a wise somali word or two

i saw the film “wustenblume” (or something like that), otherwise known as “Dessert Flower” the film adaptation of the life story of Waris Dirie, somali model, far way cousin to Iman.

Waris Dirie, ex-Model

the film was honestly excellently directed, obviously i would say rather exaggerated in how somalia looks like and somalis interact. i love in particular the delightful surprise of using real-speaking somalis, who are, in fact, somali!

i also congratulate the use of ethiopean model liya kebede; ethipeans sharesome genetic DNA factors wiyth somalis, eritreans and djiboutis, being east africans themselves, and so i found her to be deceivingly true to somalis. her somali words were obviously lacklustre and a little broken, but nevermind, i appreciated her efforts. the storyline itself was all a little in-your-face, and provokative, and highly exaggerated, but it is meant to be that way, so that the general public (through he whitewash, stereotypes and falsehood – i sound harsh, but i saw these elements there) can extract the essence and improtance of the film, which is a portrayal (however inaccurate) of FGM (“female genetal mutilation”).

Waris herself disagreed with much of the film’s occurances, but agreed with it’s mass production because the message is more important. although in the oong-term, tackling prejudices and stereotypes is even more important, a quick sharp dosage of shock about FGM was needed to bring it to the attention of joe public.

my verdict? 3.5/5… i find it dangerous territory for someone who isn’t somali, because it can be deceiving, as not all our roots are like that, but for the quality of acting, the film cut and direction, and the appreciation and respect shown to the existence of the somali people (and therefore using real somalis), i enjoyed it.


i hope you guys take heed of the poem below. it resonates some true messages about what it is to be a somali woman. i had a tear in my eye when i finished it.

The Letter My Mothetr Would HAve Written Had She Known English ~ by: Warsan Shire
Dear Daughter

The women in our family are known for their lucid hearts
For the frightening vigour with which they love
And they way they let men eat from their open chests
As if their insides alone could offer redemption
As if their flesh could create portals for men to escape
The ugliness that they themselves created in this world.

If I could do it all again
I would’ve raise u in the sergenti
Where we could face east five times a day and pray
Where the simple things would leave me enough time to tell you how much I love you

Daughter, I would raise you with my knees and fingertips
Small mercies would make u pious and all my children would love me more
Our faces would be ash covered
Hair laden with the winds of the harmattan
Your father would see the beauty in me that can only exist when he looks at me
And my stretch marks would be worth it all.

But this reality is not in shades of pink
Like the dolls with the fake smiles that you would
Point at, and I would say inch Allah
Knowing that I could never afford them.

In Africa I was so beautiful
On the plane here
My husband stopped seeing me.
Here I would be compared to a woman with blue eyes
And a clitoris
I am not beautiful
Here I’m sorry
Here you can leave a wife and two children
And income support and child benefit
Can take the fathers place at the kitchen table.

I wish I had held you when your father left
But the insides of my ribs were still dented
And to touch you would’ve
Been as painful as love itself.

I want to leave you with more than empty picture frames
And moments that could be classed as Kodak if they had ever taken place
But this countries weather had the ability to sink into the bone of you

You learn that being an asylum seeker will mean u have malaria instead of the flu.

I know the taste of translation
And if my lips own any hesitation
It’s because semantic and lexis has us separated

In Somali syllables are soft
So they can’t solidify all the things
We have left unsaid
Perhaps the fact that you think in English
Is proof enough that we have a gap
Wider than the tongue and tooth
You wanted us to be.

I taught you
To be proud of your religion
And pray for your brothers at Guantanamo bay
Never fight a woman for a man
And make sure that love exists through actions
Not plans
Wash your under wear every night and watch out for
Demons who dance on your back if you sleep on your chest

To be afraid of the in-betweens and call in children at Maghreb
Make sure windows stay closed after sunset

To shudder
When a shoe is turned upside down
And what prayers to read before entering the bathroom
And leaving the house
And how u should never answer to a voice you can’t see
Calling your name
Even if it sounds like it belongs to your mother

That déjàvu doesn’t exist in Africa
Neither does surviving aids
And that men will always say they love you
That trusting too much will be the death of you

That children with faces of old people turn out the best
And adults that like to touch small children
Burn in hell

But as a mother who literally could not help her children with their homework,
That right there is already all my pride swallowed.

