Our Unsung Heroes 

“Did you hear about the man who was killed last night in Galkacyo” her mother asked.

“Right after the athan , as he was returning to his home from the Maqrib prayer. Streets were empty. He knocked the door of his house. His son opened the door, very young around 5 years old. Two men approach him; one extended his hand to say Hi the other one gunned him down on his dead. He died immediately. Before he broke his fast. Right in front of his 5 years old son”

“It’s starting to get unsafe in here, it’s too scary. Innocent People die every other day while the murderers feast and walk around, like nothing happened” her mother continued.

“It’s unsafe here too Ma, ” she said. Thinking of how scared she feels when she walks alone with her hijab after dusk.  

She lived in Syria her whole life. Now Syria is on fire. Fate of her friends is unknown. All that’s left is ashes and memories lived with happiness, joy, and gratitude.

She wasn’t Syrian.Syria was her temporary home. She curses the men-monsters-who started war, who spilt blood. Once blood is spilt, it keeps on spilling. War lords emerge. Chaos starts. Once blood spills rage will never end.

She wasn’t Canadian either; she just holds their birth certificate. A small rectangular paper that stated the date and place she was born, but does the place she was born in dictates her identity, her personality or who she is?

Can she possibly belong to a place she doesn’t feel safe in? Or call it home?

She is Somali, or that’s what she claimes. At least she resembles them when she isn’t talking or walking.

She is a Somali even when her country is unstable and two men shot a fasting man, who was standing before his little boy, in his head. Even when she knows that once blood is spilt it’s impossible for the spilling to stop. And these shootings, these qarxs (explosions) will go on at least in the near future. 

People inside home wanted to run away desperately from all the chaos to the seemingly “Paradise” land behind the seas, only to come here, try too hard to resemble, try too hard to fit in, only to be called “bloody immigrants” to feel “less then-” like “others” and to realize that the only place that you can remotely call home is a place that isn’t very pretty or safe but at least no one has the right to kick you out, no one will tell you to go home.  

You run back to your "home". Very enthusiastic, very hopeful, longing for positive change in your home land, aspiring for reconciliation and repeating constantly, tirelessly  “Ghandi and Mandela never gave up on their nations, we shouldn’t either, change is around the corner, we should see the hope at the end of this long tunnel”

   

Every one discourages you. Tells you how stupid you are. How naive you are to the dirty politics. “Don’t go to xamar it’s too dangerous, too risky” they tell you. 

“But should we leave xamar to the criminals? To the blood spillers ? ” you say, thinking you’re the unsung hero of Somalia. Or maybe just looking for opportunities to invest in, to create an identity, to have that feeling you longed for, of just blending and not standing out of the crowd or be point at. 

You check into the hotel, where adeero told you the meeting with some Xilbanyaloo- Parliament members-old xilibanyalo of course- will take place.You notice that the security is very tight. you are scrutinized to the teeth.Yet minutes later a big Qarax happens. Even before you climbed the stairs. 

 Your crime? Too much hope in Somalia.

Indeed, you are the unsung hero.
She is the unsung hero.
We are the unsung heroes.
Because we will conquer our fear.

By: Asia Aboosy