Part 6: Coming Home and Finding His Voice
THE FORGOTTEN ONES
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.
@murtidamaxamed