Xamar Cadeey to Holland and Holland to Xamar Cadeey: A Journey of Return

[Carafaat]

The year was 1988. It was a time of great turmoil in my world. Ben Johnson had just recorded a new world record in the 100m at the Seoul Olympics. But from my vieuw, 1988 will forever be etched in my heart, for something entirely different. We received news of the 'war' against our people in the North. At the time, I didn't feel any empathy nor did I appreciate the disruption it would come to cause to the blossoming spring of my youth. For me, Xamar Caddey was glistening and that's all that mattered then and still matters now. Exactly a year later, it would have been our turn, had it not been for our flight to Holland. 1989 will forever be marked by a callous and calculated massacre in Case Poplare area. Back then we lived in Howlwadaag. The areas settled by Dirta Waqooyi people were leafier and I have since come to realise the position we occupied among the high society in Xamar Caddey. These days, you often hear of looted properties, yet our properties are still protected. Father still remits money to the enforcers who still continue to protect the properties. This story is not about reclaiming the wealth we accrued, nor it is about playing the hero, but rather, it's a story of a more personal nature. My story. My closure

 

Exactly 25 years to the day my life changed forever, I recall feeling the exact same sentiments in the exact same airport. In 1988, we were leaving amid the impending crisis that has since come to define my life. in 2013, i was returning. Stood inside Frankfurt Airport's busy terminal, awaiting my flight back to Xamar Caddey, I struggled for mental continence. I left a boy and yet here I was returning a man. 25 years of longing to go back to Xamar Caddey was now a reality. 25 years of sacrifice, in the hope of returning, was now achieved. 25 year's nightmare haunted by fond memories of yesteryears in Xamar Caddey was now over.

 

This is my story. My journey. My erasure. My closure. I will serialize the journey successively in this thread. :cool:

[Elf]

Very emotive, I'm looking forward to it. Nice to meet you by the way, I'm from Xamar too.

[Safferz]

Looking forward to reading your story, broer

[Alpha Blondy]

LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL@inaadeero carafat

 

poignant is one word that comes to mind.

[Tallaabo]

Carafaat;986468 wrote:

The year was 1988. It was a time of great turmoil in my world. Ben Johnson had just recorded a new world record in the 100m at the Seoul Olympics. But from my vieuw, 1988 will forever be etched in my heart, for something entirely different. We received news of the 'war' against our people in the North. At the time, I didn't feel any empathy nor did I appreciate the disruption it would come to cause to the blossoming spring of my youth. For me, Xamar Caddey was glistening and that's all that mattered then and still matters now. Exactly a year later, it would have been our turn, had it not been for our flight to Holland. 1989 will forever be marked by a callous and calculated massacre in Case Poplare area. Back then we lived in Howlwadaag. The areas settled by Dirta Waqooyi people were leafier and I have since come to realise the position we occupied among the high society in Xamar Caddey. These days, you often hear of looted properties, yet our properties are still protected. Father still remits money to the enforcers who still continue to protect the properties. This story is not about reclaiming the wealth we accrued, nor it is about playing the hero, but rather, it's a story of a more personal nature. My story. My closure

 

Exactly 25 years to the day my life changed forever, I recall feeling the exact same sentiments in the exact same airport. In 1988, we were leaving amid the impending crisis that has since come to define my life. in 2013, i was returning. Stood inside Frankfurt Airport's busy terminal, awaiting my flight back to Xamar Caddey, I struggled for mental continence. I left a boy and yet here I was returning a man. 25 years of longing to go back to Xamar Caddey was now a reality. 25 years of sacrifice, in the hope of returning, was now achieved. 25 year's nightmare haunted by fond memories of yesteryears in Xamar Caddey was now over.

 

This is my story. My journey. My erasure. My closure. I will serialize the journey successively in this thread. :cool:

Who protects you properties? Is it our D!rta koonfur cousins or our longstanding HAG allies? Now I know why you are always going on about re-union:mad: You are so emotionally attached to Mogadishu that you want to sacrifice Somaliland's national interest for your own selfish desires. I think the days of Landers buying properties in Xamar is over. Nowadays, I hear about people only selling their properties. A cousin of mine recently sold one of his properties there for over a million dollars.

[OdaySomali]

Looking forward to reading about your travels Carafaat.

[Carafaat]

Thanks for all the support. Second part is coming up.

[spartacus]

interesting story.. awaiting more of your stories bro

[Bluelicious]

Looking forward to the rest of your story.

[Cadale]

Rageedi,waiting for the next part arafaat. .

[Carafaat]

21st October 1987

 

On the morning of the 20th of October, all was seemingly in place for tomorrow's celebrations. Excitement was rife and we were all looking forward to tomorrow's national celebrations. For the two days preceding our class spent considerable time preparing for the annual festivities. More than just Aabe Siyaad's descent to the throne, the day symbolised so much more for us. It was a auspicious occasion. For me and many others, that particular day has come to be associated with good memories. Until today the mere thought of 21st October is reminiscent with fond memories.

 

I attended SOS school. One of a few select and prestigious schools in Xamar Caddey. The school was established four years earlier for orphans. But that it was attended by the children of the powerful elite was hardly contentious, suffice it to say, that they were not considered suitable. In hindsight, such inherent contradictions were obvious but I was oblivious. Despite my best efforts to fit in, I could never truly be one of them, since I was Northerneur. They were the 'Ubaxa Kacaanka' or the children of the revolution. I, on the other hand, was merely the son of a powerful Northerner with clout. On the 21st of October of every year, at least for the previous three years, we were all united, no doubt because, we played an important role in affirming what must have seemed, retrospectively speaking, a battered national psyche with our innocence, studiousness and the continuity of youth.

