Poem, Untitled (2)

Gadgadoonka waayaha
Xiliyada is garab yaal
Haddii uu garaadkaa
Maankaagu gaabshoo
Gaadhi waayo meeshii
Naftu kuu galbineysoo
Hakad uu kusoo galo
Ha giriifin noloshee

19 Sumaya Mohamed

Gadgadoonka waayaha
Xiliyada is garab yaal
Haddii uu garaadkaa
Maankaagu gaabshoo
Gaadhi waayo meeshii
Naftu kuu galbineysoo
Hakad uu kusoo galo
Ha giriifin noloshee

Geenyada jareysoo
Godkii hore ka digo rogo
Gobolkuba haduu dumo
Galbis weeye maantaas
Iyo waxaan lasoo gocan
Waagii soo guduutana
Yi’ didiilo gaariyo
Waa nasiib kusoo galee
Haka gaabsan hanashada
Gunta dhiisha uga tolo
Shalay galab wixii tagay
Weligaa hasoo gocan


Sumaya Mohamed (Photographer) is an aspiring visual artist currently based in Bosaso, and roaming around Somalia. Her images portray everyday life in the motherland.

Instagram: @svmaya

Naaima Abdi (Author): “Waxaan ku barbaaray dalka Jarmalka, waxaan kusoo noolaa isagana dalka UK, imikana waxaan si rasmi ah u dagnahay Hargeisa, hal-abuurka ama qorida maqaalo iyo maansooyin u badan hogol tusaalayn, waa ii hobby ama maararow, waxaan inta badn ku cabiraa aragtidayda ku waajahan duruufaha kala duwan ee bulshada soo waajaha, sida baahi, xanuun, i.w.m.”

Instagram: @na_poetry

Where shall we hide?

be careful now…
for the trees are no longer safe.
You fled
seeking a sense of belonging

24 Sumaya Mohamed

Dear Hooyo,
I remember your sad tale of escape
where those cruel eyes hid in the darkness
awaiting your slumber,
be careful now…
for the trees are no longer safe.
You fled
seeking a sense of belonging
with only your identity as your prized possession.

Teaching us our mother tongue
you gave each of us the gift of Dhaqan (Somali culture).

But mama,
“look over there.”
the familiar torment has made a wicked return.
Those sworn to protect us are no longer a safe
alliance,
our existence is now an absent thought for many .

As we flee from our shelters,
where we got a taste of your childhood.

I ask you
Where shall we hide Hooyo?


Sumaya Mohamed (Photographer) is an aspiring photographer and visual artist currently residing in Bosaso, but roaming around Somalia. Her images portray everyday life in the motherland.

Instagram: @svmaya

Aftha Ayan (Author) writes poetry daily. She is an English teacher of adults, and in her spare time writes and reads books. Aftha has completed a BA in English Literature and PGCE in English/ESOL. She lives in Manchester, UK where she was born and bred.

Instagram: @alyanur._

Du’a (Prayer)

It is a well-known fact that when using a pestle and mortar, we will always find amidst the fine powder one perfectly untouched pod.

Prayersigniature

This proverb is a prayer. It is a well-known fact that when using a pestle and mortar, we will always find amidst the fine powder one perfectly untouched pod. This prayer is, in essence, the seeker asking to be that protected pod.


Asha Mohamed (Artist) is an illustrator and aspiring writer studying for a Masters degree in Psychology. She curates and co-produces Literary Natives, an organisation dedicated to championing Writers of Colour. Asha resides in London.

