In August 2015, Mubarik, Abdisamad, and I are sitting in Harvard Yard waiting for the last member of our group to arrive. He has called to say he is running late, but today is so perfect that we could wait all day if necessary. All around us are returning students, many accompanied by their parents, as Harvard is now beginning its fall semester and “move-in” days are under way. Abdisamad, the boy who spoke so eloquently about gender during Anand’s fund-raiser, has been here a couple of weeks already in order to participate in freshman orientation.
Being accepted to Harvard has made Abdisamad a celebrity and a Somaliland hero. One evening not long after the news broke, I was having tea with a high-ranking government official at a hotel in Hargeisa. There was a steady stream of people coming to see the official on business matters, and he made sure each one knew the news about Abdisamad. Finally, I told the official that Abdisamad would soon be at the hotel. “Can I meet him?” he asked with hope. Our boy had become a rock star. In fact, Abdisamad’s acceptance to Harvard was such a big deal that the president of Somaliland invited him to the Presidential Palace, where he had then given awards to both Abdisamad and Abaarso.
While Harvard’s reputation is renowned worldwide, in Africa it is considered the pinnacle of success. It wasn’t that people in Africa compared it to MIT or other Ivy League schools; it was that they barely knew that the other schools existed. Mubarik was now at MIT, and I remember a conversation following his acceptance. “Congratulations on mit,” one Somali said to me, rhyming “MIT” with “sit” in a single syllable. Harvard was different. Everybody knew Harvard.
For Somaliland, Abdisamad’s accomplishment had a great patriotic value—it put Somaliland on the map, literally. CNN ran an article on its website about Abdisamad and Harvard, and the article included a map of Africa with only Somaliland labeled. All the other African countries were unmarked.
Back in Harvard Yard, our last member now approaches with a smile and a handshake. I know him well, although we have never met. He is Nicholas Kristof, the op-ed columnist for the New York Times and the winner of two Pulitzer Prizes in journalism. His primary topics are human rights and the effects of globalization, although he covers it all—health, politics, economics. Now that he is seated with us, passersby figure out who he is every few minutes and ask him to pose for photos, which he graciously obliges.
Do Mubarik and Abdisamad understand what is happening here? They are sitting in the most prestigious academic spot on earth, talking to one of the most prestigious journalists from the New York Times. Yet they seem unfazed. Nick is asking them about all sorts of things, from adapting to America, to first impressions of Abaarso, to whether they know how to milk a camel, and they are talking to him like they are seasoned panelists. Nick has to be as blown away by their poise as I am, never mind their deeply reasoned responses. I’ve known these boys for six years and I’m still impressed by the intellect they are bringing to each answer. With each question I get nervous for them, and then I am at ease when I realize I don’t need to worry. These children are now men and they have it all under control.
* * *
A year from now, I would get more great news. This time it would be about a female student, making it that much more special. Fadumo’s younger sister Nadira is accepted to Yale and Dartmouth as well as to six other colleges. She becomes the first Abaarso student to be accepted to two Ivy League universities.
As far as I know, she will be the first Somaliland woman ever to go to an Ivy League school. Back in Billeh’s day, when Somalis first started coming to the United States to attend great universities, women were not among them. Yes, there are accomplished Somali women with Ivy League degrees who are also U.S. citizens or citizens of other countries. But Nadira has no citizenship other than Somaliland, and to all those young girls growing up in Hargeisa, Burao, Erigavo, and the rest of the country, she is just like them. She is an inspiration.
Nadira’s success, as well as the success of the girls before her, has led to a seismic shift in what Somalilanders view as possible for their girls. Our first entrance exam with SOS had fewer than twenty girls in attendance. The most recent had four hundred. New classes at Abaarso are split evenly between the sexes, and as more of the heavily male classes graduate, Abaarso will soon be half girls, half boys. Our new university, planned as a teachers’ college for women, will capitalize on all of this excitement behind female education. One Abaarso girl recently gushed that “now my sisters can have a real future.”
Abaarso students, boys and girls, are convincing the world that they can compete with anyone. Mubarik, Abdisamad, Deqa, Mohamed, Nimo, and too many others to mention are the ones who made this breakthrough possible. Current and future students have them to thank.
In Nadira’s case, she has another special someone to thank, her sister Fadumo. It was Fadumo who originally underwent a hunger strike to attend Abaarso, and it was Fadumo who then insisted her sister come to the school. When Nadira got to campus, she was angry and withdrawn, but Fadumo convinced her to let that anger go and strive for a future, not dwell on the past. Now, she is outgoing, warm, and appreciative. When she is accepted to her list of colleges, someone says to me, “You must be very proud.” I respond with the truth. “Honestly, I was already about as proud of her as I could be,” I say, much like a caring father. I had seen her actual father two days earlier, and he felt the same way.
I am proud of all my Abaarso students, not just the Ivy Leaguers and the MITs. They all have overcome steep odds just by making it through their first year at the school. Every student’s success is a victory. We take nothing for granted. Neither do they.
I worry for Abaarso, Somaliland, and Somalia’s future as well, but maybe I shouldn’t anymore. Maybe these two men beside me, Abdisamad and Mubarik, as well as their female counterparts, will have that all under control, too.
Back in Harvard Yard, Nick turns to me. “So how does it feel to now be sitting in Harvard Yard with these boys?” I am not often at a loss for words.