Omar describes her early relationship with her father, Baba, by whom, along with an aunt, she was principally raised (she doesn't remember her mother, who died when she was in preschool). Her father, she says, suspended Somali tradition in raising her, treating her not as a second class girl, but as a social equal. She says,
Baba continued to invest a lot of time and energy in the girls of the family...He was extremely close to us and did not adopt the traditional patriarchal role of the protector that Somali men usually fall into with the opposite sex. He treated us as equals.
As we discover later in the narrative, this is an important point: It helps explain to the still-patriarchal Somali community in Minneapolis her gender-breaking ambition to run for public office, and to lead, rather follow, steps behind the man, any man.
Another important influence early on is Omar's habaryar (aunt) Fos, who showered her with maternal affection and dignity. "She was a super human, but one who didn't need her powers to be recognized or celebrated," relates Omar. "I could get in trouble with just about anybody. But I couldn't get in trouble with her. 'This is my sister's baby,' she would say." And, during the flight from Somalia, amidst militia battles, Fos contracted malaria, and she "grew sicker and sicker until she could no longer get out of bed." This event became not only a devastating personal loss but a key moment in her education:
I don't think I've known greater devastation and sorrow than when Fos died...My aunt's death meant in very real terms that there was no such thing as escape in this life...Nothing is permanent, and that fact made me really angry.
Omar shows over and over again an ability to channel her anger for constructive purposes.
Once in the refugee camp in Kenya, she describes conditions that would make Boochani blush with overstatement. In Dadaab, temporarily 'resettled' in a virtual wasteland under the sun's tormenting eye, she describes ailments. A lucky refugee, she caught "only" chicken pox,
Without any kind of remedy or medicine, my skin burned under the scorching heat. I could literally hear the blisters popping.
A la Nietzsche's famous now pop-songed quip, That which does not kill me makes me stronger, she adds, "Despite the physical agony I was experiencing, I knew chicken pox wasn't going to kill me." She notes the look of others, "For the first year and a half in the camp, my grandfather and dad walked around like zombies. All the adults were like shells of humans." It's a common refugee experience.
She describes long lines:
There were watering stations throughout the camp where people lined up with plastic jugs to fill...The other line known for its battles was the one for the bathroom...I also stood in line for our food, such as rice, beans, flour, or oil.
She observes Kenyan resentment at their numbers -- 334,000 -- and needs.
After four years in the camp, Omar and her family are relocated to America. They've been prepped: pep talks and videos conjure up visions of wealth, good will, and opportunity. She remembers how refugees were dressed on the way to America:
A man handing his boarding pass to a flight attendant wore a suit that was at least two sizes too big for him. Two little girls, testing out the tables that popped out from the seats in front of them, were in Easter Sunday dresses as if they were about to attend a holiday party.
Before the flight, some of them had gone on a spending spree at secondhand clothing shops to arrive in a dignified fashion.
It's a festive, yet apprehensive atmosphere on the plane, folks all joy-juiced up on the expectations lent them by US refugee agencies:
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