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Motherland - Somalia
My motherland before the war a truly magnificent place once upon a time. It enforced laws that protected its people; it was a land filled with east African beauty. Indescribable weather, bright sun drenched days accompanied by heavenly like breezes. Filled with all sorts of tropical fruits. This was a land of sweeping plains, ragged mountain ranges, with sparkling blue jeweled seas and trees that stood tall as if they were competing with the sky. This land is no bigger than Texas, but it possessed a heart the size of the United States; a fearless kingdom known as the horn of Africa.
But that is no longer the case
Fathers out on a hard days work trying to provide a decent life for their families.
Mothers buying fresh groceries, amassing color to the busy market with their florescent gabasars. They walk proud with their necks high and their head scarves softly blowing behind their back in the divine smell of Hamar’s breeze. Children wander and play in the streets, without a worry about what’s for dinner. Elders sip tea on the corner shops beside the market telling stories of the ancient motherland. The inner streets are filled with stunning fast homes full of laughter and warmth. Families gather around astonishing hand made mats, with an assortment of home made traditional foods that you can taste just from its flavorsome aroma.
But that is also no longer the case
A country colonized by both the Italians and British. A country that spoke more than one language. A nation that stood strong, elevated and undivided. Its people shared bonds so strong that no saw could demolish. A place where love was abundant that even neighbors were considered family. A place where if one hurt they all hurt. The place of my ancestor’s existence, the place my parents call home, a place I’ve never laid eyes on.
However that is also no longer the case
This place I speak of is my country, Somalia. I’ve been to foreign lands,
And far off I’ve roamed, but never have I set foot on my country. The land which all its natives hearts ache desperately to return to. The perceptions I perceive are from pictures I’ve witnessed. As I watch TV, I see all these dead bodies laying randomly on the streets. I see my motherland being raped by bombs. My heart beat fastens and my blood boils as if my body is at war. I feel both over raged and fed-up for a place I’ve never been to. I experience sorrow for my once beautiful country, that is now transformed into one small bomb in which all its people are living inside that shell, accepting death in a more acceptable approach. Tousled boys rush the streets with their tarnished AK-47’S as their only companions. Young girls, who symbolize Somalia’s hopes for a peaceful future are broken to pieces by rape. Ruined mothers cry horrifyingly and passionately loud through the streets to feed their famished children. My country is now a land of terror, but her people have high soaring hopes that she will survive this reckless time period so that we can all one day return.
