by Dirie, Waris
I remember when I was young, working as Uncle Mohammed’s maid, and dreaming of being a model. And that night I finally worked up the courage to ask Iman how to get started. Ten years later, I was working on a Revlon shoot in a New York studio when the makeup artist came in and said Iman was next door photographing her new line of cosmetics. I rushed out and went to see her. “Oh, I see now you’re doing your own product line. Why didn’t you use me, a Somali woman, to pose in the ads for your makeup?” I asked.
She looked at me defensively and mumbled, “Well, I can’t afford you.”
I said to her in Somali, “I would have done it for you for free.” Funny, she has never realized that I’m the same little girl, the maid, who used to bring her tea.
The odd fact is that I never went in search of modeling, it came to me; maybe that’s why I never took it too seriously. The thrill didn’t lie in being a ‘super model’ or a ‘star,” because I still can’t understand why models have become so famous. Each day, I watch the whole fashion scene become more and more frantic with magazines and TV shows about supermodels, and I wonder: What is it all about?
Simply because we’re models, some people treat us like goddesses and some people treat us like idiots. I’ve run into this last attitude plenty of times. It’s as if because I make my living with my face, I must be stupid. With a smug expression, people say, “You’re a model? Oh, too bad no brains at all. All you have to do is just stand there and look pretty for the camera.”
However, I’ve met all types of models, and yes, I’ve met some who were not very bright. But the majority are intelligent, sophisticated, well traveled, and as knowledgeable about most subjects as any other worldly person. They know how to handle themselves and their business, and act completely professional. For people like that insecure bitchy art director, it’s tough to handle the fact that some women can be beautiful and smart. So there’s a need to put us in our place by talking down to us, as if we’re just a flock of gawky dimpled dimwits.
I find the moral issues surrounding modeling and advertising incredibly complicated. I believe the most important priorities in the world are nature, personal goodness, family, and friendship. Yet I make my living by saying, “Buy this because it looks beautiful.” I’m selling stuff with a big smile. I could be cynical about it all and say, “Why am I doing this? I’m helping destroy the world.” But I believe almost anybody in any career could say that about their work at some point. The good that comes from what I do is that I’ve met beautiful people and seen beautiful places ad experienced different cultures that have made me want to do something to help the world instead of destroy it.
And instead of being another poverty stricken Somali, I’m in a position to do something about it.
Instead of wanting to be a star or celebrity, I’ve enjoyed modeling mostly because I felt like a citizen of the world, and was able to travel to some of the most phenomenal places on the planet. Many times when I was traveling for work, we’d go to some beautiful island and I would escape to the beach every chance I got and just run. It felt so wonderful to be free in nature, back in the sun again. Then I would sneak off into the trees and sit quietly and just listen to the birds singing. Ahhh. I would close my eyes, smell the sweetness of the flowers, feel the sun on my face, listen to the birds, and pretend I was back in Africa. I would try to recapture that feeling of peace and tranquillity I remember from Somalia, and pretend I was back home again.
Back to Somalia
In 1995, after a long stretch of photo shoots and fashion shows, I escaped to Trinidad to relax. It was Carnival time and everyone was in costume, dancing and rejoicing, reveling in the sheer joy of life. I was staying at the home of a family I knew; I’d been there a couple of days when a man came to their door. The matriarch of the family, an elderly woman we called Auntie Monica, went to answer the door. It was late afternoon, and the sun was hot outside, but the room where we sat was cool and shady. The man standing at the door was in silhouette against the bright light; I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say he was looking for somebody named Waris. Then Auntie Monica called, “Waris, you have a phone call.”
“Phone call? Where is the phone?”
“You have to go with this man. He’ll take you there.”
I followed him back to his place. He was a neighbor of Auntie Monica’s who lived a few doors away and was the only person in the area with a telephone. We walked through his living room to the hall where he pointed to a receiver lying off the hook. “Hello?” It was my agency in London.
“Oh, hello, Waris. Sorry to trouble you, but we’ve been contacted by the BBC. They say it’s urgent you get in touch with them right away. They want to talk to you about making a documentary.”
“Documentary about what?”
“About being a super model, and where you came from and, you know, how does it feel living your new life.”
“That’s not a story. I mean, for goodness sake, can’t they find something better?”
“Well, anyway, you talk to them about it. What time should I tell them you’ll call?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk to anybody.”
“But they really want to talk to you right away.”
“Hey, whatever. Just tell them I’ll talk to them when I get to London. I have to go back to New York when I leave here, then fly to London. I’ll call them when I get there.”
“All right, then. I’ll tell them.”
But the next day, while I was out carousing around town, the man came back to Auntie Monica’s again, saying there was another phone call for Waris. I completely ignored this news. Again, the next day, another phone call. This time I went back with the gentleman, because obviously they were going to wear him out running over to get me. Of course, it was my agency again. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Yes, Waris, it’s the BBC again. They say it’s very urgent they talk to you; they’re going to call you tomorrow at this same time.”
