How the Internet Became a Home for Displaced Somalis

How the Internet Became a Home for Displaced Somalis

The largest population of Somalis in the United States lives in the Twin Cities, Minnesota, about an hour and a half from where I grew up. There are Somali enclaves in London, Toronto, Columbus, Seattle, San Diego, and Melbourne. But the place I’ve always felt the most at home, surrounded by other Somalis, isn’t really a place at all—it’s the internet.

Somalis are one of the most displaced ethnic groups in the world. Civil war ravaged the country in the early 90s, forcing people out of their homes. By 1992, there were at least 800,000 Somali refugees in nearby countries and two million more displaced internally, according to Forced Migration Online. Most of those people never moved back.

As Somalis were forging new communities across the world, the internet was becoming a household service—and for a population that was thousands of miles from their friends, relatives, and hometowns, it became a lifeline. Every kid with Somali immigrant parents can tell you about their mothers using PalTalk, an early chat service, to hear friends describe their new lives in new cities and compare advice about how to raise their kids in a western society. As Somalis settled in foreign cities and grappled with the possibility of losing their sense of identity and culture, social media was like an extension of the motherland, connecting millions of Somalis to one another.

For those of us who grew up online, in countries outside of Somalia, the internet is as much a part of our culture as our ethnic identity. On Vine, you can find Somalis connecting to each other with tags like #SomaliVine. On Twitter and Tumblr, all one has to do is look through the tags #Somali and #Somalia to see Somalis posting news, bickering about politics, and telling jokes. Sometimes, the content doesn’t even have anything to do with Somalia; it’s just a way of saying, “We’re here, and so are you.”

One of the most popular online spaces for younger Somalis is Snapchat, where accounts like SomaliTV and MY252 show Somalis from around the world asking and answering each others’ questions, telling stories, and showing off their daily lives. Flipping through the videos, you can hear different dialects, see different fashion choices, and glimpse into the drastically different lifestyles of Somalis in different cities. We all live different lives, and the videos offer a glimpse into what life would’ve been if our parents had fled to a different country.

When the people who share your cultural background are spread so far apart, the internet becomes an important place to express solidarity. Somalis have used Twitter to analyze and critique racism and Islamophobia; we’ve contributed to the #BlackLivesMatter conversation, we’ve raised awareness about the #SomaliaDrought, and we’ve rallied behind #SomaliXishood (xishood means “shyness”) to critique the expectations for Somali women to be docile and quiet. Last year, after an academic journal on Somalia was found to have no Somalis involved, Somalis used the hashtag #CadaanStudies (meaning, “white studies”) to challenge the way academia erases black voices.

Being Somali and in the West means dealing with Islamophobia, anti-blackness, and xenophobia. It’s not easy to be black or Muslim in the United States, or many other western countries. But online, there’s a space for us to deal with our own cultural trauma, while celebrating the complexities of our own identities.

Like many cultures, Somalis have historically passed along traditions and stories through word of mouth. Today, older Somalis still gather around to tell jokes and stories or listen to well-known Somali poets, like Warsan Shire, read her poems. But for younger generations, we find that sense of belonging and cultural identity on social media. It’s not a homogenous identity, and we’re still learning to parse the complicated meaning of home. But we’re doing it together.

Follow Najma Sharif on Twitter.

Source: VICE

Exclusive Puntland Jerseys & T Shirt

Youtube/SomTeamENT

Minneapolis Is a Paradise of Somali Food

When Abdirahman Kahin immigrated to Minnesota in 1997 from Somalia, getting into the restaurant business was the furthest thing from his mind. He had no formal training as a chef and said he didn’t know the first thing about starting his own business. One thing Kahin did know was that he wanted to be an entrepreneur, and he was determined to do whatever it took to make his dream a reality. 

Before opening up his wildly popular restaurant Afro Deli five years ago, Kahin owned a media production company, recording wedding ceremonies, parties, and events for the East African immigrants in Minnesota. After a while, though, he lost interest in that and says he wanted to “become a businessman in a bigger scale.”

“I never cooked and still now, I don’t know how to cook. I’m more of a entrepreneur and I’m into that side of my businesses,” Kahin tells me one November evening. We are sitting in a back office at his first location of Afro Deli. With its bright, orange-colored walls adorned with African art, the space is cozy and welcoming. The menu at Afro Deli spans the African continent and makes stops in South America and North America, too. Kahin says it was important for him to represent all foods of the continent, but also mix it up with some traditional American and South American options. 

