After months on TikTok, and hundreds of conversations with parents across the Somali diaspora, clear patterns began to emerge.
Again and again, parents voiced the same hopes and the same worries, “My child understands Somali but refuses to speak it,” one parent wrote. Another admitted, “I feel like I failed passing on the language.” These were not isolated concerns, they echoed across comment sections and private messages.
What many parents shared was a deep desire paired with deep uncertainty, “I don’t know where to start, and I’m already tired.” Beneath these words was not indifference, but exhaustion,and often guilt.
Somali TikTok is wild and eclectic
It’s full of people memorizing old songs and going down memory lane, reviving lyrics and melodies many of us grew up with.
It’s also a space for politics, satire, humor, art, design, and sharp social commentary. Scroll long enough and one thing becomes clear: Somali people are not a monolith, and this platform makes that diversity visible in a way few other spaces do.
Within this mix of chaos and creativity, something unexpected happened. Somali TikTok became one of the only places, in my experiance, where meaningful conversations between parents could actually unfold.
Not polished think pieces or academic debates, but honest exchanges. Parents asking real questions. Parents admitting fear. Parents saying quietly, “I don’t want my child to lose the language, but I don’t know how to keep it.”
Many parents spoke about imbalance
“We speak Somali at home, but school and society take over,” one wrote. Another shared, “My pronunciation isn’t perfect either -how can I teach my child?” These comments revealed a shared reality: parents are expected to be both caregivers and language teachers, often without guidance, training, or culturally relevant tools.
In response, the conversations often shifted tone. Again and again, the same reassurance needed to be said: “You’re not alone. This is very common.” Another response came up repeatedly: “Language loss isn’t a personal failure, it’s structural.” Parents were reminded that consistency matters more than perfection, and that language grows through joy, not pressure.
Despite the despair, there was also creativity. Parents shared how they use songs, repetition, visuals, everyday routines, and storytelling to keep Somali alive. These efforts may seem small, but together they form a powerful collective response to a shared challenge.
The listening room
For Walaalo Studio, Somali TikTok became more than a platform, it became a listening room. Through comments and replies, a clearer picture emerged: parents don’t lack care or commitment. They lack support. They lack tools designed for the realities of diaspora life. And they are carrying the emotional weight of not wanting history to repeat itself.
Somali TikTok made one thing undeniable: the need is real, and it is widespread. These conversations are not trends, they are signals. Signals of parents searching for resources, community, and reassurance that they are not failing their children.
This blog is not a conclusion, but a reflection. A record of what parents are saying out loud when given the space to do so.
You can find Walaalo Studio TikTok here: @walaalo.studio.