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in light,

the HornLight crew

milena

I was born in Switzerland by circumstance. But I consider myself African, first and foremost, with an Ivorian heart and Eritrean roots. The recipe for an identity crisis. Or maybe just a fluid conception of ‘home.’

Growing up in Cote d’Ivoire, I was spared the ‘Save the Children’ commercials which seem to weave the fabric of Western perceptions of the Horn. Instead, from kindergarten through 11th grade, my school organized cultural events to celebrate the 60+ countries we all hailed from. Pride in our heritage and the value of cultural exchange were tenets of our school which allowed us to escape the bullet-ridden singular narrative of the Horn. 

 Now, when I think of the Horn, I think of my family’s resilient spirit. I think of resourcefulness and dignity despite struggle. I think of the Muna Yassin’s, the Rawiya Haj-El Khidir’s, the Tigest Tamrat’s of my childhood. Friends with whom i collected tadpoles, shared chawarmas and critiqued the latest Busta Rhymes album.

We were not mirrors of famine or political instability. 

We did not represent low HDI rankings or failed states.

Angelina Jolie did not read us books during storytime. (Or whoever her 1991 celebrity counterpart was).

We did not see ourselves as the ‘Third World’.

We created our own narratives instead.

fish

My name is Fisseha, but everyone except my parents call me Fish. I am an Ethiopian living in America, and have been for the past 10 years. I moved here from Nairobi, Kenya after having lived there for 8 years. Before that I was in Tokyo, Japan for 5 years. Before that I was in Addis Abeba (where I was born) where I was barely a year old before I left for the Far East.

My first language was Japanese, though I don’t speak it any more. Maybe the occasional phrase here and there. I have some understanding of French; I speak Swahili (it helped to have had East African friends in college). My Amharic is conversational though my understanding (like most young Ethiopians living in the US) is very good. With all of these competing linguistic and cultural influences, you can imagine the kind of identity crisis I had growing up, on top of my mother speaking her native Tigrinya to her relatives. I have no regrets though; I’ve always made the most of where I was and what I had, and my changing situations have always been opportunities.  

I very much identify as African first, then Ethiopian. I have been told by some Black American friends that the Africans they’ve met identified first as natives of their specific countries, then as African. We as a continent are very proud of our connection to it, without a doubt. As Africans we have been through so much as a people of that continent, and yet we still manage to live diligently in the face of overwhelming odds. It is precisely because of this that I identify as African first.

When I think of the Horn, I think of not only what I mentioned above, but hospitality. A place where wide-grinned smiles are backed with pearly white, chipped, missing or even discolored teeth, yet genuine in show. Where a child is literally raised by the village. Where my father skipped two primary school grades, became the first in his family to graduate from college, yet he didn’t even start wearing shoes until he reached high school, because education was very important him.

As a poet and a photographer, it is the subject of many of my works, and it is my very existence; the life I have lived up to this point; that I would like to be served as proof of where I am from.

mesfin

My name is Mesfin. I was born and raised in Ethiopia. I am Oromo, Ethiopian, African, American and citizen of the world.  In this photo, I was enjoying the boat ride in the beautiful Lake Awassa, in my first trip back home since I moved to the US.

When I first moved to the states, I was shocked by people’s view of the Horn as well as the continent of Africa. At first, I started explaining and defending all the stereotypical ways people talk about the continent. But After a while, I remember making up stories that they were familiar with, stories that fit their view of the continent. What surprised me the most was how people were more aware of our differences than the many things we have in common.

I wish the world get to know more about the Horn, more than what the media portrays it to be, just a single story without context and same old narrative that make us always the victim. I wish people know our challenges, dreams and aspirations in life, though different in degree are no different than theirs in substance.

Regardless of the many challenges, I am extremely proud of the progress and the great opportunities in the continent of Africa. Ultimately, I believe it is up to us, people from the region or anyone who cares about the region to tell the untold stories, to report the progress, to share our experiences and to give the single story that the media pushes nuances and context.

wala

My name is Wala. I am Sudanese and recently decided to identify myself as a Sudanese-American. I believe that most of my values, thoughts, and ideas have been shaped by both cultures. Most importantly, however, I am an African who was always told while growing up “Well you don’t look like you’re African.” Of course, this distorted image of what an “African” looks like has much to do with the one-dimensional picture that has been painted by Western media. The countries of Africa, its people, and cultures have been placed in a box that for many defines Africa as a country, not a continent!

When I think of the horn of Africa, and Africa in general, I celebrate that I’m a pan-African and Africa is where my heart belongs! The beauty of Africa lies in its diverse cultures, people, and geographical landscape. Most of all, I love the East African hospitality! Our people are warm, welcoming, and friendly. No matter what part of the region you’re in, you will always feel right at home.

On the flip side, the horn, like the rest of Africa, is a victim that continues to be robbed of its potential. Historically, Africa as a whole has been robbed by Western colonizers and most recently by its own people.

