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Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame, one of Somalia’s greatest poets, dies aged 79.
Somali social media has been flooded with tributes to the man better known as ‘Hadraawi’.
Messages of condolences continue to pour in from around the world following the death of Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame, regarded as one of Somalia’s greatest poets.
Warsame, known as “Hadraawi”, died in Hargeisa, in Somaliland, on Thursday at the age of 79.
Social media has been flooded with tributes and praise for his contribution to Somali language and culture.
“I’m heartbroken to inform you our giant Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame Hadraawi has passed away. Might Allah bless him and grant him Jannah,” Ayan Mahamoud, founder of Kayd Somali Arts and Culture , said on Twitter.
“We will treasure his legacy and the rich scholarly work he left behind,” added Said Salah Ahmed, a poet and playwright who teaches the Somali language at the University of Minnesota in the US.
Hadraawi, which means the “master, or father, of speech”, was regarded as a pillar of modern Somali literature and a strong advocate of peace and democracy.
In 1973, he was imprisoned for five years by the president, Siad Barre, who ruled Somalia until 1991, for speaking against the revolution. His work was banned but he continued to compose poetry upon his release, which were was passed on through word of mouth.
The songs and verses he wrote are full of imagery and metaphor, open to interpretation, which made it hard for the military regime to control. A verse from his poem The Killing of the She-Camel resulted in his imprisonment without trial.
The snake sneaks in the castle:
although it’s carpeted with thorns
still the coward casts off his curses
so the courageous must stretch out his neck;
the cob stallion sells his values
in order to cut a fine figure.
When such cockiness struts forth
and even laughter becomes a crime
our country has unfinished business.
In the early 1990s he called for an end to the civil war, which caused thousands of people to flee Somalia. In 2004, he travelled throughout the country on a “peace march” urging warring parties to stop the violence. His message of reconciliation resonated with Somalis at home and abroad.
He retired a few years ago.
“Poet Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame (Hadraawi) was a symbol of unity and peace,” said the Somali president, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud, in a statement. “He was one of key pillars of Somalia’s art and literature who took a leading role in preserving the Somali culture and promoting the Somali language. His death is felt in every Somali household.”
The EU, Norway, the UK and other friends of Somalia sent condolences and tributes.
“Sending my heartfelt condolences to the people of Somaliland and to all Somalis for the loss of Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame “Hadraawi”, an iconic poet and one of the most eminent and beloved Somali poets of all time,” tweeted Lizzie Walker, head of the Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office in Hargeisa.
Hadraawi had been called the “Somali Shakespeare”, but Somali singer and songwriter Aar Maanta said: “Hadraawi wasn’t the ‘Somali Shakespeare’ he was the Somali Hadraawi. He was more than a poet; he was a philosopher and a freedom fighter who spent many years in jail for his stance against injustice and dictatorship.
“He wrote some of the most beautiful love songs and poems that Somalis in the Horn of Africa and beyond use as a benchmark.”
Ahmed, who knew Hadraawi since late 1960s, added: “Hadraawi was one of the kindest people I have ever met. His poetry speaks for the voiceless and calls out oppression against the people …. he will be missed so dearly but we will treasure his legacy and the rich scholarly work he left behind.”
Known as a “nation of poets”, poetry is woven into the fabric of Somali society with centuries of oral history, as the Somali language was only written in 1972.
Contemporary Somali poetry, including the works of Hadraawi, has been preserved in books and translated into English.
A former child refugee born in Somalia, who dedicated himself to changing lives through education, has been namedas this year’s winner of the prestigious UNHCR Nansen Refugee Award.
Abdullahi Mire grew up in the sprawling Dadaab refugee complex in northeastern Kenya with its population today of more than 240,000 registered refugees, mostly from Somalia.
The UN refugee agency (UNHCR) coordinates operations there together with partners, relying also on the support of the Kenyan Government and host communities.
The majority of the population, around 56 per cent according to 2020 figures, are children.
At that point there were over 60,000 students enrolled up to secondary school level, but despite that, the demand for teachers, supplies and classroom space, has long outstripped supply, leading to poor educational outcomes.
Educational pioneer
Of those managing to complete secondary school only a small number have been able to carry on into tertiary education.
Mr. Mire spent 23 years living in the Dadaab complex himself, from the early 1990s, and eventually went on to graduate with a diploma in journalism and public relations in 2013 from Kenya’s Kenyatta University.
After working for the UN migration agency IOM , in Somalia, specialising in the disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration of former combatants, he realised that without being literate, many were being brainwashed and radicalized.
Life-changer
His experience led him to start the Refugee Youth Education Hub (RYEH) in 2018, focusing on refugee education and youth development.
“I want to change the lives of refugee children and youth living in Daadab”, he told the UN Assistance Mission in Somalia (UNSOM) in 2020.
“The only way to do that is through education. If you give quality education for these children or youths, their lives will be improved for good,” he added. “For societies to progress, especially the ones recovering from decades of conflict, education must be a priority. I think it’s the midwife of peace and stability, if not more.”
Personifying change
Speaking ahead of the award announcement, UN High Commissioner for Refugees, Filippo Grandi, said: “Abdullahi Mire is living proof that transformative ideas can spring from within displaced communities.
“He has shown great resourcefulness and tenacity in strengthening the quality of refugee education.”
UNHCR noted that after growing up in the Dadaab camps, Mr. Mire had resettled to Norway, “but a yearning to serve his community drew him back”.
His education hub has opened three libraries in the camps – stocked with donated books – and expanded learning opportunities for tens of thousands of displaced children and youth.
“The win is not for me alone,” said Mr. Mire, 36. “It is for all the volunteers I work with… It is for the children in the schools.”
Regional winners
UNHCR also announced the regional winners to be honoured this year:
• Elizabeth Moreno Barco (Americas): a human rights defender who advocates for communities affected by armed internal conflict in Colombia
• Asia Al-Mashreqi (Middle East & North Africa): founder and chairperson of the Sustainable Development Foundation, which has assisted nearly two million individuals in Yemen affected by conflict
• Abdullah Habib, Sahat Zia Hero, Salim Khan and Shahida Win (Asia-Pacific): four Rohingya storytellers documenting the experiences of stateless Rohingya refugees
• Lena Grochowska and Władysław Grochowski (Europe): a Polish couple whose hotel chain and foundation provide shelter and training to refugees
The awards will be presented at a ceremony in Geneva on 13 December at the Global Refugee Forum 2023.
Hosted by the prominent US television journalist Ann Curry, the event will showcase the winners’ work and feature performances by Lous and the Yakuza, MIYAVI and Ricky Kej. It will also be livestreamed.
The awards are made possible through support from the Governments of Norway and Switzerland, IKEA Foundation, and the City and Canton of Geneva.
They are named after the Norwegian explorer, scientist, diplomat and humanitarian Fridtjof Nansen.
source/content: news.un.org (headline edited)
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UNSOM / Abdullahi Mire (far right) is supporting education initiatives in Dadaab refugee complex in northeastern Kenya.
Rome’s city council voted earlier this month to name a future metro station in the Italian capital in honour of Giorgio Marincola, an Italian-Somali who was a member of the Italian resistance.
He was killed at the age of 21 by withdrawing Nazi troops who opened fire at a checkpoint on 4 May 1945, two days after Germany had officially surrendered in Italy at the end of World War Two.
