Confessions of the Somali Diaspora

Dib u soco hore u soco                       March backwards and march forward
Hore iyo dibba u soco                         March forwards and backwards
La da’ weeye taagnaw                        It boils down to standing still
Ku jiraan dareennee                          with implicit suspicions
Maxaa daal la taransaday?                And what is gained but fatigue?
* peom from the Deelley chain

My name is W. B. Somali-Diaspora. Scattered over alien lands, I am, because my society collapsed, my state failed, and my country conked.  I am internally conflicted, outwardly stymied and constantly vexed by circular logic. Like an unruly teenager, wild emotional polarity pits my heart against my head with intermittent periods of serenity waiting for the next wave of emotions to hit me with a jounce. I am consumed by dispute whose venom douses my soul in contradictions of the topsy-turvy satire that is my life. While it is easy to see the mistakes of others, the perpetual constancy of how baffling it is to obviate the blind spot that obscures my own faults is astounding. The social collapse I left behind has followed me to the cold distant lands I now call home.



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