didn’t even try to understand what I was going through. You just sent me away like I was a problem to be fixed.”

“You didn’t listen to me. You didn’t even try to understand what I was going through. You just sent me away like I was a problem to be fixed.”

His mother’s eyes welled with tears, her hands trembling slightly. “Waan kuu walwalsaneyn, Isma’il. Waxaanu ka baqeynay in aan ku weyno,” she said softly. “Maanu rabin inaad ku sii socoto dariiq aan kugu habboonayn,” meaning, “We were worried, Isma’il. We were afraid of losing you. We didn’t want you going down a path that wasn’t right for you.”

“You already lost me,” Isma’il replied, his voice soft but firm. “Markaad ii dirteen, waxaad jarteen xidhiidhkii aniga iyo idinka—dareen ahaan.” (“When you sent me away, you cut me off from you—emotionally.”) “You didn’t just exile me to Kenya—you pushed me away from you.”

There was a long silence, heavy with unspoken emotions. His parents didn’t have an answer, and for the first time, Isma’il saw them not as the strict enforcers of tradition but as people—flawed, scared, and uncertain. They had made mistakes, and they knew it. But it wasn’t enough. Isma’il needed more than their silent regret; he needed them to see the damage they had done.

“I’m back,” he said finally, “but I’m not here to go back to how things were. I want us to talk—talk—about what happened. And I need you to understand that I’m going to speak out against Dhaqan Celis. What you did to me—it’s happening to so many other kids in our community, and it has to stop.”

His father stiffened, but his mother looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “Maxaad ula jeeddaa inaad ka hadli doonto?” she asked, which meant, “What do you mean you will speak about it?”

His father stiffened, but his mother looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “Maxaad ula jeeddaa inaad ka hadli doonto?” she asked, which meant, “What do you mean you will speak about it?”

“I’m going to start advocating against it,” Isma’il said. “I’ve seen what it does to kids—how it tears them apart. Sending us away to ‘fix’ us isn’t the answer. We must communicate and understand each other, not isolate ourselves.”

His father’s voice was sharp. “Ma u maleyneysaa inaan ku fahmi weynay? Waxaan sameynay wixii aan kugu ilaalin karnay. Waxaad ku socotay socotay dariiq qaldan,” which meant, “Do you think we didn’t understand you? We did what we thought was protecting you. You were going down the wrong path.”

“No,” Isma’il replied, “waad iga baqdeen, oo cabsidiinu waxay iga reebtay inaad i maqashaan.” (“You were afraid of me, and your fear kept you from hearing me.”) “But fear can’t be an excuse to avoid understanding me. We need to build bridges between our cultures, not tear each other apart because we’re different.”

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Over the next few weeks, Isma’il’s relationship with his parents remained tense, but there was a slow shift. His advocacy work within the Somali community began almost immediately. He started small, sharing his experience with close friends and relatives, explaining the emotional toll Dhaqan Celis had taken on him. But as word spread, more and more people reached out—parents, teenagers, young adults who had gone through the same ordeal. Some supported him, while others pushed back, clinging to the belief that Dhaqan Celis was necessary to preserve Somali identity.

But Isma’il remained undeterred. He partnered with local Somali community organizations, holding workshops and discussion panels about the impacts of Dhaqan Celis and advocating for alternative ways to address the generational and cultural divides within immigrant families. He met with parents, sharing his story not with anger but with a genuine desire to bridge the gap between them and their children.

At first, many parents were defensive, seeing him as a threat to their way of raising children in a foreign land. But over time, some began to listen. They saw that he wasn’t trying to undermine their authority or disrespect their culture—he was trying to save their children from the pain and isolation that came from being sent away without understanding.

One evening, after a particularly emotional panel where Isma’il spoke about his experiences in Kenya, an elder from the Somali community approached him. The man’s face was weathered, his eyes filled with years of experience and wisdom.

“You’re brave to speak like this,” the elder said in Somali. “But be careful, young man. Our culture is precious. We cannot lose it.”

“I’m not trying to make us lose it,” Isma’il replied, meeting the elder’s gaze. “I’m trying to protect it. But we can’t protect it by sending our children away. We have to teach them, talk to them, and understand them. That’s how we preserve our culture.”

The elder studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Waa runtaa,” he said. “Laakiin wey adkaan doontaa. Dad badan way diidi doonaan,” meaning, “You’re right, but it will be hard. Many people will resist.”