The station, which is currently under construction, was going to be called Amba Aradam-Ipponio – a reference to an Italian campaign in Ethiopia in 1936 when fascist forces brutally unleashed chemical weapons and committed war crimes at the infamous Battle of Amba Aradam.
The name change came after a campaign was launched in June, in the wake of Black Lives Matter protests around the world following the killing of African American George Floyd by US police.
Started by journalist Massimiliano Coccia, he was supported by Black Lives Matter activists, other journalists and Italian-Somali writer Igiabo Scego and Marincola’s nephew, the author Antar Marincola.
The ‘black partisan’
Activists first placed a banner at the metro site stating that no station should be named after “oppression” and pushed for Marincola’s short, but remarkable life to be remembered.
He is known as the “partigiano nero” or “black partisan” and was an active member of the resistance.
In 1953 he was posthumously awarded Italy’s highest military honour, the Medaglia d’Oro al Valor Militare, in recognition of his efforts and the ultimate sacrifice he made.
Marincola was born in 1923 in Mahaday, a town on the Shebelle River, north of Mogadishu, in what was then known as Italian Somaliland.
His mother, Ashkiro Hassan, was Somali and his father an Italian military officer called Giuseppe Marincola.
At the time few Italian colonists acknowledged children born of their unions with Somali women.
But Giuseppe Marincola bucked the trend and later brought his son and daughter, Isabella, to Italy to be raised by his family.
Isabella went on to become an actress, notably appearing in Riso Amaro (Bitter Rice), released in 1949.
Giorgio Marincola too was gifted, excelling at school in Rome and went on to enrol as a medical student.
During his studies he came to be inspired by anti-fascist ideology. He decided to enlist in the resistance in 1943 – at a time his country of birth was still under Italian rule.
He proved a brave fighter, was parachuted into enemy territory and was wounded. At one time he was captured by the SS, who wanted him to speak against the partisans on their radio station. On air he reportedly defied them, saying: “Homeland means freedom and justice for the peoples of the world. This is why I fight the oppressors.”
The broadcast was interrupted – and sounds of a beating could be heard.
‘Collective amnesia’
But anti-racism activists want far more than just the renaming of a metro stop after Marincola – they want to shine the spotlight on Italy’s colonial history.
They want the authorities in Rome to go further and begin a process of decolonising the city.
This happened unilaterally in Milan when, amid the Black Lives Matter protests, the statue of controversial journalist Indro Montanelli, who defended colonialism and admitted to marrying a 12-year-old Eritrean girl during his army service in the 1930’s, was defaced.
Yet to bring about true change there needs to be an awareness about the past.
Italy’s colonial timeline in East Africa:
1890: Kingdom of Italy takes over Eritrea and proclaims it a colony
1895: Italy invades Ethiopia, then called Abyssinia
1896: Italian forces defeated by the Ethiopians at Adwa – and sign a treaty recognising the country’s independence
1889: Italy sets up a protectorate in central Somalia
1935: Fascist Italy invades Ethiopia, accused of war crimes and using chemical weapons during its campaign
1936: Italians capture Addis Ababa. Ethiopia, Eritrea and Italian Somaliland become Italian East Africa
1937: Italian forces in Addis Ababa kill an estimated 19,000 people over three days in February in reprisal for the attempted assassination of the man appointed by Mussolini to govern the colony
1941: British and Commonwealth troops aided by the local resistance defeat the Italians in the region
The trouble at the moment is what seems to be a collective amnesia in Italy over its colonial history.
In the years I have spent reporting from the country I am always struck at how little most Italians seem to know about their colonial history, whether I’m in Rome, Palermo or Venice.
The extent of Italy’s involvement in Eritrea, Somalia, Libya and Albania to Benito Mussolini’s fascist occupation of Ethiopia in the 1930s is not acknowledged.
Somali bolognese
Last month, Somalia celebrated its 60th anniversary of independence.
Reshaped by 30 years of conflict, memories of colonial times have all been lost – except in the kitchen where a staple of Somali cuisine is “suugo suqaar”- a sauce eaten with “baasto” or pasta.
But for this Somali bolognese, we use cubed beef, goat or lamb with our version of the classic Italian soffritto – sautéed carrots, onion and peppers – to which we add heady spices.
I love to cook these dishes and last summer while I was in Palermo did so for Italian friends, serving it with shigni, a spicy hot sauce, and bananas.
It was a strange pairing for Italians, though my friends tucked in with gusto – with only the odd raised eyebrow.
And Somalis have also left their own imprint in Italy – not just through the Marincola siblings – but in the literature, film and sports.
Cristina Ali Farah is a well-known novelist, Amin Nour is an actor and director, Zahra Bani represented Italy as a javelin thrower and Omar Degan is a respected architect.
And today Somalis constitute both some of Italy’s oldest and newest migrants.
In spring 2015 I spent a warm afternoon meandering throughout the backstreets near Rome’s Termini station meeting Somalis who had been in Italy for decades and Somalis who had arrived on dinghies from Libya.
Those new to Italy called the older community “mezze-lira” – meaning “half lira” to denote their dual Somali-Italian identities.
In turn they are called “Titanics” by established Somalis, a reference to the hard times most migrants have faced in making the perilous journey across the Mediterranean to reach Europe, and the lives they will face in Italy with the political rise of anti-migration parties.
The naming of a station after Marincola is an important move for all of them – and a timely reminder for all Italians of the long ties between Italy and Somalia.
Hard truths beneath the exuberant arrangements of the Somalian-British singer-songwriter and activist strike a chord for others uprooted from their homeland.
The small stage at the Liverpool Philharmonic Music Room is bathed in lilac light as an acoustic drummer, a conga percussionist, two guitarists and then a saxophonist and keyboard player take their places.
For a few minutes, a laid-back jam session ensues until the lead singer weaves his way towards the microphone, expertly adjusts the stand and, without preamble, begins the set.
It is opening night of the city’s annual Arab arts festival, and the intimate audience, though it’s a decade since Aar Maanta and the Urban Nomads’ debut UK tour, is in for a rare treat: live Somali music played with instrumental accompaniment.
“Always with a band,” Maanta confirms to The National, “because there has been a cultural tendency to sing with playback music. I wanted something a little more genuine. I just thought: ‘I’ll be strict and do live shows.’
“I did playback one time when I was in my home town in Jijiga and I felt like I was cheating people, you know?” he adds, laughing.
Those gathered are making the most of the opportunity, clapping, bobbing their heads, dancing and singing along with Maanta’s soulful voice, the smooth tones of which a reviewer once aptly described as coloured by “the dusty echo of the desert”.
Midway through the live performance, he introduces a song called Uur Hooyo (Mother’s Womb) written by the oud virtuoso and renowned composer Ahmed “Hudeidi” Ismail Hussein.
“Unfortunately, he passed away in 2020 due to Covid in London,” Maanta tells the audience. “He was my teacher and taught me about music and generally about history, the connections between the Horn of Africa, Yemen and this area. There are so many connections here.”
As Maanta tells me, the gig is packed with significance as the port city welcomed the earliest members of the UK’s now 100,000-strong Somali community in the late 19th century.
Some of those mostly seamen and traders arriving by ship from the former British colony of Aden brought ouds – the short-necked, stringed instrument whose earthy notes are the signature of Somali folk music.
Maanta’s body of work across two albums and an EP is a poetic and, at times, urgent soundtrack of that migrant experience.
