Memories of a Land Left Behind

I write from the perspective of a second-generation U.S. American woman of Somali descent, and I feel the telling of this story is better because of it. My first memories of Somali lands are from my parents, the memories of my parents. The smells of trees of lemon, banana, and mango. The sounds of honking tuk-tuks and shouting street vendors and crashing waves against white sands. The towering architectures painting trading histories and colonial strongholds. The roots of their parents and their grandparents. Growing up, the dreams and stories of a Somalia frozen in nostalgia and nomadism engraved the walls of my childhood homes. A Somali home they had to run from. 

I have lived my whole life under endless war, from witnessing police in riot gear patrolling the streets of Los Angeles like an occupied zone, to seeing the children buried under the rubble of U.S. bombs in Gaza, and now Iran engulfed in the fires of drone strikes. As I watch this transnational violence unfolding, I am reminded that the wrath of the U.S. empire is ruthless in both our local communities and our motherlands. I have learned this through my own lived experience growing up in working-class, immigrant Los Angeles as a daughter of the Iranian and Mexican diasporas. Even as I write this, my father is in Iran, where Israel and the United States have bombed hospitals, water systems, and civilian infrastructure. I am living my worst nightmare in real time: my family’s lives caught in the crosshairs of a war paid for by my own tax dollars.

As we bear witness to the unrelenting cruelty carried out by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and the Trump administration against our communities, as they continue to kidnap migrants and separate families, we are overwhelmed by the sense of grief, anger, and fear that has collectively consumed the people of Los Angeles. Simultaneously, we are also inspired by the organized resistance largely led by the children of migrants, who are confronting ICE with admirable courage. While many have rightly alluded to the uncanny resemblance of the current moment to what occurred nearly a century ago during the rise of fascist Nazi Germany, we do not need to go that far to make the connections, as there are several examples much closer to home.

Do Black lives matter, especially when they are being extinguished on the African continent rather than in the Global North? This was a question that emerged in conversations online and off over the past 18 months, as conflicts in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Sudan have continued to rage with little news coverage. The wars in eastern Congo and Sudan, in different ways, are rooted in and fueled by the desires of overseas powers – national and corporate – for the rich natural resources possessed by these two African countries. The Democratic Republic has seen one of the most protracted wars in modern history, with unrest and violence in eastern Congo persisting for almost thirty years. Over these three decades, a tense and imbalanced relationship between the DRC, its neighbors, Rwanda and Uganda, and Western governments (in particular Belgium) and transnational corporations, have played a prominent role.

Since taking office, one of Donald Trump’s recurring talking points has been reclaiming U.S. control over the Panama Canal and Greenland. During last week’s State of the Union Address, Trump smugly declared, “To further enhance our national security, my administration will be reclaiming the Panama Canal,” prompting a standing ovation largely from his cabinet members.

As a 1.5 generation Panamanian immigrant in the United States, Trump’s inflammatory remarks trigger a deep rage within me.

“Being of Pech descent in the diaspora is not easy, especially considering that we are taught our colonizers “saved us.” This narrative has created generational trauma for my family, who feels constantly unheard and alienated from our land. However, I know we are seeds of resistance and our spirits cannot be taken away. On November 28, Xiomara Castro and the Libre Party won the presidential elections in Honduras—a victory that represents hope and trust for a better country and for our people.”