ayeeyo is seventy and a-handful-of-rain-seasons.

Here’s a post from my old blog from 2015. I’m publishing it in memory of ayeeyo Ayeeyo Fadumo, may Allah have mercy on her soul. Amiin.

Ayeeyo (Grandma) is seventy and a-handful-of-rain-seasons.
She hates her senility cordially, with a little bit of self-compassion.
She knows hundreds of peculiar ways to describe her pain and she could spend days watching the news, telling everyone who happens to be looking at the screen at the same time as her that the world is falling apart and that things were different back in the sixties in Baidabo.
She’s a funny human being, really, and even though sometimes her body fails her, her soul cherishes a good number of beautiful memories that keep her content and thankful nevertheless. So if she can’t stand up once she’s seated, she says alhamdulillah. If she can’t walk till she reaches her destination and her legs tell her from the very first step that there’s no way she can make it, she says alhamdulillah. When she finds out a brand new thing that her body refuses to do, something she probably did her whole life, something as simple as holding a glass, as yelling from one room to another, as moving a chair out of her way, she sighs “hashaaa!” and she calls my name.
I sit on my bed next to her and listen carefully to whatever she says, ‘cause I know that our time is limited and I want to impress in my mind her words of wisdom.
Sometimes she tells me stories from “the old days”, about Baas Abuur and the thieves who entered from the kitchen’s window and the slippers’ robber. Then, when I insist to know about her life, with pride and a bit of longing, she tells me about how she used to be strong and resilient when she was young.
Her twin and her, being the first-borns of their parents, shared all the duties at home. Ayeeyo was like a boy in her family, grazing the flock and making a living with their father, and her twin was the one who helped their mother with cooking and taking care of the kids.
As she speaks, I see it in her eyes that she never expected to become so helpless, to reach this age without enjoying the company of her beloved twin and her husband. And the worst part of it is that she still remembers when walking, running and jumping where nothing but a basic function of her organism, something she didn’t think twice about, something that happened just like that, just because she wanted to.
Now, between what she wants to do and what she can do there’s a huge river of handicaps that she has no ability to cross. She just watches the gap widening with helpless nostalgia, suddenly realizing that the “time of her life” already came to an end and she didn’t even notice.
And when the night comes, the air feels cold on her skin even though it’s midsummer. So she sighs once again. She asks me to close the door, to close the window, to turn off the light and take everything away from her path in case she wakes up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.
She says: “I know it’s hot, I know you’d like to keep the windows open at night and be awaken by the sunrise, but I feel cold dear. I feel terribly cold”.
And when she tells me to cope with her presence as if she was some kind of burden, when she says that “it won’t take long”, my heart sinks and I think again about how time waits for nobody.
“I’ll make duaa for you, baariyeey.” she adds “Just endure it a little longer”.
But I don’t want to endure it just “a little longer”.
I wish I could stay with her forever.
And it occurs me how I’ll never be able to pay her back for everything, for being the one who took care of me and my siblings when my parents where busy working, the one who used to get mad at my teachers and schoolmates when I complained about them, the one who got stressed with me during my exam sessions even though she never had the chance to study when she was young.
And yet today she doesn’t even dare to ask for help when her knees are threatening to surrender at any moment.
But you know what?
Alhamdulillah, because today I’m old enough to understand that she needs me. And I’m here for her, doing anything to make her feel as if time is just a background soundtrack, and all the fun we have is the real movie.


rich in happiness – Titanics 2/5


15 May 2006, Mediterranean Sea
Once again, as they whispered silent prayers in the night, the splendid youth of many poor countries crossed the sea on a colorless boat, all wishing to successfully reach the land of their dreams. It wasn’t a long journey, but the sea was rebelling against their passage and every wave was a threat to everything they left behind.
As the wind blew quietly after the late storm, no one dared to count who was left on board. Everyone stuck with the ‘friends’ they made in the past hours and those who couldn’t find their acquaintances dared not to look around, fearing that the doubt may solidify into reality. Hours passed where the travelers waited with nothing but patience and fear in their hands, and as time went by they were visibly less, and more tired, and not as eager to reach the shore as before.
A young man was among the passengers, another soul with only hope and desperation to shield him from the unknown destiny.
His name was Jamal and as days went by he shivered under the rain and darkened under the sun. He was a believing soul, Jamal, one who couldn’t bear the thought of dying in the sea with no burial but these harsh waves, his people deprived of a grave to weep his death upon. So he spent the hours after the storm praying with his legs crossed, facing the direction that the driver had told him and asking for protection for himself and those with him. “Yaa Allah,” he murmured in his cupped hands. “let us survive through this. Let us all survive”.

