Don't worry, this isn't another generic tale of a poor beaten down war victim, I didn't stay in Somalia for too long after the up-rise of the rebels. My father was killed at the elementary school, The rebels wanted schools only to teach Arabic and disliked the fact that my father taught English as one of his subjects. My brother was forced into a rebel-run Islamic boarding school. My mother and I begrudgingly garbed ourselves with Burkas. When the rebels went around town administering clitorectomies to girls my age, my mother had had enough. I wouldn't say my mother loved the corrupt Somalian government, but she felt at least it was a bearable way of life, unlike the hell we were faced with during the rebel up-rise. In the dead of the night, me and my mother crept out of our house. She kept telling me to hurry while she briskly scampered trying her best not to make noise, after about an hour of walking, I realized she had brought me to the border of our town, just some kilometers away, would be Ethiopia. She was frantically looking around, searching for something, then I spotted it, in the distance, a large black truck. She grasped my arm rather tightly almost dragging me towards it, when we neared the truck, I realized it was full of Somalian children. Some parents were there, helping their children up into back of the truck, My mother began doing the same, I reluctantly got on. Then I realized none of the parents were getting on, I looked at my mother, about to panic. She looked at me dead in my eyes and said "one day, I hope you will forgive me for this". Just as I was about to reply the truck had started to move. I started crying hysterically, as the other children watched. My mother's silhouette became smaller and smaller, even though I couldn't see her clearly I could somehow tell she was crying too. I buried my head in my knees, overwhelmed with emotions I was too young to deal with.
I soon found out we were being brought to Sudan. Due the Sudan's then growing economy, there were many factories, and many sweatshops appearing, most of which were inhabited by Somalian refugees. I understood now, my mother would rather have me work in a sweatshop rather than be exposed to the cruelty of the Somalian rebels. The few friends I had made in the truck had quickly vanished the moment we reached Delgo, Sudan. We were all split up and sent to work in different sweatshops. I worked at a factory that dealt with clothing. My job was to silkscreen prints onto T-shirts and such. I was given the job because I was one of the oldest, with the steadiest hands. I began to develop an eye for precision.
All of us slept together in the basement of the sweatshop. Approximately about 30 children huddled together in a dingy old basement. There were 2 men who would occasionally check on us. They were supposedly our guardians. They were stern and spanked whoever was making trouble. I never got ill treated by them because I was good at what I did. I had even started to like it. I loved the feeling of being able to create something aesthetically pleasing. sometimes I would even steal different colored ink cartridges to paint with when nobody was looking. I was doing something productive. However silk-screening all day did give me mild headaches. That's when the men would offer me a puff or 2 of their blunt. The food we were given was old, stale and sometimes even expired. But we'd eat anything that we got due to the uncertainty of getting our next meal.
When I was 16, I managed to pluck up enough courage to run away from the sweatshop. In the dead of the night, I remembered my mom guiding me that night, out of Somalia. This time I was alone. I was on my way to the refugee camp at El OBeid, in the heart of Sudan. If my mother and brother were still alive, they'd be there I thought. I hitchhiked a ride on the old overcrowded railway train headed into central Sudan, hiding behind people, paranoid for no reason. I didn't miss anyone at the sweatshop, I knew better than to make friends because I knew they'd vanish too.
The Refugee camp was vast. I knew I was going to have a hard time locating my family. I searched for 2 days, asking random people if they knew my mother or brother, walking in circles scanning the whole place. It was the only Somalian refugee camp in Sudan so I knew they would not be anywhere else. I missed them desperately, my heart became heavy and I started to cry. I had nowhere else to go, no home, no family, I was nothing more than a Somalian refugee, hence, I stayed at the camp. I took out my stolen ink and began to paint with my fingers. It was the only way I could heal my pain. Even though there was much chaos happening at the camp, I felt at peace there. these people have been through the same things I have, perhaps even more, sure, I was forced to work in a sweatshop, but I knew these people had gone through much worse; they wouldn't be here otherwise. They were still suffering. People always seem to assume refugees are lucky to have made it out of their country, but they often overlook the continuing plight of refugees, we were out of Somalia, out of war, but here, we had no food, no home, no jobs and we had no country to call home. we were like stranded sailors. I painted with this in mind, while I helped out the humanitarian workers. Soon, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees caught sight of my work. My work was published, and used to spread awareness about the plight of refugees. I felt no greater joy! Through all my hardships, I have persevered, now I work as a humanitarian worker for UNHCR, I just needed to be brave, to be patient. I just needed to be Sabra.
Art cannot exist without experience.
