A Return to Somalia, a Taste of Home
Text and Photos by Ifrah F. Ahmed
In Mogadishu, there’s beauty all around, like in the brightly painted buildings, some of them chipping but all of them adorned with an illustration of what could be found inside.
I am thousands of feet in the air. The hour and a half long flight from Nairobi stretches before me. My plane saunters from cloud to cloud, inching its way to Mogadishu.
The flight is full of Somalis from all over the world chatting animatedly amongst themselves. There is a sense of excitement in the air and the feeling of home-going is palpable; surrounding us completely and pregnant with promise. Our flight attendants make their way down the aisles and pass around light snacks. I ignore the airline food in favor of the beef sambuusas and spicy basil green basbaas I brought with me from Nairobi. The dense book I brought to read remains unopened as I am lost in thought.
How incredible to be flying over the land my ancestors lived, loved and died on for centuries—a feeling that cannot be replicated ever again even in my best of dreams. Before I know it, our descent into Mogadishu begins.
I tentatively peer out the window to see what waits for me below as I ready myself for landing. Upon first look, I am greeted by water, cerulean and vast. Seconds later, the plane gently lowers itself to meet the land like a lover. A gorgeous stretch of white sand appears in an effortless display of beauty. As the plane touches the ground, a sigh escapes from somewhere deep within me.
My mother, who is in an aisle seat across from me turns towards me and with a big smile says: “You’re home.”
***
Having stayed for as long as possible, we ultimately fled the violence of the Somali Civil War, first for Kenya and then finally the United States. I had originally left Somalia with my mother when I was a year old, and here I was returning with her for the first time in over two decades. It felt poetic, like the universe bringing me full circle. A rebirth after a 25-year life cycle spent growing elsewhere.
The decision to visit Somalia bloomed suddenly and unexpectedly. My mother floated the idea one day. I accepted her offer without hesitation like a florist speeding to harvest a rare and dying flower. I’d had opportunities to visit before, but I dodged them. The timing always feeling like an ill-fitting shoe. This time around, it felt less like a determined effort from an immigrant parent yearning for their child to know their homeland, and more like a desired return on my part.
As our plane came to a stop on the tarmac, a round of applause broke out. Surprised, I looked around the full plane at my fellow passengers. My eyes observed their wide grins and my ears eagerly collected their cheerful laughter, the kind of laughter that can only live in the bellies of those arriving safely after fleeing for their lives decades before. Some were visiting for the first time and others were coming back from trips abroad, but there was a collective sense that we had all returned.
The woman next to me noticed me taking out my nose ring and laughed.
“Is this your first time?” she asked.
“Yes. Since I left as a baby.” I answered sheepishly in Somali.
She gazed at me for a few seconds and then broke out into a smile and said, “Soo dhawoow. Dhulkan wa dhulkaaga | Make yourself welcome. This land is your land.”
She then turned forward and gracefully covered her face with the veil that had been resting on top of her head. I hesitantly put the nose ring into a small clear bag for safekeeping. Although it had become like a metal extension of my face, I wanted to do my best to fit in and not stick out so obviously as a member of the diaspora. As soon as the seatbelt sign turned off, our bodies sprang into action and everyone grabbed their luggage from the overhead bins and made their way to the front doors to exit the plane.
I reached the top of the stairs, and the warm July air wrapped itself around me to welcome me the way a parent welcomes a long-lost child. When my feet met the ground, I was taken by a sudden urge to sink my knees down as if in prayer, and to kiss the land. Instead, I propelled myself forward and walked towards the terminal. There were Somalis behind me and in front of me. Somalis all around me for miles and miles. It was something my brain was having a hard time processing after 25 years of being a minority somewhere else.
I followed closely behind my great aunt and my mother. My great aunt’s bright yellow patterned garbasaar shining in contrast next to my mother’s solid orange jilbaab. As we walked through the terminal, they took turns periodically gazing back at me and smiling; watching me drink it all in. From the moment I landed until I left, my mind tried to frantically absorb and store everything I saw.
In the terminal, my maternal uncle waited for us. He was a portly man who stood a few inches taller than me. He had on thick glasses, an intricately patterned macawiis, and a fiery red henna-dyed beard. On his head sat a kufi. He embraced my mother with great joy and then turned to greet me. After our greetings were finished, we navigated the crowds at the busy terminal and quickly walked back out into the heat.
A thin cloud of sand enveloped us as we made our way to the waiting car. As we drove away from Aden Abdulle airport and weaved through central Mogadishu, I found myself in a daze. Everywhere I looked there was something beautiful waiting for my eyes: Beauty in the way our car jerked violently and abruptly as it sped down the sandy roads. Beauty in the way the women flicked their wrists and their vibrant garments swirled around their bodies as they walked. Beauty in the brightly painted buildings surrounding us, some of them chipping but all of them adorned with an illustration of what could be found inside. Beauty in the goats and cows wandering down the roads, carefree and seemingly without caretakers.
Mogadishu had an attitude that was unmatched by any place I had ever been before. The city also had a chaotic rhythm that came quickly apparent as cars, people and animals swirled in activity, dancing in all different directions.
As we headed towards the outskirts of Mogadishu, the landscape opened up. The bright pastel buildings remained, but there were fewer of them now. After a few minutes, our car took a left into a side-street. We drove several feet before the car stopped in front of a villa surrounded by tall cream colored walls.
My uncle stepped out of the passenger’s seat and walked up to the giant black metal door and began fiddling with the lock in annoyance. He began knocking loudly.
“Yaa waaye? | Who is it?” a woman’s voice said from the other side of the gate.
