A Letter to my Younger Self..

A Letter to My Younger Self

Asia, tomorrow marks your first day of college. Your 18 years old now. You will go to your first class in Computer Engineering and be surprised at how many male students are there. At first, you won’t see any Hijabi at the campus and you will feel extremely uncomfortable and foreigner, although, your still within the borders of the land where you spend your past eleven years. College will be full with Syrian and Iraqi students and you will be the only outstanding black, the only fully covered girl.


Don’t panic! Don’t blame yourself for being different. Don’t wish you looked like the rest. Just don’t. Years later you will come to know about your culture and country and realize that Somalia is more than a displaced nation, starved children and massive explosions. That black isn’t less beautiful then blue eyes and fair skin. 

Years later- six years to be exact- you will visit Somalia and you will finally fit. You will finally appease your longing for a place where you truly call home. Where you blend in. You will live with your first Somali- aside from your sisters-roommates. You will be exposed to Somali songs and you will learn how to dance to them, you won’t necessary learn dhanto but nonetheless, you will gain something way more crucial; how to chant your own rhythm.



That one year you will spend in Somalia will change YOU forever-and I mean FOREVER- of course to the better. That year will answer many of your pressing questions and wonders that kept knocking on your head for answers no matter how much you assimilated to the Syrian culture or knew about their history and politics and breathed their air. 

You always had that longing inside you to your blood home where grandma lived, where Ma and Pa met, where the mahmahs originated from. You had that thirst in you even when it wasn’t that evident, it manifested in the form of never-ending series of questions when your parents talked about home nostalgically.


Somalia will be very challenging and adventurous. You will have your first ever paying job there and you will learn how to alter your dreams, how to adjust your purpose. You will realize, among many things, how lucky you were all along. Your students will make you feel very important and informative, at times though; they might get fed up with your many examples and scenarios. Enjoy that experience.


One day, as your teaching general Psychology in one of your classes, one student will raise his hand and ask you “how can I study Psychology in Somalia?” you will be baffled and answer to your best judgement. Meanwhile, that will debunk your expectation about the state of Psychology and mental health in Somalia; what every Somali elder told you before about Psychology being a myth and having no future in Somalia. That incident will break that mantra in your head forever.


Another day, while you’re explaining a concept in Somali, you will notice your students staring at you blankly, then you will realize that they didn’t understand some of your words because your Somali slang is different from theirs. You will still find your way to them. You won’t feel like a foreigner. The whole scene will be so cute, them realizing that a street for you is “lamii” and to them is “zani”.


Sometimes, Somalia will be harsh, Somalis will act ignorant. Don’t be harsh. Don’t blame them. Don’t complain. Don’t be part of the problem. Don’t act like your better because you’re not. And most importantly, don’t judge. Don’t judge.

Interact with people. Learn about your culture. Ask questions, many question-a thread of questions if you want they will be please to answer. Listen to the elders. Be patient with them and even when you disagree with them, keep quite, don’t try to explain your own views, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.


A year later, people will think your very fluent in your mother tongue “Somali”. People will refer to you as “reermudug”, a sign that you display the characteristic of that region. Occasionally, you will refer to yourself as “Reer Mudug” too with a smirk in your face secretly happy that you finally have a HOME that you finally identify with.

At the end, you will know more about your dhaqan (culture). You will learn about the concept of “Calaf”. And all those changes that you went through will lead you to meet your “calaf” in a land that’s far from home, yet you will recognize home in him.