I am one of the mothers
Who wouldn’t think twice about burning off her fingertips
And running with you on my back across borders and through tunnels
Shrugging off shrapnel and bullets
To escape sodomy
And entered this country
In the quest for democracy and found out that
My spine was Teflon in wars
But divorce could cripple me.

London’s skies are above me now
And esol could never teach me enough of about past and present tense
For the many times I tasted love
I would sacrifice them all
For a chance to whisper an English
Lullaby into your 6 year old ear.

How do you say I’m proud of you in English?


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I heart mad men

… and jon hamm’s character in particular, don draper. he’s house MD in the 1960s world of advertising, PR and brutal business. he’s america’s answer to matthew macFadyen – who i think is a seriously undermined, overlooked and underestimated powerful actor, but doesn’t have the wild persona portrayed oh-so-unabashedly by his fellow tinseltown comrades. i should warn you, however, that Jon Hamm has an american streak to him, much unlike his don draper character; loud, sociable, funny. saturday night live’s outing was (in an american way, since a britton would find it hard to follow the refernces in the jokes, but anyhow) cool-e-yo. i like his parodies. and i don’t like many parodies. there’s something comforting in knowing someone who can take the piss outta themselves, dontcha think?

aside: don’t you hate it when you go to wikipaedia to extract valuable (or time-consuming and IQ-reducing, in my case) information on something (or in my case someone) and they torture the whole thing heartlessly by pasting a washed-out, disturbed image of what that thing (or who that person, in my case) was meant tobe? to a point of beyond recognition? he looks like a frigging homeless drunkard there. tut tut tut.

lost boys parody: the saxaphone guy

and the purpose of this post? perhaps to remind myself in future how i spent my time when i most needed time; wasted on jon hamm’s comic appearences, listening to elvis castello’s “she” (from notting hill, the movie), wondering why people hate janet jackson (nipple incident with the distinctlty unhelpful justin timberlake), etc etc etc…

so… must go bed. au revoir, le monde.


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“halal dating” – Said Rageah

now, i must make it known that i do not condone halal dating myself (the concept itself seems impossibly conflicted). the purpose of my posting this video is to show you a little of our magnificent somali hmour and innate wisdom. look out for the particularly infamous hand-gestures and tone changes whilst making these jokes.

come, all ye faithful.

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fall from grace

… ever feel like that happens to you, many times over, for some absurd reason you know not, but wish oh-so-desperately to know, so all can be fixed and life can be restored?

so that, in a firgure of speech, humpty dumptry can be put together again?

note to self: this was the day you changed the theme and the header. all looks weel. yes, the white patch left from the image above the lamp is annoying. deliberately so. effects are not bad overall. honest. important.

i fell from my own grace. several times over the past week. it was painful to begin with… then i started getting used to it.

which isn’t good. shall, God willingly, formulate a plan which works to alleviate myself from the stress it’s beginning to bore into me. like a really sore pressure ulcer. a complete and utter bastard. unnecessary and damned excruciating!

in other news, my “yours truely” page is beginning to exude deceit. it is pricking at the fortress of my soul. should consider dramatically changing it.

en les autre autre news, je suis tres fatigue et harasse avec la vie que j’ai habite. j’ai beaucoup le choses qui attendes moi pour ils faire. trops de choses a faire et un tres peau temps pour ils faire. je suis tres desole avec ma vie. ils pronds un trop des improvements.

whether the above made sense to you, i don’t know. it makes sense to me, or at least it does, now. it did, then.

i want a break. and the momets during which i look for a break the most, i fill it up with the most consuming things.

it happens, just so, you know. cannot be controlled.

i       a  m         l  e  a  r  n  i  n  g.

slowly, but surely.

sometimes though, even I am not sure enough. it’s not due to a lack of patience, though indeed patience is lacking.

but instead due to a lacking conviction. a lack in will.

is there really a way where there is a will?

i hope i live to answer that question…

yours truely,

a broken-hearted girl

ps: i hope HE forgives. many times over. the way in which only HE can. wipe out oceans and mountains of it. purify the darkest abyss. Please Do… I Need YOU! and i’m sorry. truely. always.


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happenings since…

… i last posted on here.

i was thinking a lot – obviously, DUH! – about phylosophical deep things which i won’t detail on this page (no, i’m affraid you’ve received as much enlightment as to my life as you’ll ever get, i think!).

i attempted to make myself useful by doing something which will benefit me around summertime, 2010. this failed, somewhat. but al7amdulillah regardless.

i also seriously pondered over what plan suits my life best, from this year onwards.

when people say they don’t do new years resolutions, they lie: either they are saying they and their lives are so perfect that improvement is unwarranted, or they deny that in fact much improvement is needed, especially from within, such that no other human can bear to know its true magnitude, and thus these prayers of improvement are left with Allah.

i subscribe to the latter congregation.

Allah only knows what this year holds for me. good, is all i hope. even bad things that i can permanently learn from, can be good, still.

either way, inshaAllah 5air.

oh, and by the way, my parents are incredibly averse to the idea of any of their offspring marrying a non-somali.

i did not, thank God, discover that the painful way. i had no hopes, it was a proposition more than an offer. a whisper through the grapevines, if you like.

he was iraqi. and young. 4yrs my senior, when the whisper reached my ear. i think in reality perhaps 3 years separate us, and a little.

let’s not make the matter grand. it was what it was… a whisper, nothing more.

i went shopping. to the sales at oxford street. i queued not, if you perchanced asking me, in front of the Gucci and Chloe houses (amongst others) in selfridges.

i did, however, do the incerdulous deed of going out to sales, to buy something “cheap” (lies, i tell you) and instead emerge out of the civil cold war that happens once a year, having bought something which is, though unlikely to “break the bank”, was in fact anything which best describes the opposite of cheap, and will perhaps be sitting most its days inside the warm comfort of my precious wardrope.

it’s only use, that object which i bought, is to make me look more refined and presentable if and when i need to draw the world to myself. it works too, mark my words.

i like the object’s designer, who shan’t remain anonymous (i’ll unveil him below), simply because i am perhaps the fussiest female i know when it comes to fashion and style (though i have been known to buy worthless articles of clothing), and he, let it be known, is the only person in whose design i habitually find something… naturally appealing to me.

something which can only be best described as though it were me, designing clothes for me. or, as i prefer to understand it, as though i were the maniquin on which he tailored his womanly designed and derived his creatively elegant, expertly hand-crafted style. it feels hand-crafted, mind you… donno if it really is.

said designer is….*drum roll*….. Jasper Conran

i must admit; one wades through life’s endless ebbs and tides which one, at that instance, insists on remembering to record here later… then when one finally manages to write the curves said ebbs and tides, one is either at a loss for words which best suit these waves, or one cannot for the life of oneself recall what they were. though they mattered much, at the time…

funny, huh?

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Eid of Sacrifice

Eid Mubarak everyone!

i sincerely hope everyone had a wonderful time (and will continue to have a wonderful time) during their Eid festivities.

i grew out of the stage where you collect 3eedeyya money (though i received an ample sum from my uncle), compete in fashion sence (though in terms of people attending [enter second not-so-humble abode’s] i totally rocked the clothes world… yes i attended the aforementioned place on Eid day. shit happens) and attempt a world record in fastest diabetes diagnosis within hours (though i did consume an unholy amount of sugars and fats. ones which i made. others have consumed similar amounts of deadly toxins. like i said, shit happens).

one thing i didn’t do tough, is go out and have FUN!

you know, where everyone is raving at the furthest club (convernient in case parents try to locate your whereabouts) or virtually hogging a member of the opposite sex… i say virtually because if it weren’t for the physical aspect defining “sexual intercourse” to be, well, just that, then these happy-eid-celebrators would have been thoroughly satisfied!

it amazes me how people can turn something so innocent and tender into something entirely vulgar and base. very, very, very base. i never know whether to be amused at their one-track-minded-ness (aka narrow-minded-ness… i prefer the other description. more direct!)  or alarmed at their corruption.

in other parts of the world, people have fnished purifying themselves through the act of pilgrimage. some have died – may Allah have mercy on their souls and accept their worship. many have survived and will return home; Allah will not accept much of the ‘worshipful’ acts that a lot of these people presented. they were insincere. purely physical. wasted much of their precious time and money thinking a black stone has the magical power of purifying their souls and wiping away their bad deeds.

how wrong they were!

all i can ask from Allah, for the rest of the muslims in the world and i, is to accept our sincere intentions, as HE alone knows our hearts, even if the acts themselves are not perfected, and are thus never worthy of HIS Glory. ameen.

as for me. i slept at 2.45am the night before Eid (read: on Eid day) making three types of dessert. two were completely new to me (well, the making of them) and one was very familiar. i will leave you with images of what they are internationally (and google-image-search-wise) known as:

Kanafa (aka Kanafeh, kunafa)

Baqlawa (aka Baklava)

Baqlawa (aka Baklava)




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limbo, limbo like me…

i should explain that i am irregular… in fact, the only guarantee you will have from me is that i am regularly irregular.

making sense to you?

follow me. this is what i am thinking in the 20 minutes it takes to write this…

i look at the previous post, below, and am cringing (spelling mistakes?!). simultaneously – and you must know this – i am getting too tired, too lazy and happily removed from my pride nowadays to care to delete it. in a good way. i don’t give a damn anymore…

and now i asked myself “why do you feel the need to explain yourself then?”

then i answer myself “because i write for me, to remind me, to relieve me, to soothe… i write because i can. because i do. because i am good. at that. if nothing else. but i hope at more. i know i am good at more. are you happy, Allah?”

then i realise i have revealed too much… then i feel awkward. then i don’t care, because i know sukkarfilfil. you don’t. boohaa… nothing changes.

so i change the subject… i want something light, something airy. want to forget. no, not forget. want to remember. yes, remember. before. the past.

and i am back into the deep zone… just. like. that. wtf does this always happen?

take 2:

i have mozilla firefox yet am writingthis post on the windows explorer link still attached to my computer. don’t ask why. i don’t quite know myself. hoping some disaster strikes and explorer decides to shut down itself in the middle of my post, so i am saved from embarassment…?

why do i cre? i said i don’t. i don’t. it’s true.

this is an exercise. in faith. in strong will. in hte fighting spirit.

if it gets anywhere, i will let you know.

so i held out too long. i must spill. in codes. try to follow.

sometimes, when i am released into the wild, carefree wind, i am a blowing kite.

i am deleriously happy, i cry. cry, whilst i am deliriously happy.

experience taught me i won’t be in this state of happiness for long.

so i cry before the storm hits. before lightning strikes in, of all places (and among all places), my small surface area (*hint hint* if you knew what i am in real life, the last two words before the brackets open would have made you laugh. it’s a silly pun. but you don’t. alas!)

then i fall, fall, fall. not far from HIM. never far from HIM.

He watches over me, protecting, nurturing. i say and do awful things that hurt us both.

then i regret it excruciatingly and cry pools of water. then HE makes it all alright…

may be i just needed to deal with my conscience before my life can start again?! dunno…

i like the way HE made me. a lot. i love the way HE made me.

i feel special. i know i am special, alhamdulillah.

plenty don’t feel. they are hollow. they are coarse. made of harsh grains. do not contain any moisture…

i am brimming with moisture.

wheni fall, i am vulnerable, weak, exposed, naked. new skin breaks forth. too much light, unfiltered, too much gail, too much damage. much too much.

but HE knows many that fell, who fall and are falling.

the mark of one who is living is to feel pain after damage. after falling.

i felt. HE knew i felt. HE knew i am different. i hope HE cares. i think HE does.

i don’t indulge it though… too powerful. profound.

HE tenders for me. HE laminates me.

i am now coated. ready. new. shiny.

ready to fight.

can now fly high and soar above the rest. (dear GOD, what’s with the puns in this post? and i swear, they are just flowing out automatically… non-stop. can see around 3-4 already. they’re not deliberate-

-i need to stop thinking while thinking, and finish my previous thought. then sleep… thinking too much for too long is a type of-

-finish it off!)

so i am flying… like before. a carefree kite. untouched, unscathed.

journeys before me await!

[to filfil from sukkar: in future, stay closer to HE who hold the end of the rope to your kite… that way, if/when you fall, you won’t fall far, won’t fall deep. if you’re close enough, HE can even pull you in, and you won’t fall at all…]

smile… honestly, and i say this because i know you more than anyone else, it’s what you do best. you smile.

[from filfil to sukkar: how the fuck did i go from beautiful males to falling kites?]

[from sukkar to filfil: you know the answer. you said it before. and it’s not the first time; perhaps not the last time… you are an open field]

sukkar&filfil: with hardship comes ease. verily, with hardship comes ease.

yours truely;

the gal with the inky 9alam!

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