Zuhur Ahmed Narrator

Ahmed Ismail Yusuf Interviewer

November 18, 2013 Minneapolis, Minnesota

Zuhur Ahmed -ZA Ahmed Ismail Yusuf -AY

AY: This is Ahmed Ismail Yusuf recording for the Minnesota Historical Society Somali Oral History Project on November 18, 2013. Here is Zuhur Ahmed with me in Minneapolis, whom I am going to interview. Zuhur, thanks for agreeing to another interview, first of all.

ZA: Thank you for having me.

AY: So let us just start it. Can you spell your name, first?

ZA: Z as in zebra, u-h-u-r. Last name Ahmed, A-h-m-e-d.

AY: Where were you born, Zuhur?

ZA: I was born in [Burco].

AY: Can you spell that?

ZA: B-u-r-c-o or B-u-r-a-o.

AY: And Burao, is it in the United States somewhere?

ZA: It’s in , north Somalia.

AY: And what year were you born?

ZA: I was born in 1985.

AY: [laughs] In 1985. What month? You’re just speaking just like a typical Somali. So just exactly tell your birth date because the people who are listening are not only , by the way.

ZA: Okay. I was born on a Saturday, as my mom tells me. April 4, 1985.

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AY: So did you grow up in Somalia, then?

ZA: I spent a pretty good chunk of my childhood years in Burao, Somalia, and then I spent a number of years in Syria, specifically Damascus.

AY: But before we actually get all the way from Somalia to Syria, just tell me, what do you remember about Somalia and your childhood?

ZA: To be honest with you, I think, personally, I remember things, but my mom disagrees with me. She thinks that I actually create memories out of stories that were told to me.

AY: [chuckles] Yeah.

ZA: But I am pretty sure that I do remember. I mean, when I left Somalia I was in single digit years, about five or six years old, and for instance, my younger brother who died in the heart of the civil war was born in 1991, and he also died in that same year. He was about six months. I really remember him very well. His smiles, his big eyes, light skin, his light-skinned face, his features. I remember holding him. I even do remember the day that he passed away and how he did. But, again, my mom disagrees with me and she thinks that I don’t remember. I remember when we fled. I think I do remember when we fled from Burao to the rural area and just kind of vague stories and random memories of the rural area locations within northern Somalia that we were at. As far as childhood, school, neighbors, friends—I don’t remember any of that stuff because, I think, by the time I was at the age of making these type of memories, the civil war had already happened.

AY: So in your memory, when people talk about the civil war, particularly the civil war I think took place—or not “I think.” I know most of it took place in the northern part of Somalia about just exactly the years that you were born or right after. What is it that you remember, in particular?

ZA: Well, I remember one particular—well, not a scenario. Actually, it’s an actual thing that happened. I remember that one time we were walking from Burao to nearby. I don’t know if they are cities or if they’re the countryside of the city. I just remember kind of the walks. I remember the little aqal [house, hut] Somali house that we lived in for a period of time—but not actual details and not actual memories. Maybe my mom is right that even these memories I have are all of the stories that I’ve heard growing up of the memories of the civil war. But I really don’t remember much. Not even details, but even like the general concept of the war. I can’t even imagine living it. I haven’t seen a dead person besides my little brother who died off of starvation and bad hygiene. He died because there wasn’t enough adequate nutritious food, milk that he can drink, and because the area that we lived in was so polluted, and I think he had a case of a very bad viral infection. So I do remember his death, but I don’t remember seeing actual dead people or gunshots. I don’t even remember hearing sounds of a gunshot. So that’s why I think maybe my mom is right that I don’t really remember much about the civil war.

AY: But that’s surprising, to some extent. When you fled Burao to the rural—or were roaming around like nomads, to some extent—where did you shelter in later on? Where did you move to?

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ZA: Okay, I think there were a number of places that my family were kind of moving around. Sibidhlay was one of them and Dhoqoshay was another one.

AY: If you are just naming them, you have to spell them. Are those small villages?

ZA: I’m directionally challenged, so I don’t know if they are in the southeast, west of Burao. I know they’re on kind of the countryside of the city—the rural, nomad area.

AY: I think we should skip that for the benefit of the others who are listening. So we can just go through the major cities.

ZA: Well, I think we mainly spent the majority of the time, as my mom tells me, in Sibidhlay. That’s where a lot of the refugee camps—

AY: How do you spell that?

ZA: It is S-i-b-i-d-l-a-y.

AY: Okay. So from there, where did you go? What was the major city that…

ZA: Again, like you mentioned at the beginning, the civil war started in the northern region in the late eighties, right? Right after I was born.

AY: Actually, early eighties.

ZA: Really, early eighties? We didn’t start leaving Burao, I think, until about 1987.

AY: It just exploded in the late eighties. But, yes, it started about…

ZA: So I think when we actually physically left Burao, as I was told, was in late ’87, early ’88, and then we were refugees there. Then my mom actually returned to Burao with the return of the SNM [] troops.