And they survived.
Italian marines came and saved them from the boat, holding their arms as they helped women and children off the mortal vehicle. Then they let the men march off the boat and the driver was separated from them as soon as they reached the shore. As they were being welcomed in Lampedusa with shoes and finally not-salted water, they all saw the man being handcuffed and dragged away, his cries for help filling the listeners with helplessness.
Tell them that I was forced into driving you!” he screamed, “Tell them that I’m one of you!”, but no one could help him. Not even Yahya with his perfect English, nor Jamal with his repeated: “Por fabore!”. Their pleads were left unheard and Ahmed, the underage driver who was forced to lead the boat because of his inability to pay the requested amount of money for the journey, was prosecuted for human smuggling.
How can they think he’s one of them?” asked Yahya that night, as they slept in tends after having a full dinner. “What kind of criminal organization would send their agents on a journey that has such low chances of success?”
Jamal didn’t know how to express his indignation. All he could think about was what the agent in Libya had told them before their boat had sailed.
You left your homes behind, but is there a home for you ahead?
Jamal had faith, but seeing how Ahmed’s hopes of finding a new life in Italy were destroyed so soon, he didn’t know how to keep on hoping for the better.

What Jamal knew was that he hadn’t crossed the sea to rot in Lampedusa.
He had his family’s hopes and future on his shoulders, and when the first group of somalis left the camp he was among the ones who lead the way. He walked until his ankles were swollen, stopping by at a xawaalad to receive the money his mother sent him. Chased from a train because he was ticketless, he slept in mosques during the day and in parks and under magnificent Italian porches at night, not distinguishing between an important monument and a pretty house. He met people and made friends and tried to leave this unfamiliar country that smelled like Somalia and tasted like Somalia and was just as poor and messed up as Somalia. But every time he attempted to fly away he was sent back and told that, according to the Dublin Regulation, asylum seeker’s application had to be examined by the first European country he sat his foot on, in his case Italy. He knew that many people before him managed to enter countries like Sweden and Danmark without facing much problems, but every time he tried his luck the government’s server found the fingerprints that were taken from him upon his arrival in Lampedusa, an undeniable proof of Jamal’s passage in Italy. Fortunately he was never arrested for his attempts, and by the third time that his fingerprints were found, his reasons to leave diminished. And then one day he could no longer find the resolve to risk his relatives’ money anymore, and he gave up the dream of leaving Italy.

It was right then, by his tenth month there, that Fadumo Hassan entered his life.
He met her under the porches outside the Questura of Turin on a rainy day, and she came to him in all her beauty and wit, long fingers holding a navy umbrella. He greeted her, trying to hide his stupor and thinking of a way to approach her, but he hesitated one second too long and eventually she was the one who started the conversation.
She told him she arrived on the same boat as him.
I didn’t notice you” he said.
I did” she answered, and when Jamal returned home that day he sat at the table with his eyes closed, trying to recall the details of that journey for the first time since he arrived in Italy. Trying to remember Fadumo.
He slowly fell for her. For her joyful laugh and her strength and for the way he felt hopeful and blessed when she was around. He admired her willpower, because even if they had arrived in Italy at the same time, after six months she already worked with a cleaning company, earning a full salary that she used to rent an apartment with other somali tahrib girls – tahrib, illegal immigrant. She had stopped receiving food and bus tickets from the government two months after she settled in Turin, and this made him consider his past choices. The more he got to know her, the more he felt the need to be a better man; so day after day he worked more and put his every effort into gaining more independence from the government, until he found a job at a construction site and started saving up money.
One day after work Jamal went to her favorite spot, the somali Internet Point in via Baretti, secretly hoping to meet her there. At first he had wanted to pull his presence there as a coincidence, but Fadumo wasn’t a woman who allowed things to be left unsaid for long and as soon as she saw him she asked with a knowing smile: “You don’t live in this area. Are you after me Jamal?”.
Jamal hesitated, but didn’t think of lying: “Yes, if you allow me”.
Fadumo nodded with a small smile and glanced at Rahimo, her best friend and shop’s owner, who smiled brightly in return. Jamal wondered if she’d been waiting all along for him to be sincere about his intentions. With things clear between them, from then on Jamal went to meet Fadumo at the Internet Point after work every chance he had. Then in the summer, with the haste that was typical of tahribs who had risked their lives on the sea, he called her father in Kismayo and asked for her hand.
I met them for the first time on their marriage as it was celebrated by my father. I was thirteen then, and after hearing the story of how they met I remember thinking that they were the sweetest couple. With the naivety of those who are too young to understand adulthood, I was sure that they both had the happy ending they deserved.
Little did I know that as long as one lives, the cycle of hardship and relief is never-ending.

