EMILY WHANG / NEXTGENRADIO
What is the meaning of
home?
Penelope Rivera speaks with Sudanese poet Shams Alkamil about moving to America at a young age, where she struggled to fit into American culture and accept her own background. Moving to North Texas nearly a decade ago has changed Alkamil’s perspective of home ̶ where she found comfort with the local Sudanese community as a civil war continues in Sudan.
Finding home with the Sudanese community in North Texas
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Shams Alkamil:
]My name is Shams Alkamil and I’m from Sudan. I was born in Saudi Arabia, the capital city of Riyadh, and I grew up in New York State.
I like to call myself a diaspora kid. Home to me is never going to be a location. Specifically, it’s more so like, who are the people in the setting that I’m in? And how can they make the location come alive, rather than it just being like a geography place for me?
I feel at home when I’m living with my mother at 27 years old, and I feel like a teenager half the time, but then I feel like I’m like 30 the other times. That feels like home to me because it’s like bringing the memories of my younger self.
But I do have a lot of memories of during kindergarten play time where I would have henna on my hands and my teacher would mistake it as orange paint, and she would ask me, go wash your hands. Okay, cool. Go wash your hands again. I told you to wipe off the paint, and by the third time, she thought I was just, like, breaking the rules and, like, not listening to her. So I would get timeout for literally just having, like, my cultural paint on my hands.
My biggest struggle wasn’t fitting in with Western culture, but it was actually first off, recognizing that I come from a different culture, but also being proud of my culture, my Sudanese heritage, my African heritage. Literally wearing it on my body, showing it in my language, showing it in my art.
When I came, from New York to Texas, my cousin had just also moved to Texas, but she felt welcomed by the Sudanese community. And so I remember like the first time I went in there, I was wearing a hijab. And as soon as I walked in, it was all these like aunties sitting on the chairs and just, like, staring at you and you’re not sure what they’re thinking. And I didn’t feel at home at all. It was just my own insecurities. But I felt so judged and just, like out of place because, like, it was new.
When I want to find comfort [now], when I want to find familiarity, I go to the JDA [mosque]. I go like meet those same people that I first saw like ten years ago when I was like so terrified of them.
But the community is really lively and I think honestly, with the recent war that’s been like in the news since 2019, they’ve also been like driving the political protests in the Dallas community, because even though this war to the media started on April 15th of last year, for actual Sudanese people, this has been a genocide for decades. And so there’s a lot of anger that I had felt because no one was talking about it. If they were, it was like a back burner type of comment. And so actually, that anger brought me closer with my Sudanese peers.
The last time I felt at home, was a couple weeks ago with my girlfriend. So we would go to, Arabic coffee shops and we would go to, like, religious events at, like a, Carrollton, mosque. So in that I feel most at home when I’m with Sudanese women.
Rituals like with food are really big in Sudanese culture and it’s always the women that are pioneering it. And so growing up. I actually really resented this ritual of tea ritual. I really hated it. But I think as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to like, recognize the beauty of not serving the tea in front of people, but making the tea with my cows in the back of the kitchen. And like, shifting the narrative. So instead of that, we’re being oppressed and we’re in the back. No, this is the time where we’re actually able to connect. We’re able to talk about having one to sit, which means a conversation. We’re able to, make jokes that we can’t make in front of men or in front of, like, public spaces.
Sudanese women carry this, like, fierceness in them, and they’re literally, the womb of the household. We are the ones who nurture everyone. We are the ones who fight for our community with our fierceness and our strength.
I would tell my younger self, try not to sweat it. And what I mean by that is to realize that every path you took, good and bad light you to where you are and where you are is the person you’re really proud of, and a person that actually honors your culture and wants to even, like, dedicate more of my life to honoring my culture.
Shams Alkamil describes herself as a “diaspora kid.”
While her family is originally from Sudan, Alkamil was born in Saudi Arabia and lived there until her parents decided they wanted to relocate to the United States.
Her father moved to Irving, Texas when Alkamil was four. Two years later, her parents applied for the Diversity Immigrant Visa Program and were accepted. The rest of the family joined him in upstate New York when she was six.
