My earliest childhood memory is of Aabe teaching me how to swim when I was just five years old by tossing me straight into the ocean at Jazeera Beach. Aabe''s strong hand wrapped around mine as we waded into the waves. Without much warning, he scooped me up and, with a mischievous grin, flung me into the shallow blue. I should have been terrified. But I wasn''t. The water swallowed me for a second and then, as I kicked my legs and came up gasping, I saw him. Aabe stood not far off, arms open wide, waiting for me. I started paddling toward him with all the strength my little arms could manage, and as I got closer, I could almost hear his voice in my head: "Keep swimming.

I''m right here. I got you." That moment stuck with me, not just because it was the first time I swam, but because in every splash, every kick, every time I caught a mouthful of seawater and pushed forward against the tide, I was wrapped in the thrill of doing something hard, with the safety of knowing Aabe was there to save me. He didn''t just teach me how to swim that day. He planted in me an unshakable belief that I could take risks, face danger, take a leap, and know that he would always be nearby, ready to catch me if I stumbled. I carried that feeling of courage and trust with me for the rest of my life. Through every storm and every turning point, I could still picture Aabe''s open arms and hear his unspoken promise: "Go on. Be brave.

I''m here." Beyond the white sand beaches, Mogadishu, the city of my birth, was a colorful place, a playground where every corner seemed to hold a memory, a story, or a piece of who we were. As a child, I was captivated by the beauty of the city. White-painted villas with arched windows lined the main streets, and old colonial landmarks, like the Cattedrale di Mogadiscio, the Arch of Umberto, the Palazzo De Vincenzi, and the national museum Garesa gave Mogadishu a unique blend of history and elegance. What struck me most was how nearby, statues of our heroes, Sayid Mohamed Abdulle Hassan, Dhagaxtuur, and Xaawo Taako stood proud, telling the story of our people''s resistance and patriotism. The closeness of the landmarks and statues seemed to whisper both the pain of colonization and the pride of those who fought back. Italian influence could be felt in Mogadishu''s food scene too, with cozy Italian restaurants and cafés scattered around the city. Aabe''s favorite was the well-known Caffé Nazionale, a lively spot in the center of the city.

Whenever I went there with Aabe, I had a sandwich or a steaming bowl of pasta and sip it with cold Pompelmo grapefruit juice while Aabe ordered espresso with his meals regardless of time of day. The food, the drinks, the ambience and friendly staff made me feel like we weren''t in a restaurant but in a rich, hospitable friend''s home. Italian culture became woven into everyday Somali life, especially in Mogadishu and the southern regions, which had been under Italian colonization for over sixty years. Their influence was most evident in our food and language. Eating mishaari (polenta) for breakfast, baasto (pasta) for lunch, and cooling off in the afternoon with homemade fruity jalaato (gelato) was and is still part of our daily routine. Even the Somali language, which became the official national language in 1972, absorbed hundreds of Italian words. It wasn''t unusual to hear people casually saying "ciao" or "perché," even if they didn''t speak Italian fluently. By the mid-1980s, when I was coming of age, the Italians were long gone, but Mogadishu was still a city in transition, growing and redefining itself with every passing day.

The streets buzzed with energy, filled with color and sound. You could hear market vendors loudly bargaining, children laughing in their white and blue school uniforms, and women in bright diracs and guntiinos heading to work or carrying handwoven baskets to buy fruits and vegetables from one of the city''s bustling markets. White passenger buses, small cars, red and green taxis, and buzzing Vespas all fought for space on the narrow roads, honking nonstop while people weaved through the traffic on foot. We lived under a dictatorship, so colorful portraits of President Siad Barre were everywhere, often shown alongside images of Marx or Lenin and bold slogans promoting his version of "scientific" socialism: "Struggle and Progress" and "Unity, Socialism, Prosperity" were printed beneath them. At the heart of this busy city was my family. My mother, Hooyo Faduma and Aabe Noor, raising their seven children. We lived in the Hodan neighborhood of Mogadishu, in a large multigenerational home just a block away from the bustling Siigaale market. Although my parents owned a home in Howl Wadaag, they chose to move in with my mother''s family before I was born.