I am in Canada now. I am a Family Worker. I work with my people. And I still have plans to do my graduate school. And Somalia? Till we meet again Inshallah. :)

Asia Aboosy from the future XoXo

Some days…
I want to feel powerful.
 Like thunder storms.
 like tisunami waves.
So confident, I can kill you with a smile.
My energy so hype You’d think i swallowed the candy store.
Somedays, I just want to feel lazy
curl on my sofa like a mellow cat
Like a sleeping baby.
turn off my tv, log out of facebook
worry free.
I want to be
Insignificant. sealed. From outside world.
Somedays,
Just Somedays
I believe I’m a hero.
I embrace others pain
I’m an empath
 Somedays it gets a little too much
just too much hate
Too much anger.
Too much killing.
Too much blood.
Too much segregation.
Too much cries.
Too much misery.
And I just wonder when it will all end
When will it stop
Somedays,
I plug my ears with my fears of tomorrow
How are we supposed to bring kids to this world ?
And raise them on the principals<br>
 of peace
Love
Tolerance
And Compassion
When there is ..
No peace
 love
 tolerance
Or compassion
I will be a hypocrite mother
A liar
An irrelavant teacher
If I dont lay the truth before their eyes
like it is
Naked
Bare truth with
no colors
Or filters
Or photoshop..
Somedays, i dream of a world
Where children arent the extension of adults egos
Or fears.
somedays..I dream, what if we had a separate planet for people who dont choose to hate. .

By: Asia Aboosy 

Keep That Purple Hijab

Location: Stadium Transit Centre

Time: 2:10pm

Bus number: # 125

I come out from Stadium LRT Station headed to one of my work meetings. I follow the arrow signs directing to the bus stops area. I start looking for #125 bus stop. From afar I see a habaryar (an aunt) seated, hiding in the shelter of the bus stop from the sun heat. I come closer. She sees me. I smile

“Asalamu Alikum habaryar” I greeted her.

She is wearing a purple long hijab. Round face. when she smiled the wrinkles around her eyes deepened as if they’re about to fall off, except they didn’t. They were kind wrinkles that added a beautiful mystery into her face almost like a soft glow but more of a distinct Noor. Subhanallah!

“Walikum salam” she replied.

I stood next to her. Anxious. I check the time on my phone. “Oh its 2:20pm, the bus isn’t here yet. Bus ride will be almost 16 minutes-Thanks to ETS trip planner- I’ll be at the hospital by hmmmm, lemme go to my calculator-nowadays my math  skills are on life support- okay. So  I’ll be there by 2:36 pm plus 2 minutes walking to my location. I’ll make it before 2:45” I assert to myself.

Bus #125 arrives. We queue. Habaryar signals to me to go before her. She says she wanna ask the driver a question. I get in. I hesitate, “what if she needs my assistant to talk to the driver? What if she doesn’t need it and I end up embarrassing myself?” I walk slowly to my seat, alerted to scoop in if she needs me.

I choose a seat. She came sat next me, we started sheeko sheeko like Somali people do.

She told me that she originally came out of her home at around 12:30pm but she missed the first bus, so she waited for the next one. Then it became 1:00pm, while waiting. There were only 40minutes left till Salat-Al Dhuhur time so she went back in to wait and pray.

She said she was going to check a place downtown she was told were hiring. That her actual work shift was starting at 4:30 pm.

I asked her “ Habaryar, are you sure you have enough time to go check that work and still be back on time for your shift riding all those buses that are time consuming?”

“I need to go there and check the job opportunity, it’s okay” she said “if I’m late for like 30 minutes. They wouldn’t mind I was never late before. I couldn’t delay my Salaat while running here and there and end up praying us at 5pm”

I heard the woman operator announcing my street. I buzzed the bell. I greeted habryar and I got down.

My thoughts during the 2 minutes’ walk from the bus stop to my location:

1-If I was running late and had 40 minutes left to Salaat would I wait for Salaat? Or just jump into the bus and postpone my Salaat until its convenient to pray?

2-When did we lose our life compass? Are we created to worship Allah or to run after Dunya? Yes we are instructed to do Tawakkul; putting our trust in Allah while also implementing the means that have been permitted to us, on the other hand we can’t, we shouldn’t prioritize the affairs of Dunya before our Islamic duties such as Salaat.  When Allah sees us putting him before anything else, communicating with him and resisting the Sahytaan’s(devil) waswas (insinuating whispers) into our heart telling us to catch the bus, to sleep, to rush to school because we have no time for Salaat, because we can always pray it with the next one, because “the deen is ease and not hardship”, because Allah will forgive us., because Allah will understand. Then we indeed responded to the waswas of the shaytaan over the call of prayer. We end up getting used to delaying Al-Salaat. We end up weighing in favor of Dunya on the expense of our Deen and that’s when we become astray and lost.

