As many of you likely know, the largest Somali/Somali-American community in the U.S. is in the St. Paul/Minneapolis area. The good people of Minnesota are doing what they can to support the Somali/Somali-American community there.

Our subscriber and contributor, Merna H. from Washington state writes:
“…The least I can do is honor the amazing Somali poets whom I’ve had the privilege of working with over many years. I’m sending these weekly poems in awe of their poetic depth and wisdom. I join you in full support of our local and national Somali/Somali American communities and all immigrants and refugees experiencing the harms imposed on them by the current administration.
 
“Thank you so much for taking your time to read and savor these amazing poems and to share them with your friends and family, if you so choose.”

We’re publishing these weekly poems in solidarity with every single Somali and Somali-American living in the U.S. Please come and revisit this post anytime to re-read these poems written by these Somali high school students.
For more information on the new Word Travels Project, “Uplifting Voices,” email: <wordtravels2025@gmail.com>
In peace, poems, and prayers for doing everything we can to keep our communities and our country safe and welcoming for all, and with warm New Year Greetings to all,

* * *

1.  The young Somali woman, a former student, who wrote this poem fully believed she would thrive in America and fulfill her dream of attending Law School. We need her and countless other young refugees, immigrants and asylum seekers who are beautifully and brilliantly prepared to contribute to creating a more just and humane United States.
 As S. says in her poem, “May we hold each other’s hands and live in peace.”

I AM

by S., from Somalia, former High School Student.

I am a girl
who wears every color
of Hijab–pink, black, maroon,
whose eyes are dark,
whose skin is the color of almonds.

I am a hardworking person,
I am a proud Muslim,
I am from Somalia,
I am full Somali,
I am someone who cares about your pain,
emotion and culture.

I am a person who wishes
to graduate from university,
to study law and become a lawyer.
I am a hopeful person,
I am a person who wants to have a successful life,
I am a person who tries everything that’s new to me,
I am a person who talks about great decisions.
I am person who believes in herself,
I am a person who thinks that the people of this earth
should hold each other’s hands to live in peace,
and they should care about their Mother Earth.

* * *

2. A Story, Somalia

Written by Y., from Somalia, former high school student

My old home has the scent of good birth,
boiled green beans, deep cornel oil,
and hand me down poetry.
Its brick, bright white-washed walls are widowed
from their first paint,
the walls uneven, cracking from gun shots and rocks.
The thin roof tops always hummed songs of promise,
the wind locked into a demonic rhythm with the leaves,
the trees with the wind hugging them,
loving them with a torturous love.

The round cemented pots 
kept the raindrops cool,
spattering the foreheads of neighbors and dwellers softly.
Loud children playing football, with sand under their socks,
we had what we had and it wasn’t a lot,
but no one knew they were poor,
we were all innocent of greed’s hunger
to judge, to oppress, to take.
Then Death came, multiplying like even numbers,
splitting family members in seconds.
The death of my brother remains
as the separation between my father and me.

Writing became the father I never had.
 Growing up, war was a playground 
and my friends and I played in it,
 never did we learn to ride bicycles 
or play with dolls.
 War was our playground.
Somalia used to combust with life
like a long hibernating volcano,
farmers, fishermen, even fighters had a place
in our productivity.
The beautiful coast line,
the elastic shore, the glorious mosques,
I yearn for the warm scent of the Somalian rain.
Growing up, I feared the sea and closed doors,
because whenever I dived into the pool of risk-taking
it always seemed like I drowned.
Drowning in a sea with no open door,
no escape, was my fear.

How I miss the magical night of Somalia, the sky
collapsing willingly over its inhabitants,
the burning sun of June, the guarding moon,
the long naps at noon,
the freedom poets, the rampant wisdom,
the magnetic tongue,
those were joyous days.
Now, people rise to look for change,
like a new moon’s birth.

The art of storytelling is the world
I wish for,
I would wander off to it,
until my story of Somalia is told.

* * *

3. Somalia, an Ocean 

Written by S., from Somalia, former high school student

Somalia is an ocean
undisturbed it is beautiful,
clear, blue, peaceful,
disturbed and disrupted,
it is dark, bloody, dangerous.

The ocean is calling us
the tides are bringing peace
but we can’t hear
because of the war
we changed the water into blood
and the beautiful waves that have always been there
have gone to jail for a long time now.  

The ocean is crying
because we let her down
we smashed her to the ground
and denied her any chance for peace
as if we don’t need the ocean,
but we long for her,
to see the reflection of our beauty in her.

Somalia, it is time to open our eyes
and see how the ocean looks today
Somalia, it is time to free the ocean
it is time for the ocean to rise
like the flag that stands for peace.

Let the ocean tides bring us peace
Somalia, it is time to welcome
the ocean and open our hearts.
Let us come together
be undisturbed in peace,
let us come together,
and let the water be clear once more,
and we shall not let our blood touch the water again.

4. Odkac

By H., High School student from Somalia. She takes us into her love for her mother’s Somali kitchen and writes of sharing stories and food across generations.

