I am Somali

These are the words to the classic song Soomaali Baan Ahay that I’ve tried to translate. I must say, though, that any translation from Somali to English doesn’t give much justice to the original and doesn’t convey the message accurately. If you spot any mistakes in the translation, or you find any better words to use, please do let me know..

Sinnaantaan la magac ahay
San-ku-neefle ma oggoli
Inuu iga sarreyn karo
Anna garasho sogordahan
Sooryo ruux ugama dhigo
Soomaali baan ahay!

I share names with equality
A mortal I do not allow
That he surpass me
And allusive words and hints
I confer not on anyone as gifts
I am Somali

Inkastoon sabool ahay
Haddana waan sarriigtaa
Sacabbada ma hoorsado
Saaxiib nimaan nahay
Cadowgayga lama simo
Soomaali baan ahay

Though impoverished I am
Yet my hardships I endure
And my palms I do not extend
A man with whom I am friends
With my enemy I do not rival
I am Somali

Nabaddaan u sahanshaa
Colaaddaan ka salalaa
Soomajeesto goobaha
Ninka nabarka soo sida
Gacantiisa kama sugo
Soomaai baan ahay

I am in a quest for peace
And from enmity I am terrified
But [from the battlefield] I flee not
And the man who brings wounds
From his hands I await not [I launch assault]
I am Somali

Nin I sigay ma nabad galo
Nin isugeyna maba jiro
Libta weli ma sii deyn
Gardarrada ma saacido
Nin xaq lehna cid lama simo
Soomaali baan ahay!

A man who endangers me lives not in peace
And there isn’t a man who did wait for me
Gratitude I have not yet abandoned
Nor do I support not any transgression
And a wronged man I compare not with others
I am Somali

Ninkaan taydu soli karin
Uma yeelo suu rabo
Sida dunida qaarkeed
Sandulleynta ma oggoli
Ninna kabaha uma sido
Soomaali baan ahay

To whom my ways do not appeal
As he wishes I do not comply with
Like some parts of the world
Coercion I do not accept
Nor do I carry any man’s shoes
I am Somali

Ninka Iga sed roonow
Siintaada magaca leh
Ogow kaama sugayee
Hana oran sasabo badaw
Dareen seexda ma lihiye
Somaali baan ahay

O’ you who is wealthier than I
Your offerings for name’s sake
Know that I expect them not
Say not, too, persuade the ignorant
For I have not a conscious that sleeps
I am Somali

Ninna madax salaaxiyo
Kama yeelo seetada
Sasabo ma qaayibo
Sirta waxaan iraahdaa
Saab aan biyaha celin
Soomaali baan ahay

Neither man’s stroking of my head
Nor his lace on my legs [duplicity] do I accept
Persuasion I do not approve
As for secrets [about me] I say
A Saab [vessel] that hold no water
I am Somali

Dabayshaan la socod ahay
Salfudeydna uma kaco
Waabay sunaan ahay
Marna samawadaan ahay
Samir baan hagoogtaa
Soomaali baan ahay

I am of a step with the wind
And on impulse I do not act
I am like fangs of poison [when provoked]
And at times, the bearer of good [when dealt with peace]
I am swathed in patience
I am Somali

Nin I sigay ma nabad galo
Nin isugeyna maba jiro
Libta weli ma sii deyn
Gardarrada ma saacido
Nin xaq lehna cid lama simo
Soomaali baan ahay!

A man who endangers me lives not in peace
And there isn’t a man who did wait for me
Gratitude I have not yet abandoned
Nor do I support not any transgression
And a wronged man I compare not with others
I am Somali

Saan la kala jaraan ahay
Summadi ay ku wada taal,
Rag baa beri I saanyaday
Anoo xoolo soofsada,
Xil midnimo anaa sida,
Soomaali baan ahay

I am like Saan [hide] split into two
That still bears the credentials
Some men once disintegrated me
Whilst I tended to my flocks
[But] the obligation of unity I [still] carry
I am Somali

Image

Sheep Logic vs. Goat Logic

During the Jiilaal seasons when winds and scarcity of water hit the parched Somali terrain, the nomads dig wells – Berkedo – to accumulate rain water. Those nomads who live at a distance from the Berked usually water their animals after every 9 to 10 days of thirst, thereby reducing the amount of journeys they’d have to make to the well. On the journeys to the Berked, the drover, walking alongside the herd, guides them into the direction of the Berked. The goats, being the leaders they are, pilot the herd and often seem to automatically recognise where they are going – or at least show the Sheep that they have a clue as to where they are headed. The sheep are naïve creatures and simply follow them. They lag behind and often require gentle whippings from the drover and a pebble-filled canister thrown their way to move them. Sometimes even the whippings of the drover mean little to them because of their insensitive nature and the thick fur that protects them. They have no inclination to move on their own accord and appear to be very sluggish in their movements. Having been driven out early to the watering grounds, the herd is not allowed to graze, but the sheep are often seen nibbling away at the grass.

When soo hor, cries the young herder at the well to the drover for a part of the herd to be released to the Berked, the goats immediately rush headlong into the direction of the Berked, dip their heads into the containers provided and after quenching their thirst, play about joyfully with a rejuvenated oomph. The goats are born leaders – or have qualities resembling a leader’s. They are lively and enthusiastic about life’s prospects, though they are deficient in terms of experience and, some times, competence. The young Waxar gracefully gambols around the Ardaa soon after birth and imitates the Ceesaan, who in turn imitates the Goat (Ri) in its high-pitched bleating.

They are bold and brash, principally driven by an impulsive rush into things. Their skewed judgment of their own vulnerability hinders them from looking further ahead into the possibilities of their actions. Amused by their own frolicking, they are diverted from the flock, though their senses are promptly reawakened by the hint of fox’s presence.

The sheep, however, like inebriated beings in a moment of drunkenness, dawdle absent-mindedly into the open environment, confounded by the happenings. They glance at each other in a moment of murkiness, then at the goats rushing for the Berked and, being the insipid creatures that they are, walk with some trepidation and uncertainty towards the direction taken by the goats, blindly following them. Sheep are rather shallow and slightly slow on the uptake, thereby taking years to respond to little matters requiring little or no brain activity at all. The humdrums of daily existence mean little to the sheep who, in blithe disregard for any perils that lie ahead, graze in the thickest of the forest, unconscious of the darkness that looms and the jeopardy that seeps from within.

By evening when the sun starts its graceful exit from the earth and it’s time to bring the herd home, the sheep walk fatigued as if in a state of infirmity and on a strenuous journey, nibbling away whatever grass they manage to scrounge around. Though in the hindsight they are aware that they would be returning home, their feeble mind convinces them of the possibility of grazing for ever…little do they realise that the cunning fox lurks in the corner burrow and the hyena is dreaming of a succulent meat tonight; even worse, little do they realise that the sun is setting on them and soon darkness will engulf them…

When it rains, the sheep are unruffled by the thunder. They are competent swimmers and will swim through any flood, come what may, despite several losses and injuries. Locking their heads together, they form a ring of black heads in the enclosure around their young one and withstand the pellets of rain. If they find themselves being swept away in a flood, the sheep wriggle their plump bottoms about in the water with their head always above the water – except when overcome by an enormous surge. They somehow manage to swim out of the tide that carries them.

The goats, on the other hand, are expert whiners and their Qalaad could be heard a distance away. Little floods could cause serious inconveniences to their health and a flash of lighting would agitate their nerves. If swept away they have little chance of survival and, as a habit, dip headfirst into the water. They are often heard making a racket of noises as they are seized by the surge.

The ones that perish in the floods, of Sheep and Goats, are never mourned for and the survivors never look back. That the floods could rise once again and swallow them is inconceivable to their brains. Death means nothing to both the Sheep and Goats. One lost Sheep or Goat does not render the average herd from pausing in their graze and reflecting upon the future that awaits them – even if that death occurs right in front of their eyes and a fox devours a young delectable Sabeen!

The Somali population’s mentality differs not much from that of the animals they rear. The general populace, with their Sheep Logic, are desperate to be led, having no capacity within them to do so. They largely follow their whims and desires and though they perceive the goings-on in their surroundings and the chaos that envelops them from within, they are too blasé about them do not comprehend all that they perceive. Their limited mental vision and the grass they graze on obstructs their view from the perils that lie ahead. Living off the handouts of other countries plotting bigger schemes on their country, the Somalis live in a state of almost total unconsciousness.

The elders of that population have passed down years and years of traditions and practices. The chain of Goat Logic is passed down through an uninterrupted chain until it reaches the Waxar. The young ones born either in or outside Somalia, with a developing sense of Waxar Logic, aspire to become just like their parents and are often seen regurgitating their ideas and behaviours. The dwelling of the young ones or their birth place, even if outsie Somalia, does little to change the inherent susceptibility to Sheep Logic which is passed down by the elders. Neither does the Waxar Logic differ much from the Goat (Ri) Logic, nor the Nayl Logic from the Sheep (Lax) Logic. From a young age, the progeny of this type of logic is infested with the endemic Qabiil Syndrome that takes root and eventually turns them into either whiners like their seniors or leaves them in a state of complete insensitivity. The middle aged ones, with a half-lived life and the logic of the Sabeen or Ceesaan, are in no position to change things and inflict the lashing of Qabiil on the growing young ones.

And just like the Goats and Sheep they rear, death is of little significance for they grasp it not. It does not engender a feeling of loss to say the least. The loss of hundreds or perhaps thousands is of no value and moves them not even in the slightest sense. This sense of insensitivity is shared by all and sundry.

