Birthright: Mother, Land, Return

My birthright, makan,
was not a passport.
It was not a border stamp,
not a visa signal,
not a question at the counter
asking me where I belong.
(pause)
(breathe)
My first country
was my mother’s heartbeat.
Hooyo,
I lived through your memory.
You live in my mind every single day,
before I knew how to spell my own name.
My baby voice was my first anthem,
yaroo soft like:
“Huuwaya Huuwa, Huuwa madiii do…”
(softly)
(wait on instinct)
Your food flavoured my tongue.
Your hands calmed my body.
Your scent stayed with me
like flowers surviving smoke.
So when someone says,
“Go back to where you came from,”
I say:
I came from my Hooyo.
You came from a mother too, mate.
We all came from a belly place
before we ever came from a country.
(digest then read)
That is the real birthright.
Not the flag.
Not the fence.
Not the paperwork.
The birthright is love.
The birthright is breath.
The birthright is the hand
that held us before the world
judged us.
And here, on this land,
I remember too:
this country is Aboriginal Motherland.
Always was.
Always will be.
So my birthright, makan xaqiiqi,
does not cancel yours.
My sheeko does not steal your soil.
My Hooyo’s prayer
walks carefully
on another Hooyo’s land.
Hooyo,
every day is Hooyo Macaanto Day
because every day
I carry your light.
They say paradise
is under the feet of our Hooyo,
so maybe every step I take
is me trying to walk back
toward heaven.
Somali: yeed too soo :stitching in a monotone.
My birthright is the courage to reset, rebuild, and tell my story from the heart.