I take a step.

Through the war-ridden streets,

Of Hargeisa, Somaliland.

My hands made contact with walls;

They were covered in shots from the civil war,

That preceeded my existence by five years.

Wreckage of a fighter jet sits in the city's center;

A monument of the accursed destruction.

Now, families sleep beneath it seeking refuge.

Here lies a city once torn apart,

Bombed,

Dead.

Miraculously ressurected.

Vendors that once fled have returned,

Stocked with assorted goods and spices.

I see the youth playing with discarded tires,

In bitter tranquility.

Their home is constructed of tin and blankets;

It is a shack.

Many would wonder why a child may be so untroubled,

Living in such poverty.

But, they are unaware of the overwhelming concepts of

Socioeconomics.

In this bliss of ignorance,

It is for their well-being.

I was a foreigner,

In the home of my ancestors.

The only connection I had with the land,

Were the stories of my parents and the fellow diaspora.

Tributes to life before the conflicts.

I notice, my parents.

Their eyes and mind conflicted the past with the present,

Juxtaposed like a 3D film without the necessary eyewear.

I am the diaspora, and so are my parents.

To them, things aren't what they seemed to be.

To me, I can only dream of what they were in a better time.