As my sandaled foot hit the dirt ground, I took a deep breath and proceeded to enter an environment alien to me. What felt like one hundred hands were waving in my face, the owners of them complete strangers to me. We had finally arrived in Mogadishu after an uncomfortable and emotional plane ride. The plane landed in what looked like the remains of an airport landing strip. And the airport? Well, it was nonexistent. A wartorn Somalia was at my feet and all around me. I could not believe where I was. Upon notification of the devastating news of my grandfather's sudden death in December of 2005, I took the first flight available from Pearson Airport to join my mother overseas to take part in his funeral. My grandfather, a renowned and patriotic man, carried a loyalty to Somalia that survived even the cruellest of wars. It was no surprise then that he requested to be buried in Somalia, next to his family lineage of graves. The airline agreed to honour our request to carry his body from Dubai, where he died, to Somaliasomething they had never done before.I looked around. My surroundings seemed so primitive. Primitive in nature or primitive in comparison to where I came from? I secretly questioned myself. There were no tall buildings, no roads or traffic lights, nothing but rubble.I arrived in the company of my uncle, my aunts, and my mother, who were immediately bombarded by huge numbers of people. Nobody knew who I was, so nobody approached me. I was a part of a different generation, one that was unbeknownst to them. My mother seemed to know everybody and everybody seemed to know her. I was out of the circle of familiarity, a stranger in their land, but in my mind I was thinking this was my home too.My grandfather's body was loaded onto an old ambulance vehicle and we were rushed into different cars and SUVs. Twenty or 30 cars sped through Mogadishu towards the burial site. We drove for an hour on an unpaved road, which made my stomach churn. As grown as I was, I clung to my mother, who seemed to have made a fast and comfortable transition into what appeared to be her natural surroundings.As for me, I wasn't sure yet. I looked out the window of the car. The sky was a shade of blue I had not seen in Canada, the air was miraculous, and my body was afloat. I wanted to pinch myself.The burial went by in a blur; emotions peaked. I quietly observed everyone around me. It was absolutely heart-wrenching. Their expressions said it all. It was as if the grief swept through everyone's bodies at exactly the same time.After the burial, we headed to my grandfather's home in Mogadishu. As we drove, I gawked at the sheep, cows, camels, and goats everywhere on the roads, walking around freely. Everything reminded me of the countryside, but at the same time destroyed: the scenery was bittersweet.Finally we arrived to a house that stood tall and beautiful, framed by gorgeous plants and breathtaking flowers. I found myself in a constant mental state of compare and contrast. I noted the impeccable architecture of the houses-villas, in fact. I could not believe my eyes, and I could not believe we were going to stay there. The beds were made, the food was being cooked, and I was overwhelmed by people asking me if I wanted anything. I was mesmerized by how beautiful the house was with its fancy veranda and breathtaking garden but I felt a twinge of guilt. I realized how wide the gap was between the rich and the poor and I quickly learned that in Somalia, there was no middle class: you either belonged to one or the other.Despite my fascination with Somalia, my desire to remain there was short-lived. It was barely two weeks later that I wanted out. There were gunmen protecting us around the clock, a protection with which I was uncomfortable. The food was fresh, a freshness my taste buds rejected. I discovered camel meat was a delicacy there, and so I watched as a live camel was slaughtered, cooked, then served to us on a silver platter: without a question, I definitely missed the frozen meat back in Canada. …