AY: SNM is the Somali National Movement. The rebel group that actually ousted Mohamed Siad Barre [Maxamed Siyaad Barre] from the north.

ZA: Yep. So she returned when they took Burao and [Hargeysa] over. As she always told me—and sometimes blamed the cause of the death of my little brother—was that she came back in the midst of the war and the area was polluted. So we came back with the rebels when they entered and took over Burao, and I think we stayed in Burao for a little bit. No, I’m skipping. I think there was a period between that time and before we returned to Burao that we went to Hamar [Xamar, ].

AY: Hamar is Mogadishu, right? The capital city of Somalia.

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ZA: Right. We went there. And that’s before the civil war actually started there when at least it was more peaceful than the northern side. I also remember that incident where I was walking with my siblings. I think my older brother was taking my older siblings to school and he was holding all of our hands, like the kindergarten file line sort of style. I pulled off away from his hands, and ran across the street, and a taxi driver hit me. I was in a serious condition, I was told, and was later on taken to the hospital. I remember that vaguely as well. I don’t know if it was by the story that was told to me or if I really do remember that incident happening. But we did spend a few months in Mogadishu, and then I think my mom went back to Sibidhlay. Later on, before the war had started, we left Mogadishu, came back to the rural area, and then went back to Burao.

AY: From Mogadishu, again back to Burao.

ZA: No. From Mogadishu to Sibidhlay, and then Sibidhlay back to Burao, and then from Burao—

AY: Which indicates that people were not only moving in one direction, but you were criss- crossing—back and forth, anyway.

ZA: Yep. I think the main reason for my mom to go to Mogadishu was to actually leave the whole country. But I guess it was an unsuccessful attempt, so she had to come back to Sibidhlay until my uncles and my dad, who was at that time out of the country, straightened paperwork and figured a way for us to leave the country.

And then after we went back to Burao, I think we made our way to Hargeisa. I think we stayed in Hargeisa for a little bit. I don’t remember the exact time, maybe a number of months. Then my uncle who lived in Saudi Arabia at that time and my dad were able to get us the paperwork to leave the country to go to Syria. I think the only way out was to go through Djibouti, so we ended up going to Djibouti and from Djibouti made our way to Syria.

AY: Syria—what city did you land?

ZA: Damascus. Even my early years in Syria, I don’t remember much. But I do remember my seventh, eighth, and ninth year—you know, when I was a seven year old, and eight year old, and nine year old, and so on, there.

AY: So, Damascus. And what is it called in —Dimashq?

ZA: Dimashq, yeah.

AY: And in English?

ZA: Damascus.

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AY: Okay, Damascus. Why in Damascus? Was it actually a conscientious choice or was it simply where a few Somalis concentrated? Or it was just the first place that somehow was available for you?

ZA: I don’t know how my uncles and my dad came about having us go to Syria first. It’s Saudi Arabia that they were in. I think it was easier to get into Syria, and I think they were more immigrant-friendly—especially they were very friendly to the Somalis. Something about a war or something with Iraq that they were in. I guess the formal government—well, that was the myth or what I used to hear. I don’t know if it’s a historical factual per se, but something about Siad Barre had helped—I guess Hafez al-Assad, the former president at that time, before he passed away—with bananas or something. It’s just something pathetic like that. I don’t know, again, if it’s historically factual.

AY: Something that, at least, you think—or Somalis think—helped them.

ZA: Exactly. That’s what Somalis would speculate. But it was very immigrant friendly, and they welcomed them. Syria is a poor country, so it was not a welfare state where they’ll give you a good resettlement program or anything like that. But they were very friendly and welcoming, accepting students in their public schooling system. And grocery stores would allow families to borrow the monthly grocery and pay them back. As well as the public phone systems or foomiye, Somalis used to call, where you would go to a public kind of phone place and pay and call your extended relatives in Africa—

AY: In Somalia.

ZA: You know, in Somalia and other places.

AY: In Africa. You mean all over the continent, or you mean Somalia?

ZA: Well, predominantly Somalia, but then again there were people that had relatives and families living in and Kenya. So East Africa, mainly, but then also the rest of the Middle East. Since everyone left the countries, Somalis were kind of scattered in all different countries. So, yes, I think that’s how they came about it.

AY: So the cost of living was as well somewhat cheap and acceptable?

ZA: Really cheap. Oh yeah. A family who would get a remittance of one hundred dollars would live a middle class style. Very, very comfortable. Rent was really cheap, as well as food and clothes and everything. So cost of living, I think, was another reason why later on more and more families came to find a refuge in Syria.

AY: And how long did you stay there?

ZA: Stayed there until 1998.

AY: And by this time, how old were you?

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ZA: I was thirteen then.

AY: Okay. You went to school there, too.

ZA: Yes.

AY: So what do you remember about Syria itself? How was life to you, you think? Was there, to your recollection, any way that you felt alien or maybe discriminated against? Or anything that somehow or other remind you that you were not Syrian?

