Somaliland

A Communion with Naas-Hablood

May 16, 2011   ·   222972 Commentshttp%3A%2F%2Fsomalilandpress.com%2Fa-communion-with-naas-hablood-22297A+Communion+with+Naas-Hablood2011-05-17+02%3A22%3A24Mo+Guledhttp%3A%2F%2Fsomalilandpress.com%2F%3Fp%3D22297

I salute you from the bottom of my heart. I salute you for having been nurturing us and before us our ancestors since time immemorial. Numerous are the occasions when as a tiny-legged boy I misbehaved and your rebuking gaze made me run home and sought refuge on my mother’s lap, of course, without telling her that you caught me indulging in one of my little mischievous ventures.
Certainly, she would have understood my position had I told her your admonition to me since you did similar things to her, and her mother and her mother’s mother in their childhood. But you know the material children – who always want to have their own little secrets – are made of.
O, great ones, one important fact remains upper most in the heads of the People of the Hills whom we are and always have been. You and the other landmarks of Somaliland – Almis, Daalo, Gacan Libaax, Golis, Jivo-Mici-Dheer, Su’rad, Shimbaberis, Shar-Laga-Naadi, Sheikh, Tb’ca, and many others – have bequeathed to us all our beautiful tributes by sharing with us the wisdom you have been accumulating since the Almighty deeply anchored your foundations where you have been throughout the millennia.
Above all, through your endurance and patience, you awakened our attention not only to the impregnable power of the soul but also that peace is its food, beauty the air it breaths and humility the water that quenches its thirst. And from that we drew many of our basic values and humanity. But all that went down the drain when, by the grace of God, Maandeeq came back to us seventy years after it was looted by foreigners; and we immediately took it to a slaughter house called “Slaughterhouse Union.” God, how much I detest ring of this name!
O, great ones, you think none is privy to your secrets. But I saw you on the evening of July 1, 1960. I remember not only your sad gloomy faces but the tears running down your cheeks as the People of the Hills handed Maandeeq to the butchers of “Slaughterhouse Union.” Yes! At the Beerta Xoreyada (Freedom Park) you did artfully mange to hide your emotions, putting a brave face, which deluded many people into thinking you were so much happy as on May 51 days earlier. But in the evening, I caught you unawares venting out your true feelings.
And, although I was intoxicated by the magic spell of the false god of Greater Somalia like everyone else at the time – the look on your face spooked me. For, when you find the sources of your power and strength weeping, the ground under your feet shakes.
O! Great Ones, that was not the only time I preached your privacy at a time when you were indisposed. I saw you once again shedding tears – but this time tears of joy – the day the people of the Hills, mountains and planes asserted in no uncertain terms their desire to retrieve Maandeeq at the May referendum. This time, too, I had strong emotions but they were pleasant emotions.
Maandeeq was back for the second time from the jaws of death. The people had spoken on that eventful and blessed day, saying we will never lose sight of our Great Mother whose udders sustained our lives even in the worst of times.
O, Great Ones, I remember one day. It was one of those days in early childhood when innocence still remains intact; when bad things and good things just come and go; when words like cause and effect are no part of your vocabulary. In one of those memorable days, there was a heavy pour down.
Mom mobilized all here efforts and experience to make make sure I don’t step out of the door for fear that I might get pneumonia. I always loved – as I still do – the blinding flash of lightening, the roar of thunder and the sight of dark heavy clouds in the sky.
Above all, I was thrilled by rain drops and hearing their magic sound as they hit the ground. So, in the end, I slipped out and by the time she saw me I was running nude in the rain together with my playmates. That day, too, you gave me an admonishing look which frightened me to death. This is the reason why that far off day is still glued on the mind.
But after morphing to manhood and the concept of cause and effect made sense to me, I started to gradually understand your invaluable role in my nurturing and that of everyone from the People of the Hills. So, it is not only the living among your children who are familiar with the great job you have been doing since time immemorial, but also all those entombed in the cemeteries strewn under your feet.
That is why you are not only the repositories of our history but also the symbol of all that good in us. Thus, my current communion is almost of spiritual value. Admittedly, this spontaneous action is a response to an emotion-charged experience. Last night…only last night – that was when it all started. It was then that mass celebration of the downfall of Dhagdheer thousands of year ago visited me in a dream.
Dhagdheer-Dhimatay oo dhulki waa nabad
Dhagdheer-Dhimatay oo dhulki waa nabad

Dhag-Dheer dhimatay oo dhulki waa nabad
Dhag-Dheer dhimatay oo dhulki waa nabad

O, Great Ones, we all sung in unison a similar refrain after the dictatorship, which, in effect, represented the Dhag-Dheerian spirit, crumbled. However, once the jubilations were over, we flouted our promise to never again lose sight of Maandeeq, its return being taken for guaranteed.

We had forgotten that when a swarm of locusts visit your farm, you have no an immediate big problem in your hands since the adult ones squander what they get and fly away in a matter of days: the real nightmare is waiting in the wings. Shortly after the unwelcome visitors depart, the eggs they left behind beneath the soil hatch and their babies are with you for weeks. That is when the real tragedy emerges; that is what you should reserve your real worry for.

By the time this lesson seeped through into our minds, it was too late. The newly-born baby locusts – the politicians and soldiers who took the reins of power in the post-dictatorship era – had already hatched, causing enough damage.

Making the road ahead bumpy and rough, the new generation of the vermin slowed down our progress and almost diverted our attention from keeping an eye on Maandeeq. As a result, Somaliland had slipped back into violence in 1994-1996. In the end, however, they were bound to fail in their bid to bend the people’s will to restore and maintain peace, the fruits of which we are all relishing today!

So long great ones.

P.S.

Please don’t be late for the 20th celebrations of the rebirth of Maandeeq on May 18. Meanwhile let us sing in unison:

Waa baa barya bilicsan
Aroorio baxsan
Maalin buqran

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By Mo Guled