“I know,” Isma’il said, his voice resolute. “But I’m willing to try.”

---

As Isma’il’s advocacy work grew, so did his connections within the community. Despite the initial resistance, he found himself bonding with people he had once felt alienated from. Elders who had once dismissed him began to respect his perspective, even if they didn’t always agree. His parents, though still struggling to understand his point of view fully, began to see the value in his work. They attended one of his panels—sitting quietly in the back but there, listening.

Isma’il knew he wasn’t perfect. He still carried the scars of his exile and felt the pull between two worlds, but he had found his voice. He was no longer the boy caught between cultures, unsure of where he belonged. He was building his own path, advocating for change, and in doing so, he was starting to heal—not just himself but the community he loved, flaws and all.

Through his advocacy, Isma’il realized his story was not unique. It was the story of an entire generation of Somali kids navigating the complexities of identity, culture, and belonging. And while the path forward was uncertain, Isma’il knew that there was hope for change as long as he kept speaking and advocating. He penned down his last poem about this chapter of his life, summarizing all that he dealt with and said,

I was sent to the land of my roots,
But my heart was still here, caught between two truths.
You thought you were saving me from a life gone astray,
But exile is a wound that won’t fade away.

You saw me as lost, a son out of line.
But you never asked what was breaking inside.
You feared my future, so you buried the past.
hoping the boy you knew would finally return.

But I came back different—not the one you expected.
A man with a voice that can’t be neglected.
I’ve seen what silence does and how it tears us apart.
And now I stand, healing the scars in my heart.

Dhaqan Celis, you broke me, but now I am whole.
A warrior for those who’ve paid the same toll.
No more exile or sending us away—we’ll bridge this divide differently.

I am still your son, though I’ve walked through the flame.
But I carry our stories; I carry our name.
Let’s talk, not of punishment but of what we can be.
for the roots that you saved still grow within me.

@murtidamaxamed

• Maqaalo
• Poetry

Part 4: A Mirror Of Insecurity

The argument started over something as simple as shoes. Isma’il had asked for a new pair of Jordans—ones that his classmates at school wore, something that would help him fit in a little better. But as soon as he made the request, his mother shut it down.

“Kuuma awoodno kobahaase, kibirka iska dhaaf wiiloow. We can’t afford that, stop being arrogant!” she snapped, her voice tinged with both frustration and exhaustion. “Ma ogtahay lacagta la iga rabo inaan wadankii u diro? Eedooyinkaa, habaryarahaa—inaan caawinay rabaan! Do you know how much money we have to send back home every month? Your aunts, your uncles—they need our help. And we’re still building the house!”

“But we’re here,” Isma’il argued. “Why do we have to keep sending all our money back? It’s not like we’re ever going to live in that house.”

His mother looked at him as if he had spoken some great blasphemy. “Because we’re Somali, Isma’il. We don’t forget our family just because we’re in America. That’s what you don’t understand yet.”

Isma’il stormed off, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. To him, it felt like everything he wanted was always a battle—caught between what was “necessary” and what was part of his life in America. Shoes weren’t just shoes to him; they were a way to fit in, to feel less like an outsider at school. But to his mother, they were an unnecessary expense when so much of their income was tied to responsibilities in Somalia.

It wasn’t just about the money—it was about priorities. His parents were still deeply rooted in the world they had left behind, and for them, helping family back home and investing in the house was a matter of honor and duty. But to Isma’il, Somalia felt like a distant place, more like a dream his parents clung to than a reality he was part of. He questioned why a place that didn’t seem to shape him at all was shaping so much of their life in America.

His mother looked at him as if he had spoken some great blasphemy. “Because we’re Somali, Isma’il. We don’t forget our family just because we’re in America. That’s what you don’t understand yet.”

The disconnect between them was growing more profound. His mother was constantly wiring money back to family members in Somalia, talking about the progress of the house they were building—a house that Isma’il didn’t think they’d ever live in. But when it came to his life, his needs, everything felt like a struggle. The shoes he wanted, the way he felt caught between worlds at school—those things seemed insignificant in the shadow of his parents’ ongoing devotion to their homeland.

This internal tug of war was only one part of the broader struggle Isma’il faced. At home, he was seen as too “American,” his grasp on Somali language and culture slipping through his fingers. At school, he was seen as too “Somali,” the gap between him and his peers growing as he failed to fully embrace either world.

