Edna Adan Ismail - A Woman of Firsts

It was a lot of fun living in the centre of cosmopolitan London. I was made so welcome and enjoyed my newfound freedom. Despite the parties and the pranks, however, I remained a diligent student and passed all my exams – including anatomy and physiology – with good grades. I did so well, in fact, that my teachers hinted that I might consider switching from nursing to medicine, but I was undecided about that and resolved to ask my father’s advice when I was next back home. The previous few years had brought about such momentous changes, yet there I was, eighteen years old, living in a very different kind of world and with my nursing studies about to begin. I was no longer a frightened little girl, confused by life’s mysteries and holding onto my father’s hand. I was a young woman doing as I pleased, on the brink of my chosen career. Life was good.

***

In the summer of 1956, I went home for the first time in two years. This was something that had always been promised by the Colonial Office and was much anticipated by those of us who’d been away so long.

Everything seemed smaller than I remembered but it was good to be back. I’d been especially homesick for spicy curries and chilli peppers. The food in London seemed so bland by comparison to our Indian-influenced cooking. I had also missed my brother Farah and my younger sister Asha, then eight. I wished my grandmother Clara were still alive so I could go to Borama with her and drink cow’s milk, but the herd had been sold long ago and she’d died of cancer of the uterus before I left for Britain. Most of all, I wanted to see my dad. By then he’d finished building his house – one of the first in Hargeisa to have electricity and a telephone (connected to an exchange) – and he even owned his own car. For the first time in his working life he was no longer dependent on the British government for accommodation or transport. My parents were proud of me, or at least my father was. Mum never said much and I’m sure she wanted me to give up my dream, come home and settle down. Her most oft-repeated comment was, ‘I married a crazy husband and he gave me a crazy daughter.’

I was delighted to learn that my cousin Gracie from Djibouti would be spending the summer with us. She was only eight months younger than me and we’d been close at school, so I loved reconnecting and catching up on all the news of Aunt Cecilia and the rest of the family. Having had unlimited freedom in Britain, I was even more independent than before, so Gracie and I went out on our own, as carefree and unescorted as if we were living in London or Djibouti. I was careful not to upset my mother and knew my behaviour would raise eyebrows among her friends and family, but I also knew how important it was to remain true to who I was. In fact, I was hardly ever at home because of all the invitations I received, many of them from the British because of my father’s status, but also because the authorities wanted to be reassured that they hadn’t wasted their money sending me abroad. They were relieved to find a young woman who dressed like them and spoke their language, and pleased to know that I was doing well.

The reaction from the Somali women couldn’t have been less encouraging, however. Everyone voiced their opinion and my mother’s cousins, neighbours, friends and aunts continually reminded me that as a woman I didn’t need to learn how to be anything. The rest of my family was chiefly focused on the honour of the tribe and were quick to warn me I was jeopardizing myself and the rest of the clan. ‘If you carry on working and living like a Westerner, you will never be considered worthy of marriage,’ I was informed. ‘This will reflect badly on the women in our family, especially your mother who’ll be harshly judged for having brought you up unprepared for a life of marriage and domesticity.’

I was so committed to my studies by then that nothing anyone could say would put me off. As far as I was concerned, my only decision was to choose between nursing and medicine. This dilemma arose after the completion of my first year of pre-nursing training when Colonel Crook called me in for a chat. After closely studying copies of all of my grades and supervisors’ reports, he told me, ‘Look, Edna, you are getting good grades, your teachers respect you, and everyone is very happy with your progress. Given your performance, you might want to know that we would consider changing your scholarship from nursing to medicine.’

Goodness, I was only a teenager and my brain was still growing. I seriously considered his offer but told myself, ‘Medicine? That will take me six or seven more years. My God, I’ll be so old when I finish! It is too long. I’m going to stick to nursing.’

Colonel Crook advised me to think about it and I suspect he hoped that I’d discuss it with my father when I went home. My instinct told me that Dad would say: ‘Medicine, of course’, and I didn’t want that pressure on me, so in the end I didn’t even ask him. When I got back to London, Colonel Crook asked, ‘What’s it going to be then, nursing or medicine?’

‘Nursing,’ I replied decisively.

‘Are you sure? Have you discussed this with your family?’

‘I don’t need to discuss this with anyone. This is my life and it is my decision. This is what I want to do.’

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