ZA: Yes. All of them do exist. It’s weird when you ask me this question. In a way, we always wonder how our life would have been if we took a different route than we did in our previous life, and I always wonder if my in-route in life was not through Syria, then who I would be. Would I be the person I am as far as my interests, or my identity, or who I think of myself. Living in Syria, the most important thing I really remember was my connection—my deep, deep, deep, deep connection—to language and literature, especially to Arabic language and literature. As a young kid who’s supposed to be outside playing, my favorite thing to do was really to read Nazar Qabbani [Nizar Qabbani], who is a famous poet. I was in love with the Arabic language and literature, and I always felt a deep connection to it. I don’t remember watching cartoons like the rest of my siblings would do, or playing outside, or enjoying things that kids oftentimes do. I was more into the literature and the language world. Had I stayed in Syria, I know I would have majored in literature and maybe become even a writer or poet. I started composing small, short poems in Arabic at that age, too—at age, like, nine and ten.

As far as feeling not belonging, I always felt like I had good friends that were close to me that were Syrian. At that time, there weren’t very many Somalis. Even at the school that I attended, it was just my siblings and I. There weren’t any other Somalis or Africans. It was mainly Syrians and then just us. But there were a few times where I felt so not belonging to the crowd and I felt like an outsider. I felt that way by comments my teacher made. I was really good at writing essays and nonfiction and actually fiction. One time I wrote an essay about Syria and the conflict with Israel, and it was kind of a long essay. I was a fourth grader at that time, and my teacher wouldn’t believe that I wrote it. So she second guessed me, she doubted me. She asked me to bring my parent because she said that I copied this—at that time there wasn’t really internet, or at least I didn’t have internet, we didn’t have internet—but she said that I probably copied it off of a book or another teacher who she thought I paid wrote it for me. She asked me to bring my mom, and my mom was like, “No. She doesn’t even have a home tutor or a home teacher at home, so no one really wrote it for her. It was her.” When she finally checked all of her sources and she realized that I actually wrote the essay—and she asked me to write one like it just to see if I really wrote it—then she told the classmates—and she thought she was actually complimenting me, but she offended me at that time and I really felt bad about it—in Arabic she said, “Look at this Somali. She writes better than you do in your own language.” And that was when I felt that this was not my country, the language wasn’t mine. I wondered if a Somali teacher would have praised me with a similar comment or a different comment if I was in Somalia studying and literature and writing in Somali—if the case would have been different. So then I started to get more curious and interested in the Somali language—not

6 in the deeper way that I do now, because I was young. But I just started to appreciate my mom’s rules about speaking Somali at home, because we weren’t allowed as kids to speak Arabic at home. My mom had this rule where you leave your Arabic at the doormat, or when you enter behind the door you just leave it, and when you are at home you speak Somali. That strict rule didn’t make sense to me, but from then on, I started to question what it means to be Somali, and what it means to be a Somali living in Somalia, and what it means to be Somali living abroad. Not in a very philosophical sense, because I was really young, but I just started to know and make a notice that there’s such a thing as, you know…

AY: Nationality.

ZA: Nationality and having your own homeland and language—your own language. Ever since then I felt like that part of it was always missing, and I always envied my parents and the generation before me—that they had sense of home. When they were my age they had sense of home, and they lived at their homeland and actually went to school and were taught in their native language. That’s something that I still do, and I think that’s why I’m more connected with the older generation—because somehow I want to live their life. I don’t really connect well with my generation, mainly because I diss them. I despise my generation and my time. I just would have loved to live in the seventies and sixties and fifties era. Somehow I think it was better, not because of anything else—

AY: You despise. Despise is a very strong word.

ZA: The timing.

AY: You despise the timing or you would have preferred to live…

ZA: I would have preferred, but sometimes I even felt that strong and said, “Why was I born in the mid-late eighties when the civil war and all of that were?” Why wasn’t I born in the seventies or even the sixties when there was something called Somalia and young kids were going to school and getting education in their native language by their native teachers?

AY: So that comment wounded you in a way. Not only wounded you, but how did it affect your interest in Arabic? Did it somehow or other weaken it? Or did it change to you in any way?

ZA: No, not at all. Thank God I was able to differentiate between the language. I still have deep appreciation and love and connection to the Arabic language, although I’m not even fluent. I was going to say “as fluent,” but I’m not even fluent. I understand it very well, still can read and write, but it was not obviously at the level I was before. And I obviously cannot compose now— at that time I was able to compose poetry. All it really did was make me aware that there is something called nationality and what that means.

AY: And from Syria, then, to where?

ZA: From Syria to Houston, Texas.

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AY: Houston, Texas, United States of America.

ZA: Yep.

AY: Okay. How long did you live there, and who brought you from Syria to Houston?

ZA: Apparently when we settled in Syria, my mom—maybe, I don’t know again—filled out some UN [United Nations] forms declaring our status as UN refugees—I guess civil war refugees. Somehow, at the end of ’97, beginning of ’98, the UN contacted us. We received a letter saying that they were going to start to take some families from Syria to the United States, and I guess the sponsorship or…

AY: Resettlement.