Finding his voice
Born Hassan-Nour Sayid in the capital of the Somali Regional State in Eastern Ethiopia, his creative journey began in the home of his auntie in Hargeisa, where he and his two siblings were raised.
“It was a good house,” he says. “Altogether, there were 10 children inside and it was fun. I was well cared for and, because there were so many of us there, I felt like I had many older sisters.”
Though his great-grandfather was Mohammed Abdullah Hassan, the Somali nationalist revered as a skilful oral poet, his maternal aunt was the one responsible for encouraging an early love of the arts.
Looking back, Maanta recalls the rhythms and melodies of the Iftin Band and those of Hudeidi himself emanating from an old transistor in the kitchen to intermingle with the aromas of Mandi, the traditional Yemeni dish of meat and richly spiced rice.
“My auntie used to sing these old Somali songs on the radio, and I would always listen and sing along because I loved the music,” he says.
“Now, this was the Eighties, so radio was very limited. Whenever the radio goes off, she would basically ask me to sing some of her favourite songs again and I would. It was beautiful.”
Though Maanta doesn’t much like talking about it now – “It’s a pretty common story and not a good one,” he has said – he was separated from his brother and sister when taken by an uncle to relocate to London in the late 1980s, on the cusp of the civil war.
“When I first arrived in the UK, I remember how strange it all was. We moved from a big house to a small apartment and the corridors were so tiny.”
Those tighter living conditions, however, were offset by the expansive music options afforded by the multicultural society of his adopted home where the rustic tracks favoured by Maanta’s auntie soon made way for hip-hop and R’n’B.
“I lived in Brixton and when you are younger you don’t realise it was the hood in those days. I remember it was a rough area, but I made plenty of Pakistani and West Indian friends,” he says.
“Then, of course, there was the Brixton Academy, a famous music venue. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to go in but I remember the posters outside of some of my favourite groups like Jodeci and Guy.”
For somewhat different reasons, a famous band from Liverpool featured at that time, too. As a newly arrived pupil in an inner-city primary school, the young Hassan could often be found scribbling words such as: “You think you’ve lost your love, well, I saw her yesterday,” into an exercise book.
“I had a teacher for English support who was amazing. He would say: ‘Right, if you like music then listen to these and write them down.’ He was into The Beatles. There was one song in particular: She Loves You.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,’’ Maanta says with enthusiasm, unconsciously repeating the refrain that took the world by storm in the mid 1960s. “They’re effective. The lyrics show the economy of language and how to structure as well. It’s better, I think, than studying Shakespeare because you learn that sometimes five words are more important than 10 if you know how to use them.
“Literally, music was a weird and easy way of learning.”
Maanta was shy and introverted growing up, which meant a lot of alone time that he used to teach himself the oud and piano in his late teens and early twenties.
His family were disapproving of music as a career so he embarked on a science degree at Sheffield University, but resistance was useless: “If it’s your dream,” he says, “it’s what keeps you alive.”
Averse to the idea of becoming a solo singer, he decided to work with other UK-based Somali artists as a producer and arranger.
But after one artist refused to take part in a function in London in 2001 due to a last-minute financial dispute, Maanta stepped in to perform the planned classic Somali hits.
“I remember how nice it felt to be able to convey a message to an audience from the stage. It gave me the encouragement that I can do this.”
But Maanta, whose professional name combines his nickname (Aar, meaning Lion) and the title of one of his most popular songs (Maanta, or Today), wasn’t planning on being just another vocalist for hire.
Seeking a distinct sound, he composed his own songs for a new generation of Somalis who, seeing live bands from other countries, yearned for the same form of entertainment from their own homeland.
“It’s mostly the same band line-up but, if people are not available, because of logistics and all that, then I go with whatever I can find.
“I just genuinely feel like if you’re gonna perform, you’re gonna perform. If you don’t wanna perform, and you wanna do playback, it’s fine. But live music is meant to be with live instruments.”
Part of the appeal is that expatriates hear their own experiences reflected in the mix. Hiddo & Dahqan, the debut album released under his label Maanta Music, is a revelation for its fluid blend of percolating Somali pop with oud-centred love songs – a genre called Qarami – and the bobbing bass lines of Afro-pop.
Dig beneath the exuberant arrangements, however, and there are some hard truths to be heard. By the time the album came out in 2008, Maanta had been touring regularly across Europe and the US but visa delays and long vetting by immigration officials were making a gruelling schedule more intolerable.
The frustration of being constantly under suspicion is encapsulated brilliantly in the song Deeqa, a popular girls’ name that Maanta translates as “Suffice” but points out that it was also how Somali Airlines, which ceased operating in 1991, became known.
For the music video, a recreation of an interrogation at Heathrow Airport, a tired Maanta is quizzed by officials about his travel plans in scenes that struck a deep chord within and beyond the Somali diaspora.
“I still keep getting messages to this day from all over about how people relate to this song, and it makes me feel so proud of it.
“There was even a barrister in the UK who tweeted how he used that song to train immigration officials on how to not deal with people in this kind of situation,” he says.
Music with purpose
Deeqa proved a turning point for Maanta in harnessing the power of the protest song. He began to infuse more sociopolitical subjects into his lyrics while leveraging his burgeoning profile to raise awareness of issues such as the refugee crisis.
Some of his frustration was particularly channelled into 2016’s Tahriib, or “Dangerous Crossings”, an a cappella piece written after a family member fell victim to human trafficking.
The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees subsequently reached out to ask him to re-record the song with collaborators including the Somali singer and former refugee Maryam Mursal, the Egyptian musician Hany Adel, and the Ethiopian singer Yeshi Demelash, in a multilingual campaign highlighting the perils of fleeing across the Gulf of Aden and Red Sea from Africa.
Maanta returned to Jijiga in 2015 as a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and visited two refugee camps. “The environment was not really new to me. Even for some of us Somalis who didn’t go through this, we know our family experienced those situations,” he says.
“But it was tough to see the young people there. Yes, while they have some facilities like schools and food, they need more than that. They have dreams, they want to go out and achieve things, but they are not able to leave those places.”
Three years later, Maanta took his insights right to the top at a meeting with the then Somali president Mohamed Abdullahi Mohamed.
“We spoke about how there are a lot of Somali youths in difficult situations, such as camps in Libya or even forced into slavery,” he recalls.
“I just told him: ‘You guys need to do your job more and help those people.’ ”
No surprises, though, to hear that Maanta’s potent advocacy is not part of a plan to pave a way into the febrile world of Somali political life.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “Politics is generally very toxic and I do feel that African political leaders really don’t have much influence to change things at the moment.”
For the children
It was in Minneapolis rather than Mogadishu where he found an example of inspired leadership. Arriving in the US state of Minnesota in 2021, home to the country’s largest Somali population, Maanta was an artist in residence at The Cedar Cultural Centre for two years.
In a project funded by The Joyce Foundation, the Chicago-based philanthropy organisation, he teamed up with the esteemed poet, playwright and custodian of the Somali language Said Salah to compose and record songs that would become Ubadkaa Mudnaanta Leh (Children Have Priority).
“Myself and Professor Said Saleh didn’t decide to sit there and write the songs – we wanted the kids to share their experiences,” he says of promoting Somali heritage by seeking the lyrics and vocals of children aged five to 15.
“They were so enthusiastic about the whole process mainly because of the Somali language itself. They were curious and excited and that really influenced the way we created the songs.”
