A Spiritual Journey in Burco
With Saraar, Geesi and Faadumo.  

Part 2 of 2
By Dr. Abdishakur Jowhar

Fatumo described her colleague in details. He was kind and gentle. She has seen him take off his shirt and cover a naked man. He was tireless and driven in his care for others. He woke up earlier than anybody and slept latter than most engaged almost all the time in altruistic pursuit. He had the capacity to connect with the other. The most ill of all men felt comfortable with Geesi. She has witnessed him develop very close bonds with those who were non-verbal, irritable and aggressive.

I noted the past tense use. I thought I saw Faadumo gaze inwards. I thought I saw a glimpse of an inner torment. There was some trembling in her voice as she spoke about Geesi. So I asked. What happened to him? Where is he now? She started her response by repeating her mantra “The fixer will fix it.” She appeared to be seeking strength and guidance from Him. And finally she let it go with a sigh. “Geesi is among those fed by Saraar now. He has fallen a victim to mental illness himself. He is tied in chains in his brother’s home”.

I glanced around at my wife and saw tears welling up in her eyes. I could feel wetness in my face. There was a silent consensus. We will go, see this man, no matter what!

We filed after one another…Fatumo and one of her helpers joined us. We piled into the small car, sitting on top of one another.. We began searching for Geesi.

11: 00 a.m. A Hero in Distress

We drove across the city and came to the brother’s house where Geesi was in home prison only to find that he has been moved to his sister’s house just the other day. Women in this part of the world (and in all other parts of the world) are the primary caregivers of relatives in need. Men may finance the care of a loved one but they somehow manage to dodge the actual care. This avoidance of duty is not about biology. It is about an environment where men learned to get away with it for far too long.

We drove on and finally arrived at the sister’s house. We walked into one big room. There were not much of worldly possessions around. The little that was there however were tastefully placed and kept immaculately clean. It was a display of efficiency. There elegance and simplicity here. A curtain was stretched across the room isolating one half of it.

11:35 a.m. Behind the Curtain

And there he was behind the curtain. He was lying on a mattress. One foot bound by a heavy chain to the cement floor. He was lying on one side facing me. He noted my entry raising his head to investigate as I walked in, another curtain of sorrow and a troublesome shadow of sadness stood between us. His jaws were clenched tight and his forehead was thrown into a thousand little folds each screaming in agony beyond pain. He acknowledged my presence but it was clearly an effort.

Here is the hero in chains. Here is the man who rejected cruelty, ignorance and prejudice now the subject of them. Here is the man who showed his people how love heals that which hate and civil war destroys. Here he is today at this very moment of time being tested in the ways of Allah, his insides ripped apart into a million small pieces. He is here having fallen a victim to the monster that haunts the deep recesses of the human mind, a monster he fought against so courageously, so stubbornly and with so much skill, love and hope. Here is the hero suffering for all of us, like Cissa did before him at the cross. I kneeled down next to him and felt like a disciple witnessing the crucifixion.

A shiver ran down my spine. Oh thou day of horror! I took a deep breath and pronounced with reverence and owe. “I am the healer. I came to heal”. We engaged in a silent dual of mutual examination, balancing trust and distrust, examining each other’s core, seeking places of comfort and safety. We clicked and audibly relaxed in unison. He looked down and told me his story. He started by informing that he would have loved to sit up as we talked but he can’t. His leg was injured the other day when he was transported to his sister’s house against his will. “I was already there, ready to die, to move on with it and she came to salvage me. I resisted, I was ready for the other world not this one. I did not want to be salvage project for any one; I did not want to be a burden, to take food out of her children’s mouth. I wanted to go peacefully. I am finished, you know, finished”. He was beyond tears. Around him the gloom was thick and palpable. Death wish dominated his existence. And it has been this way almost every day since his illness started. He related to me how he threw himself in front of cars and trucks. “They would not kill me!” he cried out in anguish. And these persistent suicide acts were indeed the reason for the chains.