ZA: Resettlement program had opened to pick up families from Syria to bring them to the US, and we were actually the first Somali family that was picked up.

AY: The first. Wow.

ZA: Yeah, we were the first. For sure in that group—first family. So the UN brought us. We weren’t sponsored by a family or individual. It was not the family reunification at all. It was just the UN brought us from Syria to here. I guess the state that we were assigned by default to go to and resettle or the resettlement agent was through Houston, Texas. We were there for, I think, two or three months. And just like every other Somali family, like you talked in your previous book—somehow they find a way to make their way to Minnesota. It was the same story, actually.

AY: But before we get to that, though, I just would ask you—there’s a burning question that is actually at the tip of my tongue. When you were told that you would go to the United States— now you are thirteen years old—did it make any sense to you? Or do you remember anything, what you’re feeling like?

ZA: Yeah, I do remember very well. At that time, that summer actually, I just graduated from middle school. Middle school is a really big deal in the Syrian education system. When you are taking your final examination to get your middle school diploma, you actually have an actual officer assigned to you just to make sure you don’t cheat. You memorize books like crazy. It’s even harder than testing for a master’s degree or Ph degree or anything of that sort here. So it was really, really complicated. They have a British curriculum, so their education system is really, really, really extremely hard—for all the wrong reasons, now that I think about it.

AY: Now that you are here in the United States, it’s easy to say so. [chuckles]

ZA: Exactly. I totally, totally dislike how they taught us there. But imagine. I was a pretty geeky kid, meaning I really, really, really enjoyed education and loved it. That’s all I did, pretty much. I had pretty good grades and got the highest level, so I was really excited and I was going to go to a middle school. How they do it is the grades that you get at your elementary school decide—

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AY: You were going to middle school? You will go to secondary school, high school, graduating—

ZA: No, no. Well, it’s all together. You’re right. They call it secondary school after that, from seventh grade up until tenth, and then eleventh and twelfth they call bachelor. They call it “bachelorius,” which is bachelor, which is a kind of a college level. So grades you get from middle school determine where you’re going to go, your path, and whether you’re going to do social science studies and art and literature or whether you’re going to do engineering and doctor, which is a big deal over there. I got the grades that would get me into entering medical school eventually in the future. So imagine being excited about that and then you’re told by your parents, “Oh, by the way. Great, you graduated from middle school and da-da-da. But in, like, a month or so we’re going to go to the United States.”

AY: [chuckles]

ZA: We never heard of the country, never knew there was such a thing that existed. I mean I kind of knew, but—

AY: You didn’t know there is a major country called the United States of America?

ZA: I did, I did, but not—

AY: And you were not even excited, are you telling me?

ZA: No, I was not. I actually was so upset. I think out of everyone I was the most that was upset. I kept on crying, crying, crying. And then I could not call all of my friends and tell them that I was leaving because we went to the summer vacation and I could only tell a few of them. And the time period that my mom even gave us, or she told us, was less than a month. So it was like really the worst news ever. I think it’s a human thing. We all hate changes, and for me, I think it’s even extra that I don’t do well with changes. I like to do what I’m used to and be in a familiar environment—kind of what I got used to doing. That’s why I’m a pretty routine person for the most of my daily life and otherwise. So I wasn’t really excited. I wasn’t happy. I hated this country when I came. I was like, “Please get me back.” I would listen to Arabic cassettes, you know, . I would try to find movies. The internet was not, you know—

AY: Everything and anything that was…

ZA: That reminded me of my life in Syria. I even wrote more poems when I came here in my first two or three years in Arabic than I did when I was living in Syria. Matter of fact, I have two little diary-journal books full of little short lines of what I think it was—poems or poetry in Arabic. And I would write in my diary. The only thing I didn’t really do, though, that was different was look for Arab friends or anything, and I think what helped me a little bit with my nostalgia was my excitement to meet Somalis. I think when we came to Minnesota from Houston and I saw all of these Somalis in my school—it was my exposure for the first time in my life. Again, I don’t have much of a recollection of my life in Somalia, and my life in Syria was pretty

9 much predominantly with Arabs, as far as friends go. It was here in Minnesota, starting in late 1998, that I was exposed for the first time in my life to the largest Somalis I’ve ever been around. I had this thirst and hunger to be around these people. It was like a kid in a candy shop. I just couldn’t believe that I was finally with my people.

AY: Let’s back up a bit. From Houston, when did you come to Minneapolis and what was the reason, do you think? Did you know anything about how the preparation…

ZA: Yes. We came from Houston, I think, either at the end of October or beginning of November. I just remember it was around 1999—no, 1998. It was wintertime, and I remember there was snow on the ground and whatnot. So I think it might have been even mid-to-late November when we came. The reason why my mom picked to relocate to Minnesota is that we didn’t know anyone except my mom’s brother’s wife’s family lived in New Jersey. So my uncle’s in-laws lived in New Jersey. So when we got there [to the United States], my uncle gave them a call and said, “Hey, my sister relocated there. Where about do you guys live?” And New Jersey and Houston—what is it, east and south?

