When a Child Survives Without the Village, the Village Vanishes: A Letter to Every Somali Mother Carrying More Than She Should
When a Child Survives Without the Village, the Village Vanishes: A Letter to Every Somali Mother Carrying More Than She Should
She came from a place where a child was never alone. Where the smell of qarfo (cinnamon) and heel (cardamom) from a neighbor’s kitchen meant the door was open — and an open door meant you were welcome, and being welcome meant you belonged. She carried that world inside her when she came to Minnesota. She thought she would plant it here.
Somewhere between working double shifts, navigating school systems in a second language, and learning to live in a country that rewards independence above all else, the door quietly closed; lullabies turned to whispers instead of songs of enjoyment. Not because she stopped caring because no one taught her how to keep it open in a world that was not built for villages. This is not her failure. This is a loss that belongs to all of us.
What We Are Seeing
In our work at Women's Wellness MN, we sit with mothers, young women and children who are doing something extraordinary and suffering quietly because of it. They are working, parenting, managing households, navigating systems in a second language, and carrying the emotional weight of an entire family on their own. When illness comes, and it does come, the fear that rises is not who will care for me. It is immediately: what will happen to my children? Not because our community does not care. But because the structures that would have answered that question without hesitation, the grandparents, the aunties, the neighbors, the extended family close by, are no longer reliably there.
And so mothers do what feels like the only safe thing. They hold their children closer. They become more protective. They begin, slowly, to close the door. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear. Fear that without the village, the world itself becomes a threat to their children.
What begins as protection can quietly become isolation. Children raised in isolation, even well-raised and well-fed children, end up being shaped almost entirely by institutions such as daycare, school, and after-school programs. These are not bad places. But they were never meant to be a child's only community and social support. They were never meant to be the ones passing down values, traditions, a sense of belonging, a moral foundation. That was always the village's work.
One of the most profound losses we are witnessing is children no longer hearing the lullabies of their families — those songs of play, comfort and connection that were once woven into every day. The spoken poetry below captures the prayers and yearnings Somali mothers have long expressed while comforting their children. It describes a deep wish that the child never lose the nurturing of a grandmother, the steadying hand of a grandfather, the protection of uncles, the guidance of siblings, and the belonging of everyone who is bound to them. That this prayer even needs to be sung tells us how far we have drifted from the village, and how much we lose when the villager is no longer part of it.
Hobeeya hobeey hobeeya
Ayeeydaayoo ku korisa,
Awowgaayoo ku qaada,
Adeerkaayoo ku haysta,
Ha waayin ha waalaloobin,
Ha waayin walaalo dhawr ah,
Ha waayin labada waaliid,
Ha waayin wardheere aabbe,
Ha waayin waxsiiso hooyo,
Ha Waayin intii wax kuu ah.
Such a translation might read: (May you never lose your grandmother who raises you, your grandfather who carries you, your uncle who holds you. May you never lose your siblings, your two parents, the protection of your father, the warmth of your mother, and all those who are yours.)
What the Village Actually Gave Us
The village was not just childcare. It was identity.
When a child grew up moving between homes, sitting at different tables, learning from different elders, they were absorbing something no classroom teaches. They were learning who we are. They were learning that they stood for something beyond themselves, that they came from something, that they were accountable to more than just their parents. Traditional Somali poetry and lullabies shaped every stage of a child's development, carried not just by mothers but by the whole circle of adults around them, both nuclear and extended family.
The village gives mothers something else too. It gives them permission to speak their mother tongue, to sing it, to pass it on. When the village is present, children build emotional intelligence rooted deeply in a culture that promotes healthy relationships. Mothers find forms of support that do not require isolation or individualism. The language itself becomes a bridge back to belonging.
The lullabies mothers sing in moments of pride beautifully capture what a mother carries in her heart. She is not just soothing a child to sleep. She is daydreaming about who that child will become — educated both religiously and academically, well-spoken and full of wisdom, someone who helps their community. And beneath all of it is a quiet prayer: let me still be here when that day comes.
