When people ask me how I am, it’s like they are speaking in a language I can understand but not speak. Words, meaningless words, clouds of words that fail to remain in your grasp.
People often ask me, Mulki, what do you? That’s like asking me what summer grass smells like and telling me to only answer with a yes or no.
This past summer gave me permission to dwell in a place I had only visited in the rare moments of lull in my inner turmoil. Sitting amongst ancient creatures towering over me, spreading themselves to my gaze made me feel like I was in deep time, beyond time and space. I felt the presence of the people who sat where I was seated 3000 years ago. The residue of their thoughts seemed to seep into my mind. Nature showed me a place where past, present and future coexist and are consolidated.
A place beyond illusions.
Coming from that space, how do I answer people? I can’t, and I let them form whatever assumptions they will. I’m ok with that. I’ve learnt that to have the freedom to be myself unconditionally, I have to give others the freedom to form whatever judgements of me.
A desire that pulsates from that deep time in me is to discover Somalia. Not explore or travel. But to discover the true Somalia that has been lost like Atlantis, submerged in oblivion to flee people’s corruption.
I want to find my Somali soul tribe with whom I’ll excavate Somalia. A tribe of divergent thinkers who don’t want to solve but create, who don’t want to elevate but go deeper, who don’t want to climb ladders but want to forge heartfelt connections.
Who write question marks instead of exclamation points. Commas and not full stops. Ellipsis and not chapters.
I’ve found the most sublime sages and geniuses amongst Somalis to be the most inconspicuous. Unassuming. They may be in Somalia or Switzerland, but they dwell in a separate space, an alternate dimension. They may not be your lawyers or engineers or college professors, but they’ve known suffering, they’ve known rejection and humiliation and abandonment and jealousy. Their words are real, tangible, meaningful. When they ask you how you are, you find yourself relaxing in the knowledge that someone actually sees you. You find the words to respond knowing that they’ll understand because they’ve been there.
I said I want to excavate Somalia because I believe the universe is in a state of perennial order, we just disturb it when we are in disorder. To create something that’ll last, we have to create from a space of harmony. We have to destroy what we’ve clung to, what we’ve placed our hopes in. And beneath the rubbles lay the tools to create the reality, the country, the world we all are desperately pining for.
I don’t know where my Somali soul tribe is but like everything substantial, I’ve had to learn to just remain open to whatever comes into my field of sensing. To let the cursor blink on the screen as I await primordial words to bubble up to the surface, letting my story unravel itself whenever I’m ready to read it.