AY: South, southwest.

ZA: Yeah, so far apart. And then they were like, “What do you think of it?” One of them suggested to my uncle that we should move to this state called Minnesota and that he has a friend here. It’s more Somali-friendly and it’s better for newcomers. It’s more nurturing and friendly, and he would think it’s better if we relocate to Minnesota than coming to New Jersey.

AY: So that’s what you remember now or that’s exactly what you were told?

ZA: No, I mean, I remember the phone conversations and dialog and that discussion taking place. So that was the reason. So my mom agreed. My uncle’s family-in-law contacted the gentleman from here that they knew and arranged for them to pick us up from the airport. They host us for almost six, seven months. We lived with them.

AY: In what part of Minneapolis?

ZA: It was South Minneapolis. You know the apartments on Park Avenue? Well, the particular building we lived in, its address is 1818, but it was called 1818, Building 2. They should be like deteriorating by now, because they were in a really, really bad condition then, too. The family had eight kids. They lived in—

AY: Eight kids!

ZA: Yep. No, they were eight total. They had six kids and the two parents. They lived in a two- bedroom apartment. And we were eight.

AY: Eight and eight—sixteen. A two-bedroom apartment?

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ZA: Yep. They really took us in. And, again, we weren’t even related by tribe or anything. It was just a friend of an extended relative, and they took us in, helped us. When we stood on our feet is when we really kind of reconnected with our tribal or so-called close ones.

AY: Clan affiliations.

ZA: Clan affiliations.

AY: How long did you live with them?

ZA: We lived with them for almost six months. Even when we found our own place they still took us to school. They still helped my mom with grocery shopping, and the car, and the rides, and whatnot. So they really didn’t, like, drop the ball on us. They still continued to help and support. We kept in touch with them for a really, really long time. It’s just like one of these times where the whole tribe-clan affiliation is a myth, because we’re really, really not close to them. The wife is a tribe called Madhiban [Madhibaan], and the husband is a tribe called Hawiye, which is what we are far, far from—like we are from south and north. And it wasn’t until later that our so-called clan-tribe affiliation members in this city and state came and introduced themselves to us.

AY: You didn’t need them by the time that they find out, you did not need them.

ZA: Nope. So that was how we came here. I went to Sanford Middle School. I went to this place in Chicago—what they call the Family Education Center—and did some testing. I was placed in eighth grade at that time. I went to Sanford Middle School, which at that time, and I think still, had the most Somali students when it comes to middle schools, along with Anne Sullivan and Benjamin Banneker.

AY: So once you found Somalis, you said that you were like a child in a candy store.

ZA: Yes. I remember when I started going to Sanford Middle School, of course, I didn’t speak any English. Even my second language that I chose to study in Syria was French because it was cool to study French in Syria, not so cool to study English. So I literally knew zero English words. Zero. So I was placed in ESL [English as a Second Language] classes. For my English I was placed in ESL-1, and for my other subjects I was placed in ELL [English Language Learner] classes.

AY: What is ELL?

ZA: English Language Learning, where I would be placed in math and science and social study classes that are taught by Somali teachers. That way I would be able to understand the concept in my native language. That itself was fascinating to me because it was what I was longing for.

AY: Do you remember your first class or your first day in school?

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ZA: Yep, I do. I remember it was this beautiful building! Now when I go back, I’m like, “This small, disgusting building.” But it was really beautiful.

AY: To you, then, it was just a beautiful building.

ZA: Yes! The whole cafeteria and the lunch and all of that was like I was in la-la land. It was just all beautiful and big. Syria is a nice country and whatnot, but, again, it’s a poor country and the schools are not that big and classy and whatnot. Although, the school I went to was a really good school where the rich kids—but the poorest school in the US won’t even compare to it.

AY: Were you more excited about the school or were you more excited about meeting just a lot of Somalis?

ZA: No, at the beginning I met the building. The building was beautiful. Before I meet the people, I met the building. The building was like wow! And then the whole ID card. You take a picture now and it’s already in this plastic ID card. And you get a locker of your own. It was all a new concept—like, just the typical someone from the third world comes to the first world and it’s just all beautiful and fancy.

AY: So I bet you were already about to…

ZA: Forget Syria?

AY: Forget Syria?

ZA: Yep, yep, already. But what was really more fascinating was the first class I went to was Said Salah’s class.

AY: Said Salah [Ahmed] is the famous Somali playwright and poet whom you are still attached to.

ZA: I walked in—I think he was teaching social studies class—and so took my seat. I don’t remember the details of that day. All I remember is that I was really overwhelmed with everything. With just the amount of Somalis I was sitting with, the students, the teachers. Meeting Said Salah himself. I have heard of him.

AY: How do you spell Said Salah, by the way?

ZA: S-a-i-d. Middle name is Salah, S-a-l-a-h. And his last name is Ahmed A-h-m-e-d.

