I don’t know if the matters I champion through my writing will have any significant effect on the world. I don’t know if my calls for authenticity, for introspection, for self-accountability, for checking our moral integrity as Somalis, for going beyond mental illness diagnosis and going to the root of things – are heeded. I really don’t. Nor do I really keep tabs. I throw these thoughts into the universe whenever they bubble up to the surface of my conscious.
But I want my future children – bi idnillaah- to know that their mother didn’t live vicariously through the upbeat slogans of activists nor did she resign herself to romanticizing the past.
I want them to keep the scrapbook of my life for days when they feel insignificant, nights they can’t sleep because of all the chaos that surrounds them, times when they are scared of being themselves. I don’t want to tell them what or who to be. I want to share my journey of how I found my way, and invite them to do the same.
I want for them what Rainer Maria Rilke described
“Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.”
I want to love them silly. I want to love them with my entire being – void of fear, of expectations, of need.
I want my scars to guide them like constellations.
But I don’t want to be their ocean or ground or sky. I want them to have their own worlds that they can then invite me into at times.
I want a family that is a galaxy.