I Am A Somali Woman

I am the sister of the martyr.

I am the aunt of the potato seller at the local market.

I am the daughter of the local sheikh.

I am the injured of the revolution. The protester. The jailed. The detained.

I am the tortured. The exiled. The kidnapped. The raped.

I am the veiled. The non-veiled. I am a beautiful soul.

I am a Somali woman.

My skin is of ebony and ivory. I am young by spirit. Old by experience.

I am the pregnant. The wife. The single mother. The widow. The godobtiir and godobreeb tool forcing me into marriage as the compensation payment for another clan’s peace settlement.

I am a Somali woman.

Yet I am not a victim. I am a leader.

Not a woman leader. But a leader who happens to be a woman.

I clean up the streets of my nation. I rise up the past. The present and the future generations.

I brought the Nobel Peace Prize to Somalia.

I am a Somali woman.

I speak out for my son at school.

I speak up for my daughter in the madrasa.

I pray for my ancestors and for my older son in jail. I pray for my mother in the hospital.

I speak out for our artists who they keep bombing in theaters and on the streets.

I am a Somali woman.

I speak out for my mind. I am the pulse of the people.

I live in the city. In the town. In the rural areas. In the suburbs. On the mountains. Along the borders.

I am in Garowe. Mogadishu. Afgoye. Erigavo. Hargeisa. Galkayo. Bosaaso. Beletweyne. Badhan. Bocame. And every corner where there is life and sound.

I am a Somali woman.

I am synonymous with strength and victory.

I celebrate sisterhood. I celebrate motherhood.

I boost the economy. I advance the technology. I give life to the community.

Do I deserve to be equal to you?

Yes I do. Because I am a woman.

A Somali woman.

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