AY: But most Somalis just exactly know him by his…

ZA: First and middle.

AY: First and middle name. So, go ahead.

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ZA: Yeah, just this iconic figure who I have heard his famous education-promoting , “Alif la kordhebey,” who was not new to me by name, just standing right in front of me and he just happened to be my teacher. I think that itself was also epic to me. It was a big deal. Mind you, he was also teaching me a Somali language class, so it was everything that I had wanted to happen. Classes, different subjects that are being taught to me in my own native language. A lot of the kids in the family felt like that was a very low thing and that was only done for kids that didn’t speak English, but to me it was like a dream come true. I wanted these subjects to be taught to me in my native language because that’s something I never had. But now I’m having it even further—geographically and even otherwise—from my homeland. That happening was just all kind of a weird fantasy dream.

AY: Which means that through all your traveling away from your native land, still your parents taught you the Somali language, so you didn’t have any difficulties of understanding or following or enjoying the language itself. The Somali language.

ZA: Yeah. I mean, just being exposed to my grandma, who was in my life in my early years. I kept in touch with her—when we came to Syria, she went to Saudi Arabia and visited us numerous times in Syria. My grandma is a really good, close friend to Hadraawi [Hadrawi], who I met—who I’ve heard and know of Hadraawi.

AY: Hadraawi. Also, can you spell his name, because he is the number one Somali poet as we speak.

ZA: Yep. Hadraawi is H-a-d-r-a-a-w-i. That’s actually his fame name, I think. His full name is four names long.

AY: Yeah.

ZA: So I remember particular phone calls when I would be with my grandma, and she would say, “Okay, I have to leave because Hadraawi is here as a guest.” Whenever he goes to Saudi Arabia, I guess, for hajj [Muslim pilgrimage to ] or something, he stayed at my uncle’s house. So, again, another big name that I used to hear. Before I even met his productions and literature and songs and poems, I’ve heard of him.

So, to come back to your question about my parents teaching me the language. There were some big words or vocabs, or words that oftentimes older people would use that not necessarily younger people would use that I would overhear, and I would get curious. I always loved languages, especially in particular the Somali and the Arabic, so I would archive these somewhere in my brain. But I was not academically taught the Somali language, as far as the reading and writing and literature and grammar and whatnot.

AY: So, irony. It is just the language that you were longing for, the language that you had an interest in, that you still have an interest in, that you did not have an opportunity exactly to consume in Somalia. You found it, actually, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. In the United States.

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ZA: Yep, interestingly enough. It was a combination of what already I had somewhat deep down archived from my conversation and the stories of my mom and my grandma and dad and everyone in my life, and my interest and curiosity of the language, meeting my meet-up with Said Salah and what that all meant in my later life where I just learned a lot more than I thought I would ever and invested a lot of time into exploring this hobby of mine—what I like to call a hobby—further of my interest in the Somali language and literature.

AY: So now, how much are you involved in propagating, or somehow or other teaching, or passing on, or still learning, the Somali language itself in Minneapolis, Minnesota?

ZA: Well, of course, I’m still learning, and I don’t think if I lived the next even hundred years I would ever call myself master or someone who knows it all. I think that’s even impossible for the experts, let alone me, who is just an introductory student. As far as my involvement, I think when you have a—

AY: You have been to Djibouti, you have been to the United Kingdom, you went to Hargeisa…

ZA: I think even before all of that, my involvement started with reconnecting with Said Salah. After I graduated from middle school, I went to high school. I vaguely kept in touch with him as far as I would see him here and there. I did not, obviously, have his phone number. But his daughter went to the same high school that I did, so when we had student events—she was actively involved in our Somali student organization and so was I—she would invite him and so I saw him on numerous occasions in my high school years. But it wasn’t until later on when I went to the University of Minnesota and I was studying there, I believe it was end of my second year, that I… I never divorced away from the Somali language. My interest never faded away. I still continued doing my own research and just speaking it. Like when I was in high school I did the school announcement in Somali for the whole entire school, and then kids know me as the Reer Waqooyi [people from the north] girl who speaks good Somali.

AY: What’s Reer Waqooyi?

ZA: Someone who is from north Somalia is called Reer Waqooyi.

AY: So we Somalis also have the issue of north versus south. Right.

ZA: And the dialect is totally different. And easy to tell.

AY: Oh, don’t say that out loud.

ZA: So I guess to entertain myself and to make sure that I continue speaking. As my English got better, I didn’t want to lose my Somali as well—as I was learning more English vocabs and my English was getting better again. At this time that I was doing my high school announcements, I was tenth grade high school, meaning I was in the country for only about three years. And being young, you easily learn the new language of the country that you go to. So I didn’t want to have a case where I would lose the Somali language easily. I think I focused so much on not losing the

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Somali language that I ended up losing Arabic. I guess one language had to because I was extremely fluent in Arabic, and Somali somewhat, together.

AY: Oh, now you are blaming the Somali that you left the Arabic language, huh? You are not even ashamed of it.