The primitive admiration of inherited Goat/Sheep Logic supersedes any new rebellious, counterculture Waxar or Nayl willing to change the long-established and unequivocally revered perceptions of the elders – perceptions which any Ceesaan or Sabeen with a bit of nous would easily rubbish.

Those who rule, with their Goat Logic, are very much short sighted and scatter at the slightest hint of a commotion. They are an impetuous lot and carry huge, impenetrable solid heads above their scraggy shoulders – a weight too much for them to bear and as a result of which they disappear after a short time. With an imprudent penchant for control, they lead their susceptible flock astray into parched fields and dehydrated pastures where the Jiilaal winds have swept away the very remnants of life from the surface.

All in all, Waxar Logic = Ceesaan Logic = Ri Logic and similarly Nayl Logic = Sabeen Logic = Lax Logic.

There is no change in sight…We are all of the same Goat/Sheep

Dialogues in the Diaspora

Somali art, film, music & culture

DIALOGUES IN THE DIASPORA

Sunday, 4th November 2007
7pm-11pm
Hackney Empire, 291 Mare Street, London E8 1EJ
Tickets: £15/ – £20 at the door
Booking: 020 8985 2424/ http://www.hackneyempire.co.uk

Numbi is the largest celebration of Somali culture and music to hit London.

This imaginative and passionate festival is to be held annually in London with a summer/ winter programme, in venues around London – an ongoing research project investigating contemporary arts practice from pre-civil war Somalia to the present day Diaspora. The idea is to invite artists from a variety of disciplines and diverse backgrounds to work as collaborators with practitioners and young people from the Somali Diaspora. Each artist-collaborator has something distinct to bring – our vision is to provide a platform to both emergent and established artists to explore new ways of creating work – in theatre, visual arts, music and film – that draws from the experience of Somali communities around the world. Cultivating cross-cultural artistic collaborations, the festival aims to deliver work that challenges perceptions, fosters genuine representation, and speaks to Somali communities and as well as a diverse audience of the general public.

Artists collaborating on the project include Kinsi Abdulleh, Rashiid Ali, Renee Mussai, Benjamin Samuels, Byron Wallen, Steven Watts and Concrete Stilettos.

Loosely based on the Numbi launch in October 2006, the line-up will include up to 15 artists who will create a unique cross-cultural fusion of contemporary spoken word, poetry, urban hip hop, traditional Somali music and dance, as well as a newly commissioned short performance piece directed by Benjamin Samuels. All work is in English.

Includes contributions from Xudaydi, The Pan Africans, The Nomadix, Jama Damalian Warrior, Mecca2Medina, Prince Abdi, Yusra Warsama, Wiilwaal, plus a special film screening of See Shells , a short film by legendary Somali film director Abdullekadir Ahmed Sead based in south Africa & 4R Knaan‚ + the Numbi Award.

For further info:
kinsi.kudu@talk21.com
079 4953 4402
http://www.myspace.com/kuduarts
http://www.kuduarts.com/

A Sea Change

Dear readers,

There hasn’t been much activity on this blog for the past few weeks for so. And I have a good reason for this, or at least I believe I do. The past few weeks have been somewhat hectic and, in the greater sense, life transforming. As of the past Saturday, I am no longer the man I used to be, no longer in the state of mind, at least, I used to be in. I no longer see the world as I used to see it; my perceptions of things have changed and my priorities have been, for the better, revamped. One great change has suddenly come across me – perhaps the biggest change I have experienced in all my years of existence. The idea for this change, though spiralling in my head for the past few years, has firmly taken root some months before I went on my trip to Somalia. And from there on, it germinated and sprouted colour, adding vivacity to a sombre life.

I woke up one early August morning, whilst in Somalia, from the hut in Habarshiro. I remember accurately it was the first Friday of August. I had lost track of the date and resorted to remembering the days, and Fridays are more prominent than the rest of the days. Bright day it was with a clear cloudless sky and vivid shades of blue painted across it. The constant breeze drifted as usual, stealthily slithering past the few dust-covered huts in the village, sprinkling sand into the air as it glided past. A general feeling of quiet surrounded the tiny village, with the kids off to play at the termite hills in the open and the villagers watering their animals at the wells nearby. Nothing much happened during the first part of the day as I sat next to my mother while she cooked.

At lunch time, just after the Friday prayers, I was restored from my post-lunch-lie-down by a visit from my father. I was alone in the hut when he entered and sat in one corner of the mat I was stretched-out on. With his feet on the floor, he wrapped his shawl around his back and shins and then rested his hands on his knees. After exchanging a few pleasantries, what followed was a lengthy discussion about marriage, the benefits of marriage – the benefits of marrying a girl from Miyi. His words came forthrightly from an ageing chest, crisp and candid and unequivocal in their suggestion. He portrayed, unerringly, the tribal chief that he is – a countenance more in gravity than in laughter.

“It would be ideal, my son, that you marry a girl from here,” he began in a solemnly voice. “She would, of course, be very helpful to the entire family here. And she is a very beautiful girl too.”
He then mentioned her name to me and I immediately recognised the family name and he added “she comes from a very well respected family, son.”

I dreaded this subject. I knew I would be asked, at one point or another, about the possibility of marrying a girl from Somalia, but by other people, not my own father. This was the fourth time since my arrival in Somalia that I was talked to about the benefits of marrying a girl from there. The first three times I have successfully evaded with the statement “it wasn’t my intention to come here and marry a girl from here, rather it was to see my family and mother whom I’ve longed for after so many years of separations. There is nothing else to this trip beside my family.” I kept reiterating this message in the first three instances, but this time it was my very own father – a man both strong in will and determination.

“If this proposition interests you, then we can finalise things here and now son,” he continued, “and pay the family four or five camels, since they are very well known to me, and conclude with the ceremony here. What do you think of this proposal?”
From his statements and the tone of voice I gathered that the mentioned girl’s family had been aware of this proposal too and would have, perhaps, already consented to the marriage proposal, or even initiated it. I have also deciphered that the girl was only a few huts away from where I was sitting at that very instant, having arrived from Buraan the night before for this very purpose. Perhaps they were convinced that the marriage would somehow eventually take place.

I rummaged my brain for words to say – words to make my father understand the unsuitability of such a marriage and long-lasting effects it could have on both parties. That was when I realised that my proficiency in the Somali language was nothing more than mediocre; intolerable to the ears in terms of vocabulary and greatly embarrassing in comparison to the Nomadic folk. My uttering of phrases with different connotations and incompetence in communicating ideas effectively, lucidly and with an array of metaphors has left me mortified. My Somali was not to be spoken to the nomads and their highly metaphorical local patois – sumptuous in their dialogues with a concoction of words simply melodious to the sensual ear.

“Father,” I responded after a short pause, “marriage is indeed a great blessing and of course a great accomplishment once a man attains it. And though it would be of great interest that I marry a girl from here, yet, like most things in life, fate plays its role in one’s life.”
I watched him as I spoke. He was rocking back and forth, eyes fixated on me as if he were engrossed in a deep conversation, and responded with “weeye” after every short pause.
“Before leaving London,” I continued, “I promised a girl that on my return I would present myself at her family’s house and ask for her hand in marriage. And it would be exceptionally inappropriate for me to break my promise and marry a girl from here, however appropriate for the family it may seem, when she patiently awaits my return. I trust you understand the situation I am in father.”

I could see that he was displeased with my reply but somewhat understood my concern and nodded his head in agreement.
“Besides,” I added, “she is well known to the family in London and is a girl of a very reputable character – good natured and with admirable qualities liked by many in the household.”
Again another nod. He stroked his chin, rubbing his hands along the few protruding grey hairs and then asked, “And who is this girl?”
I told him her three names and he nodded again. “I see. So she is the daughter of Osman who is known by the nickname of C.”

I nodded in agreement, pleased that he knew the family she hails from. It turns out that the girl’s grandfather and the family was well known to him and this was a great relief for me. That was the end of the proposal and my father, being very understanding, expressed his approval of my marriage to the girl in London and showered blessings upon me. We departed after a extensive fatherly advice about marriage – its perils and all.

Three months later and here I am, having fulfilled my promise to its fullest. And this is the great change that has come across me – change for the better I presume. Life is more meaningful when it’s shared with someone, so ahead and rejoice in the greatness of this exalted thing called marriage, for I have!

A Nomad’s utensils

• Hadhuub – made from Caw, the Hadhuub is used for milking goats and, very rarely, camels.

 

• Haan or Aagaan - largely made from Caw and in some parts of Somalia, the Qabo tree. The cover and the cavity upon which it sits are both usually made from Gaatir tree. Haan has two purposes. One - Milk is stored in it over a period of time so that when it coagulates Subag (fat) is separated from the curd. Two – milk is poured in it, then violently shaken to separate the actual milk from the fat (subag). This process is called Lulid.

 

• Hadhuub-Gaal or Gaawe or Mure- made from trees called Booc and Argeeg. Thin threads of skin are peeled from these trees to make this container and its sole purpose is milking camels.

 

 

• Bocor - made from Bocor tree usually found in the mountains of Cal Madow, the Bocor grows as you see in the picture above. It is similar to an overgrown marrow – the insides of a Bocor contains tiny seeds which are removed so that it is used for storing goats Subag.

 

• Jenjel – made from the branches of Dhumay tree and then strengthened with dried goat hide. It is used as an overcoat for small metallic containers – joog - used for storing subag.

 

 

• Sati (left) - Made from caw. Though originally used  for storing meat, now the Sati is generally used for decoration purposes.
• Sallad (right) – used for preserving meat and Subag, the Sallad is also made from the branches of Dhumay tree encased in goats hide. Now its used for decoration purposes.

 

Hangool – made from the Qudhac, Damal, Galool trees. And the finer quality ones from the Dhebi tree. The Hangool is used primarily for picking and managing the ood - the thorny animal enclosures, but it is also a fashion accessory so the Nomads tend to showcase it as a work of art, flamboyantly displaying it in their circles.

 

All of these utensils are now largely used for decorating the huts. Whenever a new couple weds, their new hut, built in some remote area, is ostentatiously decorated with Hadhuub, Sati, Sallad, Bocor, Gaawe, Dhiil, Haan, etc… They form the very basic of the nomads large array of natural tools and without them there would be no house.

A nomadic Experience 2

A Nomadic experience 1

I woke up from my sisters hut. Beside me, stacked in some corner or hanging from the boughs were Sati, Sallad, Bocor, Hadhuub, dhiil, etc. – the very finest of a Somali nomad’s handmade utensils (I will explain these in another post hopefully in detail). Being my first time sleeping on a mat on rock solid earth, after so many years, together with my peculiar habit of sleeping on one side, I woke up with that morning with sore shoulders and a bruised ribcage.

It was a bright day, with a clear blue sky above. Not a single cloud hovered in the sky. The villagers of Habarshiro had already woken up and were by now at the wells, watering huge numbers of animals. My mother sat outside the hut – ardaaga, a partly enclosed area at the entrance of the hut plastered with tiny pebbles and covered (usually) with a mat – and made breakfast. That day it was Ruub – special thick round bread baked under burning ashes served with Sixin. After gobbling down the food quickly I made my way to the berked, for I have been informed that my younger sister, Zainab, would be arriving to see me today. I watered the animals from the Berked, all the time expecting the figure of my sister to emerge from behind the small hill that surrounds the village. After about an hour, she finally emerged, exhausted but with a radiant smile and with her seven-month old baby on her back! I couldn’t believe it – she had walked from a distance of four hours to come and see me and there were no words, however lofty, to repay that kind of love…

By noon, after we had lunch, I was sitting amidst several of my relatives when we were informed that a she-camel belonging to my father had gone missing a few days ago. The news came as a bolt from the blue to all the people, for their love for camels is without comparison. Generally, for the nomads, the lost camel is far dearer to them than all the present ones combined, so they would do everything at their disposal to search for it, often hunting it for days in the wilderness without returning home. Soon my brother, Mohamed, an expert camel herder, was sent with information of its last known location to follow it and bring back any news or sightings – a confirmation whether it was worth the pursuit or if it has been disposed of by the ever present predator, the hyena. They wanted a confirmation and as the old proverb goes “hubsiimo hal baa la siistaa” (precision/certainty is worth a she-camel). The rest of the day passed without much vibrancy.

 

 

 

The next morning my brother came early into the village with some news. Traditionally, when someone brings news to the nomads they welcome the bearer of the news in hope that he brings glad tidings. They say;

Warran oo lagugu ma warramo,

wiilkaaga mooyee walaalkaa ku ma dhaxlo,

la waari maayee waayo joog,

wax xun iyo cadaab la’ow

 

Bring news, but may your news not be brought

May your son inherit you and your brother not

Life won’t be long but may you live long

May you be free from all that is evil and hell

And he did bring some news. “There have been several sightings of a she-camel,” he said, “but its whereabouts were still unidentified. I have seen some tracks and followed them. There appeared to be a hyena chasing the camel, but just past Manshax the tracks disappeared.” The news was even worse than they had expected. The involvement of the hyena had raised their worst fears. Immediately an expedition was organised. The car that brought me to Habarshiro was still with me and so was the driver. It was then decided that we must take the car and look for the she-camel. We set off early, two of my brothers, my cousin and I, following tracks and trails of animals. Stopping at several huts yielded no valuable information. We finally met a young shephard in the vast Sool plateau and that’s when we were informed by the nomad that a ‘lone she-camel’ had been spotted earlier somewhere to our East. A sigh of relief came upon the faces of my brothers and cousin.

 

A nomad with his sheep and goats

We followed the direction of our informant nomad and headed east. The car drove slowly across plain fields and desiccated terrain, stopping from time to time and my brothers getting out to inspect and sift through the hundreds of footprints on the soil. Analysing the trails very precisely, they’d decide upon the time they were left and in which manner, as in if the camel was running or walking, and then they would decide upon the direction the tracks were leading to, thereby estimating a specific location that it would have reached.

A camel-herder with his camels. This is my brother

The nomads are expert trackers and their knowledge of their land is unrivalled. Using trees as landmarks and indicators of their location, the nomads know exactly how long it would take a camel, or a person for that matter, to travel from one place to another, and using this knowledge we headed for the probable route of the she-camel and the estimated destination. After about 2 hours, and regular intervals to inspect more tracks that would confirm our quest, we finally managed to find the she-camel, among other camels. She wasn’t in a bad state, except for her rear which was bitten by a hyena. This explained the running tracks that Mohamed saw on the first day of his inspection of the surrounding areas – the trails of the camel being chased. And what a relief it was. Such a relief that the camels were immediately milked and we were served with fresh camel milk with Ruub.

  

Milking a camel (haaneed)                                      suckling her mother, though she is a bit old for that now.

As the days progressed, I learnt more about the customs of the Nomadic tribes and soon started to admire them. Though living in the throes of water shortages and meagre resources (this is during the dry seasons or Jiilaal. When it rains and water is in abundance, the nomads live a luxuriant life for they don’t have to take the animals to far away watering places and traditional songs and folk dances are performed regularly in the open. There is always plenty of meat and milk to be consumed and it becomes a merry time for weddings, so young men go scouting for their brides in these dances), the nomads are perhaps the one group of people who have understood life’s fundamental lesson of simplicity. They care neither for the trials the barren land may unfold tomorrow, nor do they weigh themselves down with the burdens of yesterday. They live for today, with as little of life’s encumbrances as possible. In their secluded world, detached from all worldly lures, the present is all that matters – the past has no relevance and the future no certainty. Enjoying whatever the earth yields, they live a frugal lifestyle without extravagance. They wake up the morning, each person going about his assigned job. No worries or stress, for as long as they have their camels, life is jolly good (except for the dry seasons when they struggle hard to find grazing grounds and water for their livestock).

Eating Ruub with camel milk. What the man is holding is called Hadhuub-gaal or Gaawe

Now that I have returned to London, I have become slightly disenchanted with all the superfluous material pleasures and their impermanent value. Life in Miyi has left upon me an indelible impression and my wish is to return there as soon as chance permits me. I now have a clearer insight into the nomadic lifestyle with all its perils and pleasures. I do not think I could live it through though (settling down there I mean), but try I will one day!

The Somali Nomadic lifestyle is what defines the Somali culture. It is from these dry plateaus, valleys and watering holes from which all Somali traditions spring, forming the bedrock of the Somali society and a rich cultural heritage handed down to generations of camel herders and pastoralists. The traditional dances and weddings in Miyi forms the basis of almost all Somali poetry and music. To understand the meaning and origins of Somali poetry, music and literature, one must be fairly informed about the pastoral lifestyle, for without that one looses majority of the meanings, metaphors, allusions and insinuations imbedded within them.

 

  

The camel, as I have mentioned in an earlier post as well, is the centre of hundreds of poems from the earliest poets to the ones of today. Here is a poem that summarizes the life of the she-camel in 5 lines, from birth to maturity (I’ve added the ages the poet talks about for your convenience) ;

 

gugey dhalatay geed lagu xiryoo xariga loo gaabi

guga xigana gaaleemadiyo* dhogorta qaar goyso (2 jir)

guga xigana uur-giringiri* geela ku hor meedho (Qaalin yar, 3 jir)

guga xigana awar garabsatoo gooja* la hudeecdo (hal, 4 jir)

guga xigana good* nirig dhashay gaawe* laga buuxi (5 jir)

 

The year she was born, she is tied to a tree and the noose loosened

The year after that, she peels off part of her fur (age = 2)

The year after that, with a round belly, she parades in front of the camels (age = 3)

The year after that, she mates, becomes pregnant and dawdles (age = 4)

The year after that, good has given birth and a gaawe is filled (age = 5)

 

*Gaaleemada  = the first fur the she-camel develops at a young age. this coat of fur stripped when the camel reaches about two years of age.

*uur-giringiri = by this time the calf develops a slightly big belly. She is neither suckling nor is she mature enough yet.

*Goojo = when the she-camel is pregnant the first sing is that as soon as someone approaches it, or a he-camel approaches it for mating, it spreads its hind legs and urinates. This is called Goojo and the camel-herder estimates a time when it would give birth.

*good = the she-camel is now called Good. As soon as she gives birth she is given a name, but before giving birth she is called “daughter of such and such” or “ina hebla”.

*Gaawe = Hadhuub gaal used for milking camels.

 

In another poem, Cumar Australia composed a brilliant poem about camels.

