I am not really cadaan, but….

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few years back while I was in university, a friend of mine shared a strange story that happened to him. After spending the day with his friend, her mom came to pick her up. While his friend was getting into the car, the mom audibly asked – an in the most polite tone – if her “coloured” friend would like a ride. Completely taken a back, he accepted the offer and sat silently for the majority of the ride. Later as we recalled the event, we genuinely asked ourselves “should he have been offended?” “Should she have known better in this day and age”? “Is the usage of ‘coloured’ even wrong”?

Damn these racist people.

And that’s how it’s has been. Always on one side of the fence.

I suppose through all these experiences and shared anecdotes, I came to feel a sense of moral superiority. Thankfully, the universe has a bad habit of showing us our hubris. Like Icarus crashing back down, my belief that I could not be ignorantly racist fell from its lofty heights.

In the summer of 2015, something was gaining traction, Caadan Studies. (see here, here, and here for the discourse). I can’t truthfully recall how I first found out about it, but I was so excited to find out that members involved in Caadan Studies had been invited to take part in a conference at York U (a university in my city). I enjoyed it immensely. Seeing other Somalis interested in such a subject brought relief to some loneliness. Other Somalis questioning are out here!

Unfortunately, this was also the occasion I acted like an ignorant racist. After the discussion in the lecture hall, a few who were still interested in talking with the panelist and organizers stayed behind. After conversing with some of the other laggards and congratulating the organizers and panelist, I started talking to a habaryar who was one of the panelist and began lamenting to her about the unfortunate situation that those of my generation (and after) are in since we lack narratives from marginalized groups.

Every time I recall this exchange, I shake my head from embarrassment and a tinge of disgust at my arrogance. That’s because what I asked her (though a legitimate issue and one I still have strong feelings/support for) was approached in a bit more offensive manner. I said something closer to “ I want to know about the midgaan story is” or “how I wish I could here personal accounts from a midgaan”.  I had no idea how inappropriate what I was saying was. The word midgaan to me was simply descriptive and no alternative existed in my mind or experience. To appreciate severity of the exchange, substitute the word midgaan with nigger. Can you imagine, a white individual requesting to know about the ‘nigger story’!? Maybe this is close. Poor Cumberbatch.

It was not until sometime after that incident did I realize my “faux pas”. For a better understanding of the issue and word, read the article by Hawa Mire. In fact, it was this article that retrospectively framed the situation for me – like reliving a memory as it was being re-written. However, even this wonderful piece isn’t authoritative. Essentially it’s an issue of label.

Most frustrating is that this whole episode has left me somewhat confused. Should I be calling an Asian person indha yar? How far down this rabbit hole should I go? I was starting to have more empathy for the mother of the girl. As a Somali, it seems like my language is riddle with these words and my weak grasp of it does not help. Walking a line so thin that it’s almost invisible. These words we use are simply descriptive. What makes it pejorative are its speakers and time, right? Nigger was simply descriptive one time. Reading this short article from NPRs Code Switch for transformation of language helped a little. But where does this leave us ignorant people (i.e. all of us)? No choice but to sometimes straddle a line and have a few missteps on the wrong side.

Still something’s not right. Why don’t we call ourselves madow?

 

There is an episode of Star Trek’s The Next Generation (yes I am a sci-fi nerd) where we are introduced to an alien species that only communicates through metaphors and allegories. This method of communication is incomprehensible to others who only here the nonsensical strings of individual words even with the technology to translate languages universally.

Whenever I watch an old Somali Riwaayad, the ones where everyone is on stage with the blurry VHS quality (you know the ‘classics’ I am talking about), I always feel like Captain Picard from that star trek episode. I can understand a lot of the individual words, but I am keenly aware that I’ve missed something completely as my mom laughs during one exchange or when my dad nods in agreement at a soliloquy.

When I was younger, this didn’t really bother me too much. I knew I could carry on a conversation (with some somaglish in between stutters) But as I grew older, that gnawing realization of the missing link was becoming apparent. The language was riddled with context and history.

Not surprisingly, this was occurring as I was starting to become interested in the written word beyond having it forced on me in school. Finding writers and poets I can better relate to. I started to fully appreciate poetry, written stories, and essays in my adulthood. And as my reading increased, so did my vocabulary and ability to understand the writer better. Like listening to music on a standard headset or speaker. Thinking you here what the artist wanted you. Then switching to the better equipment and now able to hear the work completely – the subtle nuances, feeling of the bass, and appreciating the range of the vocals. My grasp of the English language has offered me new insights, but it has also highlighted the disparity in levels with my mother tongue. My grasp of the Somali language was limited to the level of a child/adolescent.

Being deprived of my language due to a limited grasp of the context and history meant that I’ll never be able to appreciate my people because I cannot understand its artists.

This is not a difficult leap. Beyond (and within) everyday communication, language transfers technical thoughts and abstract thoughts.  When speaking of technical thoughts, think of the use of the language in engineering or sciences. In this realm language needs to be precise and can more easily be translated. Abstract thoughts are more difficult to translate. They lie in the arena of poets and story tellers. Since these thoughts can never truly be translated, it can arguably be said it is the essence of the language.

For example, take an important event in Somali history: Independence. The technical language can tell me the date and figures. However; the abstract language will be able to express so much more: the feelings and emotions.

I hope you can appreciate my feeble attempt to show something substantive (at least from my limited knowledge) and an idea that’s not so new. People are its language, language is its artist, and artist speak for the people.

And so, I am unable to understand the Somali artist because I cannot understand their language riddled with context and history. As such, I cannot understand my people.

Like the captain, able to appreciate but never able to truly comprehend.

Now left to and more able (I hope) to express myself in a language I was not born to.