Ramadan 2009, Turin
I didn’t mind being poor.” said Jamal to my mother, biting a sambus and wiping his mouth right after. As I was washing the dishes, I could see his lips trembling from the mirror on top of the sink. “Somehow I was rich in happiness”, he added.
But Fadumo thought otherwise. They had a child who was named after her father, Hassan, and who was now two years old. He was their greatest source of comfort in the small land of Italy where life was tough and no one gave nothing for free. Every month they had less and less, struggling to find even just a few euros to feed Hassan, and unfortunately Fadumo still couldn’t get used to their condition. She was blinded by her needs and she wanted to earn more money in order to move to a bigger house.
I hate hearing the neighbors when they use the bathroom” she would say, but Jamal still remembered vividly how they used the bathroom on the boat, and couldn’t find in himself the same repulse that she felt. When their second winter together was about to start, Fadumo left for Kenya and came back without their son. Jamal couldn’t believe his eyes.
I left him with your mother” she said, trying to calm him. “She will take good care of him, and he won’t have to suffer hunger or thirst. Let’s work our backs off, habibi. Let’s go get our Hassan back next year.”
The first night without Hassan in their bed was a nightmare.
Jamal cried and Fadumo lulled him to sleep. The second night she was the one crying and him the one lulling. The nights went on like that. Winter and Spring came and went, and they managed to save some money. They both worked like crazy, not noticing that they were slowly drifting apart from each other. They were so tired and nervous that they couldn’t bear the touch of one another, nor could they hold a conversation without ending up raising their voices. Jamal was slowly becoming numb to her laugh or beauty, and some days he wondered why they even got married.

After one year, they had no desire to live together anymore and they had both grown intolerant of each other. Especially Jamal, who couldn’t yet forgive her for abandoning their son in Kenya when they didn’t even have the money to fly there if anything happened to him. Without telling her, he used most of the money he had saved to get Hassan back.
The day he returned home with their child, Fadumo looked at him with no surprise in her eyes. Her eyes got filled with tears and she stretched her arms to hug her son, but he hid behind his father and started crying uncontrollably. The hurt in her eyes cannot be described with words.
She was the one who asked me to divorce her” said Jamal, wiping his face. “I blamed her for what she did, maybe I even hated her for some time. But I didn’t want to divorce her…Well, I couldn’t force her to stay with me either, could I?”
Not being able to refrain my curiosity, I asked him if he had used the three opportunities for divorce that were given in Islam.
No.” he said, his eyes glistening as he stood up. “Me and Hassan are still waiting for her to come back.”

the ones I left behind – Titanics 1/5

This is a series of five stories I wrote inspired by the lives of tahribs I met in my childhood. I started writing them two years ago so some of you might have already read the first two ones. I decided to repost them on this new blog because I finally finished the collection and I’d like to share it. I’ll post one story per week, hope you’ll enjoy them (:

Desclaimer: In somali ‘tahrib’ is the term used to describe those who leave their land to reach Europe or western countries by sea. Until some years ago, tahribs in Turin used to called themselves ‘titanic’ – I never really asked why but I guess it’s to express how they escaped a very dangerous journey. I’m not sure if they call themselves the same way even in other parts of Italy/Europe, but that’s how we refer to tahribs in Turin hence the name of this short collection of stories.


Don’t strike against the soil, don’t fly abroad!

I only asked questions when I wasn’t enough interested to observe.
But I was interested now, and I was quiet and there was something in that person that made my thoughts swim in curiosity. I sat rigidly on the sofa, legs crossed in my oversize baati, ready to hear a story that would surely numb my mind.
“I left Baidabo when I was fourteen. ” started the woman, and laughed at my surprised expression. “Oh, don’t make that face. It’s true that I looked younger than I was because I didn’t get proper meals, but I knew much more than any girl raised in Europe now could imagine. Children back home where little adults, not like here. Even my sister’s daughter, who was only five years old, knew how to take care of herself – in fact, if only she wanted to, I bet she could’ve sold your younger sister at any market: that’s how much she knew.”