---

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling day at school, Isma’il stopped by the Somali-owned grocery store near his house. He liked going there—not just for the snacks, but because it reminded him that, despite everything, he was still part of a community. Even if he didn’t always feel like he belonged, seeing familiar faces offered some small sense of comfort.

That’s when he met Mohamed.

Mohamed was new to the neighborhood, and his face seemed to light up the room when Isma’il entered. They exchanged the usual greetings, and Mohamed asked him for some help with the groceries. As they packed bags together, Isma’il noticed something—Mohamed’s Somali was perfect. It flowed effortlessly, rhythmic, and fluid, a stark contrast to Isma’il’s hesitant, broken words. But when Mohamed switched to English, it became clear that he struggled, his voice faltering as he searched for the right words.

“Can… can you help me with this word?” Mohamed asked cautiously, pointing at a sign. His thick accent and the uncertainty in his voice made it clear he was uncomfortable speaking English.

He liked going there—not just for the snacks, but because it reminded him that, despite everything, he was still part of a community. Even if he didn’t always feel like he belonged, seeing familiar faces offered some small sense of comfort.

Isma’il nodded, still a little taken aback by Mohamed’s fluid Somali. He knew that feeling of self-consciousness all too well. For years, he had been on the receiving end of the same kind of nervous hesitation, but in reverse.

As they worked through the groceries and spoke more, a connection began. Mohamed explained that he had only arrived in the U.S. a few months ago. “Waligayba waan ka baqaa ku hadalka ingiriisiga,” he admitted. “I’m always afraid to speak English. Everyone looks at me like I’m stupid.”

Isma’il couldn’t help but laugh, but it wasn’t at Mohamed—it was at the irony of it all. Here was someone who felt just as isolated as he did, but for the exact opposite reasons. Where Mohamed was afraid of his broken English, Isma’il was crippled by his fractured Somali. They were mirrors of each other, both trapped by their linguistic insecurities.

---

From that moment on, Isma’il and Mohamed became unlikely companions. They leaned on each other, not just for language practice, but for emotional support. Mohamed would come over after work, and they’d sit together in Isma’il’s room, sometimes helping each other through language lessons. Isma’il would help Mohamed practice English, correcting his pronunciation with the same patience that he wished his Somali community had shown him.

In return, Mohamed’s pure Somali became something Isma’il began to treasure. There was a fluidity to Mohamed’s speech that made him yearn for the fluency he never seemed to grasp. Mohamed’s Somali was uncontaminated by years of English influence, and listening to him speak was like hearing the beating heart of a culture Isma’il had believed he would never fully comprehend.

---

At home, however, the argument over the shoes continued to simmer in the back of Isma’il’s mind. His mother’s words haunted him—her insistence that they couldn’t afford luxuries when they had a family and a home to take care of back in Somalia. It wasn’t just the Jordans that stung; it was the realization that his needs, the things that mattered to him in his American life, always seemed secondary to a place he barely knew. A place that his parents carried with them like a shadow.

Mohamed, in many ways, was a mirror for Isma’il. But while Mohamed struggled to fit into the American world, Isma’il was still grappling with his place in the Somali one. Mohamed’s struggles with English were the same as Isma’il’s with Somali, but unlike his mother, Mohamed never made Isma’il feel ashamed of his imperfections. Instead, they shared a mutual understanding of what it felt like to be caught between worlds.

One evening, as they sat in Isma’il’s room practicing language lessons, Mohamed looked at him seriously. “You know why I came here?” he asked. Isma’il shook his head, waiting for the answer. Mohamed hesitated before speaking again. “I thought learning English was the key to a better life. But now, I realize I’ll always be Somali first, no matter how well I speak it.”

Mohamed, in many ways, was a mirror for Isma’il. But while Mohamed struggled to fit into the American world, Isma’il was still grappling with his place in the Somali one.

---

Isma’il, let those words sink in. Mohamed wasn’t afraid to own his Somali identity, even in a world that valued only his ability to assimilate. It was powerful, this self-assuredness Mohamed carried, and Isma’il couldn’t help but envy it. But it also gave him something to hold onto—an understanding that he didn’t need to be perfect in either world. With his broken English and flawless Somali, Mohamed proved that identity wasn’t about mastering one language or culture. It was about finding peace in the space between.

As Isma’il reflected on the argument with his mother, he realized that her devotion to Somalia wasn’t about rejecting him or his life in America. It was about preserving something she held sacred, something that kept them connected to their roots. But Isma’il’s reality was different. For him, the bridge between Somalia and America was where he stood, balancing the tension between the two worlds.

