Why The Nomad Review?

It’s time to share the orgin of The Nomad Review’s name in light of the fascist GOP candidate who won’t be mentioned here.

It would spoil the vibe.

He irritated people with his utterance of hate towards Muslims worldwide.

I’d like to share why the slight was personal.

This story is about what would have happened had this reality ‘star’ said that in 1971/72.

First. The word-nomad means wanderer, and describes the lifestyle of the early times in the Somali Democratic Republic.

We learned the word Somali ts bard, or poet.

They’re a nation of poets, but you wouldn’t learn this in your average history class. 

In college it was  rewarding when you’re in allowed to plan your own independent study program. As a scholar, trained historian, and year abroad student I sought to record, observe the rich history, and oral literature of the Somali people.

I met with writers, and poets, such as Nurradin Farah, and National Poet Musa H.I. Galaal who I interviewed in 1971/72 for the project, Somalia: Poetry of the People.
My first visit was in 1971.

Shocked to meet Black airline pilots(being trained in Germany), the country was ‘impoverished’, ruled by a military dictator, but life in the city was relatively safe for this American female.

My American advisor was Olympic Sports Specialist Mal Whitfield. He and his family lived in a beautiful home right near Mogadishu beach, and the Indian Ocean.

I said relatively safe because when I returned in 1972 for six months the first night was slightly marred by a night visitor.

My host, a young Somali flight attendant, her pregnant cousin, and I slept outside in a tent like structure attached to the main house.

During this warm summer night I was awakened by the smell of cigarette smoke.

Sitting up suddenly was shocked to see an older man with a pock marked face sitting on my bed, exhaling. My screams so loud I awakened her parents, as he jumped up, and ran off.

When the girls asked what happened I described him, and told.

My Somali ‘mother’ knew him(he was an uncle), and promised he’d never be seen again.

By morning, she instructed several of her sons(twelve children-six boys, and six girls), to move all three of us into the house, and my bed was now by the only window in the room.

The culture doesn’t tolerate child molesters, and Ms. Timiro knew I was another mother’s child.

The rule of Islamic law here is-

if you’re guilty of such heinous acts, the punishment is death. Unlike the land of my birth.

The father of twelve also didn’t believe in female circumcision.

“None of my daughters will be circumcised,” he said.

Months later when the monsoon rains drenched the neighborhood of kilometer 4 in Mogadishu, I realized l’d grown to appreciate the simple things–a bathroom with all the comforts for example.

However, the most important-a lesson in humility, and gratitude.

Treated as family, we became one.

Too bad social media didn’t exist to share the common knowledge-don’t judge what you don’t know, and NEVER ban a group as you run for president.

It’s just NOT presidential.

Had this occurred in the 70’s, it’s highly possible the outcome could have been different.

Much different.

 

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