Form of creative therapy
The resulting EP is a stirring collection of bilingual offerings from a proud yet sometimes misunderstood community, the centrepiece of which is I Am Part 1 & Welcome to Cedar Riverside, a two-song suite in English that sheds light on the lives of those who live in “Little Mogadishu on the Mississippi”.
Through the album’s recording process, Maanta realised he was providing a form of creative therapy for Somali youth by giving them a platform to voice what they were facing in the West such as being in a minority with a different faith; struggles with their mother tongue; and the politics of the then-President Donald Trump.
“I also met a few kids who were autistic, and I realised how important an issue it was within the Somali community, particularly in the diaspora. One of the songs in the album is sung entirely by an autistic child.”
Some of these compositions were heard live for the first time in The Music Room on Friday, where the 25-degree heat prompted Maanta to half-lament that it’s always “the hottest day” whenever he goes to Liverpool.
After more than three decades in the UK, he has come to prefer the cooler months of autumn to those of summer not least because of their unpredictability.
“It seems like you don’t know what’s to come. Everything’s kind of changing,” he explains.
Maanta seems as mutable as his favourite season, telling The National that he now wants to make working with youth the focus of his future efforts.
“Any artist can make songs with the aim of becoming popular but when you cater for children it leaves a lasting impression, especially when there is a need.
“And when it comes to Somali children, the need is the greatest now because there is nothing really out there to cater for them musically. If your country is struggling, obviously making music for children is not going to be a priority.
“I want to make that change,” he says with a passion that echoes some of the poetry for which Somalia is famed.
As a musician he is already widely regarded as the bridge between the old generation and new, but he just may be about to perform his greatest gig of all.
The Liverpool Arab Arts Festival 2023 continues until July 16. For more information, go to: www.arabartsfestival.com/
As a child, she took part in the game she loves against a backdrop of civil war. Now, Britain’s first black female Muslim referee fights for the rights of others as a role model for inclusivity.
A cold, cloudy Sunday morning in West London and 22 grown men are on a football pitch playing in one of the capital’s minor leagues. The standard is not particularly good but nonetheless there is something remarkable about the fixture.
As the tackles fly in, a 1.6-metre-tall figure wearing match officials’ kit and a headscarf brandishes a yellow rectangular piece of plastic.
“My philosophy is that everyone deserves a chance,” Jawahir Roble, Britain’s first black female Muslim referee, tells The National. “But if they keep repeating fouls, I book them.
“I like to control the game first and then I’ll use my cards. The game is not about me. It’s about them having fun and making good memories.”
The contest finishes with a 3-1 home win but, for Roble, 29, the more important result is not the score at the final whistle — it’s that the players amble over to shake her hand and say thank you. Confirmation, she says, of a job well done.
Her extraordinary achievements have been recognised with an MBE in King Charles IIIs first New Year Honours List for services to the Football Association and volunteering work with the education and social inclusion charity Football Beyond Borders.
It is a feat perhaps rivalled only by the journey that has brought her to within tantalising distance of collecting the silver medal at a forthcoming investiture at Buckingham Palace.
Musing on how far she has come, Roble herself once said: “Who would ever think a black, Somali-born immigrant girl with eight siblings could ref a men’s game in England with a hijab on?”
Jawahir Jewels (JJ), as she is commonly known because of the Arabic meaning of her first name, was born in Mogadishu, where she could often be found barefoot in a four-a-side competition with her siblings, kicking scrunched up cloth wrapped in sticky tape around the courtyard of the family home.
Her parents, Mahdi, a grocer, and Safya, sometimes watched the rough and tumble from the sidelines with Jamila, the baby too small to take part, until the moments when the country’s civil war came perilously close. Then, play was suspended as everyone scarpered inside to relative safety.
“You did have to be careful,” Roble recalls. “You could hear gunfire, people screaming sometimes, loud bangs and explosions. I was scared. There were lots of kidnappings and crazy stories.
“But, as a child, it was also very carefree and fun and happy. We still had to get our school and mosque work done. We got told off so many times. But we learnt the system — do our chores and then we could go outside. We had to earn the right to play football.”
After Friday prayer, they would rendezvous with friends to play on a larger patch of muddy ground outside the house, or on the beach at Xeebta Liido by the Somali Sea a half-hour drive away.
The walls of the bedroom shared with her two younger sisters, Amina and Fatima, featured images of David Beckham and, intriguingly given Roble’s future career path, the controversial Italian defender Marco Materazzi, whose aggressive style amassed an inordinate number of bookings.
“With the obsession I have with football, you would think that someone encouraged me or a teacher influenced me. But, no, I just fell in love with it out of nowhere. At heart, I am a complete tomboy.”
As tensions heightened and the war escalated in the early 2000s, the siblings’ outside excursions were curtailed and Mahdi, who had applied for British visas and bought suitcases, put in motion a hitherto secret escape plan.
Ten-year-old JJ, forced to swelter in a coat in anticipation of the colder weather ahead, was taken in a packed eight-seater van to the airport for the 6,400km flight to London.
“We got told: ‘We have to move out.’ No time to tell anyone or sell the shop,” Roble says. “Dad gave it to a relative to look after.
“I remember thinking to myself, ‘We’re not coming back here for a long, long time’.”
Landing at Heathrow nine hours later was a shock. “Oh, my goodness, the place seemed massive. So many different people. Like there’s white people, there’s Chinese people. I’m only used to seeing black people. One of my siblings reached out to touch someone’s bright blonde hair.
“I thought: ‘Wow, this is the real world.’”
First stop was Sudbury in north-west London for a few weeks with a relative, then a temporary hotel stay in Kilburn before they were allocated a council house in the shadow of the largest football stadium in the UK.
“Can you imagine?” she asks with an infectious laugh. “Wembley! We could see the stadium — the home of football — from our house. Just amazing. Something I’ll never forget.”
Roble had thought that only players or special fans were allowed into the hallowed grounds but she has since been twice: on a Chalk Hill Primary School trip (“I couldn’t imagine someone like me could go … It was surreal); and last summer when England’s Lionesses beat Germany 2-1 in the European Championships final (“That was incredible”).
In their new garden, the serious rivalry resumed, one team captained by the oldest Roble sister, the other by the oldest brother, and a lemon or potato for a football.
But, after much pleading, her parents soon handed over £3 ($3.69) for a coveted purchase that enabled JJ, who at that time spoke no English, to overcome the language barrier and fit in more quickly at school.
“Because the kid that has the ball gets the friends,” she explains, smiling. “The first words I learnt I think were, ‘pass, pass’ and ‘shoot!’”
The restrictive uniform of long black skirt, white shirt, school shoes and hijab did little to stop Roble from playing every spare minute, skipping breakfast and lunch to take to the field before lessons, in break times and after the final bell.
“Sometimes kids at primary school teased me. Teachers asked how I could play dressed like that. I was like, ‘This is it, this is what Muslim people wear. You have to be covered up.’
“My religion was not an issue. As long as you’re just a nice person, they would accept you in the group. Being a Muslim is about being a good person, being modest and doing what makes you happy.”
When a supportive PE teacher spotted how well Roble was performing in sports, the first seeds of discord were sowed with her parents who expressed a strong preference for their children to excel instead at maths and English.
“My dad actually sat me down and said: ‘You came all the way from Somalia, all the way from the war just so you can play football? We want you to make use of this country’s opportunities. At least learn to be something that can help other people, like a doctor.’”