She spoke with a low voice, not giving any strength to her words, and yet I couldn’t help glancing at my sister who was sleeping soundly in her tiny bed, wondering about how much could a five year old child know and what circumstances could’ve possibly caused such knowledge.

I had an older sister, Shamsa” she resumed, “She couldn’t bear the life in our hometown. Everything bothered her. Not being able to study, not knowing when things would get better, having to pay mooriyan to cross certain roads. And worse, she couldn’t stand not having the resources to cure our sick parents. Even when everything was alright she complained about how we were just getting used to the bad conditions and forgetting how a proper life was. I didn’t forget anything, honestly, because I had nothing to forget. I was born in 1997, the way of living we were in currently was all I’ve ever known. But she was different. She was older than me fifteen years and all her childhood memories were full of people and buildings that were no longer there. And I remember her anger worsening after they opened an internet point in town. She got more and more resolute after contacting some relatives that lived in Kenya and learning about new routes to arrive in Somalia. That was all she needed.

“My sister always had a strong character and some terrible madax-adeeg (stubborness). She could literally talk you into anything, and knowing that she went to our mother and said: ‘We have to leave, hooyo’. And we left. Then once in Kenya she sent me and my sisters to school and started visiting another internet point. She contacted some qaraabo in Italy – I didn’t know it was your uncle back then – and she told them she was considering paying someone to help us cross the sea from Libya. Her husband was desperate, Jamaal. All he ever wanted had been the possibility of living with her in a peaceful country, and he had found what he was looking for in Nairobi. He couldn’t understand her thirst for more, but her rethoric was hypnotizing and few words where enough to convince him. ‘Don’t you want your daughters to live without ever fearing rape like me and my sisters and your sisters did? Don’t you want them to walk in streets where no one cares disrespects them? Don’t you want your sons to study and work and afford a good life with their wives the way you couldn’t do?”. Such a beautiful future was something he’d never contemplated, and the more she talked about it the more he wanted to share that dream with her. So he started working harder to afford the journey.

“She found the man that everyone was talking about in town. He called himself Dr. Jurille, but he could hardly read the alphabet let alone be a doctor. He asked her for an unthinkable sum of money and talked about more payments to come in Sudan and Libya. I heard them talking from the kitchen and they mentioned Ethiopian passports and prison and the desert. I was tired by just listening. Since I knew that in other households men where leaving their families to look for fortune in Europe, I imagined that Jamaal was leaving. But he was not leaving alone. She went with him, because he told her he wouldn’t leave her behind in Eastleigh with no one to protect her. ‘Or we can just stay’ he said. But to Shamsa that was not an option. So they left.”

She stopped her narration for a moment, looking at me with a sad smile.

“They wanted to come here but they never even left the Libyan shores. They were both killed in a prison. Isn’t it ironic that I, who had never even wanted to leave Baidabo, am the one talking here with you?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, habaryar” I said, still dwelling in curiosity. I wanted to know what happened in between, how she got to survive, how the journey on the boat had been. But I didn’t want to be insensitive. Thinking that it was safe to say that much and dreaming of how nice it would have been to be given a chance to prove myself as well, I murmured: “I wish I traveled as much as you, too. You must have seen some beautiful places!”
I was too young to understand how disrespectful my childishness was to the woman who shared her sufferings with me, but could innocence and lack of experience be a fault? The woman didn’t take it to heart, but a bitter smile sat on her condescending face and in her eyes displayed her memories of the non-living. Not having the strength to explain the sudden sadness that overwhelmed her, she put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and said: “The most beautiful places and times are the ones I left behind”.

feed your faith with undying hope.

Dear Halimo, why are you crying?
Your destiny was written when you were yet unborn, and you had it pretty good so far, hadn’t you?
You made your profession out of what you like, you grew up to be a sweet daughter and sister; you made friends that adore you and learned about how imperfection is an intrinsic characteristic of the human being. You fell many times, and this is your umpteenth time, but you always made sure to learn your lessons and share them with those you cared for.
You didn’t give up, and it’s because you inherited the strength and resolution of many women before you – women who crossed rivers and mountains and continents and wars.