3-There are things in life that should never be compromised and Salaat is one of them.

4-Many Somali mothers are on the go. Always, tirelessly, looking for new doors of income to single handedly support their family here, send money back home and still save some to sponsor other family members. They embody the true definition of Tawakkul , rocking their purple hijab they still manage to get hired! Whoever said -immigrants need to assimilate to get jobs- was justifying his/her weak sense of identity and his lack of believe in himself. And we as Somali girls should take the torch, sustain our identity and lead the way for our younger sisters.

5-People need to stop painting the whole Somali community with the same brush. There are always many challenges that arise in the first generation of immigrants, Somalis are no different.  ie: broken families due to the new environment, shift of typical gender roles and much more. However, we will come together as a community and strive. Inshallah.

6-I just l LOVE how spontaneously our people can bond. If someone saw us seated there, just talking and talking, they would have assumed we knew each other for so long. Let’s not lose that beautiful trait in us and let’s not wash it away with cadaan coldness. We are naturally warm and welcoming. May Allah bless us always.

Then I entered the hospital and looked for the pediatric wing.

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 

                                          

A Somali Hoyoo Just Like You




It’s not just her fiery features that awes me
it’s her courage so raw without a flaw
like a stream, it flaws unbroken non-stop
you can’t break her soul

it’s her toughness, her resiliency that sewed up our torn nation
it’s her patience that resembles prophet Ayuub’s
it’s her Iman that” Verily after hardship comes ease”
it’s her ability to send kids to school from selling tea
murmuring a dua’a while drying her sweat, her hijab is wet though the sun is hot
I tell ya, you can’t break her soul

because she has rebellious strength that refuses to be labelled just “dumaar”
she isn’t just “Dumaar”..
she her highness is a lioness!
the taste of heaven, the mercy of rain in Sahara dessert

In the evening,
she carries her skirt with elegance, you won’t recognise she sold tea the whole day
under the burning sun of Galkacyo
you my lady is something else
so pour me some of that fierceness in you, mold me into something that resembles your edges so I won’t lose myself
lend me your claws so I’d carry on your legacy

to become a Somali hoyoo..just like you

A glance into myself, and others.. 

I struggle. I am struggling with my deen, with my life choices, with my goals, with my pleasing personality that strives to make others happy as if I’m responsible for everyone’s misery, world wars, famine, inequality, racism, and all the innocent children who were robbed from their innocence. I struggle with me being first born “my curadnimo” all that this role entails, all that burden and setting example for your siblings kinda thing. How many times did I hear “Ratiga dambe ratiga hore bu racaa” Although this role entitles me to many privileges like being the minster of advisory and the private consultant of  my parents.

I won’t lie sometimes I wish I can liberate myself from all of that, to be just like those who rebelled who broke all the constrains attached to them by their parents or society even for just a day, to have a clear free conscious that wont bash me down till I’m exhausted. I dream of a day I can make a decision without worrying about what my parents or my siblings would say, just to weight my personal account on that decision. Why is it so hard for me to do that though? (the Shaytan in me wonders)

It annoys me, that I can’t say NO when I mean to say NO, why is it hard? Why do I feel guilty for all the problems in the world, why do I need to be a fixer/rescuer? (am a social worker!) I envy those who just worry about themselves (Cadaanka camal). But I sometimes worry though, am I directing my energy outwards because I’m too scared to look inwards? Am I distracting myself from myself? Why do I always give people the benefit of the doubt when all the screaming signs are there? Why am I so generous with second chances? Why am I too forgiving?

Why do I have the need to make everyone happy even when my decision is 100% halal, right and in accordance with our deen. Wait did I just say, is it really a NEED?

