Journey to Hargeisa

     The flight to Hargeisa was terrible.
     Leaving Dubai, all of our suitcases were over the weight limit, the woman at the counter for Dallah Airlines questioned me at length about my one-way ticket, we barely made the flight on time, and I lost my favorite gold bracelet amidst all of the chaos. Thankfully, after a short four hour flight to Djibouti, we finally made it to the Motherland.
     Before descending off the plane, I received my first Islamic 'lecture' from an elderly Somali man dressed in a macawiis (traditional Somali clothing for men). Speaking over my shoulder, he lectured me about the necessity for Muslim women to cover up (in my defense, I was wearing a long African dress and a shawl covering my head) and to be fearful of my destiny in the afterlife. Trying my best to be respectful, I nodded my head in agreement and proceeded the long walk from the airplane to the airport in unbearably hot weather. Once in the Djibouti airport, we were told to hurry onto the plane going to Hargeisa as the President of Djibouti, Ismaïl Omar Guelleh, was landing his plane soon.
     There were no seat numbers provided on the boarding ticket for this plane. Somehow, everyone managed to find a seat wherever they could quickly. Upon landing in Hargeisa in less than half an hour, the chaos of what appears to be custom for Somali people continued. There was a single counter to accomodate all passengers, in which money is exchanged into the local currency (Somaliland shillings), fees are paid ($20 US) and VISA papers are issued. Feeling ill, I stood outside of the angry mob and glanced around the airport from a window. One individual stood out among the crowd: a white man in a safari outfit, the only passenger waiting patiently in line. Immediately, I imagined all of the thoughts that must be going through his mind.
     My Mom waves me over from the other end of security, having somehow made it through in one piece. Security consisted of a metal detector and a single individual asking for a quick glance through my purse. My Abti (maternal Uncle) came to pick us up at the airport with an entourage of eager men packing all of our luggage onto a trolley. After walking for what seemed like an eternity to the car, I complained about the distance of the car from the airport. My Mom reminded me of the deadly bombs released from planes that took off from the Hargeisa International Airport in the late 1980's (1988-1989). These planes were responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of Somaliland residents. In fact, one of these planes was shot down by Somaliland residents, a statue built to commemorate the momentous event. Perhaps for fear of, or in memory of this deadly historical calamity, Hargeisa locals have become accustomed to parking far away from the airport. This is the moment I first realized the impact of history on the day-to-day lives of Hargeisa residents.
     And so it begins. A mix of excitement, sadness, confusion, intrigue, isolation, anxiety, and naivete. The Motherland.