Mohamed- A Voice for Somali Culture and Advocate for Justice
Mohamed is a Somali creative, cultural historian, and student residing in the United States. He writes about the rich heritage, history, and traditions of the Somali people, sharing their stories to inspire and educate others. With a Master's degree in Public and Nonprofit Administration and extensive experience working within the Minnesota judicial system, Mohamedid is also committed to enhancing access to justice. As a bilingual self-help specialist, he works passionately to support self-represented litigants. His advocacy extends to improving community welfare, especially through his work in child advocacy, education, and legal resource development.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
The breaking point came the night Isma’il attended a school dance party. This wasn’t the first time he had tested his parents’ rules, but it was the first time he had done something they considered unforgivable.
It began innocently enough. Some of his school friends had invited him to a birthday celebration after class. Isma’il hesitated at first, knowing how his parents felt about parties, music, and dancing—anything that seemed Western was considered haram, especially in a mixed-gender environment. However, feeling isolated and bored of always being the outsider, he decided to go.
He told his parents it was a study session, but when he arrived, the pulsing music, flashing lights, and carefree laughter of his classmates felt like an escape from the suffocating expectations at home. For a few hours, Isma’il let himself relax and enjoy the moment. Yet that freedom was short-lived.
By the time he returned home, his parents were waiting. Someone from their community had seen him at the party and quickly informed them. His mother’s voice shook with anger and disbelief. “Do you know what you’ve done? A party with music and girls? This is not how we raised you!”
His father, though quieter, was equally furious. “Waad na ceebaysay. Waxaad ku noqonaysaa Dhaqan Celis. You’ve embarrassed us. You’re returning to Dhaqan Celis. You need to remember who you are.”
The words landed hard. Dhaqan Celis’s practice of sending Westernized Somali youth back to East Africa to reconnect with their roots has always been a threat in his household. Now, it was no longer a threat—it was reality.
Struggling in Dhaqan Celis
Weeks later, Isma’il found himself in Kenya at a boarding school designed to enforce discipline and reconnect Somali youth with their culture and values. The transition was brutal. The school’s rigid structure felt like a prison—no phones, no music, no Western influences. Days were spent in religious studies, Somali history lessons, and constant adherence to strict rules.
Isma’il struggled. Unlike the other students who adapted quickly, he felt lost. His broken Somali made language lessons unbearable, and he failed repeatedly to meet expectations. The teachers, unimpressed with his efforts, were harsh in their criticisms. One day, during a history lesson, a teacher publicly shamed him for his lack of fluency in Somali.
“Waxaa lagaa rabay inaad noqoto qof Soomaali ah, balse xataa kuma hadli kartid afkaaga hooyo! You’re supposed to be Somali, but you can’t even speak your own language,” the teacher scoffed.
“Waxaa lagaa rabay inaad noqoto qof Soomaali ah, lkn xataa kuma hadli kartid afkaaga hooyo! You’re supposed to be Somali, but you can’t even speak your own language,”
Humiliated, Isma’il withdrew further, feeling like an outsider in a world where he was supposed to belong. His nights were spent staring at the ceiling, missing the small freedoms he once had and feeling increasingly alienated from both his Somali heritage and his Western upbringing.
In his solitude, Isma’il began to write poetry, a way to express his inner turmoil:
Lost between worlds I am standing in the shadow of the sun. A foreign tongue; a broken land. Between prayer and silence, I fall. A stranger to my roots, to my call. They speak of home like it’s mine too. But what do they know of the split in two? In one world, I dance to the beat of the West; In the other, I bow but never rest. A language I’ve lost, a culture I chase, But here, I wear a foreign face. They say remember, they say belong, But I am torn where I once was strong.
The poem captured his deep sense of isolation and internal conflict. But over time, due to the school’s strict regimen, something within Isma’il began to shift. Slowly, he began to see the school’s structure as not only restrictive but also grounding. He found moments of clarity during prayers, a stillness that quieted his rebellious thoughts.
A New Perspective
Gradually, Isma’il’s perspective began to change. He reflected on his parents—not just as strict enforcers of rules, but as people shaped by their experiences. While he still resented them for sending him away, he started to understand why they were so protective of their culture. His parents feared that the very essence of who they were—Somalis, Muslims, and immigrants—would be lost in the West. In their eyes, Dhaqan Celis wasn’t just about control; it was a desperate attempt to keep him tethered to something larger than himself.
One night, Isma’il sat down to write again, this time with a newfound sense of purpose:
Home in the Spaces Between In the heat of this foreign sky, I’ve learned to lift my head, not cry. The prayers no longer feel so far, The silence has become a guiding star. In the rhythm of this ancient land, I feel the grip of my father’s hand. Not as a chain, but as a guide, A tether to the roots inside. I’ve stumbled through the words I’d lost, But now I see the hidden cost. It’s not about the language I speak, But rather the strength of the heart I seek. Between the worlds, I’ll find my way, To dance and bow, and still, I’ll pray. I carry both, and I am free To be the man I choose to be.
This shift in perspective didn’t mean that Isma’il had forgiven his parents or fully accepted their decision to send him away. The wound was still fresh, and he held them responsible for exiling him to a place where he felt alienated. However, he began to realize that their actions were rooted in fear and a desire to protect him from losing his identity. While their methods were flawed, their intentions, in their way, were justified.
Between the worlds, I’ll find my way, To dance and bow, and still, I’ll pray. I carry both, and I am free To be the man I choose to be.
Looking Ahead: A Future Beyond Dhaqan Celis
Though Isma’il was still in Kenya, he started to imagine his next steps. He realized that part of his healing would involve mending the rift with his parents but on his terms. He no longer viewed their ideology as an unyielding force, but rather as something shaped by a world he hadn’t fully understood before. He began studying with Somali elders in Kenya, seeking to understand the context behind his parents’ mindset. Much like his parents, these elders held tightly to traditional values, but now Isma’il saw their rigidity through a different lens.
While he didn’t always agree with the elders, he found value in their stories of hardship, war, and displacement. These were experiences that shaped a generation, instilling in them a fierce sense of identity and survival. Isma’il knew that his parents’ fears were deeply rooted in this history, and while he couldn’t justify their actions, he began to grasp the complexities behind their decisions.
He began studying with Somali elders in Kenya, seeking to understand the context behind his parents’ mindset. Much like his parents, these elders held tightly to traditional values, but now Isma’il saw their rigidity through a different lens.
He wasn’t ready to return home yet—there was still work to be done to understand himself and his parents. But he knew that when the time came, he would approach that reunion with a broader understanding, not only of their culture but of his own evolving identity. Though his journey was far from over, Isma’il was now charting his own course, learning for himself and his parents.
In the end, Isma’il understood that healing wasn’t about choosing one culture over the other. It was about embracing both, finding strength in his heritage while carving out a future that honored who he had become. His parents’ decisions, while hurtful, were a part of his story—but they didn’t define it. Now, with a deeper understanding of his past, Isma’il was ready to shape his own path forward.
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.”
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.
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…
Ismail had little memory of the trip to America, but his parents’ stories painted vivid pictures. His mother would describe their escape from Somalia as a modern-day epic, filled with danger, hope, and loss. They had left a civil war-torn nation in the dead of night. In her version, Ismail was barely three years old, clinging to her, wide-eyed but quiet, as they crossed the border into Ethiopia.
The dusty streets of the refugee camp were his first real memories—strange, fleeting flashes of heat and hunger. His parents never spoke about those years anymore, their memories of the camp as unwelcome as ghosts. His father had buried the past beneath layers of optimism about their new life in America, where anything was possible if you worked hard enough.
But as Ismail stepped off the plane in Minneapolis, the cold slapped him in the face, and he knew things would be different in ways no one had prepared him for. The winter winds cut through his thin jacket, and he clung to his mother’s hand as they waited for a cousin to pick them up. His father’s eyes scanned the crowd with the quiet determination of a man ready to start over again.
Other Somali families who had also fled the war settled around them in a small apartment in the middle of the city. The community was tight-knit, and in those early years, Ismail’s world felt small but secure. Everyone spoke Somali, cooked the same food, and attended the same mosques. But as the years passed and Ismail grew older, cracks began to appear in the foundation of that safe world.
School was the first place he felt it—the divide between the life his parents had built and the one he was expected to navigate. At home, they spoke of the importance of maintaining their culture, their language, and their religion. But at school, none of those things seemed to matter. They made him different, made him stand out in ways that attracted the wrong kind of attention.
By the time he was twelve, Ismail had learned to keep his head down. He’d slip his headphones on the moment he left the house, drowning out the world with rap music that pulsed through his veins like an electric current. Nas, Tupac, Biggie—they were his constant companions, their words filling the empty spaces inside him.