Kahin estimates that there are over 60 Somali restaurants in Minnesota, with 90 percent of them located in Minneapolis. Afro Deli stands out because of its eclectic menu, one that takes the customer around the globe with dishes with names like “Afro Steak Dinner” and “Chicken Fantastic.” On the particular night I go to talk to Kahin, I go with the Chicken Fantastic, an entrée that consists of cuts of white grilled chicken with sautéed vegetables and grated Parmesan cheese over Somali-seasoned basmati rice. For dessert, I go light and sip on a Somali sweet spiced tea.

At Afro Deli, Millennials of the African diaspora make up a huge chunk of its customer base. Kahin says they were his first customers and spread the word about the food to friends and family. For a lot of Somali Millennials, the menu has introduced them to a lighter, healthier version of the dishes they were fed at home growing up. “This new generation of Somalis, ones who were born here or came at a young age, they are not like their parents and don’t want to eat heavy meals that are common in Somali diets. They are more health-conscious but also love their native food. I’ve kept this in mind as I created the menu and changed things over time,” Kahin explains. They’ve also brought in their parents, who’ve have become aware of the health complications that can arise from a diet that consists of a lot of meat and carbohydrates.

Recognizing the popularity of his first restaurant, Kahin opened up a second restaurant in downtown Saint Paul. Kahin is modest about his success and says he still is setting goals and has bigger plans for his restaurants. In 2016, he will become the first Somali-themed food vendor at the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International airport. There are also early talks with the Mall of America, the biggest mall in North America, to open a location there. When I congratulate Kahin on these feats, he smiles but insists he’s only getting started.

But Kahin is hardly the only Somali restaurateur in town. In fact, Minnesota is home to the largest Somali community in the country, with recent census numbers listing 33,000 residents—a number many Somalis believe is underestimated by tens of thousands. They began settling here in droves in the 1990s and early 2000s, rebuilding their lives after years of being refugees in foreign countries that weren’t always welcoming. Among Somalis all over the US, Minnesota was dubbed “Little Mogadishu,” a nod to their homeland’s capital. There was a major decline in new Somali immigrants in 2008, due to stricter immigration policies, but the number of Somalis resettling in the state has more than tripled in the last four years.

About ten minutes away from Afro Deli’s main location sits Safari Restaurant, one of the first Somali restaurants in the state, which has been open for 15 years. Owners Abdirahman Ahmed and Sade Hashi are charismatic, funny, and passionate about their restaurant and their city. The original location of Safari was in downtown Minneapolis; in 2010 they decided to move it to the Central neighborhood of Minneapolis’s Powderhorn community, and added an event center that’s connected to the restaurant. They are surrounded by restaurants and markets owned by immigrants who hail from China and Mexico, all carving out their own slice of the American dream.

Safari’s cuisine is traditional in essence but also dabbles in some contemporary choices. “Our menu consists of three different themes,” says Ahmed. First is traditional Somali food like goat meat, rice, sambusas [Somali version of samosas]. Second is contemporary, which is items like burgers, fries, and chicken wings. And last there is something we call fusion. The fusion items are Safari specials, and in this area we play with what’s popular. These items have the texture, taste, and smell of Somali food, but have a lesser degree of spiciness.”

On this particular visit, I go with the Galcaio Steak Wrap, one of their fusion choices that’s named after the capital of the north-central Mudug region of Somalia. It consists of grilled marinated slices of beef and grilled vegetables, wrapped in homemade bread.

Ahmed and Hashi have been in the United States since the mid-1990s; before entering the restaurant business, they worked in the banking and IT industries. They both got tired of the 9-to-5 and wanted to build something from the ground up. “We like the lives we have right now—our destinies are in our hands. The outcome of our work depends on our efforts,” Ahmed says proudly. They also say they didn’t want to just open a restaurant, but a place of community, hence the addition of the event center that hosts weddings, parties, and even meetings for delegates from Africa.

For many Somali customers who frequent Safari, the food tastes like their homeland that they were forced to flee from due to decades of civil war. It satisfies their stomachs, but more importantly, it fills their hearts with memories. Ahmed tells me they are very proud of what they’ve built and are excited for the future and what they have planned for their restaurant. “We plan to expand and open new locations in the coming years, and also give back to our community by mentoring young entrepreneurs who want to enter the restaurant business. The future looks bright for Minnesota … and the Somali community here,” Ahmed says with a smile.

Not your sad East African girls – Meet McGill students Sumaya Ugas and Yasmin Abdulqadir Ali

This past summer, McGill students Sumaya Ugas and Yasmin Abdulqadir Ali started making art that is revolutionary in its aims to foster transformative discussion. Their zine, Somali Semantics, is an edifying form of empowerment that shifts the authors from object to subject in a discourse that refuses to lend them agency as Black, Muslim, Somali women. Somali Semantics is first and foremost a set of personal narratives that stem from the traditional oral art of storytelling.

Their art is also a rumination and dissection of a violent, racist, Islamophobic, misogynistic reality. Throughout this zine, they reject the relentless gaze of a world that constantly seeks to reduce and constrain them. If you were looking forward to reading Somali Semantics in the hopes of finding the often repeated narrative of sad East African girls, you would realize your mistake through seeing the creators talk, as their faces are almost constantly lit up by a contagious laughter. Their work gives insight into key places and spaces that have helped shape their multifaceted identity.

The Daily interviewed Ugas and Abdulqadir Ali to find out more about their project.

The McGill Daily (MD): You are very upfront about who you consider the target audience for this zine: how do you see the importance of Somali girls making art for Somali girls?

Sumaya Ugas (SU): Well this zine was born out of a strong desire to see ourselves represented in ways that went beyond the typical sad diasporic narratives; beyond the nostalgia of an ocean many of us second generation kids have never really seen, and especially beyond being used as “visible minorities” by a country so bent on proving its ‘tolerance’ through its ‘multicultural’ social fabric.

Yasmin Abdulqadir Ali (YAA): Yeah, exactly. Also, most Somali girls exist at a really complicated intersection of Muslimness and Blackness that we really wanted to explore.

“This zine was born out of a strong desire to see ourselves represented in ways that went beyond the typical sad diasporic narratives.”

MD: Throughout your art, you use varied media to convey intent and a variety of topics and tones – these touch on the tragic natures of xenophobia, sexual assault, family tragedies, and the more lighthearted music playlists. How did the use of media help you convey these emotions ?

YAA: For me, the use of different forms of media really helped us capture the full complexity of our identities – especially as Black women. So often, we are put into a box and are only allowed to be one thing – happy Black girl; sad Black girl; et cetera – and we really wanted to use media to deconstruct that idea. The reality is, as living , breathing human beings, our lives are tinged by an array of emotions – and we wanted to honour that truth through our work.

MD: The Soomaali language’s recurrence throughout the zine seems to tie the various narratives together. How are your thoughts formulated in Soomaali versus in English or French?

YAA: This is actually a recurring conversation between the two of us. Whatever language you are speaking, I think it’s always informed by all the different languages you are thinking in, or know. Often, I find myself trying to say something in English, but being stuck because my entire thought process in that moment is happening in French. This is why we chose to keep Soomaali in our zine. Because so much can be lost in translation, and because our main audience (we assume) has a minimal understanding of the language in ways that enables them to get the references we make throughout the zine.

MD: Are you reading, or have read, anything in particular that has inspired you in your writing?

SU: I’ve recently gone back to reading Diriye Osman’s short story collection, Fairytales for Lost Children. He’s easily become a writer whom I admire on so many levels, and his words often feel like he is writing into existence so many realities – on being young, queer, Muslim, Somali, displaced, et cetera – that have been denied.

YAA: Last year, I read Colonize This! Young Women of Color on Today’s Feminism (edited by Bushra Rehman and Daisy Hernandez) and it really inspired the hell out of me. More than anything, it drove home the fact that women of colour should take autonomy of their voices and their narratives.

MD: There’s a very purposeful focus on place and space in Somali Semantics. How do you define “home?”

YAA: I would define home as this weird grey space between Toronto and Mogadishu: classic diaspora-kid floating. As time has passed, I’ve come to realize the beauty of existing in this grey space, and the power that lies in the ability to mix and borrow aspects from different cultures.

“I would define home as this weird grey space between Toronto and Mogadishu: classic diaspora-kid floating.”

MD: Sumaya, there’s a sentence that you use that seems to brilliantly summarize what this zine is really about; “I am tired of talking about identity for the sake of talking about identity, it’s exhausting.” Where do you see the role of lived experiences in artistic creation and where do you see academia in this picture?

SU: That line you quote came from a place of refusing to write about our identities in ways that are devoid of feeling and of reality. I wrote this during a semester where I was increasingly alienated by all the discussions that were happening around me when it came to identity – how everything felt so dry and compartmentalized, even conversations about intersectionality.

Audre Lorde once spoke on fear, visibility, and silence, saying she was a “Black woman warrior doing [her] work” and that “your silences won’t protect you.” I think the need to write those words down came from a place of refusing to give in to the fear and exhaustion. Academia is useful in so many ways, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how it gives voice. Academia and knowledge production have always been sites where certain experiences, realities, et cetera, are given importance. Basically what scholars choose to study [and] write about […] is not objective and us deciding to write our own lived experiences in this way is us reclaiming that voice.