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayow dhaqasho waa geele

Dhibaatiyo adoo gaajo qaba dhaxanta jiilaalka

Dhoor* caano laga soo lisoo yara dhanaanaaday

 

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

when adversity and hunger finds you in the winds of Jiilaal

The milk obtained from Dhoor with its sharp taste

 

Nin dhadhamiyey wuu garanayaa dhul ay qaboojaane

Goortaad dhantaa baa jidhkaba dhididku qooyaaye

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayoow dhaqasho waa geele

 

A man who tasted them knows where they cool down

as soon as you drink it, does sweat drench the body

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

 

Waxa dhaba habeenkaa ninkii dhama galxoodkeeda*

Dhallaanimo qodxihii kugu mudnaa kaaga soo dhaca e

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayoow dhaqasho waa geele.

 

Guaranteed it is that a man who drinks its (camels) Galax*

In childhood the thorns that pricked you would be discharged 

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

 

 *Galxood = comes from the word Galax. When a camel is milked, the fresh milk is initially hot and forms a lot of froth on the surface. The milk is left to settle down and the froth disappears. Once it disappears, very cold, pure milk is what remains. This is called Galax.

*Dhoor – Mane. Also known as Baar. A camel with a mane has not been used for carrying water or disassembled huts. Dhoor is also sometimes used as a name for a she-camel.

 

Cumar Australia also goes on to say that;

 

Inkastood adduun badan dhaqdo dheemman iyo daaro

Inkastood dhar wada suufa iyo dhag iyo laas qaaddo

Dhaxal male nin Soomaaliyoon dhaqannin koorreey*

 

despite having a world of diamond and dwellings

despite you having luxuriant clothes of cotton

Inheritence he has not, a Somali who doesn’t rear a camel

 

*koorreey = comes from the word Koor which means a wooden bell – the one tied around the camel’s neck. Here Koorey refers to camels.

For centuries the Somali Nomadic lifestyle had existed, people have endured the worst of droughts and famine and were content with their herd of camels, and though that lifestyle is now somewhat sluggishly diminishing, pastoralists will continue to exist despite the growing number of villages and urbanisation of Miyi.

 

cp.s I have attended a wedding in Miyi and will give you the details about the customs along with some pictures soon Insha-Allah.

Somali Trees

Damal – plenty of Mayrax is gathered from this tree. Mayrax is obtained by a long process of separating very thin threads from the bark and branches of the trees. It is used making Kebdaha (sing. Kebed) - which has various uses but is widely used for loading camels or building houses.

 

Galool – Mayrax is obtained from this tree and it is used as ood – an enclosure for animals. Walking sticks and Hangools are usually preferred to be obtained from the branches of this tree and it is also widely used for building huts.

 

Dhirindhir – a white liquidy gum substance used as glue is obtained from this shrub. It is also widely used for making enclosures for animals and around the huts.

 

This tree is widely used for stopping bleeding. I’ve forgotten the name unfortunately. It is used widely by women after birth to stop post natal bleeding.

 

 

Bilcil – The bark of this tree is used as Culay to clean the utensils such as Haan, Hadhuub, etc. Goats prefer this tree, for when the leaves fall off, the earth becomes decorated with plenty of them and a feast for goats.

Higlo - This tree’s leaves never fall off come rain or shine. It stays green throughout and lives for a very long time – staying the same throughout. if I were to go to this place in Manshax twenty years later, this tree would still be as in this picture. Camels love eating the leaves of this tree.

 

Meygaag – This tree is present everywhere in Sool. The dried twigs of this tree are put in the fire for a while and then inserted in the Hadhuub and shaken vigorously – this is called Culay. It is also used to obtain tooth brushes.

Qudhac – An omnipresent tree as the Meygaag. Mayrax is also obtained from this tree. It also bears small fruits known as Qubca which animals love. The Mayrax is made into Kebdo for decorating huts. It is also used to make ood.

Aqal Somali

             

In an earlier post I’d explained the construction of a Somali hut. But when I was passing by this place – Goob Ramaas – I noticed a small Somali hut being built and brought you some images. The above picture of Goob Ramaas, near Ceelbuh, clearly illustrates the vast open terrain called Sool. Like a giant carpet spread upon the earth, it rolls for miles and miles in every direction – as far as your eye can see!

 

 

This is the Somali hut being constructed – and as I mentioned before, you’d notice that it is only women who build the huts. The men usually gather the wood from the Galool, Dhumay trees etc, and then the women get to work. The above hut being constructed is called Saddex-dhigood, meaning it is made out of three arched Gob branches as you can see above. This is the smallest hut constructed and the largest is made out of Seven. The most common huts though are made out of either three or four Dhigood.

 

Though not of the same hut, this is how the inside of some huts looks like. In this picture, the thin branches that run somewhat perpendicular to the three Dhigo, along the entire hut, are called lool. These lool form a spread above the Dhigo so that the woven mats can be fastened onto the hut.

 

And this is how the mats are then fastened to the hut. What you see in the picture on the left is Udub-Dhexaad – the middle, or sometimes on either sides of the hut, wood made usually out of Dayyib tree that fortifies the hut and keeps it erect.

 

And this is how the inside looks like when it is finally built, with a small branch for hanging clothes as an extra.

 

Now that the hut is almost complete with all the pillars of wood erected and the hut standing firmly, the only thing left to do is fasten the skilfully woven mats onto the pillars wood. The mats too though, have to be made by hand. First the Caw (above left) is gathered from the woodland after days of scouting, then after getting rid of the impurities, it is assembled as above and the interlacing or plaiting of the Caw begins (above right). This process of interlacing the Caw is called Falag and is usually done over drinks when women gather for conversations late in the afternoon.

 

After interlacing the Caw, a single long sheet of Caw is made. This sheet is called Gadaan (above left). The name is derived from the meaning of the word Gadaan which is “round” – and because the Caw, after each plait, is rounded up as in the above picture, it is given such a name. Hundreds of single plaits of Caw are then interweaved to form a large mat called Dermo (Plural – Dermooyin). The picture on the right shows the Dermooyin on top of the hut.

And here is the final result… As for the time it takes – well I passed by the hut being built (top) on my way to Ceelbuh. By the time I came back, about and hour and a half later, the hut was completed! Kudos to the female Somali nomads I say!

Ramadan Kareem

 Ramadan Kareem all. May Allah make this month a blessing for all of us and may our prayers be accepted. Ameen!

As for my declining posts, I have been slightly busy with work and and organising myself these past couple of days, but I will post some more reports from my travel to Miyi soon…

 

Have a Blessed Ramadan…

Congratulations…

I would like to extend my warmest greetings to my friend Mohamed who recently got married while I was away on holiday and whose wedding ceremony I could not attend.

May your marriage bring you all the pleasures a marriage ought to bring, my friend, and may you have a never-ending supply of affection and patience which is vital in married life and may Allah grant you obedient offsprings.

And on a final note, may you have the ability to understand her and the ocean of mystery that surrounds a woman… ;)

image

A Nomadic Experience.

 

We left Bosaaso just before twilight set upon us. Accompanied by my brothers, we left my hotel at Al-Rowda, passed by Bosaaso Hospital, a thousand and one restaurants at the edge of the main road, countless hawkers by, cars, lorries heading out and entering the city, people, goats, sheep, soldiers, more hotels, carts and finally silence. Except for our short stay at Xalwo Kismaayo whilst we bought some sweets and mineral water, there was no commotion-filled, busy and eventful streets to be heard, no clamour of voices, no obnoxious Qat sellers, no loud conductors pulling you into their buses, just the noise of rubber eating away the tarmac. Arid, dry land occupied either sides of the road as far as the eyes caught. Further ahead, great mountains towered above the levelled ground. The enormity of such mountains loomed over the vast barren earth and formed a somewhat pleasing sight. By then I was all expectations. Every minute that passed brought me closer to an emotional reunion with a family I’ve left a long time ago and filled my heart with anticipation. I was starting to feel the goosebumps appearing.

The long stretch of road led us past the city control limits where the cars are checked for weapons, then past the villages of Laag, Karin, Kalabaydh, and several other tiny ones along the roadside and then just after we passed the dangerously serpentine road of Alxamdullilah, the driver came off the asphalted road and took a narrow rough path, through the arid land formed by the tyre tracks of cars and constant usage . The rough road rapidly rolled in front of us and the car bounced up and down at great speeds. We followed that route through an immense dark terrain, through Ballibusle, through Laag Xaariseed and after a gruelling five-hour journey set foot in the wilderness of Sanaag at 2 AM. A small hut erected in the middle of no where greeted us and adjacent to it, two thick fences made from the thorny branches of Galool trees formed two large rings. Inside the rings, animal dung had plastered the earth, covering the thin layer of soil. This is where the sheep and goats along with their lambs and kids come to rest after a day of traversing the plains of Sanaag.   

 

From the hut exited my young brothers and sisters and my step mother and from there started the emotional reunion. It was an occasion worthy of a celebration and fresh meat was immediately served. We stayed that night or whatever was left of it and slept in the open, watching the millions of glittery stars that decorated the sky and danced around the vivid moon to form an enchanting display. What a pleasant night that was!

Waking up early that morning, I observed my surroundings. I noticed with enthusiasm the extent to which my vision was restricted to – as far as my eyes could see. With trees such as Qudhac, Meygaag, Galool, Damal, bilcil and Higlo along with some Dhirindhir spread sporadically along a vast flat land, the wilderness was as open as the sea and stretched out for perhaps hundreds of kilometres. Such a vast area of land is called Sool (not to be confused with the region of Sool). Sool means an area that comprises of mainly the trees I mentioned above covering acres of land. It was the Xagaa season and the land, being slightly sterile was rainless and dry. Small bushes, usually a few centimetres off the earth, known as Dureemo and others slightly bigger, known as Duur, covered the earth. Duur is used extensively for building huts and enclosures for animals. All this I observed whilst on my way to where my mother lived – a small village called Habarshiro, right in the heart of Sanaag.