However, I am an optimist and believe in the power and strength of our people. One day we will rise up in a unified “spring” of our own, and the world will begin to see Africa in its most vibrant form.

shayla

My name is Shayla. I’m African-American, born in Georgia to a Mississippian mom and a North Carolinian dad; raised by both in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ve always considered myself of Southern heritage, and my Southern-ness – especially the stereotypical accent and the hospitality – permeates every aspect of my being.

I decided to branch out when I went to college, and I made many friends from all over the world, especially the African continent. Over the past few years, I have been mistaken as being from the Horn, and I’ve even been approached by people and spoken to in languages from there. This has happened mostly because of the volunteer work I have done and the relationships I have fostered with people from East Africa, the Middle East, and Asia living in Memphis. There are two families here in particular who have done nothing but welcome me and make me feel as if I am part of their own- one, refugees from Somalia and the other, immigrants from Ethiopia. They are my personal connection to the Horn and make me want to learn so much.

When I think of the Horn, I think of shaax iyo baasto, injera and berbere, coffee dresses and baatis, uunsi and etan, the tewahedo church and the masjid. Of hugs and of awkwardly trying to figure out how many times we kiss each other’s cheeks. Of amazing resilience and unwavering pride. I really wish people knew those things about the Horn too.

solome

In Ethiopia, I am the American. In America, I am the Ethiopian. Such is the experience of a young immigrant. Always “the other!”

My name is Solome. I am Oromo. Ethiopian. African. Black. Having spent almost two-thirds of my life in the US, I am also quite American. I hold all of these identities individually and at once. And they’re not all I am.

With age, I have learned to embrace the gift of freedom “the other” has given me. It’s allowed me to traverse many boxes with relative ease. And over the past five years, I have been traveling in and out of Africa, finding a piece of myself in each country. In this photo, I was visiting Monduli Pastoralist Development Initiative, a Maasai organization in  Tanzania supported by The Global Fund for Children.

When I think of the Horn, I often think of the individuals and institutions I have met who are trailblazing change from the root up. I think of Fatima of Somalia who since 1990 has helped stop charcoal wars in Puntland, launched the first solar cooker village in Bender Bayla, and founded a successful regional development organization, Horn Relief. I think of Edith who established the East African Institute of Household Management in Kenya to professionalize and formalize an unregulated domestic work industry. I think of Yohannes of Ethiopia whose organization is helping the Fuga people, a marginalized ethnic minority group, gain greater inclusion, services, and visibility through economic empowerment.

When I think of the Horn, I think of vibrant, driven, passionate, and resilient people. Leaders. Proactive agents. Innovative changemakers. I wish the world would hear, celebrate, and amplify their stories.

josephine

I’m Josephine and I’m Senegalese. Despite living outside of Senegal for over 20 years it is home and where I feel most at peace – my grandmother says that’s because it’s where my umbilical cord is buried.

I rep my country every day, anywhere: while dancing in the restricted area at the Kennedy center during a Youssou Ndour concert or while being cornered by French officers at Charles de Gaulle airport because the color of my passport makes them uncomfortable.

When I think of the horn, I think of: strength, beauty, community, and roots. I have a hard time believing that because of the current crisis these elements would just disappear. I know they still exist and I wish the media could take the time to include them, in a full story.

agazit

My name is Agazit. I occupy many identities to varying levels, but am most comfortable identifying as Ethiopian, of the Ethiopian Diaspora. I resist the hyphen for reasons I can’t explain and are almost beyond my control.

When I think of the Horn, I think of deep histories, imperfect journeys, diversity and home. If there is one thing i wish people would know about the Horn, it would be that they shouldn’t only know one thing. I would want them to know some of the good, bad, ugly, and in betweens. I would want them to understand that when they don’t, when they only have one vision of the Horn, they are rejecting its humanity. That the Horn is alive and in being alive, it moves, shifts, creates, and innovates.

saba

My name is Saba. My father immigrated to the U.S. from Ethiopia in 1977 and my mother was raised in the American South. I have never been sure how to classify myself but safe to say I appreciate and love the history and culture provided by both sides of my family. I’m rarely recognized as being “half” Ethiopian but I think that’s contributed in a positive way to me figuring out the best way to embrace my Ethiopian culture. I’m sitting next to my friend Solome in this photograph. After a childhood of not being close to African-Americans or Ethiopians, I went to Stanford and made friends like Solome who helped me finally feel comfortable with the duality of being both.

I’m always struck by how many misconceptions people have about Ethiopia and the Horn and the simplicity applied to the region. It’s the birthplace of humanity. Everyone is poor. War everywhere. Everyone is Christian. I wish people would take time to understand the individual complexities present in each country and culture, could see beyond the static representations of poverty, and recognize the diversity of the people living in the Horn and the diaspora the region has produced…like me.