He liked the way their music made him feel—like he belonged to something bigger, a history that stretched back through the pain and struggle of being Black in America. He wanted to feel that connection, but it always slipped through his fingers. His Somali background made him different—a part of the African diaspora but not quite African American.
In the hallways of his middle school, the black kids spoke with a kind of effortless cool that Ismail couldn’t replicate, no matter how hard he tried. Their slang was fast and fluid, full of inside jokes and references that left him feeling lost. He’d laugh along anyway, hoping no one would notice how out of place he felt.
At home, it was a different kind of isolation. His parents spoke to him in Somali, but his grasp of the language was weak, fraying at the edges with each passing year. He could understand them well enough, but when he tried to respond, the words came out wrong. His mother would correct him, her voice tinged with frustration.
“Ismail, sidee baanad luuqadaada ugu hadli karin?” she’d say, shaking her head. “Maalin walba waan kugula hadalnaa, sideed ciyaalkaaga u bari? Sideed dhaqankaaga iyo dadkaaga u baran haddaad dayacdo luuqada?” Sometimes his mom will say that in a broken English. “Why don’t speak your language? Why don’t you learn your Somali culture? Do you want marry Cadaan girl?
He didn’t have an answer for her. All he knew was that his words never seemed to fit anywhere—too foreign for his friends at school, too broken for his family at home.
So he stayed quiet. He became an expert at blending into the background, nodding when his parents spoke, and keeping his responses to a minimum. In school, he let the music speak for him, hiding behind his headphones and the bravado of lyrics that weren’t his own. He scribbled in notebooks during class, filling the margins with cryptic lines of poetry that no one ever saw. The words were his only outlet, a way to make sense of the confusion that followed him like a shadow.
But no matter how hard he tried, that shadow always lingered. It was the unspoken thing that stretched between him and everyone around him—the feeling that he didn’t quite fit into any world—Somali, Black, or American. He was always in-between, lost in spaces no one talked about.
And so, the years passed, each marked by the same silent struggle. His parents pushed him to excel in school, reminding him constantly of the sacrifices they had made. “We came here for you, Halkan dartaa baa u imaanay.” his father would say. “Your education is the most important thing. Waa muhiim waxbarashadaadu.”
And Ismail loved learning; he did. But he hated the way his classmates would snicker when he raised his hand, mocking his accent or the way he mispronounced certain words. He hated the way he had to fight just to be taken seriously, not only because of where he came from but because he didn’t fit neatly into any of the categories they understood.
In those moments, the music became his shield, the only thing that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, even if that place was only in his mind.
As he got older, he realized that the battle was not just external—it was inside him too, a conflict that he couldn’t seem to resolve. He wanted to be Somali and make his parents proud, but the stories of his heritage felt like faded photographs, distant and blurred. He wanted to be black to connect with the culture of his friends, but he could never quite find the rhythm. He wanted to be American, to fit in without standing out, but his accent, his skin, his name—everything about him reminded the world that he didn’t fully belong.
With just the steady hum of the train to be heard in the darkly lighted compartment, the train rumbled across the countryside. The two people sitting across from one another were visibly tense, despite the dark skies outside that hinted at impending rain.
He hadn’t wanted to sit here. This particular carriage, this specific seat, was too exposed, too open. Yet he had because he didn’t care enough to move. It had been months since she died, and he felt like a shell, dragged through life by obligation, not by will. The seat across from him, however, was occupied, and that disturbed him. A woman sat there—her eyes avoiding his, though he could feel them on him occasionally. The problem wasn’t just her presence. It was the way she sat, the way her hair fell across her face, the slight curve of her lips when she was lost in thought. It reminded him too much.
And that made him angry.
His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked toward her again. She looked nothing like the one he’d lost—different hair, sharper features—but something about her haunted him. Why couldn’t she just sit differently? Why did she have to remind him of everything he was trying so hard to bury? He hated that. He hated her for it.
The woman shifted in her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She had been watching him too, though not in the way he suspected. She didn’t care that he was a stranger. She cared because every inch of him made her skin crawl. There was something in the way he sat, the way his hands fidgeted, the way he stared at her with that cold, bitter intensity that reminded her of him—the one she had run from.
He had always sat like that, simmering beneath the surface, masking resentment with quiet control until it inevitably boiled over. This man across from her didn’t need to say a word; she knew his type. She had lived with it. It was a familiar sight—the subtle fury, the sudden outburst. Despite the overwhelming desire to go, she remained seated, her hands quivering in her lap. No, she was unable to. At this time, no. On this train, she was pursuing an escape rather than a goal or a place to go.
