Life among the Damascene Somalis

Syria, the place I call my first home, cradled nearly twelve pivotal years of my life. My father’s decision to relocate our small family from Kuwait to Syria in 1999 was not just a move; it was a leap into the unknown, mirroring the steps of many Somali families who had ventured there a few months before us. My mother, although unenthusiastic about the Gulf lifestyle, embraced the move with unwavering support, fully aware that she would shoulder the task of raising four children on her own—myself, the eldest at five, and my youngest brother, just three months old.

Our journey by bus through Saudi Arabia and Jordan is etched vividly in my memory. We arrived in Syria under the shadow of political transition. Hafez al-Assad, the long-standing president, was nearing the end of his reign; he passed away a year later, paving the way for his son, Bashar al-Assad. Bashar, a newly trained ophthalmologist from a UK university, was just thirty-four years old. However, as the Syrian constitution required a minimum presidential age of forty, parliament’s swift and clandestine amendment of this law signaled the beginning of a new era—one that filled many Syrians with cautious optimism.

Our new home was in Harasta, a town in northeastern Damascus, that would later become synonymous with conflict and government repression. Each day, I walked past the Air Force Intelligence headquarters on my way to school, its darkened windows and fortified exterior a silent emblem to violent secrets it concealed. As Somalis are tribal nomads by nature, with deep-rooted connections, my father chose Harasta for its strong Somali community, ensuring we lived near relatives and establishing a network of safety and support for my mother and siblings.

Enrolling in school immediately, I quickly mastered Arabic, surprising my teachers with my proficiency. By the age of six or seven, I had become the family’s translator, lawyer, accountant, and occasionally even its educator. This story of adaptation is a common thread among immigrants, showcasing the often-overlooked resilience required to embrace a new culture and language–and even make it your own.  

My upbringing in Syria was characterised by acceptance and integration. Unlike experiences elsewhere, I never faced racism or mistreatment as a Somali. Syrians are inherently hardworking—a trait that enables you to stand out regardless of your background. This strong work ethic is a quality I’ve later embraced, driving me to constantly strive for improvement and outwork my peers. Such an environment nurtured my articulation, eloquence, and dedication, allowing me to excel academically and participate in Arabic literature and singing competitions—though my mother eventually disapproved of the latter.

Despite this seemingly harmonious life, politics was a taboo subject. “Walls have ears here,” a neighbour cautioned us upon our arrival. The education system and media, both controlled by the government, propagated Arabism and the Ba’ath Party’s (Resurrection party in English) vision of a united Arab nation. It was an ideology which emerged in the 1940s as a response to the underdevelopment and political fragmentation of the Arab world along postcolonial borders. The al-Assads were its champions in Syria, with Saddam Hussein fashioning his own brand in neighbouring Iraq from the late 1960s. From middle school onwards, our uniforms adopted a military style, and we chanted nationalistic slogans each morning, which read:  

أمة عربية واحدة ذات رسالة خالدة  
أهدافها وحدة، حرية، اشتراكية  

One Arab nation with an eternal mission,

Its goals: unity, freedom, and socialism.  

Stories of imprisonment and disappearances were commonplace, instilling a pervasive fear of political dissent. Recent disclosures about prisoners being freed from notorious detention centres like Sednaya and Palestine prisons resonate with my own experiences, as my mother narrowly escaped a similar fate.

In our first apartment, we lived beneath an Air Force commander who frequently complained about the noise from our home—merely the playful antics of my three-year-old sister and me. One day, while my mother was shopping, police officers arrived, questioning me until I broke down in tears. Upon my mother’s return, her fury led her to confront the commander directly, an act of defiance that stunned our neighbours and highlighted her courage. Shortly afterward, our house was raided by police, including the local police chief, resulting in a harsh lecture condemning my mother’s actions and praising the commander as a divinely appointed protector. Fortunately, no charges were pressed due to our young age. Our landlord’s absence during the ordeal was later explained: he had been hiding under a bed for fear of being imprisoned, a fear I couldn’t comprehend at the time but fully understand now. Eventually, we moved out of that apartment. I still remember how the entire building saluted my mother for her bravery, doing something in 2001 that many people only dared to do much later in 2011.

Years passed until 2011, my final year of high school, known as the Baccalaureate. This period was traditionally intense, with final exams determining our academic futures. However, our class faced an unprecedented challenge: the Syrian revolution reached its peak during our final summer. Harasta became one of the few areas in Damascus to witness violent clashes between the Syrian military and the Free Syrian Army.

On an exam day, a friend’s mother advised me to leave Harasta immediately, warning of impending destruction. Her credibility was undeniable, as her husband was a prominent Alawi army commander. A few months later, announcements over mosque speakers confirmed the military’s intent to invade our area. In a hurried effort, my mother and I gathered our essential documents and relocated to a more stable city until July 29, 2012, when our visa to return to Kuwait was finally approved, closing this chapter of our lives.

Syria stands out as one of the few nations that welcomed Somali communities with open arms during the hardships of the civil war. The solidarity and integration we experienced are testaments to the country’s cultural and humanitarian spirit.  

To conclude my journey, I share a poem by one of my favourite Syrian writers, Nizar Qabbani, which beautifully illustrates my profound love for Damascus:  

هذي دمشقُ وهذي الكأسُ والرّاحُ  

إنّي أحبُّ وبعـضُ الحـبِّ ذبّاحُ  

أنا الدمشقيُّ لو شرّحتمُ جسدي  

لسـالَ منهُ عناقيـدٌ وتفـّاحُ  

لو فتحـتُم شراييني بمديتكـم  

سمعتمُ في دمي أصواتَ من راحوا  

مآذنُ الشّـامِ تبكـي إذ تعانقـني  

وللمـآذنِ كالأشجارِ أرواحُ  

للياسمـينِ حقـولٌ في منازلنـا  

وقطّةُ البيتِ تغفو حيثُ ترتـاحُ  

طاحونةُ البنِّ جزءٌ من طفولتنـا  

فكيفَ أنسى؟ وعطرُ الهيلِ فوّاحُ  

This, indeed, is Damascus, and that cup of rum  

I'm in love, a certain kind of love,

which slaughters.

I’m a Damascene,  

if you dissect my body

You would see clusters of grapes and apples flow out.

If you opened my veins with your blade,

You’d hear in my blood the voices of those who departed.

The minarets of Damascus weep as they embrace me,

for minarets, like trees, have souls.

In our homes, fields of jasmine bloom,

and the house cat naps wherever it finds rest.

The coffee grinder is a part of our childhood,

so how can I forget when the scent of cardamom fills the air?