And then his voice dropped and the follow of his speech dwindled to a trickle. I had to pull each word out from within him. I had to wait for prolonged moments coaxing the follow of information. He spoke of melancholy, of lost of hope… “ I knew it was all over for me for a long time now. And then I heard about the coming of AIDS to Somalia. It was the last straw for me... I have seen the killings of a brother by a brother, death have lurked around me all my life. I mean life has no use any more… And I heard about the coming of AIDS on top of it. I knew it was the end for me too… I am losing it, am I? going crazy ? I don’t want to go there. It is not worth living anymore…And even worse The Devil started to whisper in my ears urging me to finish it all…” He stared off into space and fell into prolonged silence. I can see his lips moving. The dialogue was continuing only I was not privy to it any more.

The gist of it all was clear to me all. I knew there was vastly slowed information processing in the brain of this man that has become almost bereft of the monoamines that were previously thought to be neurotransmitters but that could more appropriately be described as neuromodulaters. Yes the biology of it all was easy to grasp the human dimensions of it was much more complex. I spent the next half an hour doing the rituals of a healers all over the world, define the syndrome, determine the course and cause and engage in a process of rule ins and rule outs and above all formulate an effective response

12:35 Of Sisterhood

As we stood around out side the house discussing the mechanics of management a woman appeared from around the corner a little ways down the street. Her pace fastened; the change of speed attracting our attention. She abruptly stopped. Her hand flew to hold the pit of her tummy. Her mouth opened and regrouped itself into an O. there was obviously a scream, silent scream, the beginning of fright. We all knew instantly. It must be the sister, the neat and caring sister. She saw the crowd around her house, the strange men and women, the unexpected car. She assumed something bad happened to the brother she left at home bound and tied down to the floor. The inner scare exploded beyond the confines of her physical being, affecting us in the distance. She stopped and started again getting closer. In a sudden move she removed the scarf covering her head and tied it around her stomach. This was no time for modesty. Her jaw was tightening. A lioness was emerging right there, preparing herself to defend her loved ones with all the love God has created in our woman folk. A picture emerged in front of our eyes of the suffering and pain of the human condition but also a picture of its determination, hope and gallantry. There was the physiology of fight or flight but also that of the deeper human essence of love and hope, fear and courage… We were there all bound together in moment of time in which we all existed together in nether space, sharing and feeling each other freely, unencumbered by space or time. Next to my ear I heard the pulse of wife quicken as emotional waves hit her, I felt them transform into a scream next to me. “It is OK, it is OK, just a doctor, just a doctor”. The tone of her voice was soothing, her body was gesturing relaxation to lend courage and comfort to fellow mother, a fellow sister, to temporarily carry with her the fright that is all too often the fate of mothers and sisters. I could also hear the slight shaking and the tears in my wife’s voice. We all shuddered in the shared moment. The women reached us, the blood that has drained from her skin partially returning, the jaw half way between trust and distrust, nostrils flaring at decelerating rate, eyes set so wide by the machinery of human stress beginning to come down to a position of guarded relaxation. I murmured comforting sounds mixed in with subtle greetings.

I completed writing the prescription explaining to the benefactor what needs to be done, what side effects to be expected etc and the ton of routine instructions that go with treatment. She kept nodding her head in understanding, occasionally repeating my instructions for emphasis and interspersing with the now familiar mantra “the fixer will sure fix it. The fixer will sure fix it.” We exchanged goodbye “Peace be upon you” the responded “peace and milk be with you”. Together we echoed “peace and milk” shaking hands all around.

13:15 On the Way Again

We piled into the car and drove away. Each of us lost in inner world. There was no small talk. I held on to my wife’s hand. At that moment I felt so vulnerable, so weak, so connected, so human. I felt therefore I existed. In my mind the mantra started to repeat itself “hagaajiyaa hagaagin”

Dr. Abdishakur Jowhar
E-mail: [email protected]