 

On the afternoon of the 20th, I was collect from school by our HAG driver in one of our white Mercedes. Rashid was a mild-mannered man who rarely became angry. Certainly, his almost child-like innocence at the time, made it seem impossible that he should metamorphose into a rabid creature capable of cruelty. On first impressions, he struck you as the least likely candidate to develop a fetish for spurts of violence. But better the devil you know. Rashid was a trusted fellow, you could almost say he was family. Though a spoiled child harmed by over-solicitous behavioral problems, I would never have thought Rashid's tolerant nature, would be so intolerant in years to come. In 1993, we heard from close sources he colluded with his kin to unlawfully occupy our family residence. Luckily, much like Hassan's Damul Jadid politics of today, Rashid and his kin's militia were prone to inconsistency, inconsistently enough, for them to abandon our house for the next.

 

Life in Xamar Caddey was blissfully uneventfully, despite how it must have seemed to the elders in our family. On Friday mornings, we were driven to the fish market in Xamar Weyne by Rashid. Lido Beach family picnic excursions are but one of few fond memories. In the evenings, we would go to the cinema in Maka Makarama to watch the latest American movies on the huge outdoor screens. Life was good.

 

Despite my youthful recollections, you only needed to branch out of the compound to see the poverty-ridden dhoofle boys playing in the streets. They weren't fed and it showed. How life must have seemed for them was a latterly afterthought years later in Europe. Poverty lay around us. Yet, we were oblivious to their plight, let alone the problems up in the North. One day my lunch money was 10 shilling, the next day 50 shilling. A state of a country lulling itself into a false sense of scientific socialism. Yet, we and the regime were addled by grandiosity and luxury. Two worlds apart. Two different realities.

 

I recall one particular day, I accompanied Rashid and one of the housemaids to the market. It was a mere 150m in distance but the local neighborhood seemed something out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Perhaps, this was a prelude to what was to come. Yet, in this strange world, I was 'Colonial Kid', unaware of his position in the world of the Ubaxa Kacaanka. Safe, clean and nestled comfortably behind our landcruiser, I watched as Khadija haggled for consistency in a maize market of fluctuating prices. Yet this world was appealing. Interacting with people and being a commoner was alluring. Later on in life, I was still drawn to this world but it was opaquely impenetrable. I had difficulties fitting in, in more ways than one. I was an outsider in Xamar Caddey then and still seem afflicted by outsider pretensions. Perhaps the result of peaking too early in Xamar. Perhaps Xamar Caddey will give me closure.

 

Our neighbours were foreign and that world was the norm. Slowly the whites left. Then Günter first and Mario after. I wondered where they were going? Why they were leaving? Should I go too? Unbeknownst to me, we would never come to play in these colonial tropics dressed in French clothes, to drive by Italian inspired promenades and boulevards, driven in German cars whilst eating imported kuchen. When they left, I knew Somalia changed indefinitely. This was not my country anymore, something was amiss. Less than 3 months later, I would be in Germany, in Günter's Germany.

 

By early 1988 life seemed more emptier and I displayed higher levels of hostility towards these reer Waqooyi people making themselves comfortable in our house. We knew them as ''xaabadii keentahay''. In the North, they was colloquially mocked as ''xaabadii sugtay''. It didn't come as a surprise the dhar cad made themselves incognito outside our overpopulated compound and house. Inside the compound, I didn't relent in curbing their movements too. A nobody dirta Waqooyi uncle from father's village in Xamar Caddey, didn't sit comfortable with Aabe Siyaad's regime, or for that matter, with me too.

 

By March 1988, our family life was severely disrupted. My schooling was disrupted, too. The austerity measures made themselves visible. Information was sketchy. The seepage of it's recycled sediments made themselves clear eventually, but I would eagerly digest, what little hearsay I came across for lack of direction. One Thursday morning in mid-March, I was abruptly awoken and given instructions. I gulped at the words uttered but the undulating voice of Aabe Siyaad and that of the Ubaxa Kacaanka echoed. On the way to the airport, I saw glimpses of the sun, but it aloofly contrasted itself with the black clouds massing behind it. The muted conversations in the rugged vehicle was one of apprehension and worry. I deciphered their musings but knew better to follow instructions. The questions were aplenty at the airport check-point but a Gullwade Siyaadist intervened. I recognised his face but could't recall the name. He had a distinctive composure about him, almost as though a Saacid of his days. We were at once granted safe passage. The atmosphere inside the plane was sombre and quiet. Once in the air, all the passengers as though conscientious objectors, relieved of a heavy burden, were joyous in their common irreverence. I thought that odd.

 

25 years later, it’s somewhat ironic, my return home coincides with the rebirth of Somali airlines.

[spartacus]

I'm highly appreciated such a brilliant story you have illustrated. hope u enjoy there and hope mogadishu will once again transform to beautiful city with peace forever inshalah .

[Reeyo]

Intriguing, please continue.

[STOIC]

No wonder you were Unionist like your hero Prof. Samatar..A native informer sell-out..Good story

[Saalax]

Welcome back Carafat.

 

STOIC;987375 wrote:

No wonder you were Unionist like your hero Prof. Samatar..A native informer sell-out..Good story