However, it was intolerable to sit across from this guy. He personified everything that she had abandoned, a constant reminder of what she despised. The minutes ticked by, and her pulse raced and her breath became shallow. Because he had brought this out in her, she despised him. She hated him for existing.
He shifted again, his eyes flickering toward her once more. He didn’t even realize how often he was staring until she shifted uncomfortably, her body tensing like she was preparing for something. For him to do something as if she expected violence. The accusation in her posture was like a knife in his chest. Did she think he was one of those men? One of *them*?
No. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t some monster. But that look in her eyes—that suspicion, that flicker of fear—it reminded him of the time he had disappointed the one he had loved. The anger that had filled their home at times, the misunderstandings. He hadn’t been cruel, but he hadn’t been enough.
Her low but poisonous voice hissed at him, and he swung around to stare at her.
He looked startled, irritated, and blinked. “No, I wasn’t.
“Indeed, you were,” she fired back with piercing eyes. All this time, you’ve maintained eye contact with me. Tell me what you need.
As his annoyance level rose, he snarled, “I don’t want anything.” “Perhaps if you did something other than sit there and appear like—” Biting down on the words, he tried to stop himself, but by then it was too late.
“Assuming what appearance?” Her voice rose to a demanding level as she made her demand. Is it like your late wife?
A smack from her words landed on him. Just how did she find out? She used his anguish like a weapon by throwing it at him. As the hurt from her allegation transformed into something more sinister, he froze.
“Please, don’t bring up her name,” he said, his voice fearfully low. “Your knowledge of her is limited.”
She spat out, “And you don’t know anything about me,” but her voice now trembled, revealing something deeper. Sitting there, you hate me and judge me. “You have no idea the depth of my suffering.”
Standing with his fists clenched, he snapped, “Like I care.” The idea that I’m passing judgment on you is absurd. Would you believe I’m interested enough to bother? As if you’re the only one experiencing difficulties, you do nothing but sit there and pretend. This is nothing compared to everything I’ve lost.
A fury that was almost wrath flared over her eyes. Despite feeling her body quiver, she stood tall, matching his intensity. “I’ve lost plenty,” she yelled, her voice piercing through the constant hum of the train. Is it your belief that no one else has endured hardship? Am I the sole survivor of the abyss? I went astray quite some time ago.
As they stood inches apart, scowling at one another, the tension between them was palpable. The tension between them was almost too much to bear, but neither of them moved. They gasped for air, their hearts racing for reasons beyond this very moment. In silence, years of anguish and unspoken trauma poured out.
His chest tightened, the anger swirling inside him mixed with confusion. Why was she reacting like this? She wasn’t the one he was angry at. She wasn’t the one who had abandoned him, the one who had left him drowning in grief. But looking at her, all he saw was what he had lost, what had been taken from him. He didn’t understand it, and that scared him.
And she, standing before him, felt the familiar weight of fear pressing down on her chest. Beyond his statements and charges, there was more. His intense presence and the way he towered over her brought up memories of helpless evenings when her world seemed to be crashing down around her. He didn’t frighten her, but she despised him for transporting her to that place of captivity.
“I ran,” she finally confessed, her voice quivering with resolve and her eyes filled with unbridled, defiant energy. No choice but to go was given to me. He made it so I couldn’t breathe. Whenever we were in his company, he was adamant about making me feel guilty. I just didn’t have what it had to keep going through all the uphill battles.
He took a step back, her words cutting through his anger, leaving behind something else. Something like shame. He hadn’t been expecting that. His fists unclenched, and for the first time, he looked at her, really looking at her, seeing the pain behind her fury.
“I didn’t leave,” he muttered, almost to himself. “She… she left me. And not because she wanted to. Not because she was angry, tired, or sick of me. She left because her body gave up. And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
She stared at him, her anger slowly dissolving into something more fragile, more empathetic. She sat back down, her hands shaking as she ran them through her hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice softer now, like a wound that had been exposed to air.
He sat too, slowly, the weight of his confession pulling him down. “I thought I hated you,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “You reminded me too much of her. The way you sit, the way you look away. I don’t know why, but it felt like you were mocking me without even knowing it.”
“I thought you were him,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “The way you stared at me. That look—so full of anger. It was the same. I thought you were going to hurt me.”
