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“I was here” The words were written haphazardly in green marker on white stone. We were hiking, something we rarely did. But the boredom and lack of electricity proved too much to bear for a few kids from the city. One from London, one from Seattle and one from Hargeisa, all three of us had grown weary with the glum of the countryside. After an hour or so of dawdling in our grandmother’s hut, we finally made the decision to leave and explore the Sheikh mountains on our own. I’d been in Somalia for 10 days at that point. I’d swam in the seasides of Berbera, chatted with the diaspora children in Hargeisa, ate all my meals with a side of banana in Burco. And now here i was hiking in the Sheikh mountains with no idea of how I’d made it there. Before this trip, no one really told me what it would be like. My mind was hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. The rickety plane with the broken propeller hadn’t been a good sign, and neither was the airport we arrived in. Surrounded by dust for what seemed like miles, I could only assume I’d prepared for the worst. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I leaned over and whispered to my cousin. Wide-eyed and open mouthed he looked out the window and nodded slowly. Believe me when I say I would have nothing to compare to what I was about to experience. Walking in the streets among baboons and cows, empty beaches of white sand and turquoise water, trekking in mountains with green so different from the land below, new family and friends… war ravaged ruins of old villages, men and women suffering from wounds of war both visible and invisible, soldiers with guns and trigger fingers. Juxtaposition was theme of the trip. The people continued on though, as if nothing had had happened. Politicians and beggars alike went about their day, roaming through the city. Khat sellers passed out enough doses to help the citizens forget. I might not have understood, but I was there with them too. While my parents grieved for the Somalia of their childhoods and wept through family reunions, I accepted the Somalia of today for what it was. Damaged, but not broken. Under construction but still open for business. Constantly in flux. I walked up to the ruin, covered by branches and leaves of the tree that encompassed it, wondering what its purpose had been. As I moved closer, I noticed the bullet holes. I reached into my purse and pulled out a sharpie, writing as steadily as I could. “Hayat was here.” I stepped back to examine my handiwork. Beautiful but crooked. It felt like a true depiction of Somalia.