“Iska Jooji Hooyo”

Moose

Abdi 

Mohamed 

Mustafa

Ahmed 

Fahad

Yonis

How many more brothers can we bury?

How many more deaths can we disregard until we realize this self-genocide?

How many more mothers are we going to watch cry after she realizes that, that was her son who was shot in the head nine times?

A young man loses his life to the streets that he’s signed to.

Another young man who has not even lived to see the age of 25.

A young man who’s hopes and dreams killed the second he was.

A young man who was a friend, a son, a brother.

It’s like another brother is killed by another every other month.

And every other month we promise.

We promise that this one.

That this one will be the last.

That things will change.

So that there will no longer be killings of another.

“A young man killed late last night, age 23, died in the hospital from severe gunshot wounds”

Uh oh. There was another.

Muktar

Abdulahi 

Mowlid

Zakariya

Yayha

Jabril

Never ending. 

It’s like it’s never ending. 

The screams and the cries of mothers and fathers have become so custom to our ears.

Custom to going to another young man’s jahanaza. 

Custom to the killing of another. 

A Custom of hearing a mother crying saying that another mother’s child was the one responsible for mine. 

Custom to say and promising that this one.

That this one would be the last…….

I guess we know how that goes right.

Farah

Yonis 

Nour

Liban 

Mahad 

Hassan 

It’s like we’re back to being children. 

Waiting for hoyoo and abo to handle everything and take care of it since we are not able. 

Not able to take on the issue. 

Not able to handle it. 

Not able to have that heavy weight and burden on ourselves. 

Just not able to take on the responsibility.

So we rather just sit and hear our parents cry. 

And cry.

And cry. 

Crying that maybe one-day things will change. 

Hope that one day we as the next generation wake up from our slumbers and decide that we have had enough.

That we have killed enough. 

That we have lost enough.

That we have been through enough.

But it seems like that change is never going to come.

Not until we have had at least one death in each family. 

Not until we have cried out all our tears. 

Not until we have nothing else and no one else left to lose.

How can we protect ourselves from others when those who are hurting and harming us are amongst us? 

Our parents fled more than 20 years ago for a better life. 

But this simply can not be that “better life” they imagined, prayed and dreamed for. 

That they imagined losing a son. 

That they would see their children killing others due to drugs and money.

That they would be burying their own sons before they could ever bury them.

That they would see their children’s face plastered on a news broadcast as DEAD.

 This simply cannot be.

“Drive by has left a young 21-year-old man dead early this morning. He was shot 3 times and died instantly on scene”

Uh oh…. another one.

Another mother’s child gone. 

Another brother to bury. 

Another one to add to the list. 

Another.

Just another, another.

Najib

Ismail

Amin 

Saeed

Mohamud

Adam 

Ibrahim 

It’s time we speak up.

It’s time that we say that this is finally going to be the last one.

It’s time to wipe our beloved mother’s tears and say “hoyoo biiswaya, no more.”

It’s time that we stop this ruthless self-destruction.

It’s time, for that time.

“We gotta start makin’ changes. Learn to see me as a brother instead of two distant strangers.”

Tupac Shukar, 1992.

Wakhtigiisa waya.

Waqtigii isbedelka waya.

“A young 23-year-old man has been shot this evening has is suffering from severe life -threatening gunshot wounds…….”

Uh oh.