But, in Roble’s characteristically headstrong way, fulfilling her father’s ambitions was never a realistic outcome.
At 14, she thought the moment she had dreamt of had arrived. Players from Queens Park Rangers’ women’s team visited the secondary school for a coaching session and to seek out talent for the club’s academy.
Roble put in the work, showing off her pace and left-footed skills in the attacking and defensive duties of a centre midfielder.
“I was one of four or five girls who got a letter inviting me to trial. I was so excited. I’m on the bus and I’m reading this letter over and over again. All that letter needed was a parent’s name and a signature.”
When she arrived home, however, her mother tore up the invitation in an act that even now, 15 years later, causes Roble pain to recount.
Heart-broken at her life’s ambition being thwarted, the resigned teenager eventually left school early to begin a design technology course at college.
While there, she took the level one and two coaching badges with Middlesex Football Association before a referee shortage led to her being asked to step in at the last minute, with no experience, to take charge of an under-sevens girls’ match.
“The parents were very nice to me and the girls said how nice it was to have a female referee. So, from that, I continued volunteering as a referee for a whole year at junior level.”
That prompted the FA to fund her formal referee training. “I said to myself: ‘I have to continue, get braver, do different leagues, different age groups.’ Next thing you know I’m doing men’s and women’s. It happened so fast. Within four years, I was doing adult games.”
After joining the women’s pathway, Roble advanced to National League Level 3 and is now determined to progress to the Women’s Championship and Super League, and who knows where after that?
Along the way, she has garnered a clutch of accolades, including the FA Respect Match Official Award 2017 and being named on the BBC’s 100 Women 2019, as well as that MBE on the same honours list as the England head coach Sarina Wiegman, captain Leah Williamson, and players Lucy Bronze, Beth Mead and Ellen White.
When she’s not teaching at a special needs school in London, Roble dedicates herself to promoting inclusivity, defying stereotypes, demolishing barriers and clearing a path for future generations.
There are, she says, no limits to what can be achieved: “Only I can stop myself, and I’m not going to do that.”
Fitness is a priority, and she has also spent countless hours watching YouTube clips of professional referees such as the former Premier League’s Mark Clattenburg to study their positioning during play and how they control the game.
Further inspiration came last November when an all-female on-field refereeing team led by Stephanie Frappart took charge of a men’s World Cup game for the first time in the match between Germany and Costa Rica.
Even her parents are coming around to their daughter’s deep involvement with football, though Roble sounds as though she is meeting them halfway.
“I understand now that they wanted the best for me and to make sure I was protected and safe. They told me, ‘We don’t want any hatred towards you.’ I’ve told them it’s not like that.
“At the end of the day, I’m spreading positivity. I’m sharing my sports journey with young girls, you know, who like me are interested in football. Maybe if they hear my story, they can use it to inspire them and have a shortcut instead of what I did.”
What she did, ultimately, was find the courage to tackle the norms within the Somali community and succeed on her own terms.
“My faith encourages sports, my faith encourages a healthy lifestyle,” Roble says. “I feel like [the issue] was more to do with cultural concerns. Because our culture says girls should be at home, not getting involved in men’s sports. Girls should be shy, keep on the low, low. I’m sorry but that’s not me.
“I have challenged it. Now, in my Somali community, most of them are: ‘Oh, wow, you’re doing a great job.’ And I’m like, ‘So who was the problem? Do you have anything to say now?’”
It is the same toughness displayed when Roble encounters disbelieving looks from players and coaching staff as she walks to her happy place on the pitch or a decision is criticised.
As with all referees, she has received verbal abuse but says it’s nothing she can’t deal with. Despite her diminutive size, Roble’s big personality, confidence and forthright retorts make for a commanding presence — and there is always the “power” of the red and yellow cards in her pocket.
Her story might have had moments of isolation, sometimes in the family setting and at least initially in an unfamiliar country as a refugee, but she seems undaunted by the “loneliness” of the referee presiding over two teams.
“I have accepted that,” Roble says of the latter. “Once I get on the pitch, I feel like everyone is my team. I feel totally free, like nothing else matters. There is no stress, nothing.
“I wanted to be a footballer so, in a way, I am kind of living that dream. It is where I belong.”
When she’s not teaching at a special needs school in London, Jawahir Roble is dedicated to defying stereotypes, demolishing barriers and clearing a path for future generations. Photo: Shutterstock
At least eight Somali American women won races in Tuesday’s U.S. midterm elections, results show.
Ilhan Omar, the most prominent Somali American politician, held on to her U.S. House of Representatives seat in Minnesota’s 5th Congressional District. This will be the third term for Omar, who was first elected in 2018.
In Minnesota state races, Zaynab Mohamed was elected to the Senate, becoming the first woman of Somali descent elected to the chamber, according to MPR News. Meanwhile, Hodan Hassan defended her seat in the state House of Representatives.
Other Somali American women running for offices in Minnesota were victorious, including Fathia Feerayarre, who won a seat on the Minneapolis Public Schools board.
In neighboring North Dakota, Hamida Dakane also made history, becoming the first woman of Somali descent elected to the state House. Born in northeastern Kenya’s Somali region, Dakane, who won Fargo’s District 10, came to the U.S. in 2011.
In Maine, Deqa Dhalac, who made history last year as the first Somali American mayor for a U.S. city, South Portland, has now been elected to the state House after handily defeating Republican opponent Michael Dougherty. Mana Abdi, who was running unopposed for a seat representing Lewiston, Maine, joins her in the House.
In Ohio, Munira Abdullahi and Ismail Mohamed, a man, won seats in the state House. Minnesota and Ohio have among the largest Somali American populations in the U.S.
Speaking to her supporters Tuesday night, Omar highlighted the significance of victories achieved by Somali American women.
“There was a time when we believed that women with a hijab could not get elected,” she said. “Tonight, Minnesota is electing three new women who are wearing hijab. That shows if you trust in yourself, if your people trust you, stand with you, everything is possible.”
Mohamed, one of the hijab-wearing Minnesota winners, expressed hope that more Somali Americans will run for office.
“I’m very happy with this victory tonight, thank God,” she told VOA Somali. “This is a victory for me, for my family and for the Somali people. God willing, a lot of men and women will follow me and will come through.”
Shukri Olow, who lost a state House seat outside Seattle, Washington, told VOA Somali that she was inspired to run by the women before her, including Omar, Hassan and Dhalac.
In an interview with VOA Somali, Dhalac confirmed that when she visited Washington in 2018, Olow asked her questions about running for office.
“She said she wanted to run for the open seats in her area or seats that will be open in the future in Washington state,” Dhalac recounted. “I encouraged her to do it. Many women say we will do this, we will do this tomorrow, we will do this next year. I said to her, if you want to compete, just do it.”
The success of Somali American female candidates in the U.S. eclipses that of female aspirants for elected office in Somalia.
Female politicians in Somalia are so disenfranchised that in 2016, Somalia’s federal and regional leaders had to start allocating a specific quota of seats in parliament. But women still were never given the opportunity to get the 30% quota promised.
In 2016, Somali women occupied 24% of the 329 seats in the two houses of parliament. In 2022, female candidates secured only 20%, well short of the 30% quota.
Fawzia Yusuf Haji Adam, the only female presidential candidate in the May 15 presidential election, got just a single vote — her own.
“I did not get the support I’m sure [Somali American women] are getting when they stand [for office], because here the culture and other factors are causing a lack of encouragement [for women],” she said.