ZA: [chuckles] One had to force the other out, so I had to make sure that I kept one of them, I guess. And it was the Somali. Then later on I met Said Salah at the U of M—well, didn’t meet him at the U of M. The discussion and the topic of studying Somali came about because also I end up not taking the Somali classes at Roosevelt High School. I had a really busy schedule where I was taking college courses in my eleventh and twelfth grade, and I was involved in so many things that I realized before I knew it that I didn’t even continue taking my writing, basic Somali language class. So I start contacting Said Salah. Actually, before I contacted him, there was an event that the U of M students did after my freshman year, which was the play Mandeq composed by some classmates at that time. Through that event, Said Salah came and we reconnected. He couldn’t believe that I was actually reciting Somali poems—well, I doubt that they were poems, now that I know more—but that I actually did a live stage performance all in Somali. I felt like he was somewhat proud of me. That’s when we really reconnected and started to talk about the Somali language and other activities that we should be doing together. From that came the Somali language at the University of Minnesota, our literary study circle, which you were part of. I remember specifically wanting to invite you to our study circle—where I was and where you were. It was West Bank, Blegen Hall, University of Minnesota. I think you were rushing to a class at Humphrey—you were attending Humphrey at that time, maybe. I was going to class and I told you, “Hey, we have this language literature class and blah, blah, blah.”

AY: Maybe that was another guy, but I don’t remember anyways.

ZA: I don’t remember. I invited you to our literature study circle. So I guess from the standpoint of doing stuff with the Somali language, along with Said Salah and another student at the University of Minnesota at that time who was the president of our Somali Student Association and who was actually interested in having a Somali class taught at the University of Minnesota— she went to the same middle school with me and came before me to this country, but at that time when I was taking Said Salah’s Somali language class, she refused to take that language class. Later on, she tells me how she regretted it—because at that time she belittled it and she thought it was something that only ESL students took. But later on we go to the U of M [University of Minnesota] again, and now she had to test out the Somali language in order for her to graduate— or in order for her not to be forced to take a second language. The test was hard and she wanted to do that earlier at her sophomore year so she can get it out of her way—or so she can see if she will be forced to take a second language, so she can take the second language. What later on she realized is how unfortunate it was for her to make the decision of not taking Somali language class at that time.

AY: So right now, your ticket to fame is just that you actually speak the language well. So you’re a radio personality, actually you host shows, and you have been traveling throughout the world. So your ticket to fame is the Somali language! Would you not say, now? From, actually,

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Minneapolis. Somali language that the base of is from Minneapolis, Minnesota—the land of what?

ZA: The Land of Lakes—or a thousand lakes. It’s funny you say that. A lot of people do describe me as the girl that speaks Somali, and sometimes I felt like I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment or diss because I like to think that I do have other things to show off or to showcase. Or just to say, “Okay, that’s not even what I went to school for.” Actually, I am a science geek or I’m in the medical field, as far as my future plans and what I even do now. I am a radio personality, but you know, whatever. But then other times I really appreciate that. I just am humbled and honored that people describe me as such—although I still believe I am nowhere near that title. I don’t speak Somali perfectly. I think when I am compared to my age group and my generation who have a hard time speaking a full sentence of Somali—yes, then to them, obviously, I am that person who speaks Somali perfectly. But, obviously, in the perfect world, where I am among people like you and others who Somali is their thing, then I am nowhere near that. You know that, Ahmed. But you are right. I mean, just being involved in the Somali language and literature, and being close friends to you and Anwar and Said Salah, and just being your student have opened the doors for me to many possibilities. I went to Djibouti for the fortieth anniversary of when the Somali language—or when the Somali script was written. I went to the UK, right now, for the Somali week, to celebrate with Mr. Said Salah his fifty-year anniversary of teaching and his reunion with his Iftiin , who he was in his time and age head of that group. So it did open a lot of opportunities and doors, and you’re right—a lot of people know me as the girl who speaks Somali.

AY: Well, as long as we are recorded it—so that later on I won’t be accused as somebody who is not exactly somehow giving you your due credit—I should say that, yeah, yeah, I have to admit, we are proud of you because what we also say is that you did not have the opportunity to learn the language. I mean, even though you did not have the opportunity to learn the language in Somalia, you have the heart of the language still. As a matter of fact, you are just an exact example of what someone who has an interest of his own cultural identity would do with his own language. Maybe I’m not saying the way that I wanted it. I’m just trying to say that you handle the language outside of Somalia—a country that you don’t even remember much about—but here to still have the language fully wrap around you is remarkable.

ZA: I think a lot of it has to do with knowing that language is really what connects us to our culture, to our identity, to our heritage, to the history itself. A really important, big part of my connection to the language, especially to songs, is my mom. That, I would, I think, love to mention. My mom loved, loved, loved attending plays or seeing plays when we were back home. The best dates she had ever been to with my dad were through plays that they have seen together. Interestingly enough, although she became religious later on, she remembers, she still has all the songs memorized. Not only do I get the songs, but the way my mom and I connect, our quality times, is through cooking. My mom loved cooking. It’s what she inherited from her mom and I also love cooking, so I felt like I’m inheriting that from her. She loves making big, huge feasts.