In that space, he could find a sense of belonging. Just as Mohamed was doing, Isma’il would have to learn that it wasn’t about choosing one identity over the other—it was about learning to live in both, however imperfectly.

He opened his notebook and wrote: “A bridge is not just for crossing,
It’s for standing still,
Between two lands,
With no need to choose.”

@murtidamaxamed

Part 3: The Threat of Dhaqan Celis

The more Ismail tried to connect with his Somali roots, the more he felt the pressure of impossibility. He knew his parents’ expectations were growing heavier with each passing day. He struggled with the language, and the Somali music he tried to appreciate, and his inability to fit in with his Somali peers at school meant that he continued to feel like an outsider.

At home, the tension was even worse. His parents noticed how much more English he spoke, and every meal turned into a battlefield, especially with his father, whose disappointment had become impossible to hide. “Maxaad rabtaa inaad noqoto, wiilkaygiiyow?” his father would ask him, the frustration evident in his voice. “What do you want to become, my son? Maxaad ku hadlaysaa, Miyaanad Soomaali aqoon? Soomaali ma tihid miyaa?”

Ismail could never muster a proper response. His head would drop in shame, and his father’s voice would only rise in frustration. “Isma’il, waxaad halkaan u timid inaad waddankaaga ku faanto, waxaad lumisay luuqadii iyo dhaqankaagii! Waxaad rabtaa inaad iska dhigto qof kale!”

His father’s accusations sting. You’ve come here to be proud of your country, but now you’re losing your language and culture! You want to become someone else! The words pierced his identity, reinforcing how much of a failure he felt in trying to meet his parents’ cultural expectations. His mother, once the peacemaker, now chimed in with disapproval.

“Haddii aad sidaan ku socoto, waxaan kuu diraynaa Dhaqan Celis!” his father snapped one evening, unable to contain his anger any longer.

Ismail froze. The dreaded Dhaqan Celis—the phrase every first-generation Somali kid feared. It was a threat of being sent back to Somalia to learn the “proper” ways of being Somali, where extended family would strip away any traces of American influence and force them to conform to Somali traditions.

“Haddii aad sidaan ku socoto, waxaan kuu diraynaa Dhaqan Celis!” his father snapped one evening, unable to contain his anger any longer.

Ismail, The forgotten ones

He had heard the stories from other Somali kids who had returned from their Dhaqan Celis. They had come back hardened, distant, and often more confused than before. It was meant to fix them. but more often than not, it left scars—both visible and hidden. The thought of being sent away, stripped of the comforts of home, terrified Ismail.

His mother added fuel to the fire. “Haddii aad noocan u hadasho, waxba ma noqon doontid. Dhaqan xumo weeye inaad ku dhex lunto Soomaali iyo Ingiriis!”

If you keep speaking like this, you won’t become anyone. It’s shameful to be lost between Somali and English!

The weight of their words crushed him. His parents weren’t just disappointed in his lack of academic or social success; they believed he was losing his very essence—his Somali soul.

From that point, the threat of Dhaqan Celis became a constant shadow looming over him. His father would bring it up at every opportunity, sometimes casually during dinner, sometimes as a stern warning: “Waxaad lumisay xidhiidhkii wadankeena. Waa inaad tagtaa si aad u baratid. Halkaan waxba ku baran maysid.”

You’ve lost your connection to our country. You need to go there to learn. You won’t learn anything here.

Each mention of Somalia left Ismail feeling more alienated. It felt like he wasn’t just disappointing his parents; he was losing himself in a culture clash that had no easy solution. He wanted to scream that no trip to Somalia would fix him, no forced immersion would undo the confusion he felt. Geographical factors alone were unable to bridge the cultural gap.

So he sought comfort where he could, diving deeper into music—an escape where the lines between Somali and American didn’t matter. He tried listening to more Somali artists, hoping something would finally click, but the more he listened, the more foreign the music felt. It was beautiful, sure, but it wasn’t his. He felt like an imposter trying to claim a heritage that he couldn’t fully understand.

K’naan, the Somali-Canadian rapper, was his only solace. In K’naan’s lyrics, Ismail heard echoes of his struggle. “Wavin’ Flag” became his anthem, capturing the tension between resilience and hopelessness, between pride and disillusionment. 