Find more of Asha’s work, and purchase prints, at ashaillustrates.com 

Twitter: @baahramewe
Instagram: @baahramewe

Breathe In and Out

I refuse to sit with it, to make small talk
I am done writing about it,
giving it my undivided attention, to bathe in it
sometimes I look at the moment
when I coughed up small parts of my soul

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I did not find a forever home in my past
the trauma however sometimes comes back
for an acknowledgement, eye contact

I refuse to sit with it, to make small talk
I am done writing about it,
giving it my undivided attention, to bathe in it
sometimes I look at the moment
when I coughed up small parts of my soul and I think to myself

even in that moment I kept on breathing


Nuura Axmed (Author & Artist) posts poetry and personal essays about identity, mental health, and travel at her blog Thoughts of a Big Head. Nuura is also a visual artist who focuses on the attire (hijab) of her subjects, and the overall mood of the piece, in lieu of emphasizing facial features. She enjoys taking photographs of her grandmother, and making digital edits on her phone. She resides in London.

The above artwork is titled: Self Portrait

Instagram: @wordsbynourz

 

What is Love

love is a funny thing,
how it anchors itself into your heart,
and leaves you helpless,
like a fish on a hook just waiting to be reeled in.

30 Sumaya Mohamed

love is a funny thing,

how it anchors itself into your heart,

and leaves you helpless,

like a fish on a hook just waiting to be reeled in.

it rips your heart out of your chest,

and places it into the waiting hands of another,

so that they may tug at your heart strings as they please,

while you are powerless,

hoping that they are gentle with you.

as we go on through life,

love places our hearts into the hands of many.

some leave our hearts with gaping wounds

that will never heal.

some nurture and protect our hearts

while we break theirs.

somewhere along the way,

we find someone whose soul speaks the same language as our own.

someone whose palms leave our hearts with a warm feeling

as they hold it in their hands,

their fingers massage away the pain and heal the cuts and bruises.

that is the love that we are all looking for.

 


Sumaya Mohamed (Photographer) is an aspiring visual artist currently residing in Bosaso, and further roaming around Somalia. Her images portray everyday life in the motherland.

Instagram: @svmaya

Hanan Nur (Author), 17 years old, was born and raised in Toronto. Her passions include writing poems and stories, as well as acting. She has written poetry since middle school and has also taken part in multiple drama productions.

Twitter: @nacnacx
Instagram: @hanannvr

Art, Untitled

IMG_8295


WASIMA FARAH (Artist) is a 17-year old visual artist based in St. Paul, Minnesota, whose work varies from vibrant graphic design to illustrations.  She has created this artwork with the intention of communicating that “my pain is valid, my anger is valid and I will be heard.” The speech bubble is empty so that women can picture what they want to speak loudly about.

Instagram: @vvsima
Twitter: @vvsima

Reaching the West (Tahriib)

Oh media, we have no knowledge except that which you’ve bestowed upon us! Their truth remains stained by your falsified fiction; in the Society of the Concealed Sun, the shadows provide the only truth you know.

A Submission 25 -

  1. The nomads crossing seas represent not merely the uneasy equilibrium of their ancestral lands; they embody the continuing pain of change in its purest process, passing borders and human boundaries, carrying rose-watered tears of intertwining, individual hopes and familial aspirations, opening the doors of interconnectivity between billions of singularities.
  2. However, the changing political climate of the accumulative western masses, much like the weather of Denmark, remains clouded, rainy, and stormed by a prejudice, disguising the abrupt melancholy of the sun’s children, abandoned by their mother, and left in the darkness, exhaling in sadness, as she exhaled a soured smell.
  3. Upon arrival, the fleeing children inhale the oppressive smog in unison, realising; that they will never be as deeply, as solemnly, and as brazenly free as they were in the “motherland.” Nationalist fears and phobia, imprisons them systematically, evidently, judging and jailing the frozen bodies of southern folk, with misery gleaming in their eyes as they reach the West.
  4. The refugees, the ultimate recipients of deaf Western ears, live in fear since there is no solace to be awaited at these gates of “Paradise.” They’ve been battered and bruised and accused of being the plague, as they beg for safe passage, and as the ebbing tides of humanitarians’ hearts shift, harden, and transmute into rocks, some even harder.
  5. If they felt the wandering souls’ pain, if they realized that the minority does not erode the majority, could something change in The Normative Mind? Nevertheless, they remain quiet; a society shall not discredit its own. They shall distance themselves, while the media dictates our differences; so, they say all glory belongs to you, media!
  6. Oh media, we have no knowledge except that which you’ve bestowed upon us! Their truth remains stained by your falsified fiction; in the Society of the Concealed Sun, the shadows provide the only truth you know. And fear is accompanied by ignorance and collective hatred bleeding into one another: potent like the poisoned milk of broken mothers, it nurtures a new cycle of change.