  

Habarshiro, a tiny village lying at the foot of a small hill has Ceelbuuh as its nearest neighbour. Here, the vast land was, for the most part, unoccupied except for a few houses that conspicuously took up their rightful places in the middle of no-where. Barren and dry as it was, there were hardly any trees either, apart from the few dry trunks that stood like solitary soldiers assigned to keep watch and guard the village. Several wells surrounds the city known as Berkedo (sing. Berked). These serve as watering grounds for more than two thousand heads of camels, sheep and goats almost every day.

 

As the car closed the distance between me and Habarshiro, my heart hammered heavily in her chest, threatening to crack my ribcage open. I even thought I heard its pulsating beats. A reservoir of tears gathered at the brim of my eyes, ready to gush out at the very mention of the word “hooyo” – mother! The car had not even come fully to a halt when I pushed the door open, jumped out, flung my arms around my mother and silently sobbed tears (though strongly repressed ) of delight, relief and excitement. A graceful woman with finely tuned features she was, though baked by the sun into a dark chocolaty complexion, and must have been without comparison in beauty in her glory days.

Gradually my heart came to rest and the thudding was replaced by a wave of comfort. The warmth of my mother’s embrace disposed of the inner restlessness, evaporating all concerns and worries into thin air and putting my troubled heart to rest. Everything else seemed insignificant then, my mind was for the first time completely free of thought! This was where I wanted to be and this was how I wanted to feel. At that very instant my life had changed and without regard for what perils and tribulations lay ahead, I’ve decided that this was where I wanted to spend the rest of my stay – under the shelter of my mother’s hut. The rest of my siblings were away, dispersed into the immense terrain, so whilst my father and relatives sat under the shade of the Higlo tree, I grabbed my younger sisters and mother and went inside the hut.

 

After a few days stay in Habarshiro, it was time to discover the customs of the nomadic tribes. I set out early in the morning towards the Berked to water and load the camels my brother had brought from his hut in Manshax – three hour’s journey away from the village. Every two to three days he makes the same journey and loading his camels with water, returns to his house. This is called Dhaan. So that particular morning, with a strong desire to walk the plains of Sool and discover the land by foot, I volunteered to accompany my sister Seytun who was to take the dhaan back to my brother’s house. Being the first time I have seen her in her 20 years of living, I wanted to be very much with her all the time. Little did I know what lay ahead and how much trekking I would have to do.

  

We set out with five camels loaded with water for two families. As soon as we disappeared from the sight of Habarshiro, I stopped and looked around. Not another single soul in sight, except for me and my sister and not another living thing except for our five camels. The immensity of the terrain simply astonished me; you could be walking for miles and not come in contact with a human being. We strolled along at leisurely pace, talking passionately about our lives through all the years of separation. An expert trekker, having traversed the entire terrain in every direction perhaps a thousand time, she knows the location of almost every tree in the area.

 

The evergreen Higlo tree.

We were walking for only about an hour and I could feel that my body was spewing out sweat in excessive amounts and my feet begged for some rest. That I gladly welcomed and sought the shelter of a Higlo tree at which point my sister teased me for being unhealthy. That is how I completed my journey – walking for about an hour in the open and then finding some shelter under a tree. We finally reached our destination by noon – two small huts, intricate in their design, in the middle of a vast open space – and unloaded the water. There I sat, fatigued and panting for breath, and accepted a fresh cup of camel milk from my sister-in-law. I dreaded the journey back to the village and wished for once that I hadn’t been so impulsive. A three hour journey awaited me and I had to make it before darkness envelops the land, for then hyenas own the night.

Luckily I did manage, greatly exerting myself, to return to Habarshiro as soon as the rays of the sun plummeted down the horizon. After a few days rest and the pain in my feet subsided, I was ready for another ‘excursion’ – a painful excursion.

to be continued…

Bosaaso

 

Bosaaso >

 

It was about three in the afternoon in Bosaaso and the sun was still intensely oppressive. From my window, I could see that the plane had landed on a coarse runway, between mountains, scattered with gravel and stone. A barbed wire bordered the stretch of the airport, leaving just adequate room for vehicles’ entrance and a small concrete wall guarded by some exhausted soldiers. A small house with two rooms, each with two windows and a tin roof occupied a corner of the airport and passed for ‘Imagration’ (immigration). Along its borders, each of the wooden windows was reinforced with a shield of iron. Within a distance of a few paces stood another building adjacent to a cafeteria; a house built in the same way as the former. “Customs Office Airport Bossaso” was painted in faint dark colours on a board attached to a mesh of concrete patterns. I was in Bosaaso, and the constant fear of the small clattering Russian plane crashing at any minute had left me.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, some memories of the Dubai temperatures floated before me. A wave of baking heat greeted me, and my lungs seemed unable to inhale the boiling air. It seemed as if I was short of breath and the quick agonizing gasps of hot air scalding my throat felt like drowning. Huffing and puffing, I glanced ahead in to the bright sunshine with my eyes slightly squinted as my body tried to adjust to the severe conditions. With great struggle, I managed balance my weight on the wobbly staircase and set foot on land. I was on home soil and a slight sensation of relief came upon me. I was still brimming with my anticipation of life in Miyi and that of meeting relatives and family. But that feeling was soon drowned under the humid air.

A gush of uncontrollable trickles of sweat appeared on my forehead. I hate sweating profusely, and no matter how many times I wiped the sweat off with my face towel, more sweat from the open pores would drench me again.

Giving my ticket and passport to my cousin to deal with the immigration, I made my way past the swarm of porters each pestering in his own unique way to carry my luggage and went and sat in the car. Thirty minutes later and I was at the hotel. Situated in AL Rowda, Emirates Hotel is a new four-storey building attracting a large number of visitors. After a flight of stairs, the smell of fresh paint swimming through the corridors of the first floor waylays the nostrils and in the far corner several paint cans confirm the source of the smell. In each room of the hotel are two beds, two bedside cabinets, two cloth hangers and a TV. The funny thing about the rooms is that they rent the beds so you would have to share it with another person, thereby throwing privacy out of the window – that is unless you want to rent the whole room. The <em>rent coast</em> of each room as the Conditions of the Hotel stated – is 9 dollars a night for a bed and 18 dollars for the whole room.

Bosaaso is perhaps the fastest growing city in this region. The city that was almost concentrated on the port a few years ago is now being stretched out. Almost hundreds of houses are under construction everyday and new houses, some with brilliant designs, stretch the city far out of its borders. Soon people will be building houses on the bordering mountains or even past the city control limits. Along the main road – the only asphalted road in Bosaaso – that originates from the port and dissects the city into two are thousands of people displaying different merchandise under corroding tin roofs and makeshift shelters. Perhaps one of the most valuable, highly purchased and highly profitable commodity displayed on the side of the road is the stimulant Qat. Several stalls of Qat decorate the sides of the main road, and are usually filled with animated activities. You will also find roaming products – people carrying their goods along with them and selling them. These are usually young children and sometimes even adults with a few pairs of clothes, some watches, batteries, socks and perfumes for sale.

By day Bosaaso is a city full of activity, blaring horns, busy streets and the clamor of noise that fills the street. The main road road is the hub of commotion and becomes almost jam-packed with cars and people and it seems as though no one has a right of the road, thereby adding to the angry outbursts from drivers, carts and people walking by.

But as soon as daylight disappears, the city’s face of evil is adorned in the darkness. Criminals wait in ambush at almost every corner, sharpening their teeth, waiting for a victim to take along. Walking through Bosaaso at night could mean the end of your life. A new wave of crime has erupted in the city. Groups of armed robbers, thugs, rapists and murderers roam the streets at night, stripping any possession from whomever they jump upon. It has been reported that several women have had their breasts cut off, ears chopped, raped and then discarded. The perpetrators, sometimes dressed in Burqas for anonymity, seize their victims and torture them until the early hours of the morning when they either release them or their bodies are found lying in some dingy corner.

Women too have now become part of this trade. Though few of the women are reported to have killed their victims, the majority of them would prey on lone men at night, rob them under gunpoint and take them home. This may seem absurd and incredible to say the least, but it happens.

Throughout my short stay in Bosaaso I was confined to the limits of my guarded hotel everyday after 6 PM except for a very few days. One particular day was when I stayed late at my cousin’s house and froze with fear on my return to the hotel. Darkness seeped from every little corner that led to the hotel. I expected that at any moment a Burqa or balaclava-clad person would jump out of the dark corners brandishing a gun. The wad of money I had then seemed of little significance. The possibility of being stabbed or shot for a few dollars or shillings hovered like a gigantic cloud above my head. With every rock that I stumbled upon, a fresh wave of panic startled me. I looked to the left and right in quick successions. Then behind me, then front. I observed every wall, every corner and expected someone. Sometimes I even saw people squatting down where rocks huddled lifelessly. I then looked back and saw darkness, adding to the constant fear that amidst the darkness, something will bounce upon me at any moment. Even the gentle breeze of warm air that blows at night startled me until the minute I reached the compound of my hotel.