I remember the smells and sounds
coming from my mother’s kitchen,
the food my mother prepared 
Sambusa, chicken biryani, and odkac.

I eat and remember my mom 
sharing family stories 
as she mixed flour with salt
and beef steak with xawaash and cardamom powder,
she spoke of what my grandparents went through 
and how hard it was to live
without food and shelter,
losing families, relatives,
in front of their own eyes.
As she sliced tomatoes, chopped onions,
cut carrots, and minced garlic
her eyes welled up from
memory and onion,
and she recalled
how war was in front of them.

Cooking brings out
the stories we need
to learn from
as if mixing spice
with stories
folds together our
life and emotions,
and sharing food together
helps us to share life together.

My mother’s kitchen is a safe space
to talk about war and death,
to talk about the meaning of sacrifice
and not giving up
over a full plate of odkac.

5. Nature Poem

By M., High School Student from Somalia. M’s short poem addresses the predicament of our times, speaking truth with few words and deep insight.

Nature, I can hear your tears calling and yelling
in the middle of the night, calling for help,
but they cannot hear you,
their minds focus on taking over
countries and planning wars.
They cut your trees with no hesitation,
they no longer know the meaning
of beauty.

By Adhya Kidiyoor, 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, 13, Texas.

The steady, gentle pour of the rain
The hot steam spiraling from the cup in my hands
The soft creaking of the wooden swing beneath me
This takes me back to where I belong
This takes me home.

I linger there for a while, trying hard to piece myself back together

The thunder booms, shaking the rain-soaked earth, scattering my broken thoughts across the mossy ground.

The swing freezes midair.
My chai loses its last warmth.
Time seems to stand still.

Who am I?
I’m a girl who’s lost.
A girl in the glorious shower of rain
A girl remembering the soft, familiar canopy of past days
A girl falling apart in the monsoon, not yet ready to let it go.

A girl who longs to go back.

Sitting here without the warmth of my home, I feel so small.
Alone.

Lightning flashes, and for a moment, everything seems clear.

I breathe again, as the rain grows heavier and heavier
As the burden I carry feels lighter and lighter

I listen, for once, as the murmurs of life grow smaller and smaller
And the depths of my clarity grow deeper and deeper

I pause, in wonder as the tiny insignificant raindrop becomes a brilliant shower—
Something bigger.

The rain grows stronger, the steady stream washing away my confusion
For the first time, I can see clearly.

Alone, I would be swept away, just another raindrop swept away in the current
But I don’t have to be alone

The stories of pride and joy, so achingly familiar, keep me warm.
The whispered tales, so fondly believed, keep me company.
These are my roots.
This is my culture.

The rain fades away, as all moments must.
But I can find solace in this memory
I can find clarity in this moment
And in the rain, I find not just my answer but myself.

I am not just a drop, but part of a storm.
I am not just a person, but part of a nation.

I am not just a girl, but the spirit of what makes India beautiful.
And that is all I need.

* * * *

Somewhere between that last sip of chai and the weight of the rain, I stopped worrying and began to listen. The rain didn’t just fall—it spoke, in a language older than our names, dialogue that can be felt and heard. It tells me, tells all of us, that home isn’t always a place, but a scent, a story, or the rhythm our footsteps carve and the droplets copy. And sometimes, the storm doesn’t break you. Sometimes, it brings you back home.

* * * *

The steady fall of the rain
   counters the frantic
    thumping of my heart.

I am surrounded by the scent
  of moss and earth
   and all things green with life.

It was a dry period,
   one without the flourish of nature
    and the embrace of home.

But
  monsoon
   is coming soon.

I now sit on the swing
  that has swayed the same since I was six—regardless of storm or season.

The sky weeps a wretched cry,
   hungry to drown all that is familiar.

I must remind myself
  this brutal storm is nothing new.

And the lifeless land will be ruined only momentarily—
  hard and loveless destruction giving way to plentiful earth.

For days, the skies will wail
  and the clouds will darken,
      closing their weepy eyes.

   I wonder if this storm will ever pass.

But
  monsoon
   comes every year.

So by now, I must know
  the storm will waver eventually—
   desperate, darkened skies shutting their curtains  

to reveal the calm of the sun
   the soft of verdant grass
       And the saffron and marigold of the ripe aam
         That I have been waiting for.

         My little swing continues to rock
        and the rain continues to fall
      but I continue to breathe
 Because the skies have promised

To epilogue into vibrant
    orange, white and green,
     that fills me with the spirit of India,
      alive in every drop of rain.

Written jointly by Adhya Kidiyoor, and 14, Texas, and Maira Khwaja, age 13, Texas.

Adhya loves staying active—especially in the world of literature! Whether it’s volunteering, competing in Science Olympiad, or practicing tennis, she’s always doing something. When she’s not on the move, you’ll find her reading, listening to music, or working on her next big idea. She’s curious, motivated, and always up for a new challenge.

Maira has a passion for learning and creativity. She enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time outdoors. When she’s not volunteering with nonprofits, she’s either listening to music or practicing karate.