“Waa aniga, ee iga fur! | It’s me, open up!” my uncle shouted. The heavy gate
screeched as it slowly opened, revealing a pristine courtyard dotted with tropical plants. Just beyond the gate, in the middle of the courtyard, stood a gorgeous three-story cream-colored villa. Our car drove slowly into the courtyard and the gate slammed shut behind us.
We spilled out of the car. As we slammed the car doors shut, I noticed that a group of people had materialized – they had not been there when the gate first opened. I looked around at the faces but only recognized three. My sister and brother rushed out from the crowd to embrace my mother and me. As I finished greeting my siblings, I turned to see my mother and my aunt in an embrace.
Next came the introductions. My aunt presented the remainder of the group; made up of a handful of cousins who all appeared to be younger than me. They all gazed back at us for a beat and then peppered us with shy smiles and kisses of hello. One by one, they said their names in introduction. It felt extraordinary to meet cousins I never thought I would meet in person; the static filled voices over the telephone line finally materialized into flesh.
***
When the Civil War broke out, half of my mother’s siblings remained in Somalia, and the other half were eventually resettled and dispersed throughout Europe, Canada and the United States. Separated by immigration, borders and paperwork, there were dozens of us cousins born during and post-Civil War who had never had the chance to meet the other half of our extended family.
After introductions, we made our way inside. The first thing to greet me was the familiar smell of burning frankincense, or uunsi, coming from a giant dabqaad by the doorway. The villa was even more spacious than I had imagined. The ceilings were high and the floor was marble. From the marble came a coolness that gave us a temporary reprieve from the July heat. My cousins transported the mountain of luggage we left in the foyer to the top floor of the villa as my aunt gave us a tour.
Every room in the villa was filled with light—a gift from the Mogadishu sun. The kitchen was beautiful: the floor, a classic black and white tile, the cabinets rustic and painted white.
On the stove, a kettle of Somali shaah sat gently brewing away. The mortar and pestle on the counter perfumed the air with the smell of freshly pounded cinnamon and cardamom seeds. In addition to the gas stove, there was an indoor cooking pit that smelled faintly of smoke. The pit was a large pot, handmade from white clay by local artisans. At the bottom of the pot were the soft red glimmers of cooling embers from recently burnt coal.
On the other end of the kitchen, a door led to the side of the villa. As we made our way outside, the first thing we saw were clothes hanging from a line; their moisture left to evaporate in the warmth of the sun. A soft rustle of the breeze carried a faint floral scent. A smell that could only be attributed to the magenta bougainvillea flowers that wrapped themselves around the fence.
Goat soup, or Maraq Ari, is a staple of Somali cuisine, used as a cure-all for any ailments that struck.
Once we finished taking in the scene, my aunt informed us that lunch had been prepared, and that it would be served in the dining nook. She opened the door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the villa and motioned for us to follow. As we turned the corner, the dining nook came into view. The table had been set for four.
There were several salmon pink pots of varying sizes resting on the table. There was also a stack of white bowls, utensils, a pitcher of fresh mango juice and a bunch of bananas. As we seated ourselves, my aunt pulled the top off of the largest pot on the table.
“Since this is a late lunch, and dinner is soon, I thought we could keep it light,” she said apologetically as her hand grabbed a ladle and began to spoon fragrant goat soup into each of our bowls. The smell of cumin, goat and cilantro swirled into the air. As she handed me my bowl, I could see small and tender chunks of goat meat and soft pieces of potato peeking out from the broth.
The kitchen door opened and my sister emerged with several long baguettes.
“Eat the bread with the soup before they both cool down,” my aunt said firmly.
I picked up a baguette and tore it in half. I could feel the lingering warmth radiating from the fresh bread. I grabbed my spoon, dipped it into the soup, and brought the broth to my lips. The soup tasted earthy and fresh; the cumin and the undertones of onion resting smoothly on my tongue. The flavors in the soup were richer than any other goat soup I’d ever had.
Goat soup, or Maraq Ari, is a staple of Somali cuisine. Growing up in Seattle, my mother used goat soup as a cure-all for any ailments that struck. When I was younger, the gamy flavor of the goat meat was too strong for me, but as I grew older my taste buds accepted their birthright and acclimated to the flavor.
This particular bowl tasted like a revelation.
I placed torn pieces of the crusty baguette into my bowl and watched as the broth darkened the fluffy white clouds of the bread. As I spooned the bread into my mouth and felt the flavors from the broth soak out, I made eye contact with my watching aunt as she smiled in approval. When we finished the soup, my mother poured each of us tall glasses of fresh mango juice. I drank my juice slowly and looked around the table at the faces of my family, the empty bowls stacked together, and the table littered with the crumbs of just broken bread.
This was my first meal in Somalia.
Maraq Ari | Goat Soup
1 onion, roughly chopped
Half a head of garlic, peeled and smashed
A handful of torn cilantro; leaves and half the stem
1 pound of goat meat
1 large potato, peeled and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1 tablespoon ground cumin
Salt to taste or add 1 tablespoon vegetable seasoning, such as Vegeta
1. Preheat the oven to 500º Fahrenheit. Wash and clean the goat meat and place into an oven-safe pot such as a Dutch oven.
2. Add the salt/Vegeta seasoning, chopped onion, smashed garlic, roughly torn cilantro, cumin and coriander seeds.
3. Add enough water to come just above the meat. Cover the pot and cook the goat meat until almost tender, about 2-2.5 hours. Check on the meat throughout the cooking time and add more water as needed.
4. In the last half-hour of cooking, add in the cut potato chunks.
5. Remove the pot from the oven and, using a ladle and a strainer, pour just the soup into the bowls. Next, take out the pieces of goat meat and chunks of potato from the pot and dole it out into the bowls. You can eat the soup by itself, with anjero, or any other sort of bread.