They both fell silent after that, the echoes of their confrontation still lingering in the quiet space between them. The anger, the resentment—it had all been a projection, misplaced. Neither of them was the enemy they imagined.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the soft rumble of the train.
“Neither do I,” he said, staring out the window, the rain now streaking down the glass.
Minutes passed in silence, the tension between them no longer sharp but heavy with the weight of shared grief and shared pain.
“I’m not him,” he said after a while, his voice softer now. “And you’re not her. But I think we’ve both lost something. And I think we’ve been fighting ghosts.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on the floor, tears brimming at the edge of her lashes but refusing to fall. “I don’t know if I can ever stop running,” she whispered. “Not after what I’ve been through.”
“I don’t know if I can ever stop grieving,” he replied. “But maybe… maybe we don’t have to stop right now. Maybe we just need to keep moving.”
For the first time since they’d sat down across from each other, she looked at him without anger, without fear. Just exhaustion. “I guess that’s all we can do.”
The train rattled on, the rain pouring harder against the windows, as two strangers shared their silence, neither knowing where they were going, but somehow knowing they weren’t alone in the journey.
The rain battered against the windows, a relentless rhythm that seemed to match the weight between them. The train continued its steady course, a muted landscape flying by, unnoticed by the two who sat in uneasy stillness. After everything had spilled out—raw, messy, uncontrolled—there was nothing left but the quiet, the shared vulnerability neither had asked for but couldn’t escape.
He shifted slightly in his seat, feeling the awkwardness settle in now that the anger had dissipated. The silence wasn’t hostile anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was something else—fragile like both were afraid to break whatever fragile truce they had formed.
She wrapped her arms around herself, still looking out the window but no longer tense. The intensity of the earlier moments lingered in her chest, but something had shifted. She had spent so long-running, so long hiding, and here was this man who, for all the wrong reasons, had made her confront things she had buried. He wasn’t the man she had feared he was. But the shadows of their pasts loomed so large that she wasn’t sure they could ever fully be free of them.
“I didn’t mean to lash out,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “I just… I haven’t talked about her. Not to anyone.”
She didn’t respond at first, her fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve as if searching for the right words. “I haven’t talked about him either,” she finally whispered, as though saying the words out loud gave them too much power. “I left without saying a word to anyone. I just walked out. No goodbye, no note. I didn’t even take a bag. I just couldn’t breathe anymore.”
He looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of her confession. He didn’t know what to say—he didn’t know if there was anything to say. Her pain, her fear—it was a mirror to his loss, but reflected in a way that made him feel useless, powerless to fix anything. The train moved, and so did they, but neither knew where they were headed.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.
She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “No. Not to him. I don’t think I can. But… I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. What I’m supposed to do now.”
He sighed, leaning back in his seat, staring at the ceiling of the train. “I don’t know either. I wake up every day, and it’s just… it’s empty. She’s gone, but the world just keeps moving, and I’m still here. And I don’t know why. I feel like I’m stuck in place, while everything else goes on without me.”
Her fingers stilled, her gaze drifting away from the rain-streaked window to him, finally seeing him—this man who had been a shadow of her fears just moments before, now so clearly broken in his way. She felt a strange connection, a recognition of someone else adrift in a sea of loss. “I think we’re both running,” she said softly. “Maybe from different things, but it’s the same in the end.”
He nodded, though his eyes remained distant. “Yeah… maybe.”
The train lurched slightly as it began to slow, the scenery outside turning into the outskirts of a small, nondescript town. She glanced out at the unfamiliar streets, the people huddled under umbrellas, and for a moment, the idea of getting off, of just stepping into another life, flashed in her mind. Could she start over here? Could she leave behind the person she had been and become something else?
She doubted it.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Neither do I,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
The train came to a halt, the hiss of steam and the quiet clatter of footsteps from outside breaking the heavy silence inside the carriage. For a moment, she thought she might get up, leave this carriage, leave this conversation, and keep running. But something stopped her—maybe it was the weariness, maybe it was the realization that running wasn’t going to fix anything.
He glanced at her, noticing her hesitation, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. There was no anger, no hatred, just understanding. “You don’t have to figure it out today,” he said quietly. “Maybe… maybe it’s okay if you don’t know. If we don’t know.”
She exhaled slowly, as if she’d been holding her breath for hours, and nodded. “Maybe.”
