The Petals of my Rage

Queen Araweelo, also known as Ebla Awad, is a

powerful figure in the history of Somaliland. She is

remembered for her strong leadership in early

historical periods, and her legacy lives on in present

day, primarily through oral traditions. Her story is not

only about rule and power, but also serves as a

symbol of the vital role women have played, and

continue to play in leadership, despite living in

patriarchal societies. She was a courageous young

woman who defended the dignity of women at a time

when they were denied rights and limited to tending

livestock and bearing children. Queen Arawelo

challenged gender dynamics & the patriarchy.

Under the blazing sun, the endless horizon burns a vicious shade of burnt orange, engulfing the towering dunes in maroon. Amidst this natural sublime, a scene of flinging rocks and

twirling rose petals emerges, along with the busy rumble of swarming children racing across the sand.

“Come here, children, I have a story for you,” asserts a gentle, commanding voice.

She continues, “Sheeko Sheeko " as she drapes the silk scarf concealing her face over her shoulder.

A chorus of curious children replies, “Haaye."

***

“On the coast of Eastern Somaliland, the humid coastal breeze moves through the serene peaks of the vibrant green mountains —the sacred land of Haramaanyo ³. Beneath the acacia branches of her aqal ⁴, lived the tranquil soul of Ebla Awad. Her gentle, tanned palms answered to all her elders' calls: 

‘Ebla, go grind the sorghum seeds.’ 

‘Ebla, prepare our supper.’ 

‘Ebla, go and rest.’ 

Across the lands of fertile pastures, Ebla became a young girl renowned for her service and obedience. By the age of fourteen, she was dressed in her flora-patterned sadex-qayd ⁵ as she walked down the aisle… Unaware that the draping, whimsical fabric would soon entangle her own womanhood and aspirations. 

Her husband, Bukur Bayar, was a wealthy elderly man whose silver locs concealed his hatred for the world. Ebla soon became the canvas of his rage. 

‘Ebla, how dare you forget to serve our guests tea!’ he firmly exclaimed, his palm curling into a firm fist. 

‘I’m so sorry, the children were hungry and were insistent that I tend to them,’she shakingly whispered. 

His response was swift. The balled fist landed with a meaty thump on her fragile skin, silencing her apology. 

By her eighteenth birthday, Ebla no longer wore the elegant garments Bukur once bought her. Instead, she draped herself in tattered, floor-length clothing, chosen to conceal the bruises now engraved into her skin. As she wrestled with a timidness she was not born with, but forced to learn, she could not allow her children to know her only as their father’s victim. 

For Ebla, hardship became inevitable. In her twenties, her husband died in a clan clash, whilst a consuming famine took hold of Haramaanyo: The leathery skin of cattle, gripped on their fragile ribs, the once red fertile soil, tarnished. Household staples like sorghum and maize became scarce. Her vibrant, joyful children, who once raced through the green pastures, were now frail with twig-like arms and brittle, scaly skin. This was no way for children to live. With that, two of her children perished in the wrath of famine, leaving her with one remaining daughter. 

At such a young age, Ebla had grown resistant to the world's cruelty. She learnt to love her daughter wholeheartedly, as though love alone could shield her from the world’s evil. But the feeling was fleeting. Her husband's family soon came knocking at her door, demanding she adhere to the Dumaal ⁶ by marrying her husband's brother. But Ebla had learnt what it meant to be stripped of herself, and she refused to submit to these cultural norms. She believed her child, who bore her blood, belonged to her alone, not to a man whom she held no bond. Her reaction sparked a violent rage among her in-laws, who retaliated by tearing her daughter away from her grieving arms and exiling her from Haraamanyo. 

Eventually, she found refuge beneath dense trees, their leafy branches stretching outward in a protective network. Within this natural marvel, she found a community of loving, caring women who the world had cast aside, bound together in quiet survival. As she reclaimed the bubbling giggles of her childhood, she discovered a sanctuary untouched by the silent hatred targeted at women. A sisterhood driven to protect and defend their dignity. 

In time, Ebla rose to power, becoming a leader among these liberated women. Ebla faded into legend, and Queen Arawelo was born. 

Queen Arawelo reimagined this community of women as fighters rather than survivors; she led this clan of women to victory. Their male opponents underestimated the pristine cut of their spears and the durability of their cattle-skin shields. Clan by clan, the echoes of Queen Arawelo’s victory travelled as she used this authority as revenge against the men who stripped her of her womanhood and identity. Even the men of rival clans found themselves entangled in her wars, fighting beneath a banner that was not their own. 

Arawelo was vicious, honourable and deeply respected. Terror crept across the rigid faces of male soldiers, frightened by the whispers of men’s castration prowling through the village. Using fear and terror, clans fought against eachother to gain Queen Arawelo's widespread control of the region.

In time, her daughter returned, now a woman shaped by growth and maturity. Here, she became entangled in a forbidden romance with Oday Biqay, an uncastrated man, and bore him a son. Arawleo was seething in rage. 

‘The boy will be castrated,’ she declared, her voice cold and commanding. 

‘Mother, you cannot do thi-’ her daughter began pleading. 

‘It is done.’ Arawelo cut off sharply. ‘On his eighteenth birthday, he will be castrated’ 

Her decision was set in stone, as immutable as the laws she governed by. 

By allowing her personal hatred for men to shape her world, Arawelo’s rule did not end with the spears of her enemies; it ended with the blade of Oday Biqay, her son-in-law, in the very forest where she had once discovered a part of herself she was forced to reject.” 

The woman’s voice softens as the radiant sun retreats beneath the dunes. The children sit still, their earlier laughter silenced by the weight of the tale. 

“And that,” she mummurs, letting the scarf fall back across her face,“is how power that is birthed from pain, can ignite into pure evil”. 

The desert wind stirs, lifting the sand into the night, the young boys hurl rocks at the grave before them, Queen Arawelo’s resting place, a quiet protest against the inversion of power she once embodied. While the girls, in silent unity, place roses on the grave of a woman who was soured by the world. 

She pauses, then asks gently, 

“Sheeko dhammaatay?” ⁷ 

A quiet chorus answers, 

“Haaye.”