AY: So what do you cook? Do you cook any food that is related to Somalia?

ZA: We cook Somali food. Traditional Somali food. Rice, goat meat…

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AY: In Minnesota.

ZA: In Minnesota, yep. So I am the one that goes in the kitchen with her and when we are cooking together, I have these Somali classic songs or what’s known as qaraami [classic] songs. A collection of it, mainly of songs that were sung in the 1960s and seventies and early eighties.

AY: Qaraami means in English—what’s the closest word? Legendary?

ZA: Classic. Although, from my conference in the UK, I am learning that it was a genre, actually, and it had different names—balwo. I won’t go to the details of it. So we’re listening together and then would sing together. Then she would correct me, of course, because I will be not saying the correct to these songs. She will correct it for me and tell me the lyrics, and then she will ask me, “Do you know what that word means?” Or, “Do you know what that phrase means?” And I would be like, “No.” Then she wouldn’t only give me the definitions, but she would give me a story behind it or sample.

AY: Which voice is the better voice?

ZA: My mom, of course. Oh my God. I have a horrible voice. [laughs] I would never sing in public—ever. I have the worst, but I love the songs and I love along with it.

AY: So you are somewhere in South Minneapolis, you are listening to Somali , and actually that brings all the memories…

ZA: Yep. Like one of the songs, she was telling me, “Oh, I remember that song was in that play,” and again Somali plays are musical plays. So she would be like, “Oh yeah, that song was in that play.” And then she would tell me, “Oh, your dad and I went on a date, and it was before you guys were born. We left the house and actually some guy came and stole our stuff. A thief broke into our house.”

AY: So every song, or not every song, but the majority of the songs, you have a story attached to it?

ZA: Yeah. And I kind of live it through my mom. When I am listening to especially these particular songs where my mom would tell me a story that’s relevant to her or how she saw it, I really have a perfect picture of the singer and the gestures he was making or she was making, or the play or the storyline. It’s just not a song I’m listening to. Also she tells me, especially with Hadraawi’s—you know the songs that he composes. Hadraawi is famous for using Somali stories in his work, and so one time—it’s not necessarily a story, but it’s a saying, a maahmaah [proverb]. It was the song “Saxarla.” She was telling me I was singing it wrong, and she was correcting the lyrics for me. Then on the last line she said—you know, it was the part, “Inaad saama jiiddiyo sanqadh tirasho kala daa.” And then she was like, “Do you know what that

17 means?” And I was like, “No.” And then she was like, “Well, this is how it goes.” I guess there’s a maahmaah… 1

AY: That’s actually Somali, so I don’t think we’re going to get into that, because we’re going to get lost with the audience.

ZA: Exactly. But it’s just to say how—

AY: How the tradition, the story that goes along with it. The song itself is carrying it.

ZA: Yeah, yeah. And she was also, I think, one of my biggest teachers when it comes to the Somali language. I learned from her very indirectly in a very non-traditional, non-formal way. I’ll give, honestly, the majority of the credit to her.

AY: So I think we actually are approaching the conclusion of our interview, but what I would like to ask you, unless you have something else to add, is just what is Minnesotan about you? What do you like or love? Or if anybody asks you any question about Minnesota, what would you brag about?

ZA: It’s funny that you ask that. Today before I left work I was talking to Lucky, who is my coworker who is also another Somali girl. I was singing the song “Arligaygow” [my motherland]. My country, right? My homeland. A Somali song about nationality—what homeland means. I was just talking to her and thinking out loud, and I was like, “I really don’t know where is a homeland to me.” I can’t call Somalia a homeland because I don’t know the place. I lived a few years there, and then I lived a few years in Syria, and then I lived—actually the closest to homeland is Minnesota to me because I’ve lived fifteen, almost kind of concluding my sixteenth year here. So Minnesota is the closest to a homeland. I’m still trying to figure out the concept of what homeland means or what a home country is, but Minnesota is the closest to that. I guess it’s to the point where I actually get homesick if I am away for more than three or four weeks. That’s why my vacations are always no more than two and a half, three weeks. If it exceeds that I get really homesick, where I just want to be back to what I know. So I guess Minnesota is familiar, Minnesota is what I know. I can’t really see myself ever living elsewhere permanently. As much as I love Somalia and I have this fantasy world and idea of Somalia and home country, I just don’t ever see myself calling it home more than Minnesota.

AY: Wow. I think that concludes our interview or conversation. Thank you very much!

ZA: Okay. You’re welcome.

1 This proverb and the song lyrics are said to originate from a hyena’s tendency to steal dried animal hides, which makes a lot of noise. It says something to the effect of, “You drag a dried animal hide, but with the intent to be discrete.” In other words, you can’t have it both ways: making noise, but being upset when you are noticed. 18