Art, Untitled

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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

Mumbles, Wales

mumbles, wales


HANNAH NOOR (Photographer) is a 20-year-old student from the UK. Living in a city, it is sometimes therapeutic to step back appreciate the creation of Allah (SWT). These images are taken during my morning commute and so I like to capture them to showcase the manifestation of nature’s beauty in our day to day life.

Instagram: @_hannahnoor

 

Aamusnidu waa hadal

You can listen to Yahye Yeebaash read this poem here:

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Maalmuhu isniin iyo
Axad iyo salaasiyo
Arbiciyo mid weeyaan,
Iyagay isku uruuro
Hadba wiiga ugubiyo
Bilo aadmi sheegtiyo
Cimrigiyo awaashiyo
Qarniyada amaamuda.
Ayaamaha laftooduna
Afarqaadka mirirkiyo
Saacadaha idlaadiyo
Sikin kaa ordaayay
Abtirsiinta sheegtaan

Ha-yeeshee Ifraaxeey
Nin intaa is dhawraa
Aakhiro badbaadoo
Sida aad adduunyada
Uga eed baxdaabaa
Rabbi kuu ilaashaa

Wakhtiguna ayaantaad
Farxad ubax barwaaqada
Ku il-doogsanaysuu
Orod iyo xawaaraha
Kabti kugu ag dhaafa
Marka aad se urugiyo
Murugiyo assay iyo
Aramida guraysuu
Kolba aadyar luudaa

Ifku waa sir iyo caad
Intan aad arkaysana
Inta aad ilduuftee
Ishu dhaadi waydaa
Afar laab ka badanoo,
Uurkuna dareenkuu
Afka sheeg idhaahdaaa
Inta uu ka oodmee
Ereyada u waayaa
Kollay aad u badanoo
Aamusniduba waa hadal
La adeegsi bido goor
Hadal kuu istaadhmayn!

Anna saaka beerkaan
Muddo seexo idhibaa
Igu laba kacleeyoo
Markuu aamu diidaan
Tixda arar la sheegiyo
Maansada abuuraa,
Marka uurku ooyaa
Gabayguna ilmeeyaa

Sababbuu ilaahay
Muslin qira arkaantiyo
Kaaga dhigay Islaamoo

Sababbuu ilaahay
Soomaali awr-liyo
Kaaga dhashay abkaaso

Sababbuu ilaahay
Ruux iskii u nool iyo
Iinsaan kas diririyo
Karaamada qof aadmiya
Kaaga duway aboor iyo
Abeesiyo dugaagee,

Dadka oo iimaankiyo
Ashahaadda qirayaa
Marka ay kun iiniyo
Kuman eexa dhaartaan
Ibna aadan sheekiyo
Anigiyo anaan odhan
Ku illaabo garashada
Xaqqu waa alliyo nebi
Ka adkoow odhaahdood.

Marka gaal itaashado
Inta nool jidhkaagee
Agabkuu sameeyaa
Adigoo kobtaadiyo
Arabsiyo kolkaa degay
Waxa jira Almaaniya
Kugu eegmo geeyaan
Indhow-garaad layaabiyo
Argagaxa la saro kaco
Sirtu waa aqoontiyo
Alif iyo wax maalaha

Asalkay lahayd iyo
Dunjigay ku ahabtee,
Marka qolo asqawdaa
Usha qabato diintee
Qolo kale ayaan iyo
U awoodo sheegtaan
Qolo kale iftiin iyo
U astaamo sheegtaan

Inkiraadda qolo kale
Ku awaajji faafshaan
Ninba gaar si araggii
Aayadaha u kala guro,
Duco waa allow sahal
istiqfaartu waa diin

Iglan waa maraykane
Kolka ay israa’iil
Labadaba afkood tahay
Carabtiyo imaaraad
Inta laysu daba maro
Midba agab kasoo gado
Iiraanna lagu diro
Falasdiin la iibsado
Afrikaanna sheekiyo
Ictiraafka lagu sabo
Waa been nin aakee (A-K)
Kugu yidhi itaashee,
Jihaad waa af xilashada
Akhriskiyo qoraalkiyo
Qalinkiyo adeegsiga

Ururada qabiilkee
Loogu eexdo beeluhu,
Kolka gelin axsaab iyo
Qaran loo abaabulo,
Duqaydiyo islaamaha,
Ubadkiyo caruuraha,
Inta loo tollaay dhaho,
Anbabaxa daraddii
Ammin loo dedaal falo,
Kolka loo ansixiyee
Xilka loo agaasimo,
Iskaddaa cid kale oo
Abtigiis dharaartuu
Inyar oo caddaalada
Idilkeed ka laayahay,
Hays odhan is-biimee

Duul wada asqoobaa
Kaa awtay dhegehee
Ashtakada hasii badin
Aadna haw calaaclin
arligiyo dhulkaagana
oday kaa tegaayiyo
haw nicin afmiinshaar
abidkaa ha niyad jabin
mabda’aaga ku adkow

Axda iyo xanuunkiyo
Alwadkiyo baroortaa
Dadka qaar u iidoo,
Markaad Aah tidhaahdeed
Igaddaa dhawaaqday
Usha kula dhacaanoo
Looma ooyo ruuxaan
Ilmadaada dhabankiyo
U qalmaynin urugada


GOULED AHMED (Artist) produces creative photography, both composed and candid, as featured on his Instagram account, @xawaashking

YAHYE YEEBAASH (Author) is a home-grown Somali poet who studies Medicine as a profession. He started writing his first spoken word poetry at the age of 16. Since then, his work has focused on youth issues as he conducts many events all over the country. He is the producer of a TV and web series called Sirta Nolosha and he is also leading a creative campaign (Hal-abuur) which nurtures the poetic talents of high school students.

Facebook: @yaxye.yeebaash
Instagram: @YaxyeYeebaash
Twitter: @YaxyeYeebaash

 

Call of Fate

Friend, it has been too long.
I can feel the strength of your winds this winter;
gradually I am regaining the power
to seek out my destiny.

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Grieve we must,
for appreciating the ecstatic moments when ripped from our frail hands.
A season we soaked in the playful rays of the Arabian sun
dipping our feet, slowly but surely feeling the cool Red Sea rush between our toes.
Whilst our minds rode the vessels of an ancient Egypt, and
Our thoughts formed the delicate clouds above our heads.

Upon our births, the stars twinkled to their Lord
that two from opposite ends of the world
would one day unite
and soon after part.

Two of July,
abundant in the traits we share but each holds dear our originality,
uniqueness and sense of self.
Like the stars that brightened upon our arrival to this domain,
each of us sought to shine brightest.

My shine has started to fade over the years.
I grow unaware of who I am by the day.
I stare out into the English sky at night,
in wonder of what tomorrow may bring forth of life’s uncertainties.

Friend, it has been too long.
I can feel the strength of your winds this winter;
gradually I am regaining the power
to seek out my destiny.

Friend, grateful am I for fate’s decision
that I may sit here lone but warm—
hurt but loved—
pained but comforted—
knowing that as I overhear the Christmas bells from a nearby home,
I may eagerly write to you once again.

And in your home neighbouring the mosque
you write back to me,
as the call to prayer fills the sunset sky.


JAMA ABDIRAHMAN (Photographer) is an award-winning journalist and documentary filmmaker based in Seattle, Washington. He’s the co-owner and producer of Arrinta Media, a Seattle multimedia company. He developed his love for visual communication when he first picked up a camera at age 16. In his free time, Jama travels or searches the web for the cheapest flights possible.

http://www.arrinta.com
Instagram@jamawakawala

SALMA IBRAHIM (Author) is pretty much from everywhere but currently residing in London. She’s finally figured out the TfL and seems to have picked up the accent with ease so she happily classifies herself a Londoner. Salma first started writing at the age of eleven. Hooyo gave her a journal to document her life as she tried to accustom herself to a completely new culture; Salma will forever be grateful for her. Salma is now twenty-two and, as her sister would put it, “still trying to figure it all out.” Amongst the many things Salma loves are: warm hugs, long and meaningful conversations, spontaneous coffee dates, lone walks (anywhere) and all the positive souls God brings into her life. 