Yet even K’naan’s music couldn’t fully drown out the tension at home. His father’s demands grew louder, and his mother’s warnings sharper. One night, after another painful argument, his father’s threat became more real. “Berri baan ticket kuu jaraynaa haddii aad sidan ku sii socoto!” We’ll buy you a ticket tomorrow if this continues!

“When I get older, I will be stronger, Just like a waving flag.” K’naan

K’naan, too, had walked the line between worlds, trying to find his place between his Somali heritage and the Western world.

One night, after another painful argument, his father’s threat became more real. “Berri baan ticket kuu jaraynaa haddii aad sidan ku sii socoto!” We’ll buy you a ticket tomorrow if this continues!
“When I get older, I will be stronger, Just like a waving flag.” K’naan

Ismail, The forgotten ones

Ismail fled to his room, his hands shaking as he slammed the door. He plugged in his headphones, cranking up the volume of the song that he was listening to until the house around him dissolved into the music. But his mind was racing. Dhaqan Celis—they were serious this time. He could feel it in the finality of his father’s words.

With a rush of fear and anger, he grabbed his notebook and began to scribble furiously, letting his thoughts pour onto the page. Once a quiet outlet for reflection, his poetry became a vent for his frustration. The lines came fast and raw, reflecting the storm raging inside him:

“Between two lands, I am neither;
I speak with a tongue that’s broken in half.
A mother’s love I cannot reach,
A father’s pride I cannot grasp,
Lost between the ocean and the desert,
I am the one you’ve forgotten.”

His hands trembled as he wrote, but the poetry wasn’t helping this time. It didn’t give him the release he usually found. Instead, it left him with more questions and more fear.

Was Dhaqan Celis the solution? Would he finally feel Somali if he was sent back, thrown into a world that had always felt just out of reach? Or would it only deepen the gap between him and the identity he so desperately sought?

As the possibility of Dhaqan Celis hung over him like a dark cloud, Ismail began to question everything. Was he more afraid of losing his American identity, or was it the thought of never truly belonging to his Somali heritage that terrified him more?

Was Dhaqan Celis the solution? Would he finally feel Somali if he was sent back, thrown into a world that had always felt just out of reach? Or would it only deepen the gap between him and the identity he so desperately sought?

Ismail, The forgotten ones

That night, the paradox of his existence pressed down on him heavier than ever. He picked up his pen again, writing one final line:

“I am the hyphen that never connects—a bridge without land on either side.”

“I am the hyphen that never connects,
a bridge without land on either side.”

Ismail, The forgotten ones

The weight of his parent’s expectations, the pressure to fit into two worlds, and the looming threat of Dhaqan Celis all converged in that single, unresolved thought. For Ismail, the journey was far from over, and the questions that haunted him would not be silenced so easily.

@murtidamaxamed

• Maqaalo
• Poetry

Part 2: The Disconect

By the time Ismail entered high school, the feeling of being caught between two worlds had only deepened. He had perfected the art of silence, floating through his days like a ghost, trying not to attract too much attention. He knew he didn’t fit in with the Somali kids. His Somali wasn’t strong enough to follow their rapid-fire conversations, and whenever he spoke, they would laugh at his pronunciation or correct him with a condescending smirk.

“You sound like a little kid,” one of the older boys told him once, his tone dripping with mockery. Ismail had nodded, pretending it didn’t bother him, but that comment stuck with him, replaying in his mind whenever he tried to speak Somali at home.

He hated how different he felt from his peers, both Somali and Black. The black kids at school didn’t understand his background. They’d slap him on the back and call him “African” in a way that felt like a reminder of the distance between them. Some days, it was easier to just laugh along with them, pretending that the divide didn’t sting.

There were moments when he would try to connect, pushing past his discomfort. One afternoon, he was hanging out in the schoolyard after class, listening to a group of black kids talk about basketball and rap. Ismail had jumped in, mentioning Nas, hoping it would spark a connection.

“Nah, man,” one of them said, shaking his head. “That’s old-school. You gotta listen to Kendrick or J. Cole. You’re stuck in the ’90s.”

The conversation quickly moved on, leaving Ismail on the fringes again. He couldn’t keep up, and whenever he tried, it felt like he was trying on clothes that didn’t fit. The rap music he listened to alone at night felt like a world he could understand, but in front of them, it felt like a mask he couldn’t wear convincingly.

