Eyes Tightly Shut…
I remember way back when Somalia was a land I had never seen. With eyes tightly shut, I would create a blurry image of a mother land constructed solely of tales and descriptions from my parents, cousins and elders, using the powerful, poetic gift of speech that seems widespread among the Somali people. Many a tale of “once upon a time” or “berri waxaa jirray” recited with excited voices and wide eyes, imprinted a never relenting desire to know and to love, a land I had never seen.
I had only ever known of concrete roads, where even the most comfy of sneakers could not create comfort for your feet.
I had only ever felt gusts of wind that travel up your trouser legs and seep into your spine and I had only ever seen skies so grey that one would think the sun was shy.
I had only ever tasted food that came in packages and fruits so filled with chemicals that they would make my throat itch and water so metallic in its essence, its very scent could make me flinch.
I had only ever experienced temperamental climates, as though hot and cold were engaged in never ending battles for supremacy, the cold casting its dark shadow of superiority over us mere mortals.
Now with my eyes tightly shut, I no longer create images from memories borrowed from family members, the once prevalent story telling voices in my head, often in Somali, but sometimes in English with heavily laden accents are now replaced by vivid memories of my own. Somalia 2005, I stood on the top steps of a Somali airplane racked with excitement, like a pilgrim about to take her first step onto the holy land.
I could never have imagined a sand so red, as though it stood as a vigil for the dead, a constant reminder of the bloodshed from a time and place in which I did not exist.
I could never have known, the comfort my sandal clad feet would feel, when they embraced the earth as if they had been longing for this.
I could never have envisioned, the titillating taste of fresh fruits on the tip of my tongue and luscious juices that swam down my throat soothing an itch that had grown for the last 20 odd years.
I could never have conceived hearing the melodic tones of each Somali dialect, above the rhythmic bleating of goats infused with the humming of oceanic winds- music to my ears.
I could never have expected the slight tingle through my spine from a tender embrace with an elderly aunt, a strange but loving face.
A face whom I would later come to hear, had passed away.
With my eyes tightly shut , I shed a tear for her and for them. The many faceless names my family had mentioned in mournful tones, the many cousins, aunts and uncles I will never know. Its so much easier not to feel, when all your mental capacity exists of is pictures, pieced together, memories stolen from others and ‘black hawk down’. I could write a ten page age essay, tell you an hour long story, or paint you a picture, but a memory is priceless.
With eyes tightly shut, I keep the memory alive.
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