somalia's daughter, lovemaking can be as dangerous as after nightfall in mogadishu. muezzin calls the adan, covers head with hijab, bows down and prays. brother kills brother, prays
in the same mosque, breathe
the same air, skin
same color, blood in veins shed on desert sands
from somalia.
and she wonders just how long this war will go on
of hatred fed in the plates of men growing in the bellies of bodies holding guns to heads of their brother. another
life hovers on a thread. knitted with a needle is the soul of a man. a father. a son. a nephew. dead.
woman tears, waters the land, tears cloth off dirac, and binds the wounds of her country as best she can.
machetes and sin in hand. slaughter. roads become a canvas and blood becomes the paint and screams become the horns that once beeped in traffic there. fathers are slain, failed to protect families they thought they could but didn't. could-should-have done. no, too late. drawn line across neck like an animal. is that what we are then, animals?
women are taken, raped, violated, body no longer sanctuary but a tainted home set to burn. the ashes are of no worth and she is taken and she is raped and she is broken. children, little. big on dreams, hopes, innocence, belief, smiles. thrown onto walls. ball against a bat, shatter. skulls, shatter. little spines crack and big eyes roll back, into heads that could have made a difference someday.
this is 1991.
somalia's daughter, it has been 20 years and your daughter is an american.
born and raised on american soil she is now in high school. getting older, culture and the media working together to numb her to the world. of evil.
of monsters with human faces killing monsters in human form, of evil. of inhumanity, of suffering, of pointless death for pointless reasons of one less finger to point. of being african of africa's struggle of the color of her skin of the islam in her bones.
america's daughter, see what's hoyoo's seen.
the souq with a million colors of gambasaro, diraco, masro, draped onto stands smelling faintly of cunsi and camel milk. scalding hot tea and halwa for asr.
hamar
hargeisa
garoowe
bosaso
las canood
people milling in and out of crowds speaking one tongue. different voices different accents coming out of different mouths remaining one. the white, looming mosque and the sea. waves licking the shore. banana's, mango's, trees, the sea. blue, and the sky, and the moon with stars shining so bright it lights up the whole city.
quickly, the footsteps and chatter of reerke. family, family, everyone was family. before walls were set up and boundaries were drawn and a family was split. like the cracks in the earth when an earthquake quakes. we were shaken and we fell and we never got up.
rebuild. restore. recreate our home from scratch so that my daughter can go back and be
amongst her people hear her language eat her food wear her clothes breathe in her culture return to her land i pray in the same mosque as my brother as the muezzin calls, brother, do not kill your brother. please.
i hope you wear a smile
and have a poem in your heart
a song on your lips
and i hope.
somalia's daughter, poem is supposed to be about woman. it is woman, poor, who will have to bury her own and deal with grief alone. clean the gash, dress the wound. lose, everything.
lovemaking and making love and wiping away evil's semen from the inside of her thighs.
hope. pray. hope. [contract]. pray. hope. [relax].
somalia's daughter, come home.
in the same mosque, breathe
the same air, skin
same color, blood in veins shed on desert sands
from somalia.
and she wonders just how long this war will go on
of hatred fed in the plates of men growing in the bellies of bodies holding guns to heads of their brother. another
life hovers on a thread. knitted with a needle is the soul of a man. a father. a son. a nephew. dead.
woman tears, waters the land, tears cloth off dirac, and binds the wounds of her country as best she can.
machetes and sin in hand. slaughter. roads become a canvas and blood becomes the paint and screams become the horns that once beeped in traffic there. fathers are slain, failed to protect families they thought they could but didn't. could-should-have done. no, too late. drawn line across neck like an animal. is that what we are then, animals?
women are taken, raped, violated, body no longer sanctuary but a tainted home set to burn. the ashes are of no worth and she is taken and she is raped and she is broken. children, little. big on dreams, hopes, innocence, belief, smiles. thrown onto walls. ball against a bat, shatter. skulls, shatter. little spines crack and big eyes roll back, into heads that could have made a difference someday.
this is 1991.
somalia's daughter, it has been 20 years and your daughter is an american.
born and raised on american soil she is now in high school. getting older, culture and the media working together to numb her to the world. of evil.
of monsters with human faces killing monsters in human form, of evil. of inhumanity, of suffering, of pointless death for pointless reasons of one less finger to point. of being african of africa's struggle of the color of her skin of the islam in her bones.
america's daughter, see what's hoyoo's seen.
the souq with a million colors of gambasaro, diraco, masro, draped onto stands smelling faintly of cunsi and camel milk. scalding hot tea and halwa for asr.
hamar
hargeisa
garoowe
bosaso
las canood
people milling in and out of crowds speaking one tongue. different voices different accents coming out of different mouths remaining one. the white, looming mosque and the sea. waves licking the shore. banana's, mango's, trees, the sea. blue, and the sky, and the moon with stars shining so bright it lights up the whole city.
quickly, the footsteps and chatter of reerke. family, family, everyone was family. before walls were set up and boundaries were drawn and a family was split. like the cracks in the earth when an earthquake quakes. we were shaken and we fell and we never got up.
rebuild. restore. recreate our home from scratch so that my daughter can go back and be
amongst her people hear her language eat her food wear her clothes breathe in her culture return to her land i pray in the same mosque as my brother as the muezzin calls, brother, do not kill your brother. please.
i hope you wear a smile
and have a poem in your heart
a song on your lips
and i hope.
somalia's daughter, poem is supposed to be about woman. it is woman, poor, who will have to bury her own and deal with grief alone. clean the gash, dress the wound. lose, everything.
lovemaking and making love and wiping away evil's semen from the inside of her thighs.
hope. pray. hope. [contract]. pray. hope. [relax].
somalia's daughter, come home.
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