Because you learned from them, today you’re made of steel and you won’t crumble easily.
High temperatures will melt you and some strong hits may deform you, but nothing you experienced until now was lethal and, if you have faith, nothing will be.
So don’t pity yourself when you’re still part of the lucky half of the world: after every failure you will still have a warm home to return to, parents who will look at you as if you’re made of gold and, most importantly, the benefit of a second chance.

You won’t die of delusion or humiliation, ’cause these are not weapons that can harm you permanently, unless you let them. You will fix your mistakes when the time comes, and you will stand up and walk down the path that has your name written on it, because this is Europe and infinite possibility is the gift this continent gave you. This is the gift that was hidden in your destiny when your parents fled the motherland, so don’t take it lightly. You may never get the chance to live in a place where your color is the normal color, but you will live happily, and those around you will live happily as well, and you will celebrate birthdays and graduations with your eyes half blind to the misery that hides behind this world’s beauty.

And don’t waste your time with those who use their sharp eyes and tongues to judge you – they can only see the fall, not the climb. Nor waste your time with those who don’t aim to improve, ’cause stagnation is the worst enemy of ambition.

Now, dear Halimo, why are you crying?

Your destiny was written when you were yet unborn, and even if you could’ve had it better than this, don’t let this delusion hold you back, ’cause you’re made of steel and your soul is more beautiful when you feed your faith with undying hope.

where you can find me.

✒ this piece is about having aspirations and wanting to be where good things take place.

● You can find me where bright things are.
Not only in small talks, but in big ones where not many are willing to go and the ground is almost untouched. You can find me where there’s a lot of thinking, a lot of doing, a lot of encouraging and not much prejudice. Where there are books filled with knowledge, and windows that overlook the beauty of the creation, and wise elders eager to relive their entire lives in their soft-spoken tales.
You can find me in those funny, laugh-and-growth-filled conversations that are easy to have, easy to receive and with no ambiguities. Where you would put your secrets, your worries and your dreams. You can find me in the blossoming ideas that resolutely try to climb the precarious ladders of planning, executing and operating, sometimes failing miserably. Where confidence lies while insecurities also rage and age, halfway between procrastination and determination. Where past mistakes and present teachings work together to make a future without regrets. Where sweetness struggles to get along with composure, and indifference always tries to overpower humanity.
Look for me on your way to happiness and independence.
You will find me paving it with you.

your turn now.

✒ this piece is about good listeners and smooth talkers. I was always fashinated by how some people seem to have the innate capability of listening, and some just don’t. Same thing goes for speakers. I often meet people that have such a power in their speech that they leave me mesmerized. Oh, and also: I guess I was a bit inspired romantically when I was writing this, ’cause it came out a bit soppy but in my defence I can say that I wrote it the night I watched “La la land”, so I should be partially justified, shouldn’t I?

● You might not know, but you have the face of somone who’s got a lot to say. And yet you prefer to keep your speech short, hiding yourself behind a diplomatic: “What about you?”.
Sometimes I think you’ve probably figured me out too well, and that your short answers are due to the fact that you already know I’ll end up speaking if you remain quiet for long enough.
Even now with just the input of your simple question, I could start telling you about how I sketched in the park yesterday, hands freezing but refusing to leave until the drawing was complete; I could tell you about how the trees were naked and about how I put clothes on them in my sketch; about their trunks’ colors, black on the left side of the road and white on the right side.
I could tell you about the joy of returning in a familiar place and the bitterness of finding it different. I could tell you about how I recently watched a musical at the cinema, and how I walked all the way home singing in the rain, in the middle of the night.
I could surprise you with a portrait I did of you last year, or the previous one. Or I could chose not to show it to you, and simply tell you that somewhere, in a place that belongs to me only, I jealously keep the footprint of your face.
I could whisper in a language that you don’t understand, and tell you it’s the language of my thoughts. I could tell you about how I once dreamt of lying on a desert beach, the laptop on my lap and the charger anchored to the bottom of the sea.
And while telling you all this, I could stop for a minute between one word and the next, just to observe how your expression changes while you try to imagine the end of every sentence. I could steal your time and silence you in thousands of ways, leaving you all wet eyed and mouth agape.
But you have the face of somone who’s got a lot to say, so this time I’ll just scroll my shoulders, reply shortly and say: “It’s your turn now”.