The Forgotten Ones

Part 5: The Breaking Point

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.

@murtidamaxamed