Part 4: A Mirror Of Insecurity
THE FORGOTTEN ONES
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