My parents often avoid talking about their past. But, behind their unspoken stories lies the truth of my identity. Who am I? Why is it that I’m Kenyan but speak the Somali language? Why is it when I say I am Kenyan, people ask whether I speak Swahili (the main language in Kenya)? Why is it that my family members recognize themselves as the Somali Bantu? Who are these so-called “Somali Bantu”?

As I began to research for myself, I discovered why my parents always avoided sharing their story. It has been a dark road for them, and the memories must have been too painful.

At times when my siblings and I misbehaved, my dad would share bits of his story to encourage us to think about how good we have it here in America and to take advantage of our opportunities. From his stories, I remember him mentioning gunshots, screams, and he himself having to carry a gun for safety. Whenever we complained about the walk to the grocery store, he would mention having to trek for miles with little to no food.

Honestly, I thought he was exaggerating just to scare us. Now I believe he did not tell us enough. He spoke about traveling a lot, but I never realized that he was not traveling for fun. He was fleeing for his life.

My mom never talked about her past, not even a tiny bit. I remember when we first came to America and we didn’t have a car,  she would walk almost everywhere, sometimes as far as five miles. I always joked about how much faster she walked than me. Little did I know she had also walked many miles to save her life.

At one time, my parents had a peaceful life in Somalia. They were farmers, which is where the “Somali Bantu” identity came from. It was in 1991 that my parent’s lives were turned upside down. The civil war broke out in Somalia and the minority “Somali Bantu” became a target. They lost everything. The farm that they had worked so hard for was taken away. Robbed, hurt, and aware that things would only get worse, my parents decided to leave Somalia.

Joined by other refugees, they walked thousands of miles for days with hardly any food. Some became ill, some died from starvation, and some were hurt or killed by wild animals. But my parents survived, making it to Kenya’s refugee camp, where they started over again.

My parent’s bravery in migrating from Somalia to Kenya’s refugee camps and then eventually to America has had a huge impact on my life. Their hardships opened many doors for me. Knowing this helped me confront my own struggles with moving to America, where I was overwhelmed by being surrounded by people other than my race, having so many resources, changing my lifestyle, and struggling to keep up with the American culture while maintaining my own. It is what continues to drive me, and to help me understand their high expectations.

I cannot resent my parents for having these high expectations of me. I don’t blame them for expecting me to make some sacrifices in trying to keep our culture alive. I don’t blame them for not understanding the American culture.   I don’t blame them for not knowing the English language after being in America for 13 years, for dragging me out of school just to translate for them, or for giving me a lot of paperwork to do on top of my own homework. I don’t blame them for not understanding my decisions to pursue something unfamiliar and greater. One day I want to be able to stand strong and proud and show them the great woman I have become and that all of their sacrifices and struggles were worth it.

Who Am I?

I am Kenyan. I am a refugee and I am Somali Bantu.

 

Rumbila Abdullahi’21 was born in Kenya and came to America when she was seven years old. She is currently a first year at Smith College. She is the second to youngest child and the first to attend college. She aspires to become a Doctor and go back to Kenya to give back to the community. She is involved in Community organizations such as Pioneer Valley Project and Somali Bantu Community.

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