As the plane took off, I felt a great relief. It was like a load off my shoulders
that I had carried since childhood. In my heart there was
peace. For the first time in my life I felt a sense of hope. I felt safe. I
waved the land I was born in goodbye. I had no sorrow that I was
leaving. I never wanted to look back. There was nothing to look back for. I
wanted to be out of the country and never come back. In my mind there
was nothing to miss. What would I miss in my country of birth? The
culture, the language, religion? Oh no! I was prepared to forget all that
and start a new.
Born in Somalia in July 1979 my toys were old Ak 47 and grenade
shells. Walking past dead bodies on the street was usual and
sleeping in the bushes in fear of the militia men was just but part of
life. The sound of guns going off was like a whistle, nothing to alarm
anyone. Food was once a day and it was often fermented
porridge and boiled dry corn mixed with boiled dry beans. There were just a
few schools which were attended by the children of the chief militia
men or relatives of the militia men. They taught religious
studies and how to read and write but all the emphasis was on religion. They
taught us that women were objects to be seen not be heard.
Women were to be at home cooking and looking after the children. Women
were to cover their bodies from head to toe. This was the only way.
The holy way. The way to heaven. The only way to ever guarantee
seeing Allah.
My father was a hard working labourer, working for the militia chief
in his farm. He wanted me to have a different life. He did not believe
that a woman’s place was just the kitchen although my mother was a
full time house wife. He believed that if I got some education I would
work with an international organization and maybe bring hope to the
oppressed women of Somalia and their dying children. As such my
father worked for the militia chief without any pay in order for me to
attend the militia school. A sacrifice he made for his only daughter. A
sacrifice I will never forget. My two brothers Ahmed and Omar
worked as shepherds for the militia chief. They were the chief bread
winners. Lovely obedient young men who took their responsibilities
seriously.

One Saturday June 29th 1998 at 6 am, we had all gathered in the
kitchen for the morning porridge when the rival militia men from another
village surrounded our mud hut. They ordered my father out of the
house with his hands up and as my father obeyed the order and stepped
out they rained bullets on him and he fell back dead in the house.
They tied their hands together and took them away. Maybe to be slaves in
their village or maybe they killed them.

I crawled out of the bed and looked at the face of my loving father. It
was not the handsome face I knew. This one was ugly with a hole
between his closed eyes and blood oozing from his nose and ears. I
called him father, I called him daddy, but he did not answer. I touched
him, he did not move. Daddy was cold. My daddy was gone.
Gone to the world of the dead. A world where those that go do not
have a return ticket. My daddy was not coming back. At that
moment I remembered what my mother always said. In life no matter how
hard the circumstances may be you always have a choice. A
choice to look at everything in a positive way and keep going and hope for
the best or to be negative and give up and have life as you always had
it.

With no family or relative I could go to I had to be positive. I had to
make the best of whatever was left of me. I took the bloody
motionless hand of my father, looked him straight in his closed eyes and
narrated my eulogy to him. “Thank you for the sacrifice that you
made for me. The sacrifice to do hard labour in return of nothing
else but for my education. I promise in return daddy, that I will not
settle for less in life. I will make the best of every situation that comes
my way. I will not disappoint you. I love you. I love you very
much daddy. I will miss you and I promise to guard every
memory of you in my life.” I looked at his face hoping for a sign of
acknowledgement. I moved really close, I touched his forehead. There was
no response. I stared at his face. This was my last chance to grab
any image that was not already embedded in my memory. Around his
neck he wore a traditional necklace with a map of Africa attached
to it. I removed it gently from his neck. It had blood stains. The blood
of my father. I put the necklace in my pocket, held his hand
tighter, asked Allah to rest his soul in eternal peace, kissed him goodbye and
made my way to the capital Mogadishu.

