How do people cope in a land not their own?

One day, I’ll write something about this—the similarities in music and lyrics between Somali and Sudanese songs. But tonight, the matter feels different. Here I am, sitting alone, sipping a cup of coffee while a low-toned song plays in the background. A few moments later, I decided to ask the person playing the music to change the song. Instead, I asked for my all-time favorite one of Ibrahim Awad’s classics. But this time, the voice wasn’t Ibrahim Awad’s. It was the legendary Nancy Agag.

Ibrahim Awad’s song, with its profound lyrics, is undeniably beautiful. The way it begins with the line “Oh time, have a little mercy” is a masterpiece of artistic expression, capturing the deep yearning for meaning. I believe it’s these opening lines that made me fall in love with the song. I can argue that Nancy’s version is better. Maybe it’s her unique voice that gives the song a deeper meaning to me. As the evening went on, more Sudanese songs followed. Alone with my thoughts, someone played another Sudanese song. This particular song compelled me to write and sent me into deep contemplation. Astonishingly, there were two Sudanese women sitting in front of me. One of them stood up and played a song by Mohamud Abdiaziz. The song was “Write to Me.” I was fine until I heard this haunting line: ‎ كيف شعور الناس في الغربة؟ كيف عاملة؟ “How do people cope in a land not their own? How do they survive?” Isn’t this profound? Yes, it is. Only those who have experienced homesickness and nostalgia for their homeland can understand the emptiness within and the pain of living far from home. It’s a feeling that words fail to capture—a sickness with no cure. The only remedy is to walk the streets where you grew up, to reconnect with the place that shaped you, the environment that nurtured your curiosity. The song continued:

كيف شعور الناس في الغربة؟ كيف عاملة؟ “How does one live far from home, bearing the weight of longing?” The question is devastating. How does anyone withstand such emotions? How? And again, how? It’s an indescribable feeling because words seem futile. This made me realize that home is not just a physical place—it’s something you carry within yourself. It’s part of your very being, part of your breath. That deep, long breath you exhale when homesickness overtakes you—that is home. As I sat in silence, trying to make sense of the song and the emotions it evoked, I asked the woman who played it why she chose it. She replied, “I like Mohamud Abdiaziz.” I repeated my question, “But why this song?” She said again, “I like it because it asks about the condition of someone far from home.” Her innocent, feminine look seemed to say more than the song’s lyrics ever could. I held my breath, and my thoughts turned to Sudan’s current state. “My God, her beautiful people are in hell,” I thought to myself. I’ve never been to Sudan, though I’ve always wanted to visit and experience the real lives of Sudanese people. But today, Sudan is not the Sudan it once was. Things are falling apart, the world is watching in silence, and the media barely pays attention. As a journalist, this made me reflect on the moral questions of my profession. Why do I find journalism meaningful when it sometimes feels like the world doesn’t care? ‎عاملة كيف؟ والناس في الغربة كيف حالك؟ “How are you holding up? And how are the strangers treating you?” Can anyone fully answer this? These questions linger, yet they seem to have no definitive answers. To be a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by an unfamiliar culture, is an alienating experience. As Warsan Shire put it: “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” I, myself, have never truly felt a sense of home since 2011. I tell people that everywhere is my home, but that’s a lie. I mask my feelings, hiding the void within. I still carry a lingering longing for the place where I used to herd goats and tend livestock—a place where I knew every tree that grew on the land. I often find myself thinking about how I left that place and the journey that brought me to Nairobi. It was this journey that led me to meet two beautiful Sudanese women who, like me, had left their home behind. All people’s struggles are the same, and their feelings are alike. Only the places that shape us set us apart. ‎عاملة كيف؟ والناس في الغربة كيف حالك؟ “How do you find life in exile, far from all that you know?” For the Sudanese people, music is central to their daily lives, and the same can be said for Somalis. Many describe Somalis as a nation of poets, whose poetic words, when blended with music, have the power to stir the listener’s soul evoking happiness, fear, or a silent sense of awe. Today, however, both communities are grappling with immense distress and challenges. Reflecting on Ibrahim Awad’s poignant opening lyrics, “Oh time, have a little mercy,” I find myself wishing for the same, for time to show mercy to the Sudanese and Somalis, granting them moments of peace and bliss.