Instagram: @celmaaibrahim

Vessels

vessels
A year might’ve been too short
To count one day’s blessings
It’s not the end my friend
Today is with you
Transport your existence
To a whole different adventure
I’ve sent you a telegram
Beneath the unawakened sun
In the middle of heartache and stardust
Picking blisters out of dead skin
No eyes have traced these swaps
Nor light can see darkness here
My body is like a vessel
With long butterfly arms, flexing around my globe
Hugging my heart happy
The love we seek in seasons
Flowers that grow out of vessels
Erupting seconds
Flourished for me
I’m a vessel
Flesh is like mud
But vulnerable like glassware
Formed beautifully
V is for vessel
Containing uniqueness
If the earth is our cargo
Then we must carry a bundle of identities safely back to our shores first
Like vessels
We push oceans out from our lungs
Cry a universe of sand
We gave the world our greatest hope and destruction
From shackled ribs to crippled proverbs
I feel it every so often
When we talk about our mental health it’s a conflict
With severe cultural complications, less patience; this would easily lead you to the edge of falling
No one noticed
You can smile bright while internally broken
I know pain should not be conserved in our vessels
Maybe it’s the dearest thing we love, we hide and hate
In the end, trust is what we take from ourselves
Have we made it there?
Go!
And sail your vessels to promised islands, far away to the West
Across the cold, across unimaginable waterfalls, and ravishing ravines that break the necks of spears
Soo bax!
We were fishermen before seamen
Seamen before we were stereotyped as pirates
Just say
Fathers of migrants
Holders of a generation of refugees
Dispersed, physically
Divided, tribally
United within the harness of vessels
Hymns of coal
Sing along and burn the storm away
“Wax on wax off”
Stand tall or back off!
For I will smother you with kicks and lightning-tales
We are moving vessels
Like the below decks golden-greasers from Tiger Bay
Have faith
You’re an unplayed old instrument
An unfinished instrumental
Untamed
melody,
melody,
melody
*Follow me*
*Follow me*
Whispering
I am but a song away
“Balinbaalis duusha”
“Caddaayo qurxoona”
“Ubaha dushiisay ku degaysa”
“Wey duusha”
I fly
I swim
I run
I am symbolic
I am sibraarand aagaan
I am xeedho
Milk and subag
I am a product of an over-shaken body, overthrown, overboard, my nest is the loss of ancient lullabies left on skeleton branches
I’m nearly there
You must positively prepare for the arrival of strangers
To come
I’m a vessel
A vessel, I say!
A Vessel
A Vessel
A treasure for my soul
A gift-wrapped entrusted lesson
The pleasure is from above
Created with measure
Flesh is like mud
Vulnerable like glassware
Only our dreams can steer us forward

AHMED MAGARE (Author & Artist) is a multidisciplinary artist, poet, and writer and is a member of Birmingham-based international writers group, Writers Without Borders. He is originally from Somalia. He migrated with his family to the Netherlands during the Somali civil war, aged three. He lived with his family in the Netherlands for most of his teenage life and eventually decided to move to England to pursue his further education in creative arts. In his writing, he explores the notion of hyper-dislocation and the experience of living in the West, through the poetic and static lenses of self-reflection and perseverance. He navigates mentally between Somalia and living in the West, questioning the state of longing, belonging, and comments on sociopolitical and cultural subjects inhabiting the space of global Somalis.

Find Ahmed’s books on Amazon: When Heroes Hide Behind Curtain Ropes, and Vessels.

Twitter@ahmedmagare

 

Hoyoo Ma Talo

Jilbabi

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

She went to buy some milk,

left the war and now her keys are by the kitchen sink.

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

She forgot to say bye,

walked away from the TV, tribal cries.

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

Abo waved me off again.

Eyes glued to Horn Cable; politics begins.

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

I lost my Hoyoo, Abo where is she?

She’s in her room. He’s pointing.

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

I refuse to pick up the phone,

all I see is flaming-orange handprints on the walls,

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

The floors littered with her dahaab,

all from her hustle and my lack of adab.

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

She tells me her stories-

Tahrib from Hargeisa, Djibouti, Syria and Turkey,

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

She lost them all young.

The war that took everyone,

Hoyoo Ma Talo.

Ayeeyo Ma Talo.

Haboo Ma Talo.


HIMILO DARWISH (Artist) is a 23 year old business student. She has been drawing since she can remember. Her artwork currently revolves around her identity as a Muslim, Somali, Black woman living in the UK. She resides in London.

Instagram: @dazmyart

FATHA HASSAN (Writer) is a Creative Writing and English Literature graduate, born and raised in London. She loved writing after discovering her talents while studying in university. She now hopes to finish and publish the novel she started as part of her dissertation.

Instagram: @fathaaaonline