adrift
stories from Maine
I step from Lisbon Street, Lewiston’s main street, into the office of the New Mainers Public Health Initiative. I am greeted by Hibo Omer, Program Director. She has helped to set up this meeting today with a Somali older adult who uses their services, and is willing to share his experiences.
Within a few minutes, he joins us. Hibo calls him “Uncle.” So this is how he will be referred to in this piece. There is no way to describe him except as striking, but quiet. At 76 years old, he walks with a cane, but with such familiarity with it that his stride is still sweeping.
Hibo has offered to translate this meeting, informally. You will hear in the audio clips Uncle’s voice, speaking in Somali, followed by Hibo’s translating to English. If you speak Somali, you’ll hear these are just snippets of Uncle’s words. And, because this was an informal meeting, sometimes the two would dialogue back and forth. You’ll hear that, too.
We backtrack to his childhood in Somalia. Hear how he was resourceful and innovative from his earliest days.
His adulthood in Somalia, brimmed with challenge resulting from the civil war in his country, including loss of loved ones.
We move, next, to his strides forward: his settlement in Maine. He now lives in an apartment on Maine Street. He arrived without family and still lives alone.
While political circumstances have kept him from returning home to see his sons, he notes that even if he could come back, leaving Somalia has changed his relationship to his kids. In Somalia, elder family members often live with their kids. Hear why he feels he this cultural norm would not apply anymore:
Anonymous photo by Grace Ellrodt with subject’s consent.
Here, as an older adult aging in a new place without his kids nearby, he is lonely. The way he speaks about it is realistic and down-to-earth, but also emotional.
I ask whether he could speak to a professional about his loneliness. At first, he hesitates. Then, I learn that his resettlement case manager can, and did, help him with a referral to therapy. At the end of the day, however, he feels it is in his hands to manage his sense of aloneness.
A key loneliness antidote is his religion, which gives him a higher purpose and meaning to ascribe to his challenges.
The strongest loneliness antidote I heard him speak of: connection to of his fellow Somali New Mainers, especially those he was a refugee alongside and settled into Lewiston with.
Especially when he faced physical discomfort and disability shockingly soon after arriving here, they provided caregiving. And now, they give each other the chance to relive their shared past.
Language is a central part of forming bonds with non-Somali-speakers here. Hear how a longterm hospitalization upon immigrating has set him back in learning English in ways he still feels every day, years later. His injury, and the fact that English is endlessly complicated for someone who speaks a phonetic language like Somali.
Another crucial loneliness antidote, now stripped away, were the restaurants, tea shops, and even barbershops where New Mainers, in particular Somali elders, used to spend entire days together.
When Somali-owned businesses close their doors, or conflict arises within their community, Uncle takes to visiting Somali families, staying out of his home, always walking, walking, walking.
As we’re wrapping up together, a piece of Somali culture (cuisine, specifically) comes right into the room. This reflects the light of solidarity and inter-culturality that still guides Somali and other New Mainer elders like Uncle. A light that communities can make brighter.
Photo taken by Grace Ellrodt with subject’s consent.
Gratitude to Hibo Omer of the New Mainer Public Health Initiative for translating, coordinating, and hosting this conversation.