MD: Both of you put great emphasis on parental narratives and how, as first generation Canadians, your sense of identity is necessarily formed differently than your parents’. Are those narratives worth reclaiming, and what emotions stem from this process?

YAA: I love this question. As children of the diaspora, I think parental narratives are so important to reclaim. Despite the fact that our identities are conceptualized differently, our parents’ movement and migration stories are directly linked to why we were born in North America, why we speak English and French. That being said, it’s impossible not to reclaim these narratives, because they are intertwined with our own. Also, so many of our parents have also experienced incredible trauma in the process of migration and resettlement – and I believe it is valuable and necessary to honour those lived experiences.

“As children of the diaspora, I think parental narratives are so important to reclaim. Despite the fact that our identities are conceptualized differently, our parents’ movement and migration stories are directly linked to why we were born in North America, why we speak English and French.”

SU: Yes! I mean, we are born out of the lived experiences of our parents. We are hybrids and aliens in this Canadian space that is either constructed as white or as ‘multicultural’ and devoid of any real meaning. We, as children of immigrants, often inherit this reality of parents who’ve abandoned everything to build a better tomorrow for us.

At the same time, for many of us born and raised here, Canada is all we know. These realities are in constant communication with one another. My father is the best storyteller I know, and I wouldn’t have this love for words and stories if it weren’t for him and how he talks about Somalia.

So in terms of reclaiming our parents’ narratives, for children of immigrants trying to make sense of who they are and where they come from, while [also] figuring out how they fit into this “new” space, I think nothing is more important than being aware of how the realities of our parents influence how we exist in this world.

Somali Students culture show in Malaysia

This week Malaysian universities are hosting their annual convocation ceremony for student graduating from various degrees and studies. These graduation days represent the highlight of the student’s achievement. The occasion enables universities   to publicly recognize and reward student achievement. It is also intended for graduates to receive their well-earned praise from parents, partners and friends.

This year marks the largest Somali students to graduate from Malaysia’s universities across Malaysia. Over 35 Somali student will be awarded degrees in different fields. Yaasir Mohamed, a student activist who has been in Malaysia over the past four years could not hide his excitements “despite of incremental challenges facing Somali students, they are showing serious commitment to education, we are competing and often exceeding students from more stable environment”

Center for Research and Dialogue - Somalia (CRD), a Somali research institution based in Somali was invited by the Somali student for a public forum. The intent of the forum was to exchange research findings and engage public dialogue. The session also provided research data and first hand analysis of the current dynamics on the ground from across Somalia and the Horn of Africa region in general. The CRD team engaged the students over 4 hour intensive discussion regarding the role of the students in rebuilding the Somalia nation. Abdullahi Egal, Secretary General of Somali students Association point out that “Fora of such level allows students to creatively discuss on a contemporarily issues pertaining to Somali people, in a university setting students can generate new ideas to help Somalia but also learn from each other” 

Jabril Ibrahim Abdulle, Director of CRD, presented a comprehensive analysis of the current socio-economic realities of Somalia, its internal and external dimensions, the foundations of the dynamics that lead to the current unacceptable situation of the country. Using facts and figures compiled by many institutions and the contribution of the CRD researchers and other independent analyst, Jabril managed to deliver a detailed background and research findings in his presentation. This presentation grabbed the student’s attention and it has generated a lengthy discussion that challenged the thinking of many of the students. Abdulkadir Mohamed, one the students who attended the session indicated that in many times students lack any relevant and up-to date information from Somalia “It is hard to do comprehensive research on Somalia as there is no contemporary data, this kind of engagement provide us with an intellectual and critical thinking on our approach to the Somali crisis”

Mohamed Ibrahim, research fellow at Melbourne University and CRD Chairman, covered the role of education and Media /IT in achieving peaceful resolution to the Somali conflict and achieving a fast-tracked sustainable economic development. The discussions focused on the source of the information Somalis received and how world media portrays Somalis and Somalia conflict. Mohamed emphasized the need to acquire knowledge and applied in a meaningful way. He pointed out that” We will not be able to recover from the mess we are in without educated generation taking over”

A Drone over Somalia – Somalia As You Have Never Seen It Before

A Drone over Somalia – Somalia As You Have Never Seen It Before. Amazing views. Please send all videos, pictures and stories to SomTeamENT@gmail.com

The group giving hope to Somali girls facing gangs and abuse

The group of 15 Somali schoolgirls were hanging out on the railings of Islington’s Andover estate with a group of boys smoking cannabis when, out of the blue, a woman in a hijab approached. “Are you girls from here?” she wanted to know.