Life in Mogadishu was hard. I had never done a day’s work. Being the
only girl at home I helped mama do the kitchen work and make food. It
therefore made sense to look for work in the restaurants. I was lucky to
find work in one of the big hotels in Mogadishu as a kitchen porter. I
worked very hard and I quickly made an impression on my boss. I was
promoted to being a waitress within weeks. A month in to my new
position my boss offered to take me to England if I would work for him
without pay for one year. An offer I could not turn down.
The thought of a new life in England gave me hope. At night I dreamt
of how my life would change for the better if only I left Somalia for the
United Kingdom. I dreamt of going to university, having a good job
and having my own house and a car. Maybe later getting married and
haveing two children. That’s what I wanted, but above anything
else I craved for a chance to live like a human being without
the constant fear of what tomorrow held. My dream was
within reach if only my boss kept to his word.
On arrival at the airport I told the immigration officer what I was here
for. They put me in a van and took me to a detention centre. I was now
an asylum seeker they said. A word I did not understand. At the
centre they never used guns. They were polite and very helpful.
The food was plenty. At least I had three meals a day which was
another dream come true. There was hot water and having a bath from the
shower was an amazing experience. I will never forget that feeling.
Warm water running from my head to my toes washing away all the
dust from Somalia. The freshness I felt bringing with it the best sound
sleep I have ever had since I was born. Surely life in England
could not get any better, even sleep was on offer I thought.

After two days I was introduced to a gentleman called Peter who was
to be my lawyer. Peter did not say much to me. He said something
but all I heard was “tomorrow 9 am at the meeting room”, I
wondered why I needed lawyer. I had not committed any crime in
Somalia and since my arrival in the United Kingdom I had not done any
wrong. My conscience was clear and God was my witness. As I went
to bed that night tears soaked my pillow. Tears of worry mixed with
fear. Call it paranoia. I had no family in the United Kingdom. I had no
friend. This was a foreign land. These people never spoke my
language. We were not of the same colour. What if they accused me of
something that I did not do? Who would be there? Who would be there to
defend me? Who would be my witness? Who would stand up for me
and my father was long gone to the world of the dead? My mother
and brothers had been kidnapped in Somalia. Maybe they were also
dead or maybe they were taken captive as slaves for some chief militia
men working for him from dawn to dusk.
As I walked to the office, my heart beat faster than usual. There
seemed to be something in the atmosphere or may be it was just nerves. My
legs felt heavier than usual, my stomach was rumbling and I felt
like throwing up. I sat down in the meeting room and patiently listened
to my English lawyer as he explained my human rights. He
then moved on to explain to me that I was now an asylum seeker
and I had to stay in the detention centre until my case was
heard by the judge who would determine if I would be allowed to stay in
Britain or not. Out of innocence I asked him what case he was talking
about. He explained to me that I had to tell the judge why I
choose to come to the United Kingdom and not stay in Somalia.
It was the beginning of new war for me. A war not fought with
grenades and Ak 47`s. There were no troops on either side. There were no
dead bodies. It was psychological war. Bullets were the constant
questions that crossed my mind and went unanswered. Why do I have to
face a judge who will determine whether I have to stay in Britain or
not? What crime did I commit? Crossing the border? Running away
from a war torn country? Running away from danger? Running away
to save my life? Was that a crime? Was it okay for their forefathers to
come and colonise Africa and take away my people as slaves and take
away the riches of my land? Did they ask for permission to enter then?
Why do I have to ask for permission to stay now? Are their people not
living and eating the best of the land in Zimbabwe and South Africa?
Are the militia men in Somalia not fighting with bullets and guns
made in the United Kingdom? I craved for answers to my questions.

At the spur of the moment I remembered the promise I made to my
father. The promise that I would make the best of every situation that
comes my way. This was a trial of life and death. A win meant a life in
England where I would be safe and have an opportunity to work and provide a better life for my mother and brothers if they were still alive.
Losing meant being taken back to Somalia where I would be condemned to a
life of constant fear for my life, hunger, and poverty till death rescues
me to a life of eternity. As my mama had said life had presented me with a choice. To have a pity party and loose, or to weather the storm and
win. Loosing was not an option for me. It has never been and it will
never be. My mama taught me that the world gave everyone what they
expected. I expected to win. The world would give me victory. I believed it.
My lawyer had told me that I needed to remember what
had happened to me and my family in Somalia and I needed to narrate
it to him the following day in order for him to get the picture of
what had happened and for him to be able to form a defence case for me not to be returned to Somalia.