The streets are teeming with beggars and shoe polishers. Even when the sun is at its peak, you will find shoe polishers as young as 5 or 6 years old, walking barefooted in the torrid heat of July or August, or beggars with the clothes outstretched on the streets.

Outside Al Rowda mosque, several women sit at the door regularly with their Hijabs widely spread in front of them. Several shoe polishers also shine shoes while people pray. And this is where I met him. A young scruffy chap in tattered black tee-shirt (looking closely I realized that the colour was originally blue) and a threadbare trousers came to me while I sat at Al-tawfiq restaurant, just outside the mosque, and said something indiscernible. I asked him to repeat what he said and he once again mumbled the same indiscernible words with a small smile, pointing to the water bottle I’ve been drinking. At this point, a waiter at the restaurant saw the incident and chased the little boy away. I went outside after him and handed him the water bottle at which he graciously smiled.
   ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
   Several flies took off and landed on his forehead in succession. He made no effort to wave them off. They descended down the bridge of his nose, scavenging whatever nutrition they could along the way, then down to his lips. His face darkened by the scorching heat had accumulated so much dirt and from neglect had become darker than the hands of a car mechanic.
   ‘Liban,’ came a faint reply.
‘How old are you Liban?’ I questioned him.
He looked up at me with pitiful eyes, parted his lips slightly, and then lifted his left hand up and gestured the number three with his fingers, then the number four and finally two. From his lack of willingness to talk and mumbled voice I sensed that he had a speech impediment and did not know his age either. I guessed him to be about 6 years of age if not younger. Hundreds of children similar to Liban roam the streets of Bosaaso daily hunting for their livelihoods. They are paid 1000 shillings – the cost of a small chewing gum – for a pair of shoes they polish.

My stay in Bosaaso lasted only for a few days whilst I waited for a car to take me to Miyi and when it came I was glad I was out of the heat, for the nomads live in far cleaner atmospheres with cooler temperatures…

Greetings From Somalia…

In the most revered tone of greeting Assalamu Calaykum, or in the tone of a true nomad that I have become lately, iga gudooma salaan sare dear friends.

My adventures in Miyi are over for now, but the memory still remains of the scenery, the culture, the people and the simplicity of the life that i’ve began to love, despite its numerous hardships. I have reached Badhan yesterday to unwind and greet a few relatives before jetting off on the 27th back to Dubai.

As for pictures and stories relating to my Nomadic experiences, just wait till I rejuvinate my body and my feet recover from these burning blisters that the nomads said would be a long lasting souvenir of my stay. As soon as I reach Dubai, if the damned Daaley Airline operates on fair grounds, I shall upload the pictures and tell you of the vast land I discovered…

Dubai – A Desert of Dreams

The flight

As we ascended to lofty heights and houses diminished in size, the vast British coastline was clear from above. At an altitude of 37000 feet, the earth looked picturesque. From my window seat, the beautiful green pastures, adjacent to one another with hedge-defined boundaries, looked like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. It looked just like a picture from Google Earth – just more real. Soon enough clouds resembling huge quantities of froth suspended in mid air gently floated past us. Yet they seemed somewhat still and motionless, except for the few diverted clouds that were, like soft pieces of cotton, driven by the wind far below us. Tired of starring out into the open, I reclined uncomfortably in my chair and tried to sleep. We were above Bucharest by then.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a few minutes, but by the time I opened them Bucharest was now far behind, as the on-screen map showed, and we were right above Iraq. We have crossed the Black Sea and by then light had given way to dark, and there I sat starring into an endless labyrinth of darkness and my reflection. I could see below, through the clear skies and odd patches of clouds, that the cities below resembled millions of glittery stars adjoined in irregular patterns, trailing off to somewhere in the dark before disappearing from sight. This continued until we reached Dubai.

The Airport

At the airport, haughty Arabs, with flowing white silk dresses and sandals occupied the seats at the Passport Control, just before the Baggage Claim area. With a disdainful flick of his finger, he beckons the next passenger and reclines back in his chair, staring into space, if not ogling the female passengers around. Once the passenger presents his passport to him, he then works at a snail’s pace, contemptuous in his manner, and callous in response. You could almost feel the sense of pride that consumes him from the way he talks to people apathetically.
About seven or eight queues formed parallel lines in front of the passport control, and two separate queues for GCC nationals, where a few Arabs stood. The other queues were all jam-packed with people of every descent – majority of which were Indians. Whenever an Indian man presented his passport to him, he’d look up at him, without moving his head and slightly lifting his brows up, with scorn. And once when a man went the wrong way, he’d shouted at him, “kya damaakh nai hein” (what, don’t you have a brain?), pointing his open hand to his temples. The poor Indian man simply turned and walked the other way with a smile and shake of the head, whilst the Arab watched with revulsion.

Ignoring us, he then called the few Arabs at the GCC line and started stamping their passports, even though they had separate queues and checking points of their own. Favouritsm here is accepted, for no one said a word.

The Weather

An oppressing wave of heat accosted me as soon as I stepped outside into the Greeting Area. Immediately, tiny beads of sweat appeared on my face, my hands felt clammy and my jeans damp under the humidity, while I gasped irritably for some air to fill my lungs. In front of me, hundreds of dark faces, with sweat dripping from their foreheads, stood packed like sardines, leaning on the metal barriers and each fighting for some space at the front. Their eyes followed each exiting passenger with an imploring look. None of them was Arab or wearing Arabic clothing. For once I questioned whether British Airways has taken a detour to India and left me stranded, for everyone there was of the Indian Subcontinent.

By the time I found my friend at the exit, I was sodden with sweat. It felt like walking right through a furnace, with extremely hot air scalding your skin. Thankfully, all the cars, houses, shops, restaurants, etc are equipped with air conditioners.

The next day I woke up at about 12 and after a quick shower decided to have a feel for the outside world. Stepping out from the luxury of my cool apartment, I went out. But as soon as I set a foot outside, hot air slapped me across the face and I retreated in defeat.

The best times to go out, as I later learnt, were not during the day, but evenings. At about 7pm, a mild wind blows from the ocean and sweeps across the city. It is not cold, but bearable and that’s when the city comes to life, bustling with activity and Arabs.

Tip: drink a lot of water and always keep a face towel in hand.

The people

Behind their immaculate exteriors and musk –soaked bodies lie putrid souls and stagnated minds. During the sweltering heat of the day, you would be hard-pressed to find an Arab guy with his silk robe walking the streets of Dubai. Lazy as they are, they eat off the strength of the poor Indians who are labouring day and night to pay their costs of living and sending money back to their countries. With an ostentatious display of wealth and lassitude, the Arab man parks his 4X4 in front of the grocery store, give two hoots on the horn and waits for the Indian man to come out, gives him the money and orders his goods.

It is their inert natures and gluttonous eating habits that their obesity is credited to. At night time, majority of the Arabs roam about aimlessly in their tinted 4X4s, to and fro the city, leering at girls wherever they find them. They go to malls, walk around, hunting for their prey, but never getting to devour it. Whenever a female is spotted, loud hoots are emitted from the car and bellows of delight fill the car as it slows down and the tints are rolled down.

Their women too, having reached a point of frustration from idly sitting at home, now do the same thing. It is like watching a pathetic flirting scene – where the man and woman constantly gyrate around each other with smiles, winks, nods of the head, waves of the hands, each keeping a safe distance that which cannot be breached. This is how the night is spent and the same routine is executed night after night, except for Ramadan when care races are taking place throughout the cities.

For people of such lifestyles, their arrogance is unmatched. The word discrimination here is held in a class of its own and given its own abode, festooned with all the decorative charms of injustice. A Pakistani friend of mine, describing his life here, once remarked “they don’t have to respect you.” Another friend who was born here, but also of Pakistani origin, said “you have no rights here even if you were born here. You and the guy who came yesterday are the same – the only difference is you know the city and he doesn’t.”

In Sharjah and Ajman, the police have the authority to do as they please. If they stop you they will take out their ‘Egal’ – the black rope that rests on top of the turban on their head – and lash you across the face with it if they wish. In Dubai things are a bit different for Sheikh Mohamed Bin Rashid has taken stringent measures to ensure that the law is respected by all.

With their disproportionate bodies and gluttonous bellies coupled with a strange sort of gratuitous arrogance, theirs is a life of pomposity and hedonism. Their survival as a country and as a nation depends on foreign strength and their economy would instantaneously crumble down if all the hard working people of the Indian Subcontinent were to leave UAE for their homes. I doubt they will have the necessary skills since majority of them, getting monthly allowances, homes and cars from the government, haven’t yet taken a dip into the labour pool.

But not all the Arabs are contemptible. The ones that behave like this are called “Mujawazin” – they are people of Iranian, Balochi and Zanzibari descent given citizenship a long time ago. The Bedouins, who are the natives of UAE, are the most genial of people I hear, and its these adopted breeds that are polluting the country.

Places to see

I have been shopping for my trip to Somalia, so I haven’t had the time to enjoy and take pictures, but I will be coming back to Dubai at the end of August and by then I plan to explore more of the city. Await pictures then…

I am flying to Somalia tonight insha-Allah and if I get an internet connection, every now and then, I will drop you a line…

Take care folks!

Farewell

Dear Friends,

The time has come for me to pack my bags. Actually I have already packed my bags. I am headed for home. In a lapse of ambivalence, a feeling of anticipation and nervousness has already filled me. I envisage myself already resting under the shade of a tree tending to some camels in the wilderness of the Miyi; milking my camels every now and then whilst they drink or graze in the vast expanse.

