Islam, Somalinimo and American identity

Rebuilding a shattered mirror requires meticulous effort and a willingness to confront the varying and incomplete reflections within its fragments. Each shard tells a part of the story and reassembling them is no simple task. For much of my life, this broken mirror symbolized my identity—a blend of Somali heritage, being raised in America, and the grounding influence of my Islamic faith. Finding a way to bridge these parts was a long and arduous journey, marked by challenges and moments of self-discovery.

I grew up immersed in Somali traditions. My parents often recounted stories of their homeland, describing the vast, open deserts, the nomadic way of life, and the profound bonds between families. These tales were rich with pride and beauty but also tinged with sorrow. My father often mentioned a period when Somalia was a nation of peace and hope when neighbors shared meals and the air was filled with the sounds of children playing in the streets. He would talk of the vivid markets, where sellers sold everything from fresh dates to colorful textiles and the poetry evenings when people came to exchange rhymes that spoke to their souls. He enjoyed telling the narrative of his voluntary work in Somalia's remote nomadic districts.  

After the Somali alphabet was standardized in 1972, my father became involved in a government-led initiative to teach the Somali language to nomadic people. He detailed the lengthy trips he traveled by vehicle or camel, going beneath the immense expanse of the blue sky, carrying books, chalkboards, and a firm resolve. In these remote settlements, he would assemble groups of children and elders beneath acacia trees to teach them how to read and write Somali.  

He described the excitement in their eyes as they drew their first letters in the sand and the satisfaction they felt when they were able to write their names. My father often stressed the nomadic people's great perseverance and curiosity, who, despite their difficult circumstances, were ready to pursue education. He described these events as some of the most gratifying of his life. They represented a moment when Somalia was unified in its desire for a better future, and they instilled in him a strong confidence in the transformational potential of education. For him, those days harkened back to a Somalia that once existed—a nation of hope, learning, and intentionality. They spoke of the collapse of Somalia’s government, the rise of tribal conflicts, and the loss of stability. These narratives were both a gift and a burden, helping me feel connected to Somalia while constantly reminding me of my parents’ hardships.

Like many Somalis, before coming to America, I lived in a refugee camp. Life there was challenging, but it was also formative. It was a place of waiting and uncertainty, yet it taught me resilience. It is a familiar story shared by the likes of prominent Congresswoman Ilhan Omar and Canada’s interior minister Ahmed Hussen. The Guardian’s community affairs correspondent, Aamna Mohdin, has written a book recounting her journey back to Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya, where she lived before settling in the UK.  

When we eventually arrived in the United States at 2009, I hoped to find a sense of belonging after such a long time in limbo. Instead, I encountered new challenges. The world around me felt so different from the one my parents had described. Our new life started in Syracuse, New York, a city that reflected the nation's troubles at the time. The United States was suffering from the 2008 financial meltdown, and Syracuse, already one of the poorest cities in the country, felt the impact of economic hardship firsthand. Arriving in the so-called land of opportunity when the wealth that underpinned that was fading away was an irony not missed on me. At school, I often felt out of place. Classmates asked questions like, “Where are you from?” in ways that made me feel as though I didn’t belong. My accent, the food I brought, and my clothes all marked me as different. K’Naan captured that dislocation in a verse with Nas on Nothing to Lose, where he said: “We didn’t know the dress code though we was bargainers, the knock off Filas, with the pumps and cheap cardigans. Niggas looked corny I admit, we was foreigners.”  

These kinds of experiences made me question myself and wonder how I could fit into this new world while staying true to my roots.

At home, my parents worked hard to preserve Somali culture. We spoke our language, ate traditional meals, and upheld the values they had brought from Somalia. Fealty to family, respect for elders and solidarity with our community. They encouraged me to stay connected to my heritage and to honour where we came from. But outside our home, things felt different. American culture values individuality, whereas Somali traditions emphasise the collective or clan. I often felt torn between these two worlds.

Faith added another dimension to my identity. Islam was a central part of my life, providing me with strength and a sense of purpose. However, being Muslim in America came with its own challenges. Islamophobia affected me in ways that were subtle yet impactful. I noticed how people reacted to my khamis (Arabic thobe) and how they hesitated or avoided making eye contact. It left me feeling isolated. At the same time, I grappled with cultural pressures to fit in. I saw people my age embracing western practices, such as drinking beer, smoking weed, or imitating celebrities. These behaviours felt so far removed from the values I had been raised with, yet they seemed to define what it meant to belong in America.