“There’s a lot of me first coming to America that I don’t even remember. But I do have a lot of memories,” Alkamil said, including “what English sounded like as a foreigner because I didn’t speak a lick of English. I only knew Arabic at the time.”
Shams Alkamil, 27, recently moved from Austin to Fort Worth, where she lives with her family. Originally from Sudan, she enjoys spending time with members of her community.
PENELOPE RIVERA / NEXTGENRADIO
All that moving around made her start thinking about home in a different way.
“For me, home is the collective of the people that I surround myself with and like how they make me feel and how I make them feel and the shared reality we have,” said Alkamil.
Language and cultural barriers were Alkamil’s biggest challenge when she started school in New York, an experience she described as “overwhelming and scary.”
“I would get time out for just having my cultural paint [henna] on my hands,” Alkamil said. “I remember wanting so desperately to go back to Saudi Arabia, to go back with my aunt, my grandma, and go back to the preschool that I used to go to when I was there.”
Tea is an important part of Sudanese culture. Shams Alkamil pours tea for herself and her friends on September 2, 2024.
PENELOPE RIVERA / NEXTGENRADIO
As she struggled with assimilating into American culture, she also felt shame about her Sudanese background.
Then, as a teen, Alkamil found an outlet — poetry.
“I think the way I’ve been able to express it best is through writing. It was when I first started writing my first [poetry] book, and then when I published my second book, I felt comfortable enough in my identity as a Sudanese woman, and writing about it and celebrating it and not being ashamed,” she said.
Still, Alkamail spent most of her youth in the U.S. feeling out of place with her peers. It wasn’t until she moved to Texas at 18, nearly a decade ago, that things began to change.
Shams Alkamil sits on her family prayer rug, which she says they’ve had for more than 20 years.
PENELOPE RIVERA / NEXTGENRADIO
Sudan has faced a number of internal conflicts since it gained independence nearly 70 years ago. As a result, Sudanese immigrants and refugees have been leaving the country for decades.
Many have resettled in the Lone Star State.
Alkamil’s cousin had moved to North Texas around the same time she did. Her cousin said she felt welcomed by the region’s growing Sudanese community.
As of 2022, Tarrant County is home to the ninth largest Sudanese population in the U.S., according to the Migration Policy Institute.
“When I came from New York to Texas…I remember the first time I went [to the mosque], I was wearing a hijab,” Alkamil said. “I didn’t feel at home at all when I first walked in…but it was just my own insecurities. I felt so judged and out of place because it was new. And I like to contrast that to how I feel now.”
Now, Alkamil enjoys surrounding herself with her community, drawn closer together as Sudan’s most recent civil war continues to unfold.
“I feel most at home when I’m with Sudanese women,” Alkamil said.
“I think that’s not a coincidence, because I think everyone who’s Sudanese — children, men, elderly women themselves — feel most at home sitting with these women because we are literally the pinnacle of the country.”
Alkamil finds the most comfort in sharing tea with her friends. In Sudanese culture, serving tea is a gesture of hospitality and friendship. Preparing and sharing tea is a tradition that fosters a sense of unity.
“Rituals with food [and tea] are really big in Sudanese culture, and it’s always the women that are pioneering it,” Alkamil said.
“Growing up, I actually really resented this tea ritual,” she added. “But I think as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to recognize the beauty of not serving the tea in front of people, but making the tea with my gals.”
Shams Alkamil and her friends enjoy hanging out at local Sudanese coffee shop Coffee Tea & Books in Fort Worth.
PENELOPE RIVERA / NEXTGENRADIO
“Sudanese women carry this fierceness in them,” Alkamil said. “We are the ones who nurture everyone. We are the ones who fight for our community with our fierceness and our strength. And you can see that in this revolution that we’re in right now. Sometimes women are at the forefront, leading the protests.”
To Alkamil, home is the “Land of the Blacks,” the English translation of the word Sudan. It’s in the food, the music, the generational patterns, the wedding rituals, the perfumes, the late-night laughs over tea, and the activism.
Home is with people who always remind Alkamil of where she came from.
“I would tell my younger self, don’t sweat it…all of these fears of if you’re good enough for your own culture. And what I mean by that is to realize that every path you took, good and bad, led you to where you are and where you are is the person you’re really proud of, and a person that actually honors your culture,” Alkamil said.