The train started again, its wheels grinding against the tracks, pulling them away from the station, away from that moment of indecision. Neither of them knew where they were headed, but for now, that was enough. The rain continued to fall, a steady, rhythmic reminder that time marched on, no matter how lost they felt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, not just for what had happened between them but for everything—for the man she had once loved and feared, for the pain she carried with her. For all the things she couldn’t change.
He didn’t say anything in response, but he didn’t need to. His silence spoke volumes. In the quiet of the moving train, they both understood that there was no simple resolution to their stories, no quick fix to the wounds they carried.
They were two strangers on the same path, and for now, that was enough.
The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled them into a deeper silence, the kind that felt less like tension and more like a shared respite from the chaos in their minds. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle; its quiet pattern is now a soothing backdrop. Neither of them spoke for a long time, but the heaviness between them had lifted, leaving behind a fragile sense of peace. It wasn’t closure, but it was a pause—something neither of them had allowed themselves in a long time.
He watched the raindrops slide down the window, their paths erratic but somehow mesmerizing. His mind wandered back to the last time he had felt this lost, the day he realized there was no going back to the life he had once known. He had tried to hold on and had fought against the inevitability of losing her, but in the end, he couldn’t save her. And now he couldn’t save himself from the emptiness she left behind.
“I keep thinking about it,” he said quietly, breaking the silence without looking at her. “The last conversation we had… I was angry. Not at her, but at the situation. I didn’t tell her I loved her before she left.”
His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the seat. “I can’t stop replaying that moment. What if I had said it? Would it have made a difference? Would she have known how much she meant to me? Now I’ll never know.”
She listened, her chest tightening as his words sank in. She had her regrets, her what-ifs that haunted her. She hadn’t said goodbye either. But unlike him, her silence had been intentional—a desperate act of self-preservation.
“I never said anything,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I just left. No explanation, no warning. He wasn’t a bad man—not at first. He was kind and gentle—everything I thought I needed. But slowly, he became something else. Controlling. Demanding. And every time I tried to speak up, he twisted it around, making me feel like I was wrong, like I was the one who was broken.”
She paused, her voice trembling with the weight of memories she had tried so hard to bury. “I didn’t say goodbye because I didn’t think he’d let me. And even now, I feel guilty. Like I abandoned him, even though I knew I had to leave. It’s twisted, I know, but I can’t shake it.”
He turned to look at her then, seeing the raw vulnerability in her expression. It wasn’t pity he felt—it was something deeper, an understanding of the invisible chains that still bound them both to their pasts.
“It’s not twisted,” he said softly, surprising himself with the gentleness in his voice. “It’s what happens when you’re stuck in something you can’t control. You’re trying to survive, and sometimes that means leaving without saying the things you want to say.”
She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for the judgment she had expected but didn’t find. Instead, she saw something like compassion, a reflection of her pain.
“Maybe,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No,” he agreed, leaning back against his seat. “It doesn’t.”
They sat in that shared understanding for a while, letting the steady motion of the train soothe the rawness of their conversation. The world outside blurred into shades of gray and green, the rain continuing its soft descent as if the universe itself had slowed to give them this moment.
After what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence again. “Do you think it’s possible to… to move on? From all of this?”
He didn’t answer right away, turning the question over in his mind. He had asked himself that question every day since she had passed. Was there a way out of this grief, this suffocating sense of loss? He wasn’t sure. But something in him stirred, a quiet, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward, even if he couldn’t see it yet.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, his voice low. “But I think… maybe we don’t have to figure that out right now. Maybe it’s enough that we’re still here. That we’re still trying.”
She nodded, the weight of his words sinking into her. Maybe he was right. Maybe the answer wasn’t in moving on but in learning to live with the ghosts of their pasts. It wasn’t about erasing the pain, but about carrying it differently, finding a way to keep going despite it.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel like running. There was no destination, no escape waiting for her at the next station. Just this moment, this fragile connection with a stranger who understood the depths of her pain without asking.
The train began to slow again, pulling into another station, but neither moved. They weren’t ready to leave this strange, shared space just yet. The train doors opened, and passengers shuffled in and out, but they remained in their seats, two people adrift in the same sea of uncertainty.
And as the train pulled away from the station, she turned to him with a quiet resolve. “Maybe we don’t need to know where we’re going right now,” she said, her voice steady for the first time. “Maybe it’s enough that we’re not alone.”
He nodded, his gaze meeting hers. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Maybe it is.”
The train carried them forward into the unknown, but for the first time, neither was running. They were moving. Together.
