The One with the Long Ear
Friday July 5th, 2013
“The cannibal,” they called her…
“The one who decided to take the teachings and beliefs of the Creator for granted…”
The neighbouring residents, all fleeing the minute she stood outside her isolated home.
“Don’t get too close or else you won’t see the light of day…”
They called her “the one with the long ear.” She was seen as a cannibal, non-humane. She wasn’t liked in the village. The neighbouring residents thought she was a Satanist. They had issues when it came to disbelievers. Ninety-nine percent of the country’s population had the same religion. Muslims. Sunni, to be exact. All living under one nation. They didn’t tolerate disbelievers of the Creator. It was either they bashed her or isolated her. But they did both.
Dheegdheer (flashback - 8 years ago) She once was a human too, born as Ameenah, and living life like any other middle-class woman of the 70s. Getting by with the only child she had living. Ayaan. The only daughter she had, who was also the soft and kindhearted one. Ameenah was widowed, her husband and both of her sons had passed on, only at the young ages of twenty-four and eighteen, due to a road accident outside of the capital. She didn’t like the big city and how populated the areas were. Knowing herself, she didn’t want to keep grieving the loss; she didn’t want to stay in that same mood forever. Didn’t want to regret and didn’t want to think of “what if.” She wanted a quiet place. No convoys, no hunters, no patrol. So what was her decision? To move North. She planned on the small little village of Saycal, just east of the Djiboutian border and far north from the capital. With the Gulf of Aden within bird’s eye view and everything they needed closer than most, she liked it there better than before. It was peaceful, quiet, she felt at ease...
Ayaan, Dheegdheer's daughter (flashback, 8 years ago) Moving away from Mogadishu and living on the other side of the country… It was an issue for me, for the reason being that I liked living in the suburban areas of the local places. I was only twelve, just starting to make friends and putting my effort nd potential into doing so well in my schoolwork. I was a straight A student, school being my strong suit. Islamic and public school, one after the other, it wasn't that hard to manage. For such a young age, most would tell my parents that I was "better than the rest."
"She's an overcheiver." My teachers would tell them.
"She wants to get somewhere in her life, her purpose to become successful, exactly like her father." My uncle mentioned to his brother. One thing I would never tell her mother: She didn’t like Saycal at all. I wouldn't be caught dead opposing something my parents did. She went to a school where they took nothing serious. Most of her peers thought education itself was a joke and that they could do better things with their time. I never had a problem with bullies but i had fingers pointed at me, all the other girls blaming her for something I didn’t do. They picked on me and made me feel like I wasn’t welcome.
They would call me names like “goody two-shoes, teacher's pet, and a suck-up."
I always had to do the right thing. It was my conscience talking, but really, I didn't mind . I liked doing the right thing. It made me feel good about myself. Because back where I came from, they praised the good kids. In Saycal however, I would always feel like I was the outkast. Not welcome. A reject. That feeling annoyed me a lot. Angered me.
I didn't want to live there. The only thing I wanted to go back home in the only place she felt was home to her. Moghadishu. But really, I couldn't go back all by my lonesome. There was no money. I had no family. It was just me and my mother. I had no purpose of being in Saycal. It didn't suit me to the best of my liking. But being in a small, isolated neighbourhood in Saycal, with people I would call "underacheiving losers,"