This was difficult for me.
Though I wanted to win my asylum case, I was not sure I had the strength to
go through the whole process. I imagined the pain of reliving what I
had gone through in Somalia. It was two years since I lost my
family. I had learnt to take one day at a time without them. I never wanted
to open the wounds. I never wanted to think of what could have
happened to my family. Did anyone find my father and give him a
decent burial or did the wild animals gather for a feast in expense of
my loss? What about my mother? Was she alive or dead? I had vowed
not to remember any misfortune that had befallen me in Somalia and
taking off from that land meant that Somalia and its misfortunes were
all left there. Furthermore my mama had always taught me to forget the
evils of yesterday and to press forth in search of the good. How
would I balance the teaching that my mama had taught me with
what the lawyer had requested? I feared for my sanity.
It was exactly at 12.13 am when I suddenly woke up and my body
was soaked in sweat. I had just dreamt being deported back to
Somalia. Living a life of constant fear of death in the violent streets
of Mogadishu where boys as young as ten carried rifles. Where sounds
of guns going off was like cars honking and the militia men
cutting off the heads of their opponents was just a weekly event that
people looked forward to. Hearing the sharp screams of children crying
as they witnessed their fathers and brothers being slayed to death for
being spies of opponent militia men. Looking at the sad faces of
women and young men who had been snatched during raids and held
captive as slaves working at the mercies of their masters from sunrise
to sunset with nothing to eat.
In the dream my mother was holding her chin with her right arm like
one in deep thought. She refused the little food given to her by her
captors. On her lower back there were sores and wounds as a result of
whipping. She was constantly in tears. Mama was a strong woman and
she had taught me to be positive in everything I did but I guess
witnessing her husband being shot like a wild animal and not knowing the
whereabouts of her only daughter had shaken her to the core.
Mama had gone through a lot of misfortune but she had remained very
strong for us. She had witnessed her parent’s burn to death as the militia men
torched their hut. She had watched helplessly as her sister died of
malaria and her only brother being slayed to death as he was
wrongly
accused of being a spy. What I had seen in the dream was
different. It was not the strong woman I knew. Mama was worried. She was
very worried. Mama was loosing her mind. Her sanity was
slipping off. I had to let her know that I was alive and safe. This was
urgent. One more month without news could send her to her grave
. Who
would I send? Who would go for me? Where would I send them?
Growing up I never knew any relatives apart from my nuclear family.
My mother had his whole family wiped out and my father never spoke
of his side of the family although mama had once told me that my dad
was an orphan.

Peter had told me that the asylum case could take more than a year
before it would be concluded. A year could be too long for mama to
wait. I needed to tell her that I was alive. However giving up my
asylum case and going back to Somalia in search of what I had seen in
the
dream could be a fatal mistake. What if it was just a dream that had
no weight? What about my dream of life in England? Whatever
decision I made had the potential to alter the direction of my future. I
needed guidance. I remembered the words of my father. He had told
me that he would always be there for me whenever I needed him. At
this moment I needed his guidance. I took the chain that I had taken
from his neck and held it tight on my right hand and asked him to help
me out.