As two working parents, they needed the extra help to raise us, and in this house filled with aunties, uncles, and grandparents, there was always someone around to lend a hand or a watchful eye. Our home felt like a self-contained small village. We lived in two four-bedroom houses, built side by side, that together held three generations and eighteen people in total. A single main gate connected the houses, opening into a shared courtyard where we all gathered, cooked, and played. At the heart of it was a kitchen and dining area, tucked a few steps below ground level. The sunken kitchen, a strange little space that required we step down three stairs to get to, was where most of our days began and ended. Each morning, at five, we were greeted by the Adhan, the call to prayer from the Uunlaaye mosque behind our house, and the spicy aroma of qaxwa, a mixture of coffee, cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger lovingly brewed by my beloved grandmother, Ayeeyo Khadija. She would then pass on the baton to my mother Hooyo or Habaryaros, sisters who took turns cooking meals and desserts under her supervision from the courtyard.

In the evenings, we retreated to our corner of the house, where laughter and stories filled the air, courtesy of Aabe''s booming voice. He would lean back in his chair, a twinkle in his eye, weaving tales of adventure that transported us to Bandar Beyla, his hometown, or Cairo and St. Petersburg, cities he studied in. The way he gestured with his hands, animated, and changed his voice for different characters made us hang onto his every word as if we were part of his narrative. Meanwhile, Hooyo would listen with us quietly, her presence enveloping us like a comforting blanket. Every so often, she would look up with a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with warmth, as if she were savoring every moment of Aabe''s storytelling. When the tales grew too wild or exaggerated, she would shake her head softly, a playful smile teasing her lips. As parents, they balanced each other.

Aabe was an orator and visionary, always pushing us to dream big and aim high, while Hooyo kept us grounded with routine and discipline. I still remember Aabe telling us after dinner, "Your dreams can take you anywhere, but it''s character that keeps you there," while Hooyo would gently but firmly remind us to tidy up our rooms, finish our homework, and make sure the lights were out by seven in the evening. Together, they taught us to respect our elders, never take anything that wasn''t ours, and, most importantly, to always put family first. Those small, steady lessons became the foundation of everything they wanted us to carry forward. Culture and self-identity were also values they instilled in us from a young age. My mother''s family, Benadiri Somalis, traced their roots back to the Hadhramaut region of Yemen. Her ancestors were merchants and seafarers who had arrived in Mogadishu centuries ago. They were often called Reer Xamar, the "people of Mogadishu," because they lived only in the city and its nearby suburbs, and their Somali-Yemeni heritage became an inseparable part of Mogadishu''s identity.

Hooyo and her family made sure we stayed connected to our Benadiri roots. We spent our weekends in Shingani and Kaambo, Old Mogadishu neighborhoods where all of their relatives lived and ran their businesses. And often, Hooyo took us to the National Theater to watch Benadiri plays. I still remember actors like Feynus Sheikh Dahir, Marisa Carbona, and Sharif Jeeg performing stories of love, loss, and life along the coast. Aabe supported all of this, but he also made sure we stayed rooted in his side of the family too. "It''s important to learn your mom''s Benadiri heritage," he''d say with a proud smile, "but I''m full-blood Somali from the coast town of Bandar Beyla, right by the rugged cliffs in Bari, the northeast. So, in our culture, you are what your father is, so when people ask, you tell them: I''m born in Mogadishu, but we are from Bandar Beyla." Though I loved the hustle and bustle of our multigenerational home and cherished the camaraderie of living among extended family members, my most memorable childhood memories revolve around the weekend excursions we undertook as the Noor family.

Our adventures usually started with a relaxed lunch at Bar Abukar, a popular spot located a few miles outside Mogadishu. Unlike regular restaurants, Bar Abukar was set inside a large farm and customers sat in neatly arranged mats and cushions under the shade of fruit trees. The atmosphere felt like a big picnic, but we ate freshly made traditional Somali food, popular in rural areas of the country. My favorite dish there was waslat, a tender, delicious roast from the shoulder of a goat. After our meal, we''d head to Jazeera Beach for a swim and stay there until the sun dipped low and painted the sky in shades of gold and orange and we ended those magical weekend adventures with scoops of sweet gelato and icy drinks at Jumba Gelato, on.