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.

I Have Two Names

By Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico.

I have two names; a Chinese name and an American one. My Chinese name is Peixin (沛心) . It means “pure heart.” My American name is Joy. My parents named me that because they want me to be happy.

My Chinese name is the one that is official. It’s written all over my legal documents. On first days of school, when the teacher calls roll, I’m always last, because my last name is Yin (尹). But I always need to correct them, “I go by Joy, though.” Sometimes, the teacher forgets and keeps calling me Peixin. And sometimes, I hear laughs and giggles from my classmates. I feel guilty to say, that sometimes, I feel a bit ashamed for having a Chinese name. So, when someone asks me, “What’s your name?” I always tell them to call me Joy. When the substitute pauses while taking attendance, it’s always me. When I write my name on my computer or phone, it always gets autocorrected. It’s almost as if the universe hates my name.

My American name is what they call me. When my family moved to the U.S., my parents gave me my American name so it would be easier for people to remember me, and for it to not be awkward and embarrassing for me every time someone pronounced my Chinese name wrong. My American friends all know me as Joy. I feel connected to the name; I feel like it’s me. Yet, I always get reminded of my real name.

But after three years of living in my hometown in China again, my feelings towards my name have changed. In China, my classmates and teachers all called me Peixin (pronouncing it perfectly!), and I was normal for once. In school, I was able to improve my Mandarin as well (a hard process, but worth it!). During that time, I also felt more connected to my culture, and learned more about it, although I sort of missed my American name and identity.

By now, I’ve accepted the fact that both of my names are part of my identity. Different parts of it. And I’ve embraced my Chinese name more. Especially after I saw many Asians at my new international school use only their Asian names.

My two names are two parts of my identity—living together in harmony, forever and always.

—Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico. She adds: “Born in Wuhan, China, I have also lived in California for five years. I speak and write Mandarin Chinese and English but I am also trying my best to learn Mexican Spanish. I have never been a sports person. Instead, I’ve always loved reading and writing. I’m currently 13 years old, and attending an international school in Mexico City.”