The Somali Child

The Doll

First of all, welcome to the MusseSisters page. This is a 3 part story about a the experiences of a Somali child living in Europe. This is the first story. Enjoy!

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The Danish winter started to take its numbing effect as we hurried along the uneven pavement in search of a bus stop. The short bus ride exposed me to the cosmopolitanism of downtown Copenhagen, a stark contrast to my inconspicuous neighbourhood of Rødovre.

It was a concrete jungle, everything was huge. Shops were palaces, whilst roads were oversized mazes that we meandered through. My mother loathed the cold, her teeth constantly chattered.  I didn't mind the cold much. It was the only weather I'd ever known in my short existence. As we carried on our long and tedious trek, I was in the process of persuading my mother, quite militantly, to take me to Toys 'R' Us to buy me a doll, taking advantage of her shivering quest for warmth. 

After a few weak protests, which included her insistence that I had ''more dolls than any child needs'', I had successfully convinced her. It was the size of Toys 'R' Us that initially struck me as we stood outside the entrance. The large shop sign illuminated colourful lettering, making it seem fantastical.  I became giddy with anticipation, as I skipped gleefully into Toys 'R' Us, my curly hair bounced with every step.

 ''Pick only one doll Kuuso, haaye?'', my mother warned me, ''I don't have a lot of lacag today.''

''Haaye  Hooyo'', I reassured her, but I clearly had other ideas.

As we started to navigate through the vast shop, I almost tore  my poor mothers arm off with my overzealous attempt to find the perfect doll.  As I eyed infinite amounts of toys, I wanted them all. I closed my eyes for a brief moment and convinced myself that when I was rich, or, at the very least, accumulated enough funds, I would have all the toys a child needs and a heck of a lot more. But for now I had to be content with the one doll. 

As we got nearer the dolls' isle, I started to judge all the potential dolls that were on offer from afar. It was as if I was some sort of egotistical judge on a superficial reality TV show, and the dolls' were eager contestants, all vying for my attention to get their big break, or in this case be taken home with me. One particular doll stood out to me.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about it seemed scary, evocative even . It had a pasty, blotched  complexion, resembling the harsh strokes of chalk. Its glass eyes glared at me, piercing my soul. Its pupils were as black as midnight with an icy glare reminiscent of a bird of prey.

Suddenly, something struck me. I hadn't ever really thought of it before. Why should I have? I was young, devoid of any real knowledge, blissfully ignorant of any real political or be it racial implications in something as innocent as a doll. It wasn't as if I had reached some sort of socially conscious peak where I could fully comprehend these matters.

But I still noticed it and it had a profound effect on me. Whilst the packaging on all the dolls may have differed, they all shared a common theme. They were all white and had blonde hair. Years of not feeling beautiful, of feeling  almost ashamed of my skin hit me at that instant. Whilst I didn't necessarily mind having a doll with a lighter complexion, after all my other dolls were of the paler variety, something inside me yearned for a doll that shared my own coffee- coloured-complexion.

Was that a lot to ask I wondered? However it became quickly apparent that Toys 'R' Us was not exactly a place where this would be possible.

Even at a young age I was privy to the fact that I was different.  My skin was darker and my hair curlier, in stark contrast to the typical Danish aesthetic. ''Hooyo!'', I said, whilst simultaneously tugging at my mother's sleeve, trying to get her attention,

''Waax kaale mi iso gaadi karta?''

''Can you buy me something else?''