I think it grew up to be a need, the seed of pleasing our parents and consulting with them in every matter even in our simplest choices was implanted inside us through all those years of Cashars and strict upbringing, we were reminded and scolded everyday to not be friends with this girl/Boy or that without any proper explanation, We were scold, (hit occasionally lol) because of a stupid thing because it was ”inappropriate!” without a sufficient substantiating, and you’re expected to understand just like that.  Somali parenting style camal.

I can’t pinpoint where my passivity in deciding for myself started because as far as I can remember I was all about being the perfect “Curaad” thriving to please my parents to the maximum, not Allah!, in every way possible! (I'm ashamed to say that) To live up to the expectations of my family is not the ultimate goal in life but rather to please Allah and grow as a person. Inshallah.

This world had turned into a hard on its own, and I think it’s really important to look inward and learn about ourselves instead of judging others when we don’t really know what’s going inside us, when we’re really blinded to what they went or going through, when we’re not even aware of our demons how can we see the ugliness in others?

 I am struggling to understand myself and others, aren’t we all?  in fact life is a struggle between right and wrong, between right and left, between sadness and madness, between the past and future, between passivity and taking control and our choices

are the only machinery that can determine the trajectory of our lives. Yes choices are shaped by many factors ie: your past experiences, but remember that knowledge is power, the more we learn about our deen , our backgrounds, our selves the better decisions that more grounded we are and the healthier decision we can make. Inshallah.

Allah (SWT) said in the holy Qura’an:

   

      "وقل ربي زدني علما"
Say, lord increase my knolwedge

*The holy Qura'an  

Allah’s Messenger (Blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) said “seeking knowledge is a duty for each and every Muslim” Ibnu-Majah

So look within yourself, glance at it , learn about yourselve and only there will we find our faith, our answers, and our prayers.

 What we see in this sad world  we see is just a physical manfiestation of our inside ugliness.

Our inside is naturally beautiful and yes we will struggle to find our innate self again, to let our inner brauty prevail and blosom like a dead tree breathing spring sun and transforimg into something stunning

"......مَا مِنْ مَوْلُودٍ إِلاَّ يُولَدُ عَلَى الْفِطْرة "

“No child is born except on the Fitrah..."

*Hadith sahih.

فِطْرَ‌تَ اللَّـهِ الَّتِي فَطَرَ‌ النَّاسَ عَلَيْهَا ۚ لَا تَبْدِيلَ لِخَلْقِ اللَّـهِ

“The fitrah of Allah upon which He has created [all] people. No change should there be in the creation of Allah.” [30:30]

* The holy Qura'an. 

May Allah guide us to his path. Ameen.

I don’t breathe
I wheeze relentlessly
From ages of run
Of shot gun
barbaric ghosts made of broken sun

I don’t know
Where all went wrong
Now..
Its stuck in my head like a horrible song
Melody so strong it’s written in my forehead
Wrinkles crawling deep around my red eyes
I’m aging

I don’t breathe
I wheeze fearlessly
I carry my broken sun around
Like a heavy crown
Pushing me towards the end

But NO
I am a tree that grows tall
Refuses to be small
Or pushed around
I am not a burden
I refuse to be a show
For your lazy white eyes

I ran here and met
shot gun
barbaric ghosts
who hate
the colour of my skin
the shape of my proud chin
the pin on my hijab
they wished the flavour of my tongue had changed
thin..and turn into a thing that's opposite to my skin
they thought I was weak easy to prey on

But hey!
This
Isn't your show for you to Netflix and chill
I am not clowning for you to grill
I am a poem
Made of a volcano fluid
Don’t get too close,
or else you’ll lose your toes
I am a mango tree that grows tall
Refuses to fall

And I am telling you
I am telling you
I will sew back my broken sun
Re-write my glory with a golden pen
Re-breath fresh poetry into my broken song

one day
I will stop running
Breath slowly
while drawing stars under mango trees