Personal Narrative: My Journey Back To Somalia

They say you can find out a lot about a person by peeking into his or her passport. Such as where he or she is from, where he or she wish to go and where he or she have been. While each stamp represents a time and place, nothing can truly sum up a city like the experiences that have taken place there. And as fun as it is to explore, nothing could ever replace returning home.
Growing up, my earliest memory of “home” was Windsor, Ontario. Looking back, everything seemed much simpler, I was constantly surrounded by family and various people from many different backgrounds. As I was not yet of school age, I would spend my time playing outside with our neighbors, being able to run around without limitations was what I lived for. While we got to

I did not like who I was or where I was. It felt as if I was blindly following a path of what was “expected”. After a little thought I had come to the conclusion that I wanted to go back to Somalia. My parents would often tell me that it would always be my home, and after my brief stay there for four months before I truly believed it.
The following week realization hit as I boarded the last leg of my flight to Mogadishu; I had finally made a decision on my own. I had literally woken up one morning and dropped my entire life to move the other side of the world on days’ notice. My family thought I had lost it, they could not believe I was returning to the place I had taken so much time adjusting to that summer.
Subsequently the next ten months would consist of the most physically and mentally challenging moments of my life. ‘Culture Shock’ had become my new catch phrase. I had gone from a place where I was constantly asked where I was really from because here ,Ohio, was not a sufficient enough answer to another where I was asked the same question because Somalia did not match what they