Personal Narrative: My Journey Back To Somalia

They say you can find out a lot about a person by peeking into his or her passport. Such as where he or she is from, where he or she wish to go and where he or she have been. While each stamp represents a time and place, nothing can truly sum up a city like the experiences that have taken place there. And as fun as it is to explore, nothing could ever replace returning home.
Growing up, my earliest memory of “home” was Windsor, Ontario. Looking back, everything seemed much simpler, I was constantly surrounded by family and various people from many different backgrounds. As I was not yet of school age, I would spend my time playing outside with our neighbors, being able to run around without limitations was what I lived for. While we got to

explore our surroundings, we would hear snippets from the parents sharing stories of “home”.
Whenever I was asked what my nationality was, my instant reaction was to say “Canadian” and then pause as if I were going to add more. My parents would often laugh and finish up for me by adding “But Somalia will always be home” This would continue up until the age of six, when we found out we would be moving to the States.
Moving to Ohio would have to be one the experiences that have shaped me the most. It seemed as if as soon as we fully unpacked, it was time to start school and I would soon realize just how much I did stand out. It seemed as if I did everything wrong, from pronunciation to spelling. Whenever my teachers would finally think they have “corrected” me, it would be time for vacation and we would head back up to Canada. I would always return with an even more noticeable accent than before and throw off their progress.
The following 13 years, I would complete school all while realizing just how much of an identity crisis I was going through. It seemed as if every time I would travel, I would find a piece of home all while longing to return back to my current without ever having a grasp on what it truly meant. What was home? Was it a feeling of nostalgia, a feeling of belonging? Once I did return to Ohio, waves of relief would wash over me; however, there was the time it didn’t.
During a hospital stay that took place in December of 2013, there was nowhere I wanted to be more than home, I wanted to pack up and start over.

I did not like who I was or where I was. It felt as if I was blindly following a path of what was “expected”. After a little thought I had come to the conclusion that I wanted to go back to Somalia. My parents would often tell me that it would always be my home, and after my brief stay there for four months before I truly believed it.
The following week realization hit as I boarded the last leg of my flight to Mogadishu; I had finally made a decision on my own. I had literally woken up one morning and dropped my entire life to move the other side of the world on days’ notice. My family thought I had lost it, they could not believe I was returning to the place I had taken so much time adjusting to that summer.
Subsequently the next ten months would consist of the most physically and mentally challenging moments of my life. ‘Culture Shock’ had become my new catch phrase. I had gone from a place where I was constantly asked where I was really from because here ,Ohio, was not a sufficient enough answer to another where I was asked the same question because Somalia did not match what they

expected.
As my free time accumulated and cultural barriers existing, the only way I would get to know what life was like for people my age there would be to put myself in their environment. It was then I had come to the conclusion to enroll in a university while teaching English part time. The more time I spent with my classmates, the more I realized how parallel our lives were. While I may have been too “American” by their standards, my time there had taught me just how Somali I truly was.
Often times during the class lectures, led by our professors, many proverbs would be used; however, the meaning would get lost in translation. One of the times I truly felt at peace during my time in Somalia was during a spontaneous trip with my classmates to the beach to blow off steam. Although we did not all understand each other due to dialect differences, we bonded over playing soccer. This was one of the moments when it truly clicked how we were more alike than we originally believed. We did not need to understand each other on a linguistic level to comprehend fun and humor was universal.
When my time to leave Somalia had come around, I had reluctantly packed my bags to return. It was then I realized I had come full circle regarding my identity crisis, I did not have a home, I had several. My life and idea of home span across three different countries, and I could not just try to limit it, that was the problem.
Fast forwarding 11 months to where I am today, I have since moved around some more, but currently reside back in our family home in Columbus. My definition of home has also changed; I now see it as a state of comfort and belonging. Home is where you are surrounded by loved ones and although things might not be perfect it is close enough.