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Identity, what does it mean to you? If you were to introduce yourself, what would be the first thing you display? The first impression you want to give? I ask this because being an individual and knowing oneself is incredibly important in personal development and self-discovery. To question yourself, to honestly look at where you are, what you have been and who you want to be.
I was never immersed in a Somali community that wasn’t family related; in fact the first Somali friend I had made was at the ripe age of 17. But when it was my turn to look at myself and ask some serious questions, being Somali always had a big presence in my life. As ‘westernised’ as I am, I have an incredibly Somali orientated view of things; the views I have on parenting for e.g. I have been told is Somali ‘borobiyo’. So for my first article it feels natural for me to talk about being Somali, write about issues that affect me, Somali related ones. As a child, I was told stories of the fulay Cigaal Shidaad, the scary Dhegdheer and other stories familiar in Somali households. I was taught my abtirsiimo, again like most Somali children. My father, who loves to share stories, would pass on his patriotism and passion for his country, and through my mother I had inherited a love for Xamar (which seems to be taboo today as I happen to be a ‘lander’). I would drink up all the memories both parents would tell me about their beloved home. Stories of the miyi, of my awoowo’s plantation of my rebellious dad at school, of my great ancestors and it would elevate a great sense of pride I have for my wonderful country; a place where my heritage lies and where I wish to return. However, the more sceptical readers would remind me that the rosy picture painted of Somalia is in fact a romanticised view of my home. It isn’t a view shared by people of other nationalities and also a view Somalis think of themselves. There’s always that underscoring haughtiness when we Somalis get together, and that loud voice proclaiming how much they hate going to Somali affairs because they can’t get along, or they can’t organise for toffee. The lack of interest my peers have in their own country is deeply saddening – knowing that a lot of people in the west have no aim whatsoever to go back to their soil is also a maddening thought. I always envy those people who were born there, I was jealous of that stronger bond they have with Somalia. A bond, which more often than not they try their hardest to severe. Seeing our young people put so much pain and effort into trying to fit in, to forget where their history lies, where their hearts truly lie is a strange concept, which proves difficult for me to understand and empathise. People my own age looking at me as if I were in an enviable position, friends telling me how lucky I am to be born here, to have parents that are aware of the life I lead and what problems I have. I take this point to highlight that I am not ungrateful, I am fully aware of the position I was born into, that it has given me a chance to succeed in this life and the next, however there is always that feeling of not truly belonging to this country, nor to Somalia, in short a miniature identity crisis. I asked my Somali peers the same questions that were asked at the beginning of this article and I received mixed messages. Some would have introduced themselves as what they do; some by their age and others didn’t know what to say; just state their name. The last category was the one I fell into. For me, a literary minded person, to sum up my complex character and to simplify what makes me … me, is a big task. Because I am a Muslim woman, a Somali girl, a teenager living in London, a student, reer Cali Gadiid, a sister, a daughter and a friend. But most of all; I am Ilwad. ________________________________________________________________ We welcome the submission of all articles for possible publication on WardheerNews.com
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