Adam welcomed the success of Somali American women.
“This is a victory for Somali women in the diaspora,” she said. “I congratulate them, I encourage them, and we are proud of them.”
She said women in the diaspora, including those in the United States, Europe, and Canada, have opportunities that women in Somalia do not have.
“What made it possible is, first, the places they live in, where men and women are viewed equally, where they get encouragement from the schools, from the university, and from the parents, and they can see achievements by other women,” she said.
“Over there, the neighborhood they live in is going to elect them when they see the person is trustworthy, honest, working and clean. White and Black would vote for that.”
Harun Maruf contributed reporting from Washington.
source/content: voanews.com (headline edited)
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Democratic Congresswoman Ilhan Omar speaks to supporters at an election night party after winning reelection early Wednesday morning, Nov. 9, 2022, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
An interview with Sada Mire dives into the difficulties and rewards of preserving history and letting local perspectives guide heritage management in Somalia and Somaliland.
SOMALIA AND SOMALILAND are home to a rich heritage of archaeological treasures. But until recently, there was only one active, formally trained Somali archaeologist working in the region: Sada Mire.
In 1991, Mire was forced to flee Somalia with her family as a teenager after her father was killed by a genocidal government. She gained asylum in Sweden and eventually earned her Ph.D. in archaeology from University College London. During her studies, she learned that some of the significant stone tools that shaped scientists’ views of evolution came from Somaliland but were taken to Europe during the colonial era.
Inspired, Mire returned to her homeland determined to retell the history of the Horn of Africa and preserve its heritage—despite the difficulty of working in a region where religious sects jealously control narratives around Somali history and identity, and political conflict is causing humanitarian crises.
Somaliland is not officially a nation-state. It’s a self-declared country that is considered part of Somalia. A British protectorate since the 1880s, Somaliland became an independent country recognized by the United Nations on June 26, 1960. Less than a week later, it merged with the newly independent country Somalia. Early political tensions worsened in 1969 when Gen. Mohamed Siad Barre staged a coup and installed himself as president, imposing ethnic nationalist policies that favored one of the main Somali clans over the rest.
In the 1980s, civil war broke out between Barre’s dictatorship and the Somali National Movement, primarily composed of the Isaaq clan, the largest in northwest Somalia, including what is today Somaliland. The Barre government committed acts of genocide against the Isaaq clan, reportedly killing 200,000 Isaaq people between 1987 and 1989. Millions fled during the conflict, including Mire and her family, who belong to the Isaaq clan.
In 1991, with Barre ousted, Somaliland reasserted itself by declaring unilateral independence, this time without international recognition. But Mire always refers to Somalia and Somaliland as separate nations because, she says, “as an anthropologist, I call people what they say they are, and I respect that’s the decision of the country and its people.”
Mire has worked tirelessly to create change that fosters heritage preservation in a region with scant infrastructure to support archaeological work. She established the Department of Tourism and Archaeology in Somaliland and is creating a digital museum that features Somali objects and materials. Mire is deliberate about teaching archaeological skills to local people so they may carry out their own work at the community and institutional levels. All these are steps toward sharing the rich legacy of African peoples with African communities and the rest of the world.
Wenner-Gren Foundation project director and anthropologist Eshe Lewis interviewed Mire via Zoom in May. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
EL:
Can you talk about your background and how you came to be an archaeologist working in Somalia and Somaliland?
SM:
It’s incredible that I am here now, that I have a university degree, that I even went to high school. My father and mother were educated. My brother now teaches in a university in Somaliland. My twin sister is a gynecological oncologist. In my family, it was understood that you got an education or you did what you could to educate yourself. My twin sister and I were very studious.
But because of the political situation in Somalia at the time, our clan became a target. At the age of 12, I lost all my rights to have an education. We were expelled from school, and we never thought we would be able to go back. From then on, I was self-taught. I read books and learned languages at home. The habit of learning and teaching myself has never left me.
EL:
Why is it important to conduct archaeological research in Somaliland and Somalia? And what are the most fulfilling aspects of the work you’re doing?
SM:
Right from the start, it was all about why we have so little representation of African history and African people, who have existed for over 200,000 years on the African continent. We have contributed so much to culture, science, technology, governance, philosophy, and literature, and there is nothing about it in the history books. In 2022, you have people who have no idea about what Africa has done. So, that is the number one reason I do what I do.
Also, I feel I can make the world a better place. I know that sounds like such a cliché, but I really think that if history books are revised, people will understand what others are worth, and they will appreciate their trajectory. Removing African history and experiences and holistic images from books creates a situation where people know nothing about, and hence fear, African people. And the few that live up to the negative stereotypes become the rule for them.
If your classmate doesn’t know your history, they don’t know you. They cannot. I believe that by understanding a nation’s past, a people’s past, a person’s past, we can appreciate them. We may not like what they do, but we understand them. I feel that there is so much work to be done to shed light on the history of Black people, Africans, and people of color.
EL:
What research and heritage protection work do you do in the region?
SM:
One of the longest research projects I’ve been doing is on medicinal and sacred plants through medical anthropology. I’m also a zooarchaeologist and a bone specialist. So, some of what we are preserving is that kind of archaeological material, including massacre sites from the recent genocide. I’m working on another project about astronomy. We found one of the earliest calendars—a whole ancient rock art site with the calendars painted. We are working with local researchers who study folklore and have created the first traditional Somali calendar.
In Somali nomadic culture, we have our own way of preserving heritage and an understanding of heritage that really clashed with [Western] best practices and this notion of monuments and artifacts—the more dogmatic UNESCO formula. UNESCO now covers intangible heritage, but often when Westerners do archaeology in the Horn of Africa—and especially in the Somali region—it’s really extractive. It comes from a tradition of going somewhere with the agenda of getting data out and filling a gap. That scientific and/or, often, Eurocentric gap is not the gap of the people.
Somalis challenged me right from the start when I said, “You don’t protect archaeological sites. The museums are being looted. You don’t care about your heritage!” They said, “No, that’s not our heritage.” I was confused, as a Western-educated student, that we did not care about these objects. I asked, “What is your heritage if you don’t care about this?” And they said, “Ah! Now we’ll tell you.”
EL:
How did you respond?
SM:
I developed something I called the Knowledge-Centered Approach based on what I learned about heritage from them, and this is what guides me. It’s the preservation of knowledge and skill rather than objects and artifacts. Heritage is performance that takes place on different mediums. You know, if you are in a scene, there is a sofa, maybe a chair, the way you are dressed, how you look, speak, and act. That is our heritage! That shows us as living, thinking human beings with logic.
I developed a framework to study this. It is called the ritual set, and I outlined it in my book Divine Fertility. Understanding African peoples’ logic links us with our past. In my own work it’s about an ideology of a sacred kinship and sustainability. This is the whole idea behind my book.
I explore Somalis’ questions about their identity. Who were we? Where do we come from? Why have we been told we are Arabs when we are Africans? Clearly, we are Black, and we are in Africa.
I also have personal questions about my heritage. Somalis are Muslims, but did we ever have any other ideology? Were we at some point something else? Why do we only know Islam?
Why do we think our ancestors were all from Arab countries, when in fact we are genetically the same as the Oromo, who are our neighbors? We have 50 percent lexical similarity. They look like me, I look like them, we practice the same traditional rituals. They may be Christian, and we may be Muslim, but we share Indigenous culture. Those questions have really not been answered by archaeologists or historians working in the Horn of Africa, local or foreign. There is a huge scientific gap, and for that public, I fill that gap.