And they know I am headed for home too. Sometimes I don’t even know how news travels so fast across continents. I have not told ANYONE of the exact date that I will be landing in Somalia, yet for some reason everyone (family and relatives) is already anticipating my arrival. I have been informed that a vast number of people are already waiting for me at my destination. And it is not so much that I am averse to being welcomed and received with open arms in my motherland by my nearest and dearest – no, it’s their intentions that worry me. Majority of them will be coming, each with their own necessities and stories of destitution. They really know how to spin a yarn. And with so much suffering and difficulties, I am not without compassion towards them or their conditions. Indeed one must commend them for their undying fortitude in the face of adversity, but at times I feel like what they expect of me is beyond what my meagre resources allow me to provide. I will give everything I have, but sometimes even that is not enough. Well, God is the provider!

Well, this will be my last post from London as I am flying tomorrow morning. I reach Dubai tomorrow evening and be assured that I will send you a word about the city once I explore it.

Until then, So Long friends, So Long!

p.s I haven’t even had the time to get some Malaria tablets! pray for me.

Escapism

There was silence. Nothing moved. I have left behind the blaring horns of the busy streets and the impurities of the vitiating air and headed for the banks of the river Thames. I have even deserted the little stream behind my house where a reservoir of calm, clear waters languidly flows through the middle of the small Broadwaters neighborhood, giving it a tranquil feel. Along the banks of the stream, weeping willows dangled their branches lazily upon the water below with pleasant reflections. I used to spend most of my evenings there, sitting on one of the ageing brown benches beside the willow tree lost in contemplation. But now that has changed, for the Thames River provided a cleaner air, a better view and a vast space.

As I sat along its banks, some grass beside me, tickled by the soothing breeze hissed continuously, swaying from side to side. The surface of the water, unruffled and silent except for the tiny waves created by the wind sailing across it, shimmered in the setting sun, reproducing a picturesque scene patterned with intermingling colours of orange, grey and gold. And as they floated across the surface, the crests of each wave created a magnificent interplay between the tones of the colours reflected. A few feet away from me, soft splashing sounds emanated from the gentle lapping of the waves against the banks of the river.

Inhaling a lungful of the clean air, I lifted my eyes up, slowly, to the Docklands and above to the skies. Under the glowing clouds, the sky was bustling with activity – a stunning display of aerobatics and some spectacular dives were in effect. Several birds have taken to the air, soaring and diving before gently landing on the serene water surface. Then the black plumage of what appeared to be a blackbird flipped its wings a few times and looped around the surrounding trees in gentle twirls before landing on another tree and disappearing from sight, but not from my ears, as its melodious sounds wafted soothingly through the air. It wasn’t long before others of its kind joined and a cacophony of sounds pleasant to the ear, strangely enough, erupted.

At some distance away, but not far from sight, another bird landed; a rather shy bird, keeping its distance well away from me. And beautiful too; with black and white markings highlighted with a lustrous tinge of blue, green and purple and a long gleaming tail. The Magpie is a striking bird and its flight is delightful to watch. A bane for most gardeners though, its hoarse cackling call alone is enough to send shudders down their spine; and it is often associated with evil. What such a humble bird could have done to warrant such loathing and how anyone could find the sight of such an elegant creature objectionable is totally beyond my grasp, but I caught sight of it as I sat there along the banks of the Thames. And it looked magnificent.

Conspicuous with its elongated tail, the Magpie started flapping its wings once or twice before soaring up to the lower branches of a tree. Enclosed in the ovoid overlapping leaves, it then began its lively chatter. In England it is, traditionally, unlucky to see one on its own or so they say. The victims, it is widely believed, must either cross themselves, spit three times over their right shoulder, raise their hats or chant ‘Devil, devil, I defy thee’ upon the sight of a Magpie, but these are mere superstitions; just as the thousand superstitions we have in our country involving animals. I stood there, transfixed, eyes set on the tree, pleasantly admiring its delightful cackles.

Several other birds were gliding effortlessly above. I watched them in earnest and mulling over their exceptional sense of freedom, I felt a lovely breeze running through my body. It was then that the limitations in my life became apparent. I envied their infinite independence. They too, I thought, must envy something about us. But then, by just watching them, a feeling of stillness descended upon one. I sat there, quiet and composed. I wished I could sprout wings at that very instant and fly with them and take to the skies. And for that short moment the thoughts occupied my mind, I was with them. I felt the wind on my winds, combing my feathers and caressing my tail. I saw London from above. Well, one would be lost in contemplation standing on that bank on a cool summer evening watching the sun lowering into the horizon. And though I tried to describe it here to the best of my effort, the impalpable feeling this place gives me is beyond measure. Tranquil is the word I thought of as a myriad of fancy thoughts absorbed my mind and I surrendered to the influence of the lulling atmosphere.

One word of advice – don’t stay there too long, you might be sucked in to tranquility!

Jailed for life

 

(clockwise from top left): Muktar Said Ibrahim, Yassin Omar, Hussain Osman and Ramzi Mohammed. Photograph: Metropolitan Police/PA Source

 

Four men convicted of the 21 July bomb plot have been jailed for life, with a minimum tariff of 40 years each.

Muktar Ibrahim, 29, Yassin Omar, 26, Ramzi Mohammed, 25, and Hussain Osman, 28, were found guilty on Monday.

Their plot to detonate explosives on three Tube trains and a bus in London in 2005 was a “viable… attempt at mass murder”, the judge said.

Two other men – Manfo Kwaku Asiedu and Adel Yahya – face a retrial after the first jury failed to reach a verdict… Read more

A word from home

Dear readers,

I am sorry I haven’t been able to update the blog for so long. These last couple of weeks have been rather hectic for me. My life has been in the doldrums for the past few weeks, for reasons unknown; maybe it’s the anticipation of visiting home. I have been counting down the days on my calendar from the day I booked my ticket and time seems to be prolonged, as if it were still, or as if the date of my travel is moving further away the nearer I get to it.

One big mistake I made during my travel arrangements, which I now regret, is telling some of my folks back home that I would be coming. This has turned out to be a great disaster, for I am rendered restless with the frequent phone calls of relatives and strangers (I call them stranger because they are people who cite family names unfamiliar to me yet say they are related to me somehow) and their importunate requests. And as if it were a very well-executed plot, they all ring me, one after the other, at the most inconvenient times – usually at the earliest hours of daylight.

Even before telling them of my return to Somalia, I’ve had the same persistent demands for money from them. Yes, I do send some money to my mother and family, but it’s the relatives, distant or close, that often pester me with their expertly contrived poignant pleas. It is a wonder that all their pleas are usually to do with someone’s deteriorating health or their life being in some great peril. And what worries me more is that, as soon as you send them the money, someone else calls the next day with another pitiful appeal without regard for where the money would come from or what the sender has to undergo to get it. Without as much as a “how are you doing, son?” or a care in the world for the welfare of the sender, they go straight to the point – I am in such and such trouble so send me such and such amount of money at such and such a place by such and such day!

The good thing though is that I haven’t told anyone of the exact date of my arrival. My sister called me this morning and asked me when I was coming to Somalia. I lied to her and said I wasn’t sure. I regret lying to her, but it had to be done, otherwise I would have a huge throng gathered at the airport all expectant, all waiting for me. She then said that she heard some people stating that I was due to arrive on the 15th of this month, which I strongly refuted by claiming that I didn’t even have the means to come to Somalia and will only come provided that I have some money to buy a ticket.

Despite me being slightly dishonest with her, she informed me of something that has delighted me greatly. She said “mother prays for you everyday, and though she couldn’t call you she asked me to convey her sincere blessings and prayers to you.”

Thank you mother, for my day is now highlighted with so much colour!

Help her

Please spare a few pounds for this little girl. This seveteen-year old has had this condition for about three years now and the few doctors left in Somalia are unable to do anything about it – lack of expertise prevents them from operating on her as they might exacerbate the sorrows of this already suffering soul.

There are several ways in which you can make a contribution to help her:

1- Her Mother Luul Aadan Maxamed can be reached at Tel: 002521-5582055- 002521-5889789
2 – Dayniile office in Mogadishu 002521-650899/222704
3 – e-mail – caawigabadhan@hotamil.com
4 – call the Universal TV

Source

A trip to the Marfish…

You are instantly accosted by the clouds of smoke on entering through the grubby door; rings of white puffs sail along the faded walls of the corridor and softly circle up to embrace the moist ceiling. The strumming of the Oud, with Axmed Mooge’s voice floating through the thick air, can be heard coming from a broken tape recorder in some corner. And as you walk in to the shabby room, the clamour of slurred voices deafen the atmosphere. The walls inside the room, sweating with humidity, are usually of green or blue in colour with mismatching yellow patterns at times and the windows, misty with condensed air and water drizzling down to the window sill, always seem to be locked. Several stained Arabic cushions lie on the floor, going along the walls of the room to serve as the seating area and a carpet, decorated with ashes, cigarette butts and burns occupies the middle of the floor, covering a washed-out wooden flooring.

A group of about 20-30 men in dowdy garments, grinding mouthfuls of leaves with their stained teeth and a green paste of saliva dribbling from the corners of their mouths as they speak, sit huddled together on the cushions as if clustering for warmth. In front of each of them lies a blue plastic bag with his treasure in it – several small greenish-brown twigs, each with a few leaves at the top, all assembled into fine rows and ready for consumption. Beside the plastic bags, lies a waste bucket, covered in a plastic bag, a thermos flask, some bottles of still water, Shani drinks, and a hubbly-bubbly.