At home, it was no easier. His parents’ expectations weighed heavily on him, an unspoken burden that pressed on his shoulders every day. His father always reminded him of their sacrifices and the life they had left behind in Somalia. They had lost so much, and now everything rested on Ismail’s success. His education was supposed to be his way out, but to him, it felt like another reminder that he didn’t belong.

He loved learning; that much was true. But the school had become a battlefield, a place where his accent and background were constant targets for ridicule. He’d raise his hand in class, eager to contribute, only to be met with stifled laughter when he mispronounced a word. His teachers would correct him gently, but he could feel the eyes of his classmates on him, waiting for him to slip up again.

It didn’t help that his parents’ dreams for him felt impossible. They expected him to excel, to be the model Somali son, but they couldn’t see how hard it was to bridge the gap between their world and the one he was forced to navigate at school. When he stumbled over his Somali, his mother would sigh in frustration, her voice tinged with disappointment.

“You’ve been here too long,” she’d say. “You’re forgetting who you are.”

Ismail wanted to ask her who that was. Who was he supposed to be? He wasn’t fully Somali anymore, not in the way his parents were. And he wasn’t Black American either, no matter how hard he tried to mold himself into that identity. He was always in between, floating in the space between two cultures that seemed to reject him equally.

One afternoon, after a particularly tough day, Ismail decided to try something different. He was tired of feeling disconnected from his heritage, from a part of himself that his parents desperately wanted him to hold onto. He opened his music app and searched for Somali songs, hoping that something might make him feel closer to home. He remembered his father mentioning old Qarami songs, traditional Somali love ballads, and poems set to music. Ismail found a playlist and hit play.

The first song that came on was a classic his father used to hum when cooking dinner. The voice of the singer, rich and filled with emotion, filled his room. The soft beats of the drum and the plucking of the oud sent shivers down Ismail’s spine. As he listened, he found himself understanding the lyrics—words of love, longing, and sorrow—but they felt distant, as though he were listening through a thick fog. He understood the language, but it didn’t feel like his own.

For the next week, he made an effort to immerse himself in Somali music, hoping it would bridge the gap between him and his parents, between him and his heritage. But the more he listened, the more frustrated he became. While he could grasp the meaning, he couldn’t use the language like the singers did. It felt foreign, just like the Somali conversations he overheard but couldn’t join.

Yet, something in the music stuck with him. There was a kind of comfort in it, even if he couldn’t fully connect. He wasn’t sure what it was—maybe the familiarity, or maybe it was the simple fact that it was part of where he came from. It wasn’t the solution to his identity crisis, but it was a step.

One night, after scrolling through more Somali music, Ismail stumbled upon a different kind of artist. He found K’naan, a Somali-Canadian rapper who blended Somali roots with Western hip-hop. Curious, he clicked on a song.

The first line hit him like a punch. The mix of English and Somali, the poetic lyrics, and the raw emotion felt like someone had finally put his feelings into words. K’naan wasn’t just rapping about Somalia or life in the West—he was rapping about both. He was the bridge Ismail had been searching for, someone who straddled two worlds, just like him.

K’naan’s music became Ismail’s refuge. He would listen to it for hours, letting the beats and the words wash over him. It was as though someone had finally permitted him to be both Somali and something else, to live in the hyphen between identities without needing to choose one over the other. Whenever Ismail felt overwhelmed by his struggles at school or the pressure from his parents, he would plug in his headphones and disappear into K’naan’s world.

It was in K’naan’s music that Ismail found a companion—someone who understood the feeling of disconnection, the struggle of trying to belong in two different places at once. The songs spoke to his loneliness, but they also offered him something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

Through K’naan’s music, Ismail began to realize that he didn’t have to fit neatly into one box. He could take pieces of both worlds and make something of his own. It wasn’t easy, and he still struggled with the weight of expectations and the constant feeling of not being enough. But for the first time, he felt like he had found a voice that understood him.

One night, after a particularly tough argument with his father about his future, Ismail sat down with his notebook and wrote:

“Between two lands,

I sing with one voice,

Echoes of a past I don’t remember,

And dreams of a future I can’t see.

I am the bridge between words,

The rhythm of two hearts.

Neither here nor there,

But somewhere in between,

I am home.”

As the words poured out of him, Ismail knew that his journey was far from over. He was still searching for his place, still navigating the challenges of being Somali, Black, and American all at once. But with K’naan’s music as his guide, he felt a little less alone. He didn’t have all the answers yet, but at least now he had a rhythm to follow…

Mohamed Eid

• Maqaalo
• Poetry