“Look, it’s my break time, okay? No way I’m talking to anybody. I’ve escaped from all that, so leave me alone and quit bothering this poor man.”
“They just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
I sighed. “For God’s sake. All right. Tell them to call me tomorrow at this number.” The next day I spoke with the director, Gerry Pomeroy, who makes films for the BBC. He asked me questions about my life.
I replied curtly, “First of all, I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m supposed to be here on holiday. You know? Can’t we talk another time?”
“I’m sorry, but we have to make a decision, and I need some information.” So I stood in a stranger’s hallway in Trinidad, telling the story of my life to a stranger in London. “Okay, great, Waris. We’ll get back to you.”
Two days later the man came to Auntie Monica’s again. “Phone call for Waris.” I shrugged at him, shook my head, and followed him down the street. It was Gerry from the BBC. “Yes, Waris, we really want to do a documentary of your life. It will be a half-hour episode for a show called The Day That Changed My Life.”
In the meantime, between the first phone call from my agency and the second call from the BBC, I’d been thinking about all this documentary business. “Well, listen, uh, Gerry I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll do this with you guys if you take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother.” He agreed, thinking my return to Africa would make a good conclusion to the story. Gerry told me to call him as soon as I got back to London; then we’d sit down and plan the whole project:
Returning with the BBC would be the first opportunity I’d had to go home since I left Mogadishu, because of my myriad passport problems, tribal wars in Somalia, and my inability to locate my family. Even if I’d been able to fly to Mogadishu, it wasn’t exactly as if I could call my mother and tell her to meet me at the airport. From the moment the BBC promised to take me, I could think of nothing else. I had numerous meetings with Gerry and his assistant, Colm, to plan the pr
oject and elaborate on the story of my life.
We started filming in London right away. I returned to all my old haunts starting with Uncle Mohammed’s house the Somalian ambassador’s residence which the BBC got permission to enter. They filmed All Souls Church School, where I was discovered by Malcolm Fairchild. Later they interviewed him on camera, asking why he was so interested in photographing an unknown servant. The crew filmed me doing a photo shoot with Terence Donovan. They interviewed my good friend Sarah Doukas, the director of Storm, a London modeling agency.
The heat on the whole project was turned up considerably when the BBC decided to follow me on a gig hosting Soul Train, a TV program that features the best in black music. I had never done a project like this before and was a complete nervous wreck. Added to that was the problem that when we got to L.A.” I had a terrible cold and could barely talk. And the whole time I was traveling from London to Los Angeles, blowing my nose, reading my script, getting ready for the show, riding in the limo, I was being filmed by my constant shadows: the BBC film crew. The insanity was multiplied when we went to the studio and the BBC documentary crew was filming the Soul Train crew filming me. And if there was ever an act that I didn’t want to have documented, this had to be the one. I’m sure I was the worst host in the history of Soul Train, but Don Cornelius and the production crew were so patient with me. We started at ten in the morning and worked till nine that night. I think it was their longest day ever. My old difficulty with reading still plagued me, as it had in my James Bond film debut. Although my skill was much improved, I still struggled reading aloud. And trying to read from cue cards in front of two film crews, dozens of dancers, and a handful of internationally famous singers, while lights blazed in my eyes, was more of a challenge than I was up for. They were Screaming, “Take twenty-six Cut!” “Take Seventy-six… Cut!” The music would start playing, dancers would start dancing, and everybody would start filming, then I’d bungle my lines: “Take ninety-six . Cut!” The dancers would freeze, then let their arms flop down to their sides and glare at me as if saying, “Who is this stupid bitch? Oh, God, where did you find her? We just want to go home.”
My host’s duties included welcoming Donna Summer, which was a big honor for me, because she’s one of my all-time favorite singers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome the lady of soul, Donna Summer!”
“CUT’
“WHAT NOW?”
“You forgot to say her label. Read the cue card, Waris.”
“Ohhhh, Fucking-A! Will you pick this shit up, pick it up? I can’t see it. And don’t put it down. Put it up straight these lights are right in my eyes. I can’t see a thing.”
Don Cornelius would take me into the corner and say, “Take a deep breath. Tell me how you’re feeling.” I explained to him that this script just wasn’t working for me it wasn’t my groove the way I speak.
“How do you want to do it? Go ahead. Take over take it all.” They were amazingly patient and calm. Don and the crew let me take over and make a mess out of everything, then helped me fix it up again. The best part of that whole experience was working with them and Donna Summer, who gave me an autographed CD of her greatest hits.
Then the BBC and I moved on to New York. They followed me out to do a job on location where I was being photographed in the rain, walking up and down the streets of Manhattan wearing a black slip and a raincoat and holding an umbrella. On another night, the cameraman sat quietly in the corner filming while I cooked dinner with a group of friends at an apartment in Harlem. We were having such a good time that we forgot he was there.
