Somalia Civil War Survivor Essay

Imagine being born surrounded by violence and war; a conflict that has no purpose nor ultimate objective other than to take lives; an environment of aggression and brutality that had no meaningful root causes and is typified by people who are murderous and bloodthirsty. Again, imagine being reminded what a beautiful country you were born into; a country with a natural splendor and spectacular urban architecture, much of it – like the mosques – of Islamic origin.
Conversely, envision growing up encircled by never-ending bloody killings being perpetrated one after another, and cruel-minded young soldiers who use violence and war as a way of life and to ensure their own survival. Somalia – a country situated in the Horn of Africa – was a place of peace and prosperity prior to the 1990-91 outbreak of the ongoing war, which left hundreds of thousands of dead, many properties completely destroyed, thousands upon thousands of Somali residents displaced and now living in refugee camps, and the country and its economy in ruins. In the U.S. it is only too easy to take our safe and relatively comfortable lifestyle for granted. Compared with the dangers and uncertainties of life as a refugee it is just another world altogether. Every day, when we sit down to regular family meals and can just get fresh, clean drinking water on demand from the kitchen faucet, I am reminded of those terrible times when even surviving another 24 hours was problematic.
When civil war broke out in Mogadishu, the capital city of Somalia, I and my family fled to Marko, a neighboring city about 90 kilometers distant from the capital. Within a few months the civil war had spread throughout the whole nation and our new city was no longer safe. Militiamen began terrorizing our city, killing innocent local residents and looting properties. Our parents made the decision to flee as quickly as possible, fearing that we too would be attacked and killed. Along with other refugees, we escaped in a small boat that could barely hold us all. It was one of the worst experiences of my life, and one that I will never forget. We were short of food and water even at the start of our voyage, and in a few days ran out of both. It was a painful experience that still haunts me; seeing children die from starvation, and no one able to help them. It was extremely traumatic, and heartbreaking to witness such tragic events. Surprisingly, I was one of the few children who somehow survived the journey and made it safely to a refugee camp in neighboring Kenya.
That horrifying experience begin for me in Watauga, around 1991-1992. I was just a very young child and poorly clothed. I and my family, along with virtually the rest of the city’s population, had just fled Mogadishu. Husbands, wives and children became separated in that chaotic flight from danger. Walking out of the capital city it was impossible not to see the many dead bodies, some already decaying, lying in the streets. There were people looting and raping, and all around us we could hear shooting.
I cannot say I remember the exact details of what had occurred in Mogadishu, but I can clearly remember Watauga, the Kenyan refugee camp that we eventually reached. Although it was not a large piece of land that became home for 50,000 people, it was the safest place to be, at least that was what everyone thought when they arrived there. There really were limited options open to us all; it was a basic choice: live or die. There was nothing there in that huge camp that was out of the ordinary for a three-year old just beginning to accept her surroundings, except for the frequent fires.
Since all the houses were built of straw, if one house caught fire then all of the surrounding houses would burn too. There were no firefighters or police, just many exhausted, distressed and hungry people. Those fires would start small and gradually increase, causing everyone to once again flee until the fire miraculously ended of its own accord. There were no banks or safes to keep money or other valuables, so most people would dig a deep hole in the ground somewhere in their straw house and bury their possessions. It was a reasonable thing to do considering the circumstances, but when a fire occurred it could be deadly. I remember that on one occasion a woman was found burned to death because she wasn’t able to dig fast enough and then get out. I also recall that the moment a fire started I would get this feeling that the end of the world was coming.
I will remember forever one of my worst experiences with the Watauga fires. It was a late afternoon when the news came that fire had broken out about a mile or so south of us. As soon as the news reached us we started preparing. I was at a friend’s house at the time and was so scared that I didn’t want to go back home, thinking I might die if I did. My heart was racing so fast. While I was having my panic attack, the family had split everyone into groups; I went with my friend and her older brother. My friend was a bit chubby and couldn’t run fast, so her older brother decided to pick her up and take me by my hand. I was bewildered. Only about 3 or 4 years old at the time, I started shouting with all the energy my little body could find. I pleaded with him to pick me up as well, but he wasn’t strong. In fact, he was only 18 years old at the time, suffering from malnutrition like almost everyone else in the camp.
He was weak and skinny and holding his sister up seemed more then he could handle. I grabbed his hand and started running, telling myself that I am fast enough and that we weren’t so far away from safety. I wouldn’t give up, though I kept telling him how he only cared for his sister and that he didn’t care if I died or not. I was finding it hard to breathe by now, and my pace became slower and slower, not even realizing he had already picked me up. When I think back to that time now, I can’t imagine how he managed to carry us both. Of course, now after living in the United States for so long, if I were to tell anyone this story they would be astounded. In fact, I would not be surprised if they did not believe it.
But that is not how things were before the civil war broke out. My father was a wealthy business man who owned most of the beautiful mansions in the Mogadishu where we lived at the time. We lived in a splendid house with maids and drivers. I am told how nice everything was, although I don’t remember anything from that time, but I do remember the horrors that took place after that. My father had invested almost all his wealth in different projects, but life is unpredictable, as many people remind me, and everything we owned was burnt to the ground. That in itself was hard for us, but the pain and hardships that we endured following that loss were far worse. So none of us really looks back at that life, it is like a dream, which now exists only in our subconscious minds.
Although it was hard, really hard, I believe all those things I endured in my life were life lessons, one after another. The civil war and my experience in the refugee camp made me a stronger person, and one who can now help others. Coming to America, a new world where I found I could get food and live in safety, was a golden opportunity for me to find a better life. Yet, still part of me is in pain, knowing that innocents are starving and suffering back home, and in other parts of the world. As a result, it is not unusual for me to send money back home to help my relatives and friends. Similarly, I make donations to organizations that fight against hunger and provide help to displaced persons (refugees) around the globe.