The idea of home has always felt confusing to me. I had to leave my home country when I was a kid, and ever since, I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out what it really means.
At a very young age, I fled Somalia with my family. We settled in Nairobi, Kenya, and had to start from scratch. Living in a country that wasn’t ours, with a different culture, language, and the reality of being refugees, was an uphill battle.
After many years in Kenya, just as it was starting to feel like home, we moved again. My family had the opportunity to relocate to the United States
Starting over in Minnesota came with its own challenges. A new country, new culture, new language, and most shockingly, completely different weather. The cold and snowy winters were brutal. I was a teenager, and adjusting to a high school system that was nothing like what I was used to wasn’t easy.
Eventually, I finished high school, went to college, started working, and even got used to the cold. But I was still unsure if Minnesota truly felt like home. So I made a big decision to return to Somalia, the place I had fled as a child and barely remembered, to see if it could give me the sense of belonging I had been seeking.
To my surprise, I instantly felt at home. I felt like I belonged. That moment made me want to move back to Somalia permanently. When I finally did in 2024, I realized I had moved before I was fully prepared.
After six months, I began to understand something deeper. While Somalia felt familiar, my immediate family wasn’t there. And they had no plans to return. My parents, siblings, and their children had made Minnesota their permanent home.
That made me ask a hard question:
Can a place really be home if the people you love most aren’t there?
So I returned to Minnesota, the one place that had been constant in my life. The place where my mom and siblings still lived.
Along the way, I realized I had been searching for home as a geographical location. But maybe home was never about a country. Maybe it was about space. My space. As an introvert who spends most of my time indoors, having a place where I could fully be myself became essential.
In Somali and Muslim culture, women often stay in their parents’ home until marriage. But for me, marriage hadn’t happened, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. One thing I was sure of, though, was that I wanted my own home. I knew I couldn’t keep waiting. I needed to build a home for myself.
After many long and emotional conversations with my mom, I finally moved out and started creating the home I had been searching for all these years.
So now, in the spring of 2025, here I am in my new apartment, finally and intentionally creating a home for myself. A home where I can recharge after working two jobs. A home where I do not have to worry about anyone’s schedule but my own. A home where, as a light sleeper and early riser now working a night shift, I can sleep peacefully at any time.
Now, in the quiet mornings after work, I fill the apartment with light. I recite the Quran out loud, letting the sound echo through the space. My Arabic teacher’s voice comes through the speaker, and I respond in my broken Fus’ha. I stumble through the words but love every moment of the learning process.
Then comes the soft clacking of my keyboard as I try to write. My eyelids grow heavy, yet my mind buzzes with ideas. I wind down by opening a book, letting the rustle of pages calm me. Some passages make me laugh, others bring tears. It’s my way of slowing down and preparing for rest.
Evenings have their own rhythm. The steady beat of my footsteps on the treadmill as I listen to a podcast. The scent of food from the kitchen. The clatter of dishes. The quiet prep for my night shift while watching a sad historical drama or catching up with family and friends.
This place is more than just where I live. It’s where all the pieces of me come together. A space built for the quiet, quirky, and sometimes emotional version of myself that I hid from the world.
This is a home made for my uniquely weird self.
A home I’ve finally created for me.
Dear Sister Hamdi,
Your reflections on the essence of home are profoundly moving. I wholeheartedly resonate with your sentiment that a true home is where one finds comfort, peace, and the freedom to live within the embrace of our faith.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ imparted timeless wisdom on this matter. When asked about the path to salvation, he advised:
“Restrain your tongue, let your home suffice you, and weep over your sins.”
— Jami` at-Tirmidhi 2406  
This guidance underscores the sanctity of our homes as havens for reflection, restraint, and repentance.
Moreover, the Qur’an beautifully articulates the role of our dwellings:
“And Allah has made for you from your homes a place of rest…”
— Surah An-Nahl, 16:80 
This verse highlights the divine blessing of our homes as sanctuaries of tranquility and repose.
When I referred to “permanent,” I meant within the span of our earthly lives. Our ultimate abode lies beyond this world—in the hereafter, be it in Jannah or otherwise. The Prophet ﷺ illustrated our transient existence with a poignant metaphor: 
“What have I to do with this world? I am only like a traveler who takes a rest under a tree, then continues on his journey.”
— Jami` at-Tirmidhi 2377 
This hadith serves as a reminder that our worldly journey is temporary, and our true home awaits in the hereafter.
Your dedication to reading the Qur’an, learning Arabic, and deepening your connection with Allah is commendable. Such endeavors are steps toward preparing for our eternal home.
The longing you feel for your homeland is natural and deeply rooted. Even if one tries to forget, the soul often retains an intrinsic connection to its origins. Somalia, with its rich culture and history, remains an indelible part of your identity.
From your writings, it’s evident that you possess remarkable qualities and leadership potential. Your homeland stands to benefit immensely from your talents.
Allow me to share a personal experience. In 2017, I visited the USA as a Mandela Washington Fellow. Despite the opportunities, I felt a compelling urge to return home. When questioned about my decision, I responded:
“Because I’m a leader, and leaders don’t surrender. My country and people are waiting for me.”
Similarly, during a visit to the UK in May 2025, after engaging with the Somali community, I reaffirmed my commitment to return home.
Somalia is our shared home. With collective effort, we can cultivate a life there that is as fulfilling, if not more so, than anywhere else. Even if our families are distant, we can build new communities, perhaps even inspire our loved ones to join us, and invest in our homeland’s future.
May Allah guide us all to paths that lead to peace, purpose, and proximity to Him.
Warm regards,
Ahmed Afi
Aamin. Thank You for your comment.
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