Somalia to Leeds, or rather let me begin with Nazereth to Bethlehem…Bit strange to be hearing the normal christmas story being told these last days when I and a whole bunch of mates walked that way just nine months earlier. Passing through the West Bank and just a stone’s throw from Jenin and Nablus we believe we were some of the first to walk that ancient path for at least a decade or two. So quite an adventure, tracking the Joseph and Mary narrative as they went in search of their future, and as it turned out, in search of a home.
Yep there were a few scary moments; enough to feed a few fireside stories when we all returned a couple of weeks later, courtesy of our British passports and the relative safety that one still affords.
Not quite then the nomadic refugee status that marked out this journey 2000 years ago; niether that of a new found friend called Fatima. This is her story below-no not some well boundaried adventure that was all but certain to end well, but a modern day refugee story, just like the one those years ago. Read it, and if you would like to read more, then buy our launch book, available from the site.
Extraordinary stories-ordinary people.
In Search of a Home
My name is Fatima. I come from the island of Koyama, off the
coast of Somalia. I am of the Bajuni tribe. I am a mother to three
boys and I am a Muslim.
My island has coconut trees, orange trees and banana trees,
and long sandy beaches that overlook the Indian Ocean. There
are goats, a few sheep and cows. My father and husband were
fishermen and would go fishing every day. When we needed other
supplies they would sail to the mainland overnight, returning the
following day.
I attended the Madras class in the local mosque. It took place
every day except Fridays. We were taught the Quran, how to
pray and good manners and respect. The teacher was very
strict and the Inman beat us if we failed to learn by heart the
assigned verses.
My life was good, until about the age of thirteen, when the war
began; first of all in Mogadishu, and then spreading. We soon
began to learn how to listen for the raiding parties and would
have hiding places away from the village to escape to when they
came. Our tribe was hated by the Darood tribe and the Hawiye
tribe and five years ago they attacked our village. They came
suddenly, in a large group. Armed with knives and guns they beat,
killed and burnt houses and raped the women. My husband was
murdered and my brother killed. My father’s home was also burnt
down in the attack.
I do not like to think about this now.
I, along with my two boys and my mother, managed to escape in a
boat to Kenya. There were lots of other people with us. We arrived
in Mombassa after two days at sea. We hid there for two weeks in
safe houses, with other Somali people. It was a frightening time;
the Kenyan police would come looking for us to send us back to
Somalia. However, the village had saved enough money for me to
get the help of an agent. I knew that if I returned to my island I
might be killed, so my mother persuaded me to use the money
to get to England.
It was horrible, because there was not enough money for the
boys. They were just two and three years old and I had to leave
them in Kenya, my mother promising that as soon as the money
could be raised they would be sent on. If I had known that this
was going to take four years then I would never have left them.
When I arrived in England I was taken to the immigration centre
in Croydon, and from there I was taken to Northampton. It was
very hard without my boys and I missed my homeland very much.
I did not speak any English and without the agent I would not have
been allowed in. I felt scared and alone, and missed my family
so much.
I still do.
The best moment during my time in England was when, a year ago,
my two boys got off the bus in Northampton after travelling from
Kenya. The agent had brought them with the money the village had
saved for them. Allah has been good to me and I am grateful.
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