Growing up in Jowhar, Somalia, I remember more than the hum of Snai Biasa factories and the rhythm of trains hauling sugarcane. You would hear the low hum of the sugar factory in the early hours and the distant clatter of trains pulling loaded carts from the cane fields. But what shaped me most was not the machinery or the movement. It was the quiet, everyday rituals of care that held our community together.
I remember my mother, a small businesswoman with little time to spare, stepping outside each morning not just to tend to our home but to look toward the neighbours’ kitchens.