EL:
Has there been any backlash to your work?
SM:
In 2009, my Ph.D. dissertation was put under restricted access because I was threatened by extremists. As soon as my book was published in 2020, I faced fresh threats from ideologues who are not interested in scientific research or common sense.
EL:
What is the source of this reaction?
SM:
This is misogyny. These are people who hate women and who use anything they can to stop them. They also fear intellectual women—and are afraid that there’s somebody researching and finding diversity in our past. However, this is not only restricted to my region; extremists of all religions have always dogmatically advanced a certain purity and homogeneity. Look at what is happening in India. I wrote my first ever academic article on the Ayodhya conflict in India, and I was prepared when I entered the Horn that I would have to deal with dogmatic views on our past.
There is a plurality of practices, identities, landscape hues, and traditions that link us to our African heritage. And it’s not a bad place to be from if you really open your mind and understand the heritage of this place, the history of food production, the linguistic plurality of Ethiopia, the Nile civilizations of Meroe, Aksum, Nubia, all the way to Upper and Lower Egypt. You have Rwanda and Uganda, with [one of] the earliest iron productions anywhere in the world, an independent invention! The history and heritage are incredible!
EL:
What are some of the challenges you face when doing heritage preservation in a conflict zone?
SM:
Everything I do in this region is soaked in challenges.
This is a post-conflict situation where the country is not officially recognized, where there are no legal instruments and no notion of heritage. My paper in 2007 was the first study of heritage in Somaliland. The heritage work I’ve been doing the past 15 years has involved establishing a law for heritage protection and physically protecting sites through measures like fencing and hiring guardians and custodians, but also preservation so that we have digital documentation and heritage research.
But the lack of understanding of heritage creates more challenges. People see Westerners who have worked there, and without exception, none of them has worked on heritage. Everything has been “go and dig.” This has also led to conflict within the people I train. They say, “Sada, you never do excavations. You’re the odd one because you’re not digging.” And I say, “How can we excavate when we don’t have laws or a single museum?” We dig a grave, and then what? What is protecting that grave? What are the legal instruments that oblige anybody to protect it or to hold others accountable?
The people who are coming here to dig have laws and museums in their countries. The contracts are signed with their laws, even though it’s our country. There’s a knowledge and awareness gap with the locals who don’t understand the way they are being exploited. There’s a sense of archaeology as a White man’s sport, as fun and extractive and magical—all these words that mystify it for local people. If someone comes along and says, “Let’s dig up what’s in there,” it appeals to our human curiosity.
That was the archaeological stance 400 years ago. But in Africa, [some people think] it’s OK for it to be at that level today.
There are so many Africans who are interested in this field, have awareness, and want to change things.
EL:
Can you talk about your efforts to encourage more Africans to get involved in heritage preservation and to collaborate across countries?
SM:
When I was at Leiden University, I created the online course Heritage Under Threat because I knew a lot of people didn’t have the opportunity to come to a place like Leiden to study a world-class course. Over 7,000 people have taken part. This was around 2015, when not many Black people were professors of archaeology and teaching online courses. So, for students it was a free, advanced course taught by a Black woman with a lot of African material that everybody could take part in. From that experience, I realized there are so many Africans who are interested in this field, who have awareness, and who want to change things.
When I created the Horn Heritage Foundation, the idea was to work in Ethiopia, Kenya, Somalia, Somaliland, Eritrea, and to have a regional exchange. And that’s what we’re doing—coordinating on a regional level so we are not isolated in our thinking. This has been one of the colonial goals within Africa: to isolate people from each other so they don’t value each other or each other’s experiences and contributions—to keep them unaware.
Academic divide and rule continues through gatekeeping. For example, funding is allocated through Western institutions by Western, and often White, male panels. Often, those coming to Africa with the funding prefer to work with people who will go along with whatever they are doing. There’s a lot of that going on, unfortunately.That is exactly what I was hinting at in my piece in The Guardian —that African heritage is still very much neglected, and the whole system is rather self-serving. It does not help that in various parts of Africa there are conflicts that limit how much can be done on the ground. So people, including foreign teams, tend to not leave the beaten track—not just physically but also conceptually. This impacts African heritage and its future.
What archaeology analyzes are things we have shed over the generations that come from our bodies, our movement, our intellectual process. When that continuity is denied, we are alienated from our history and then reintroduced to it by someone coming from hundreds of miles away. In this way, archaeological tools have been used to aid the colonial process.
EL:
What can be done to change this, to create a path toward a different future?
SM:
I am one of the few African archaeologists who have worked in several African countries. We need greater interaction and collaboration between African archaeologists in the continent. Africans need to have access to tools so they can do the work themselves. Online courses and free or accessible outlets help to do that.
When we were doing the digital heritage project documenting rock art, we were interested in training people using what they have. You have an iPhone? You can do a lot with an iPhone. You can edit and be the author and present [at a conference]. You can advocate. As Africans, we should have our own organic questions about our own identity and culture, and have the opportunity to explore them.
That’s what I mean when I say “cultural heritage is a basic human need.” It’s not something we should get from somewhere else; it’s already here. We are experienced. We are living that reality. It’s ours.
The friendship between a former Olympian and the college kid he took under his wing shows the power of mentoring — to make both individuals’ lives all the richer.
This story comes to you from the Star Tribune, a partner with Sahan Journal. We will be sharing stories between Sahan Journal and Star Tribune.
In Mohamed Abdi Mohamed’s childhood, Abdi Bile was like a folk hero.
“My mom told me all these stories,” says Mohamed, 26, who was born in Somalia and grew up in a refugee camp. “She told me there’s a Somali who went to America and basically conquered America.”
Bile was a world champion runner, dominating the 1,500-meter race in the late 1980s. He’s also a national legend and the most decorated athlete in the history of Somalia, where a certain make of pickup truck has been dubbed the “Abdi Bile” for its speed. In 2019, Bile quietly moved from Virginia to Minnesota to coach runners and help develop youth in Minneapolis.
But all Mohamed knew was that there was a hero living in his midst when he worked the phones in Minnesota’s Somali American community to get hold of Bile’s cell number. At the time, he was a junior at Macalester College in St. Paul and at the lowest point of his five years in the United States. Homesickness, grief and plummeting grades were leading him to question if coming here on an academic scholarship was worth it.
On a gamble, Mohamed called Abdi Bile.
Shockingly, Abdi Bile picked up.
Mohamed could hardly spit out the words as he told Bile he had just started running for Macalester’s track team — and — would the coach be interested in meeting him one day?
“If I was lucky, I would get to see him even once,” Mohamed remembers thinking.
The next day, Bile showed up at Mohamed’s doorstep in St. Paul. That encounter started a friendship that the two say will continue for the rest of their lives.
When I sat down with them near the home of the Loppet Foundation, where Bile directs competitive running programs, organizes walks for seniors, and introduces Somali American families to cross-country skiing, the 59-year-old former Olympian assured me that the story I wanted to tell — about the power of mentoring — was not just about him.
“Mohamed’s journey is very interesting, from where he started to where he is today — it’s just incredible,” Bile says. “You just see the resiliency of human beings, the struggles they go through, and how they survive if they don’t give up.”