For a long time, I felt fragmented. The pieces of my identity seemed disconnected, and I couldn’t see how they fit together. In some cases, this tension led to tragedy for those who embraced extremism or abandoned their beliefs; others, however, used the tension as a creative force, resulting in the hit series Ramy which used comedy to explore how Muslims negotiate their identities in this new space. Over time, however, I began to find clarity through my faith. Prayer, reading the Quran, and reflecting on my experiences helped me realise that the challenges I faced were opportunities for growth. Islam taught me about perseverance, compassion, and the importance of embracing diversity. These lessons enabled me to embrace all parts of my identity.

James Baldwin, a Black American writer, captured the essence of this struggle in The Fire Next Time: “It is a great shock to realise that… you are not, and are under no obligation to be, the person you were born to be.” Baldwin’s words resonate deeply because they remind me that I don’t have to choose one identity over another. Nor do I have to accept discriminatory views of how those identities are viewed by the wider public. Instead, I can craft my sense of self by blending my heritage with my experiences in America.

Similarly, Gloria Anzaldúa, in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, speaks of the pain and beauty of living in liminal spaces: “Living in a state of psychic unrest, in a Borderland, is what makes poets write and artists create.” Her concept of the “mestiza consciousness” reflects the creative potential of hybrid identities, showing how the tensions between cultures can lead to new ways of seeing the world. This idea helped me reframe my struggles as a Somali-American Muslim—not as a burden, but as a unique perspective that enriches my life.

During my first year at Minnesota State University in Mankato in 2014, I started to perceive my Somali background as a powerful source of strength. My parents' tales of resilience served as stark reminders of the endurance inherent in my identity, while my experiences in America taught me flexibility and tenacity. This understanding was strengthened on a lengthy bus trip when I came across Nuruddin Farah's Maps, a book that examined identity, displacement, and belonging in ways that matched my own path. Shortly later, I discovered a tape of a collection of Somali poetry among my father's things, the rhythmic, impassioned words linking me to a culture that had before seemed remote.  

Hadraawi and Dhoodaan were the two poets that spoke to me the most during that transitional period, serving as role models for my idea of identity. Despite my poor understanding of the Somali language, I was attracted by their works and read them many times to discover their deeper meanings. Hadraawi's Sirta Nolosha, with lyrics like "The earth and all that is on it, the skies and all that is unreachable, the abundant and empty spaces, and all that exists—whether hidden or unclear—require us to uphold the word of Allah and fulfill His commands." deeply changed my outlook on life. His teaching, that by obeying Allah, everything else would fall into place, provided a feeling of clarity and stability. His comments, together with Dhoodaan's daring explorations of culture and perseverance, motivated me to see my Somali heritage as a source of strength and pride. Their remarks cut beyond linguistic boundaries, providing me with a deeper awareness of myself and the force of my identity.

Now, when I think about the broken mirror, I no longer see it as a symbol of failure. Instead, it represents a mosaic—a collection of pieces that form something beautiful and whole. Some pieces are still rough, and gaps remain, but that is fine. It tells the story of my parents’ sacrifices, my own struggles, and the prayers that guided me through uncertainty. Most importantly, it shows that my identity isn’t about choosing between being Somali or American. It’s about embracing all the parts of who I am.

As Edward Said wrote in Orientalism, identity is not static but fluid: “No one today is purely one thing.” His insight reminds me that my Somali, American, and Muslim identities are not contradictory but complementary, allowing me to connect with others across boundaries. Through Islam, I found peace and purpose. The broken mirror, once a source of pain, now reminds me of the beauty in imperfection. It reflects faith’s power to unite different pieces, heal divides, and help me see the full picture of who I am.

The light shining through its cracks shows that even the most fractured identity can become radiant. The Hadith of the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ) provides a constant reminder: “Verily, Allah does not look to your faces and your wealth, but He looks to your heart and to your deeds.” This assures me that my worth is not tied to societal expectations but to the sincerity of my faith and actions. It is this guiding principle that gives me strength, allowing me to reconcile my competing identities and embrace their coexistence.