The next phase required me and the whole crew to meet in London and fly to Africa, where I would reunite with my family for the first time since I’d run away. While we were filming in London, Los Angeles, and New York, the BBC staff in Africa began searching diligently for my mother. In order to locate my family, we went over maps, and I tried to show them the regions where we Usually traveled. Next, I had to go over all the tribal and clan names of my family, which is very confusing, especially for Westerners. For the past three months the BBC had been searching without success.
The plan was that I would remain in New York working until the BBC found Mama, then I’d fly to London, and we’d all go to Africa together and film the conclusion of my story. Shortly after the BBC began looking for Mama, Gerry called one day and said, “We found your mother.”
“Oh, wonderful!”
“Well, we think we found her.”
I said, “What do you mean “you think” ?” “Okay, we found this woman, and we asked her if she had a daughter named Waris. She said, yes, yes, she has a daughter named Waris. Yes, Waris lives in London. But she seems awfully vague on the details, so our people in Somalia aren’t sure what’s going on if this woman is the mother of another Waris or what.” After further questioning, the BBC disqualified this woman, but the search was just beginning. Suddenly the desert was alive with women claiming to be my mother; they all had daughters named Waris who lived in London, which was especially odd, considering I have never met another human being with my name.
I explained what was going on. “See, these people are so poor over there, they’re desperate.
They’re hoping if they say “Yeah, we’re her family”
you’ll come to their little village and make a film, they can get some money, get some food. These women are pretending to be my mother, ping they’ll get something out of it. [ don’t know how they think they’re gonna get away with it, but they’ll try.”
Unfortunately, I had no pictures of my mother, but Gerry came up with another idea. “We need some kind of secret that only your mother would know about you.”
Well, my mother used to have a nickname for me, Avdohol, which means small mouth.” “Will she remember that?” “Absolutely.”
From then on, Avdohol became the secret password. When the BBC was interviewing, these women would make it through the first couple of questions; then they’d always flunk out on the nickname. Bye-bye. But finally one day they called me and said, “We think we’ve found her. This woman didn’t remember the nickname, but she said she has a daughter named Waris who used to work for the ambassador in London.”
I hopped a flight out of New York the next day. man. We’re almost at the end of this project; you can’t do this to us. We need this story to end in Africa, which means we’ve got to take Waris there. Now, for God’s sake, please…” But Nigel wasn’t interested. He went back to Wales with my passport.
I made the trip to Wales alone and begged him. Again and again, he refused to give it to me unless he got to go to Africa with us. It was a hopeless bind for me. I’d prayed for the chance to see my mother again for fifteen years. With Nigel there, the whole experience would be ruined. No doubt about it he’d make sure of that. If I didn’t take him, I had no chance of seeing her, because I couldn’t travel without my passport. “Nigel, you can’t be following us around and making a bloody headache for everybody. Don’t you see it’s my chance to see my mother for the first time in fifteen years!”
He was so bitter that we were going to Africa and it had nothing to do with him. “I swear, you’re just being so fucking unfair!” he cried. Finally, in the end, I convinced him to give me my passport by promising I’d take him to Africa some day, when this job was done just the two of us. It was a cheap trick, and I wasn’t proud of it, because that was a promise I knew I’d never keep. But when it came to Nigel, being a decent, reasonable adult never worked.
twin-engine bush plane landed in Galadi, Ethiopia, a tiny village where Somali refugees had gathered across the border to escape the fighting at home. As we hit the red desert soil strewn with rocks, the plane bounced wildly. You must have been able to see the trail of dust for miles, because the entire village ran toward us. They’d never seen anything like this before. The BBC crew and I all climbed out of the plane, and I began trying to speak Somali to the people hurrying to mee
t us. I was struggling to communicate with them, because some were Ethiopians and some were Somalis, but they spoke a different dialect. Within a few minutes I gave up.
I smelled the hot air and the sand and suddenly I remembered my lost childhood. Every little thing came flooding back to me and I began to run. The crew was yelling, “Waris, where are you going?”
“Go on… go wherever you have to go… I’ll be back.” I ran and touched the ground and rubbed the earth between my fingers. I touched the trees. They were dusty and dry, but I knew it was time for the rains soon, then everything would blossom. I sucked the air into my lungs. It held the scents of my childhood memories, all those years when I lived outside and these desert plants and this red sand were my home. Oh, God, this was my place. I started to cry with the joy of being back home. I sat down under a tree and felt at the same time overwhelming happiness that I was back where I belonged, and deep sadness that I missed it so much. Looking around me, I wondered how I could have stayed away so long. It was like opening a door that I hadn’t dared open before today, and finding a part of me that I’d forgotten. When I walked back to the village, everyone gathered around me, shaking my hand. “Welcome, sister.”
Then we found out that nothing was what we expected. The woman who’d claimed to be my mother was not, and nobody knew how to find my family. The guys from the BBC were despondent; they didn’t have the money in their budget to come back a second time. Gerry kept saying, “Oh, no, without this portion, there’s no ending. And without this ending, there’s no real story to the whole film. It’s all wasted. What are we going to do?”