Several millennia ago, under a sky the color of deep indigo, my dhill rested against a nomad's side. The silver moon hung above like a thin fingernail clipping, pale and quiet. The dhiil was round and smooth, warm from the sun and cool when the night air touched it. 
The wind blew across the land, whistling loudly as it moved through dry grass. Inside the dhill, fresh camel milk moved gently. It smelled sweet and earthy, mixing with the scent of smoke from the fire. The dhill seemed to listen as people walked and the stars slowly shifted above.
“Be careful,” the elder said, “This dhiil carries our future.“
    The dhill carried more than milk. It carried memories, patience, and home. It traveled again and again with the people, even when families moved, even as far as the United States, the dhill stayed strong, holding what mattered most. 
    The dill was always more than just a jug that carried milk to my people; it was a part of daily life. Passed from hand to hand, smooth, and when it was filled, it held warmth and nourishment, and when it was empty, it still carried meaning. It listened to footsteps, wind, and voices, as if it understood the journey. To my people, the dhiil meant care, survival, and connection, proof that even a simple object can hold a culture inside it. And a meaning of life 

– Behajo Nur Abdi

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant