I. Hailing from Somalia

(1) The Horn of Africa

During my more than a decade of living in China, whether dining at humble local eateries, riding in taxis, or even conversing with the elderly gentlemen guarding the gates of my residence, one recurring reaction emerges when I disclose my origin — Somalia: "Oh, Somalia, I know, the Somali pirates." This often led me to assume that Somalia held a distinctive level of recognition among Chinese citizens, perhaps higher than any other African nation.

Historically, the Horn of Africa has been synonymous with Somalia. As we are aware, Somalia is not only strategically positioned but also endowed with abundant mineral resources. In the colonial era, Somalia was divided into French Somalia (which later became Djibouti upon its independence in 1977), Italian Somalia, also known as Central and Southern Somalia, with its capital in Mogadishu, and British Somalia, referred to as Northern Somalia or Somaliland. After gaining independence in 1960, Somalia went through four distinct periods: the Republic, the Democratic Republic, a period of internal turmoil, and the Federal Republic.

I grew up during the internal turmoil of Somalia, often considered to have commenced in 1991, though the war had already engulfed my hometown of Hargeisa in 1988. This war devastated our homeland, prompting our first displacement. We returned to our hometown in 1992, only to witness the passing away of my mother and maternal grandmother in 1993. That same year, conflicts broke out in Hargeisa once again, compelling us to embark on a journey of refuge in 1994. In 1997, we made our way back to Hargeisa, the place we called home.

Regarding the prolonged chaos in Somalia, some argue that it began in 1991, some trace it back to the Ogaden War of 1978, and yet others point to the two ill-fated interventions by a coalition led by the United States. Regardless of the differing narratives, it is intertwined with the presidency of Siad Barre. Siad Barre experienced both support and abandonment from the Soviet Union and then the United States, and he was ultimately ousted by the Somali people, leading to his exile and eventual death in 1995. The circumstances surrounding Siad Barre's demise remain shrouded in historical ambiguity, with some attributing it to American involvement. However, the full truth has been lost to the annals of time. Hargeisa, my hometown, is the second-largest city in Somalia. Fortunately, from our return to Hargeisa in 1997 up to the present, this city has generally remained calm and peaceful. The local people are characterized by their simplicity, warmth, and hospitality. While Hargeisa experienced relatively fewer of the later-stage repercussions of the war compared to other regions in Somalia, it was not immune to the ravages of conflict and families torn apart.

(2) Mother in My Memories

My grandfather was the proud father of six sons and four daughters. My father, the second eldest, held a special place in his heart. He dedicated himself to his education in Hargeisa and, upon graduating from high school, was offered a coveted position as a private secretary by a locally renowned entrepreneur. This choice meant forgoing the opportunity to pursue higher education, a decision that would later become a source of regret for my father. My mother was my father's second wife. His first wife died during childbirth, and my paternal half-brother was taken away by the family of my father's first wife. During this period, my father crossed paths with my mother. She hailed from a prominent and affluent family in Yemen, where her father held a distinguished position. My maternal grandmother had faced disfavor and subsequently divorced, eventually remarrying and giving birth to my maternal uncle. After the passing away of my mother's stepfather, she graduated from a medical school and resided in Hargeisa with my maternal grandmother and uncle who returned from Egypt for study. It was in Hargeisa that she would come to know my father and eventually marry him.

My mother served as the director of a hospital, a role that earned her considerable respect. In my limited recollections, she appeared as a tireless figure, rarely available to spend time with us. Typically, it was my maternal grandmother and the nanny who looked after us, while my maternal uncle took charge of entertaining us. My mother had strict expectations when it came to our behavior. Walking while eating simultaneously or raising our voices outdoors are prohibited. When we left the house, she insisted that we present ourselves with poise and cleanliness, forbidding dishonesty and prescribing a daily routine of studying or reciting the Quran. Adjacent to our home, there was a small snack store — a cherished spot for my siblings and me. We could freely help ourselves to the snacks on offer, and at the end of the month, my mother would settle the bill. My mother held a particular loathing for sibling squabbles or noisy altercations in our household. I recollect a time when my younger brother and I engaged in a fight, resulting in a long, bleeding wound inflicted on my back by my brother's pocket knife. We were both terrified, and fearing my mother's reaction, so we kept the incident a secret. After several infections and a slow healing process, the wound left a long scar. On another occasion, although I can't recall the specifics of my transgression, my mother imposed a penalty by refusing to purchase a pair of white shoes I had long coveted. I cried for an entire day, from morning till night, but to no avail. I never did obtain those beloved white shoes. It was especially disheartening to see my younger brothers with their new shoes. Even today, the memory of this incident still evokes a sense of sadness. At that time, my feelings toward my mother were more characterized by fear. We sought solace in our maternal grandmother's embrace and reveled in the adventures my maternal uncle would take us for a ride in his car.

Subsequently, following the birth of my youngest sister, my mother's health took a sudden and severe downturn, confining her to sickbed. During that period, my siblings and I, accompanied by our maternal grandmother, visited our mother at the hospital every day. While my maternal grandmother's face was etched with constant worry, my brothers and I frolicked outside the hospital, seemingly carefree. I vividly recall the moment when my father mentioned his intention to take my mother to Dubai for medical treatment, given the reputed excellence of healthcare there. It seemed certain that they would find a cure. Regrettably, before they could embark on this journey, the hospital brought us the devastating news of my mother's passing.

Even to this day, I struggle to comprehend the sudden death of my mother. I have heard stories of how she saved numerous lives, but the exact cause of her death remains shrouded in mystery. In our helpless grief, we laid her to rest. My mother had given birth to nine children in succession, and her bond with my father was unbreakable. In the year of her passing, I was nine, and the ages of my siblings spanned from thirteen to scarcely one year old. Many people attended my mother's funeral, mourning the loss of a remarkable woman who had helped so many people. Though my mother had left us, she would forever reside in the hearts of those she had helped and in our cherished memories. We came to realize that our mother was a truly exceptional woman, renowned for her medical expertise. Inspired by her example, we, though still young, aspired to become doctors, to follow in her footsteps and to earn the respect and admiration she so rightfully deserved.