To Mother a Library
There is no library card to access trauma, but there is always room for a trigger when you don’t know which book could be the gun.
I once prayed Dhuhr, the early afternoon prayer, in between the bookshelves of the Cambridge Public Library. It was a hot summer day in 2017, right in the middle of Ramadan.
The last summer Ramadan that I can vaguely remember occurred in my childhood years. Fasting in the sweltering heat was a new experience for me. It’s funny how those who came before me would laugh at this struggle of mine, being a part of the first generation to seldom experience a Ramadan under the hot sun.
In between readings from academic journals about the Somali Civil War and changes in diasporic identity for Somali youth in the West, I walked over to the bathroom and performed wudu. Of course, someone walked in while my foot sat nervously in the sink. We exchanged awkward eye contact…but people don’t ever address it. Instead, we move.
I think a lot about public libraries. How an abundance of knowledge exists within the confines of their structure and how lucky I am to have access to them — even if I don’t use them often.
My admiration for public libraries comes from an appreciation of the beauty of creating an intentional space for knowledge. I think about how privileged I am to have access to libraries and how many mental libraries those who came before us had to bring along with whatever belongings could make the flight.
Sometimes, it really is just a matter of space.
I know there are words that can cause distant riffs between my mother and me; concepts that could slap her out of suppression.
It’s funny that the only Somali lullaby I remember is about your own mother abandoning you. “Huuwaya huuwa, habaarta majoogto..” (your mom isn’t here) followed by a beautiful hymn describing your mother’s escape. “Kabahayday ghaadatey…” (…she took her shoes with her.)
Maybe this was our mothers’ way of reminding us how fleeting life is. Or how fleeting anything is for that matter. Memory, history, knowledge. You never know if you’ll wake up one day and find that it’s all gone.
My mom has taught me the most about Somali history. Spending the weekends at her store after dugsi, she would go on and on about the Civil War, how her brother, a soldier who died in it, was one of the most precious people she knew. Miskeen, she would call him. A word I struggle to find a meaning for that is all-encompassing.
She would go on about the government, its wrongdoings, and failures, but she always spoke with an abundance of compassion and empathy. Maybe there was something about leaving the fire that allowed her to see through the smoke. Her mini-lectures to me about the conflicts of 1990 while I sat behind the register of her store. Her present-day activism through her Whatsapp group chat with Somali people from all over guided by her light and leadership — I always said she would be the best history teacher.
I wonder what books my mother wishes were written or the comedy shows she would love in DVD form. I wonder whose autobiographies and memoirs she would admire and what night time stories she would read me.
At the same time, I know that there is some comfort that comes with carrying a mental library. I know there are words that can cause distant riffs between my mother and me; concepts that could slap her out of suppression. I know my quest for knowledge means digging up skeletons that were never grieved, only buried. There is no library card to access trauma, but there is always room for a trigger when you don’t know which book could be the gun.
When I began my salah in between bookshelves, I felt an energy I couldn’t recognize. Mosques were where I felt the strongest praying, but there was something unique about being surrounded by wisdom while I made prayer to God. How my favorite poets would throw hands at anyone who tried to interrupt a rak’ah. How the shelves somehow blocked out the noise that ever made me feel empty.
I walk around with pieces of me missing, and in each book and article and academic journal excerpt (which to be honest, I don’t always understand), I try to piece the puzzle together. But during that prayer, I felt whole. I felt safe.
Knowledge is an interesting thing. We learn to study for exams that will flee our memory before the end of the school year. Imposter syndrome tells us we’ll never know enough. But I am not intimidated by these things. What intimidates me most, what feeds my self-doubt, is how little I know about my mother.
How I don’t know what books she loved to read or comedy shows she loved to watch. How the history of my mother is as foreign to me as the poorly documented history of the country she left behind. Yet still, I sit in libraries and read books by academics who never have the whole story. I know that because my mother is always missing.
I have a public library card from every city I’ve lived in. My first one from the Lewiston Public Library, the only city I have lived long enough to call home. Trips to the Gwinnett County Public Library remind me of the short times with my father and sister in Atlanta, my city of birth.
In college, the Cambridge Public Library became my getaway from campus, a place that could sometimes feel suffocating. The British Public Library from my time abroad in London, and even one from the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. during a random school trip in high school.
This summer, I moved to New York City, and I have had a trip to the Brooklyn Public Library on my to-do list for weeks now. Public libraries strangely feel like a home for me. In my quest for knowledge of my mother and all of that we lost access to, a library card reminds me that there is still hope.
I may never have access to the libraries my mother holds within her, but that doesn’t mean we can’t build our own mental library, together. And maybe then, it can come to life.
Muna Mohamed is a Somali-American multimedia storyteller. She writes, she shoots, and she brings her ideas to life through whatever medium fits best. Her poetry has taken her to stages across the country through the Collegiate Union Poetry Slam Invitational. A recent graduate from Tufts University, she now works at ABC News where she writes and works in production. Most importantly, she is a proud Virgo, frequent wearer of big hoop earrings, and Sour Patch Kids connoisseur. You can find her at @naayanomad on both Twitter and Instagram.