But Bile’s story is remarkable, too. Once a teen standout soccer player, he decided on a whim to join some nearby runners who were training for the 400-meter. He beat them to the finish line, but felt so woozy afterward that he threw up.
Within a week, however, he learned two things about running: If you were good enough, you could win a scholarship to attend college in the United States — and even advance to this thing called the Olympics. When he quit the soccer team, Bile told his coach: “I’m going to the Olympics. I’m going to get a scholarship. I’m going to America. Goodbye!”
Killer workouts and his initial disdain for running did not deter Bile. “I hated it. But I just saw an opportunity: This is my way out. This is my meal ticket.”
Within just a few years, he cashed in on that ticket. He ran on an athletic scholarship at George Mason University in Virginia and competed in his first Olympics — the 1984 games in Los Angeles.
More than 35 years later, he saw echoes of himself — the dedication, the sense of purpose — when he got that phone call from the kid at Macalester.
Mohamed’s journey
Growing up in the sprawling Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya, Mohamed used to walk 4 kilometers to fetch water for his family. Whenever a blinking red light in the sky soared past, his mom used to point to the airplane and tell her son this would be his ride out of the camp.
And a scholarship was the only way to catch that ride.
With some diligence and luck, Mohamed earned a scholarship through Blue Rose Compass, a nonprofit that affords gifted young refugees a shot at a university education. It was through this gift that he was able to attend an international boarding school in New Mexico and then Macalester.
Unlike Bile, Mohamed never knew of Somalia’s idyllic beaches or peaceful past, a land rich in history and culture. He was a kid born into civil war, only to learn of his homeland’s halcyon days through stories imparted by his mom and dad.
“In their minds exists a grand country,” he says. “And at the center of this country is Coach Abdi Bile.”
“At least I had a country, a stable life,” Bile muses. “This kid just grew up in a refugee camp. What hope do you have in a refugee camp? A refugee camp is a prison. You have to do whatever it takes to get out of those four walls.”
When Mohamed first called Bile, he was on the cusp of giving up and going home. The second eldest of eight kids, he hadn’t seen his family in five years. He was mourning the death of his uncle, who was struck by a stray bullet in Mohamed’s hometown of Kismayo. His grades were slipping, and he was almost put on academic probation.
“I was starting to feel sorry for myself,” Mohamed recalls. “I was questioning the decisions I made. It feels like you’re living in a virtual reality — you have everything you need, but your family is still living in a refugee camp. I was willing to throw everything away.”
With Bile he forged the kind of connection he couldn’t find anywhere else. “What I needed was some tough love,” Mohamed says.
“He needed my help,” Bile says. “Right away, I could relate to what he’s crying for, what his issues and problems are. Sometimes it’s not a lot — sometimes the person just needs someone to talk to.”
The hardest lap
Bile told Mohamed about his first days in the United States as a college student, so poor he couldn’t cobble together the coins to do his laundry. Bile reminded Mohamed of all the people who were in his corner and invited Mohamed to Bile’s training program for elite runners so he could meet other young Somalis working toward big dreams.
“In running, the hardest is the last lap,” Bile tells me, recalling how he almost abandoned the sport because of injuries. After healing his body through yoga and acupuncture, Bile won a world championship in 1987.
“Sometimes people who quit, they don’t know how close they were to the finish line,” the coach adds.
Mohamed listened to his mentor: — Look what you came from. You’re almost there. You’re here, you’re doing it. This is nothing compared to how far you’ve traveled — and kept putting one foot in front of the other.
His internships and work-study jobs helped pave the way for his family to leave the refugee camp and find an apartment in Nairobi. His siblings now are receiving the kind of education he had only dreamed of while in the camp.
And what about the kid who came so close to throwing it all away? Mohamed graduated from Macalester in December. No one in his family could be at the ceremony, but Abdi Bile, the hero of his parents’ stories, showed up to watch Mohamed cross the stage. Bile says he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
Mohamed is now reverse-mentoring his coach, encouraging Bile to start an Instagram account so he may ignite a spark for other young people. This week, the recent college grad also started a job as a tech analyst for a global consulting firm with offices in Minneapolis.
As the two recap the highs and lows of the past couple of years, Bile dabs his wet eyes with a carefully folded tissue.
“You did it,” he tells Mohamed. “You have a good job. You’re going to take good care of your brothers and sisters.”
The coach says he wants other young people, those who can trace a whiff of opportunity, to learn from this young man — that they should go ahead and be brave with their lives.
“Mohamed’s story is a good story for our kids here,” Bile adds.
“And so is a world champion helping his people,” Mohamed counters. “How many people can say they have the greatest athlete in the history of their country rooting for them?”
source/content: sahanjournal.com
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Mohamed Abdi Mohamed, right, stands for a portrait with his mentor Abdi Bile, the most decorated athlete in Somalia’s history. Bile, who directs a running program through the Loppet Foundation in Minneapolis, is coaching Mohamed not only in running but in life. Credit: Anthony Souffle | Star Tribune
Fartun Osman, the CEO and head coach of Girls Rock, an all-girls club founded in 2004 that promotes sport for Somali and Muslim girls, will be honoured by the NCAA with the 2022 Legacy Award for her local activism in the Minneapolis area.
The award ceremony is part of the NCAA Men’s and Women’s Final Four festivities.
Osman is one of eight community leaders in the US to be recognized for her contributions to female athletics. She will be awarded a plaque during the semifinal games at the Women’s Final Four in Minneapolis on April 1.
Born in Somalia, Fartun Osman was a rare female basketball player in her native country. She was always active in sports and said that her first love was soccer but pivoted to basketball because of the lack of opportunities for women in the sport.
Osman traveled to other countries as part of the women’s Somali national basketball team as a teenager.
Following the breakout of the civil war in the early 1990s, Fartun emigrated to the US. She quickly discovered similar barriers to entry for Somali and Muslim girls into sports and made it her mission to make sports more equitable for girls who look like her.
She fought hard for the rights of her all-Muslim girl soccer teams to play with their hijabs, and her Girls Rock initiative has coached and mentored over 1,000 girls.
“The 2022 NCAA Legacy honorees are an impressive slate of community leaders and citizens who, through their daily actions, have shown their care and concern for their neighbors,” said Felicia Martin, NCAA senior vice president of inclusion, education and community engagement.
Somali immigrant who conquered the high seas for seven months in 2008 elected Councillor in Italy.
He braved the desert and the high seas at the height of turmoil in Mogadishu in 2008 and for seven months, Abdullahi Ahmed Moalim kept the dream alive against the odds of the dangerous journeys taken by many Somalis but survived by a few.
This week, Moalim was elected a Councillor in Turino City in Italy becoming the first Somali immigrant to occupy the position in about 25 years. He garnered 1112 votes in City Council elections conducted on October 17, 2021
Upon arrival in Italy in 2008, Moalim integrated into his new home and eight years later in 2016, he was granted citizenship.
“I declared my candidature in July after the Democratic Party convinced me to run for the seat in October elections. We launched a two months campaign which was fruitful and helped us secure the seat,” Moalim said in a media interview.
Asked about his priorities, Moalim said he aspired to fight Islamophobia and was intend on seeking the Council’s approval for a day every month to create awareness on countering Islamophobia.
Moalim now joins the ranks of Mohamed Aden Sheikh who was elected to Turino City Council in 1997.
He also enters the club of growing number of Somalis who have been elected into office in countries such as Canada and the US.
