Currency of Grief

Being a Somali is very peculiar. As a people, we often boast about the beauty of our land and culture to any foreigner that is willing to acknowledge the presence of a Somali in the room. As if we are justifying the contemporary chaos in the country by saying “…but look at our culture! Look at our camels! Look at our women!” Not only do I detest this type of mindset, I simply don’t understand it. Behind closed doors we speak of Somalia as if it’s an intricate puzzle where the most important pieces were looted by colonizers and buried with Siad Barre, leaving people now clueless as to how to put the puzzle back together. We speak of clan politics as if they are our ABCs. We staunchly defend our genealogy and its perceived superiority over others any chance we get. Sometimes we even use clan as a way to overlook the actions of some of Somalia’s most dangerous men because no one wants to believe their own blood is a killer.

The majority of us struggle immensely with the concept of wanting to fight for a peaceful Somalia (often heavily romanticized I must admit) and accepting some of the horrifying things that happen along the way of this journey. I went through a period of time where I detested anyone and everyone that worked in the Somali government because of the people that I lost on their watch. I hated to hear of them and most certainly hated to be around them. I felt as if they could never understand my own personal pain, even though most of the people I lost were their colleagues. I never once thought to stop and think of how they were feeling. To be truthful, I saw them as part of the problem. In my grieving mind they continued to fail to offer real solutions which lead to many, many more people losing their loved ones in the same manner I did.

Recently, I’ve been meeting different Somali state actors (not by choice I must say) who have slowly begun to reshape my own thinking on matters concerning Somalia. For instance, a Somali National Army advisor who was speaking on the lack of pay and support, detailing harrowing battles and tremendous losses. A young Member of Parliament talking about his previous experiences in the security field and how he himself was tortured because of the work he did. Stories of women and children being raped but individuals investigating the matter being forced to drop the case because the rapist was well-known and it would “tarnish” his reputation. All these recounts I heard from people who I once thought were desensitized to my own personal pain and the suffering of countless others, not realizing that they had personal pain of their own. Our suffering might not have stemmed from the same place but it is rooted in the same country.

Being a Somali is very peculiar. If you’re anything like me, you spend the majority of your life fleeing home only to realize (slowly and abruptly, somehow at the same time) that it is the only place in the world where you can reconcile your thoughts and feelings which have been in conflict ever since you left. Sometimes, the people we scrutinize due to our own personal trauma are not the ones to blame. Ensuring peace in Somalia is a collective responsibility of ours. What should also be a collective responsibility is sharing the grief felt because of Somalia. At the end of the day, the only thing worth saving is the land. It is the one thing we haven’t killed yet.

I come from Somalia.

Written by

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade