Ode To The Displaced...

[dhulQarnayn]

The hour before dawn, the hour of silence, when time seems to stand still. Dawn, the hour when we think our loneliest thoughts, when we beseech God, and search for understanding deep in our hearts, our essence. What is the secret that keeps our people alive, what pain, what breath? Over and over, the question returns to haunt us.

 

Suddenly, impressions of mayhem flood my mind: war and conflict are raging, Somalis are being driven from their homes, bombed, gunned down, abused, tormented... concentrated in death camps. Humiliated for a name, an origin, an identity. Humiliated, and then forgotten. It was only yesterday, and in the mists of my memory, their faces are simultaneously engraved and obliterated by the immensity of the evil wrought upon them. Are we not responsible for our history? Can it be that we have not learned to confront our demons? The taste in my mouth is repulsive, bitter.

 

Today is so like yesterday. Where have we come, in fact? Are we innocents droning on for all to hear about their insignificant lapses? Bedlamites carried away by ignorance of what they have done? Monsters possessed, by their thirst for power and control? Who are we? Yesterday’s victims, today’s killers... suffering at dusk, dictators at dawn? And when the long night is over, what will we have become? Who, finally, are we? What memory can we call our own? The same images: of those driven from their homes, bombed, gunned down, abused, tormented...concentrated in camps of the selfsame death. Today, like yesterday. They knew, of course. And they let it happen... Today, we know. We let it happen. The cravenness is deep.

 

The hour before dawn, the hour of silence, when time seems to stand still. Suddenly, I feel I must speak with my sister, my brother. To whisper to them what lies in the heart. A secret. Down deep, I do not know what we have become;I cannot know our hopes, our aspirations. I no longer know the value of our promises, so much have we betrayed each other. My sister, my brother, if our life’s blood has any meaning, it is time to awaken our shared memories. It is time for us to awaken; to resist.

 

We have been deceived. How beautiful were our dreams; how ugly the reality. They spoke to us of peace as one would speak of hope: something for us, beyond us, without us. Without effort. We witness a destiny free of memory, of sacrifice, of justice. Without dignity.

 

Under the unfathomed blue skies of Somalia, I can hear the deadened melodies of contrition, of sustained guilt, of a slowly throttling ailment; I would like to become the ambassador of the unvoiced, of the doomed, the friendless and the refugee, those who have paid the price for our meekness. I would like us to invigorate our national bond with those victims, the memory of dusk that brings forth the demanding justice of the dawn. To awaken us from the long night of our history. How I would like to do that!

 

The hour before dawn, the hour of silence, when time seems to stand still. To live for peace! To stand up at last, in the name of those driven from their homes, bombed, gunned down, abused, tormented... assembled for death, today like yesterday. To become the conscience of the downtrodden . For here love, dignity, and hope lie hidden. Here faith is born, the breath of life, the task that lies before us. This, finally, is the price of peace: among us, with us, for us all. Never give up. Simple, when you come down to it. But at the heart of this deafening silence, here amongst brothers, I know no other secret.

[Xalimo Sacdiyo]

Mashaallah--that was beautifully written. Do you really think of all that at the hour before dawn? I kid.

 

On a serious note--Sometimes it's easy to forget that we have it good while others are suffering. Thanks for the reminder.