After thirteen months of uncertainty I
received a letter granting me indefinite leave to remain in the United
Kingdom. It was great news but it was also the beginning of another journey.
I needed to go back to Somalia in search of the only blood relations I
knew, my mother and two brothers. In the plane I had great hopes
that God had looked after my family and that they were safe. As
the plane touched down the little hope that had kept me going on
the ten hour journey to Somalia quickly faded. Nothing had changed in
Somalia. The air strip was still guarded by the Juba militia men. The
group that had taken away my loving father from me. The group that
had shot my father for no reason at all. As these merciless men checked
my bags great anger arouse in me mixed with a burning desire for
revenge. I looked at one of them eye ball to eye ball. He did not flinch. I
could almost feel his arrogance. His eyes were red and for a moment I
wondered how many innocent people he had killed with his semi
automatic weapon on his right hand and the samurai sword on his side.
I wondered why God had created species of this kind of male.
Somalian male without independent thought. A male without a desire for

peace. The war in Somalia started before I was born and twenty years
down the line the war was still on. Since then, could
Somalians
not find a solution to it? Why was there no desire to lay
their differences aside and watch their children grow in peace? I wondered in
disgust. In the streets of Mogadishu it was evident how Somalia had
deteriorated. There were more beggars on the streets than I had left. There
were children as young as two years crawling down the streets picking
grains on the broken gutters and putting it in their mouth.
There was evidence of hunger as you could almost count the protruding
ribs of young men as they strolled idle in worn out shirts on
the streets. The number of people with mental health sickness had
also increased. You could see them semi naked and talking to
themselves. There was this particular man that caught my eye. He had no
weapons on him but he screamed insults at imaginary Juba militia
men and took shooting positions. I guessed maybe the Militia
men had killed his family and as a result his sanity had eroded him. In
the midst of the chaotic impoverished Mogadishu there were pregnant
women. I wondered why on earth a woman would want to bring up a
child in this part of the world. What was a child for in Somalia?
Another would be statistic of the BBC news of hungry children of Africa?
Or to grow and find a career in one of the militia groups in Somalia
and maybe specialise in their slaying department?

As I travelled to the village where we once lived my heart skipped
beats. It looked deserted and bare. The huge tree that once grew near
our homestead was now very dry and its inhabitants the birds were
nowhere to be seen. I guess they had also fled in fear for their
life. I reached for my pocket and held tight the chain I had once taken
from my father’s neck. I needed strength to carry on the journey.
As I approached our mud hut I was shocked to see smoke bellowing
from the thatched roof. I thanked God at least someone was there. As I
knocked on the door I was as nervous as a cow awaiting slaughter. The
door opened and I flung my arms open to hug my mother. She was alive but different.
Mama had lost sight in her left eye and her mouth was slightly
twisted. She looked frail and sick. I asked her what the problem was. She
turned and looked at me and in a soft voice she said “It is hunger
my daughter” Those words sent hot tears running down my cheeks. For
a moment I did not say a word. My thoughts were cast abroad to
the United Kingdom. There people had more than enough to eat.
Hunger was not a word they ever associated with. They had so much to eat
it was destroying them. They were so fat that their government was
making policies of what their pupils should be fed on so that they don’t
become obese. Four in every five women in the United Kingdom was
on diet, yet in Somalia they were not twigs because of diet but
because of hunger. Surely it was two different worlds. I wiped my tears
quickly and enquired about my brothers.
She said they had one more year to serve as slaves in the Juba militia
farm before they could be released. She had been set free earlier
because she had grown weak and frail and they did not want her to die in
their farm. I had come hoping to get them out of danger and poverty
and take them with me to a land flowing with peace, sound sleep and
food. The thought of living in Somalia for a year to wait for their
release scared me. Living in Somalia is like living in a mine field
anytime you can be shot and anyway the smell of death is always in the air.
Should I pay a bribe to have them released? But then, how would I
live with the thought that I had funded militia men to buy more
weapons to kill more innocent people? Should I just leave with my mum and
come back after a year for my brothers? What if by the time I came
back they had died or had taken oath to join the militia men? In my
confusion I took out the chain that I had taken off my dead father’s
neck and held it in my hand. I lay there in the hope that by dawn I
would have an answer on what action to take.
At dawn I wrote a short letter explaining to my brothers about our
whereabouts. We gave a copy to the neighbours and left one in the
kitchen just incase the neighbours were killed before my brothers were
released. My mother and I set off to the united Kingdom and settled in
Bulwell, Nottinghamshire. I enrolled in the University of East London
where I am studying International politics.