FARDOSA SULEIMAN (Photographer) is nineteen years old and from San Jose, California. Fardosa began taking photographs only one year ago.

Instagram: @fvrdosa
Twitter: @fvrdosa

YAQUB MU’MIN TOXOW (Author) is a Danish-Somali poet and community activist engaged in issues of contemporary immigration, intersectional oppression, and social mobility.

Instagram: @muuminos

Warda Means Rose

In the evening she would return home to prepare dinner for Quran saar, swift fix to the supposed jinn residing in my body. There were endless hours of sitting, encircled by sheikhs, learned men with lengthy beards, some dyed orange red and others plainly gray.

A Submission 29

The man wearing the white jacket was much older this time. He dragged a wooden chair out in front of me and sat still. White papers hung onto his clipboard, a thin pen held over his right knee.

He smiled while studying my face. On his were wrinkles at every patch of brown skin. I thought of Awoowe, his gentle smile and frail body lying across my mother’s bed. The final hours of his life shrinking him away till he could take no more breaths.

“Warda, my girl. Thank you for seeing me. Can you tell me when you last received treatment?”

His smile was gone and the kindness in his eyes evaporated. I should have known him to be another informant, greedy for my secrets. I wouldn’t share a thing this time.

He peered down at the papers, flipping back and forth between them.

“It says you were on your own for some time.” Another smile, “Kaaligatha iiyo Kariimka…”

Just you and your Most Generous God.

It had been years since I heard that last.

My Hooyo came to mind. In the afternoons she fed me. After I would watch her small silhouette behind the beige and white dotted curtain beside my bed. She would roam around the home, holding sweet incense to every corner. Last was a gentle kiss over my head as she left me alone to my thoughts.

Back then the voices were less lethal:

“Why has she left you to yourself again?”

“She won’t come back this time.”

“They’re coming to get you.”

“You’ll be dead before you know it.”

Hooyo despised my illness and blamed it on the evil eye. Other days, on the jinn.

In the evening she would return home to prepare dinner for Quran saar, swift fix to the supposed jinn residing in my body. There were endless hours of sitting, encircled by sheikhs, learned men with lengthy beards, some dyed orange red and others plainly gray.

Ayats free falling from their lips. Some voices like thunder and others soft as velvet.

“When did your mother pass?” the old man asked me from his chair.

My eyes searched the room until I found her at the back, carrying the same incense in her hands, swaying alongside the smoke. She stopped suddenly,  to stare at me.

“She’s there, just behind you.” I told him. The old man turned back around.

“Don’t you see her? Don’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?” The old man asked.

Hooyo held a finger to her lips before slipping into the hall, leaving a trail of smoke behind her. She would return again when mentioned by name.

“You just missed her.”

The old man frowned and scribbled things onto his white papers. He was displeased at her leaving.

“Don’t worry, she’ll return soon. She always does.”


FARDOSA SULEIMAN (Photographer) is nineteen years old and from San Jose, California. She began taking photographs just one year ago.

Instagram: @fvrdosa
Twitter: @fvrdosa

HALIMA HAGI-MOHAMED (Author) is a Somali-American writer. She was born in Nairobi, Kenya and raised in Fresno, California. Her writing deals with themes of family, mental health, identity, and religion. Last year she published her first book of short stories titled Amilah.

Halima’s short stories can be found at halimawrites.com
Instagram: @halimawrites