Second-Generation Connections Rejection and Possibility
| Published date | 01 March 2008 |
| Date | 01 March 2008 |
| Author | Meimuna Ahmed Gilao |
| DOI | 10.1177/002070200806300109 |
| Subject Matter | Article |
Second-generation connections
Rejection and
possibility
Being “home”
As my sandaled foot hit the dirt ground, I took a deep breath and proceed-
ed to enter an environment alien to me. What felt like one hundred hands
were waving in my face, the owners of them complete strangers to me. We
had finally arrived in Mogadishu after an uncomfortable and emotional
plane ride. The plane landed in what looked like the remains of an airport
landing strip. And the airport? Well, it was nonexistent. A wartorn Somalia
was at my feet and all around me. I could not believe where I was. Upon
notification of the devastating news of my grandfather’s sudden death in
December of 2005, I took the first flight available from Pearson Airport to
join my mother overseas to take part in his funeral. My grandfather, a
renowned and patriotic man, carried a loyalty to Somalia that survived even
the cruellest of wars. It was no surprise then that he requested to be buried
in Somalia, next to his family lineage of graves. The airline agreed to hon-
our our request to carry his body from Dubai, where he died, to Somalia—
something they had never done before.
I looked around. My surroundings seemed so primitive. Primitive in
nature or primitive in comparison to where I came from? I secretly ques-
tioned myself. There were no tall buildings, no roads or traffic lights, noth-
ing but rubble.
Meimuna Ahmed Gilao is a fourth-year student at the University of Toronto.
| 116 | International Journal | Winter 2007-08 |
| Rejection and possibility |
I arrived in the company of my uncle, my aunts, and my mother, who
were immediately bombarded by huge numbers of people. Nobody knew
who I was, so nobody approached me. I was a part of a different generation,
one that was unbeknownst to them. My mother seemed to know everybody
and everybody seemed to know her. I was out of the circle of familiarity, a
stranger in their land, but in my mind I was thinking this was my home too.
My grandfather’s body was loaded onto an old ambulance vehicle and
we were rushed into different cars and SUVs. Twenty or 30 cars sped
through Mogadishu towards the burial site. We drove for an hour on an
unpaved road, which made my stomach churn. As grown as I was, I clung
to my mother, who seemed to have made a fast and comfortable transition
into what appeared to be her natural surroundings.
As for me, I wasn’t sure yet. I looked out the window of the car. The sky
was a shade of blue I had not seen in Canada, the air was miraculous, and
my body was afloat. I wanted to pinch myself.
The burial went by in a blur; emotions peaked. I quietly observed every-
one around me. It was absolutely heart-wrenching. Their expressions said
it all. It was as if the grief swept through everyone’s bodies at exactly the
same time.
After the burial, we headed to my grandfather’s home in Mogadishu.
As we drove, I gawked at the sheep, cows, camels, and goats everywhere on
the roads, walking around freely. Everything reminded me of the country-
side, but at the same time destroyed: the scenery was bittersweet.
Finally we arrived to a house that stood tall and beautiful, framed by
gorgeous plants and breathtaking flowers. I found myself in a constant
mental state of compare and contrast. I noted the impeccable architecture
of the houses—villas, in fact. I could not believe my eyes, and I could not
believe we were going to...
To continue reading
Request your trial