In the far corner, a wooden desk stands, enclosing the dealer or owner of the Marfish. Underneath the desk lies bags of Qat, clustered in bundles for sale at about £5 each. Beside the dealer’s desk is a small refrigerator, containing some more boxes of Qat and bottles of drinks. A small television set is mounted atop a desk with Sky sports channels but the sound is muted.

These men, grandfathers, fathers, sons, uncles and brothers, coteries of pitiable simpletons, of whom half rely on the dole, have neglected families and friends for these leaves. And as you stand in the room, a strange mixture of smell seeps out of it and into the corridor. One can not be sure as to what it is – the cigarette smoke, the hubbly-bubbly, or the perspiring bodies. The health and safety auditors must have neglected these premises, but the evening here is the grandest, or such a feeling their minds are imbued with, and any other sort of leisure activity to match this is deemed futile. The lavish supply of leaves and the effect they induce is simply unmatched.

Welcome to the Marfish!

Jacburkii Dhoodaan

War horta ninyahaw anigu waan jeclaadaye
Gabadhbaan jeclahay oo i jecel, mana jeclaadeene
Haddii ay i jeclaatana ma rabo inaan jeclaadaaye
Ninkii ay jeclaatana la waa inuu jeclaadaaye
Kii aan jeclayn waa iyadu inay jeclaataaye
Jacaylkagya iyo keedu waa laba jeclaadoone

Gabadh jinaha dhuudhuuban waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Tu naasuhu janjeedhaan waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Middii jeer la moodoo dhan waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Garoobtii i soo jiidha waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Islaan baradho jiidaysa waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Duqdii jaadka gadaneysay waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Habar jeenyo buurbuuran waa inaan jeclaadaaye
Wadaaddaanse jeclaadee dharraar macawsta i siisay
Gurigeeda waagaan tegee ay shaaha ii karisay
Haasawaheedii kolkuu sooba madhan waayey
Feedhka iyo tantoomada sideer uguma boobeene
Kolkay qaad i siinweydey ayuu mawdku ka adeegay.

Ninkii dumar jeclaadaase wuu yara ammaantaaye
Adna waxaaban kuu soo fekeray hadallo dhaadheere
Midabka iyo quruxdaadan ayaan yarahe faalleyne
Gabadhyahay casaantaadu waa dhuxullo meygaage
Afkaagana madowgiisu waa nuuraddoo kale e
Sidaa aawadeed baan jacayl kuugu soo kacaye
Guurna waaban kaa doonaya sidaa dharraatiiye
Timahaygu siday yihiin eed cirrada moodo
Duqdnimiyo gabow igama aha oo wayska dhalankaye
Adiguna carruurbaad tihiyo sida dhallaankiiye
Isku qayrna waa nahay anuun baa laba Gu! kaa weeyne
Sanadkii Daraawiishtii baan dhoocillo ahayne

Dhallinyaro inaan nahay dadkuba waa ogsoonyahaye
Inan iyo barbaar baan nahaye waan lagaranayne
Raggaa kale juuq ha u odhan aniga mooyaane
Kii kula hadlana waa inaan feedh ka badiyaaye
Haddii layga kaa dhaco waxbaan sahayan doonaaye
Dameer dhagaxa waa inaan gurtoo qaylo kiciyaaye
Naagtana ka iga qaada waa inaan ka dhuuntaaye
Ninuu ciil lafaha buuxiyoo dibinta ruugaaya
Oo luqanta hoogaamiyo gegi xarriiqaaya
Haddii kii xumaantaa ku falay weliba maad maagtid
Sidii laba digaag sow ilkaa layska cuni maayo.

;)

Oh!

another year has gone by another wrinkle has appeared, as a friend of mine aptly put it! Yes, today is the day I should officially celebrate my ageing, but I have never celebrated a birthday in my life nor do I intend to. Why celeberate growing old?

To be quite honest, I don’t even know if today is my actual date of birth. There are some contradictions you see, and I am sure you understand why…! ;)

Go ahead anyway and send me those “God gave a gift to the world when you were born…” cards! ;)

To Somalia…

I have finally booked my ticket to Somalia. I shall be leaving on the 19th of July to Dubai, where I shall be staying for a week or even less, then I am off to Somalia to revisit my parents and sibling and put this homesick heart to rest. Expect very extensive travel features as I will be reporting on every minute detail of my journey. As for photographs, I’ll just snap away…

I will be visiting the Miyi (the nomadic settlers) and might even give you a transcript of conversations with the sagacious nomadic elders who’ve been through decades of pastoral existence.

There is one problem however. The place I will be visiting, being a hut in a vast dry land, has no internet connection or any of these modern amenities that we enjoy, so I will be posting my reports either very infrequently, for example upon visiting a neighbouring village, or upon my return to the city, or even on my return to London.

I am counting the days…

Pirates on the prowl

The Somali pirates have highlighted the importance of the Somali waters. Being an important route with hundreds of vessels passing through the Somalia’s waters, Africa’s longest coast is not only infested with deadly sharks now. Yes, pirates too frequent the waters, armed with some radio equipment, several machine guns, a mother vessel and some speed boats. In that vast expanse of the dangerous Indian Ocean waters and the Red Sea, they carry out their heist, surreptitiously approaching larger ships unnoticed, quickly taking control of them and then demanding a king’s ransom for the safe return of the crew and the vessel. If the ranson is not paid, they simply kill their hostages.

The number of ships seized by pirates is innumerable, yet the identities and whereabouts of these pirates still remain a mystery. Their manoeuvres and manpower , too, is a mystery. They appear to be very well trained seizing large vessels anchored very far into the sea; get in, get it done, disappear! Sounds like a carefully constructed Hollywood thriller doesn’t it? Or is it just me who sees it that way.

But what happened to the top security firm that was employed to keep the waters safe from pirates? In November 2005, the Somali government sought the assistance of the US and paid the American firm Topcat Marine Security about $50m to patrol and secure the Somali waters, yet the situation has only worsened without an improvement in sight.

50 million dollars! Where did they get the 50 million dollars they pay the Americas whilst their country is in dire need of restoration. How many millions of people live below subsistence level for them to consider before paying such money for safeguarding the waters!

Even UN vessels have been hijacked, let alone ordinary ships. And the latest victim is a Danish ship

It is clear that this is deliberately done in order to hamper any hint of stability in the nation, but one starts to wonder, who could be behind these attacks. Here are a few of my suspects:

Warlords and their gang-men, having been banished from their once fertile grounds in Mogadishu have found an uncontrolled territory to wreak havoc.

The foul remnants of the Islamic Courts Union (ICU) could have escaped out to sea. And even though this piracy started way before the ICU flame was ignited, they still are suspects.

The Somali government, in a desperate attempt to affirm the presence of Al-Qaeda fighters in Somalia, employ some ragtag militia to carry out the dirty work.

The US! ;)

Whoever is behind this, the situation in Somalia can be summarised thus – on the land, anarchy and confusion reign. On the waters, well, more anarchy and more confusion reign.

Fabrication of Foreign Fighters

British, Eritrean, Swedish, American and Yemeni. These are the nationalities of the foreign fighters allegedly captured in the North Eastern Puntland state of Somalia. Now as much as USA, Ethiopia and their puppet Somali officials want to deceive the world into believing that foreign fighters, especially, Al-Qaeda fighters, are in Somalia wishing to turn it into an Islamic stronghold and terrorist grounds, they cannot mislead the Somali public. The Somalis are aware and mature, able to discern facts from fibs. I personally don’t believe it and very much doubt that majority of the Somalis believe it too.

It was in January when they targeted the alleged Al-Qaeda fighters in Ras Kamboni and Afmadow but, instead, killed scores of innocent nomadic settlers. And now they want to tell us that they have escaped all the way to the Northeast.

The only reason the Somali government keeps playing the ‘foreign fighters’ card is for the financial and military support of America and Ethiopia. And though the American dollars pouring into Somalia might now serve as a means to an end for the incompetent lackeys, soon they will wail when it turns to poisoned chalice! As for the American intentions, well they are clear: Somalia is situated on a strategic location – the Gulf of Aden to the North and the Indian Ocean to the East – with access both to the Middle East and Africa and has the largest coastline in Africa. Do I need to state the obvious here?

Also Mohamed Hassan noted that;

When Somali businessmen went to the American embassy in Nairobi to invite them to come to Somalia and see for themselves that there were no Al Qaeda members in the Islamic Courts, the Americans refused. They will never forget nor forgive the USA and their puppet Ethiopia for bringing Somalia back to the reign of terror and chaos of the warlords. And in their eyes it is crystal clear that the talk about Al Qaeda’s presence in Somalia is nothing else then the excuse, the lie that must justify the war. Just like the lies about the weapons of mass destruction of Saddam used to justify the aggression against Iraq .

The little village of Baargaal that they bombarded with their gunships is largely uninhabited. It used to be a port city of great importance during the times of British and Italian rule; but once Somalia gained independence, most of the settlers moved from the mountainous regions towards the south to join their brethren and taste the fresh breath of unity and freedom. Now Baargaal is but a tiny dwelling for a small number of people.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of the so-called Al-Qaeda targets being bombed in Somalia. Also, do you ever wonder where the stockpiles of ammunition and weaponry come from? How do they reach the warlords? Who supplies them?