Hobeeya Hobeey Hobeeya,
Adoo cilmi iyo aqoon leh
Adoo dadka caawinaaya
Adoo codkaroo hadlaaya
Carliga Soomaali oo dhan
Cayn Kaanka adoo u dooran
Cimriga Alle igu sin hooyoowa
Such a translation might read: “You, full of knowledge and wisdom. You, helping your people. You, speaking with a voice heard across all Somali lands. May God grant me the years to see it.”
The open home, the tradition of soo gal, soo gal, come in, come in, was not just hospitality. It was how a community said: this family belongs to us, and we belong to this family. When that tradition fades, something much larger fades with it. Not just for the mother carrying everything alone. For the child growing up without knowing they were ever meant to be held by more than two hands.
Before We Can Build the Village, We Need Villagers
We talk a lot about wanting the village back. But the village does not simply appear. It is built by people who decide, one ordinary day, to show up.
A villager is not someone with unlimited time or perfect circumstances. A villager is someone who is reliable. Someone a child can count on. Someone who communicates, I am here, without waiting to be asked. Someone who moves away from the question of what do I get, toward the question of what does this child need from me right now.
This is hard in a world that pushes us toward individualism, toward minding our own households, toward keeping our struggles private. But Islamically and culturally, this was never our way. Caring for one another, especially for children who are not your own, has always been an act of worship as much as an act of community. The woman who checks on her neighbor's child, the elder who sits with a struggling mother, the friend who says leave the children with me, you rest: these are not small things. They are the village being rebuilt, one act at a time.
The question is not whether we want the village. Most of us do. The question is whether we are willing to become the villager first.
A Framework to Start With: The 7‑7‑7
For those seeking a practical, faith-rooted starting point, consider a parenting framework long shared by many Muslim scholars and families: divide a child’s upbringing into three seven‑year stages.
Years 0–7: Play with your child. Focus on love, security, and joyful attachment. This is the time for emotional bonding, modeling kindness, and creating a safe foundation.
Years 7–14: Teach and guide. Introduce structured learning, moral instruction, and age‑appropriate discipline. Help them build habits, religious knowledge, and character.
Years 14–21: Befriend. Move toward mutual respect, open dialogue, and partnership. Support their growing independence while offering wise counsel and trust.
This approach is often associated with the teachings of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (RA) and reflects a wisdom tradition many families find meaningful. Adapt it to fit your faith, culture, and family circumstances.
No single parent can manage this alone or meet all of a child’s developmental needs. We kindly invite parents and community members to seek and offer support at each stage of a child’s life by building a village that includes relatives, teachers, faith leaders, and neighbors. If you are part of a child’s village, take time to reflect honestly on the child’s current stage and the responsibilities you are being asked during this period.
As Eid al‑Fitr approaches, let it mean more than celebration this year. Eid is about sacrifice, giving beyond yourself, and community gathering. It is a natural moment to ask: who in my circle is carrying too much? Who needs me to show up? Let this Eid be the moment you decide to become the villager you have been waiting for. Build the village you want your children to grow up in. Start with one family. Start with one open door. Start with one meal made for someone who did not ask.
To Every Woman Reading This
You are not failing because you are tired. You are tired because you were never meant to carry this alone.
The loneliness you feel is real. The fear is real. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone with no one truly holding you is real. You are not the only one sitting with it in silence.
But you are also someone's village waiting to happen. The mother in your circle who has gone quiet may be waiting for you to call first. The child you see each week may be waiting for someone to simply notice. Open the door you have been meaning to open a little wider — that is where the village begins.
We Are Here
At Women's Wellness & Parenting Support Center, we walk alongside Somali women and families who live these realities: the loneliness, the fear, the weight of doing it all without enough support. Our work is rooted in cultural understanding and deep respect for who you are and where you come from.
If any part of this touched you, please reach out. You do not have to keep carrying this alone.
Contact us directly to learn more about how we can support you and your family.
Resources
This piece was informed in part by: Reupert, A., Straussner, S.L., Weimand, B., & Maybery, D. (2022). It Takes a Village to Raise a Child: Understanding and Expanding the Concept of the "Village." Frontiers in Public Health. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC8964422/