“It’s 5pm, don’t you think you should be heading home?”

The girls ignored this “strange aunty” — who introduced herself as Ninna Ismail — but the next day she returned. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” she persisted when she saw them “chilling” at midday.

The lies rolled off the tongue: “I had a doctor’s appointment, miss. I finished early, miss.”

So Ninna tried a different tack. “We’re a charity called One True Voice, we help Somali women, we’re based on this estate and we’re about to have a hot lunch in our office.” She pointed to the community centre. “Do you want to come in for a pizza?”

Gradually Ninna, 35, who also works as a Marks & Spencer cashier, won the trust of the girls. They began to open up. But what they revealed was deeply disturbing.

“The girls ranged in age from 11 to 17 yet most were already sexually active,” recalled Ninna. “They came from traditional families, many wore the hijab, and their parents had absolutely no idea what they were up to.

“They told us that growing up on the estate, it was normal to do sexual things. The 11-year-old wasn’t even aware that it was against the law to be engaging in sex at her age. It was shocking.”

Today One True Voice, co-founded by Ninna and two other Somali women — Asha Abdi and Sahra Abdillahi — helps more than 500 Somali women a year.

It is one of 96 estate-based charitable groups to have won a grant from the Evening Standard Dispossessed Fund as part of our award-winning The Estate We’re In initiative.

In total, we have given out £1.2 million in grants of up to £20,000 to grassroots groups operating in more than 125 estates, the money coming from Citi banking group, Linklaters law firm, Mount Anvil property developers and the Cabinet Office.

Until now OTV has been run entirely by volunteers, but they will use their £17,800 grant to recruit a paid youth engagement worker, extend their opening hours, and run workshops promoting sexual health and drugs and alcohol awareness.

The grant will also be deployed to take 50 girls on a summer camping residential and for London day-trips to broaden their horizons and build self-confidence.

How did they help that 11-year-old girl? “We arranged for her to be seen by a sexual health clinic that offers expert counselling and we spoke to the parents,” said Ninna.

“We have to be sensitive. We try to be non-judgmental and signpost people to the experts who can then contact the appropriate authorities.”

Their mission began in 2010 when the three founders met during prayers at Finsbury Park Mosque and started helping Somali immigrant women with translation services.

Shortly after, Ninna, who came to the UK aged six and is one of 15 children, noticed that Somali teenage girls growing up on the estate were disempowered too, albeit in different ways.

“Many felt under pressure by boys on the estate to do sexual and gang stuff. That was a problem because although Andover is a lovely ‘family’ estate, it was also infamous for its antisocial behaviour, and there had been several stabbings and even murders.”

Hafsa Sheik, 20, who lives on the estate and helps as a volunteer for OTV, was one of the original girls “hanging out on the railings” who Ninna approached.

“I was 18 and I thought, ‘Why is this lady talking to me?’ At the time I had the ‘hood’ look of big hair, tracksuit and trainers and I was full of attitude. I used to slap other girls and was quick to lose my temper and I was disruptive in class.” She grinned.

“That piece of pizza Ninna offered us changed my life. Ninna got me back into education and through her I have met other young role models who have opened my eyes.”

Women like Tania Abdirahman, 22, who after volunteering with OTV for three years will become the group’s first paid youth engagement worker.

“This estate is near Arsenal, so there is lots for boys to do like football and basketball, but there is nothing for the girls,” she said. “The grant will allow us to fund great things for girls. I know girls on this estate who are smoking weed, drinking. We want to organise trips to museums and get them inspired.”

Earlier Ninna had introduced me to two of their “special” volunteers, Mohammed Jama, 23, and Khali Ahmed, 35. Both had been helped by the charity after fleeing unspeakably tragic lives in Somalia.

“Mr Jama witnessed the rape and murder of his sister before he left and he now comes to help out every day,” said Ninna.

Mrs Ahmed, who had cooked some delicious pastries called shu-shumo, then spoke: “My mum and dad were killed in front of me when I was 14.”

She was silent a while as she composed herself, then she pulled a raft of certificates out of her bag, each one filed neatly in a plastic sleeve. “When I came here I didn’t know anyone.

“One True Voice helped me learn English and get these certificates in social care and they got me into college. One day I will be midwife.” She was smiling now. “I am proud, I am very proud.”

Ninna looked on. “We can’t change the horror of the past,” she said softly. “But with a bit of help from us, there’s no reason why these women can’t have a shining future and make a proud contribution to London.”