How do you survive a war-torn country? This is a question I cannot answer, even now, after all these years. Why? Because the day I left my country was the day I could finally experience freedom, and it was also the day I lost that freedom: freedom comes at a cost. My name is Abdulrahman-Saaid Muhamed and this is my story.

I was 17 years old when I bade my mother and father goodnight for the last time. We were living in Biibi village, 75 kilometres from Kismayo, a port city in the Lower Juba province of Somalia. I went to bed and drifted into a deep sleep. I dreamed of a journey, on foot, to a faraway place. I was alone in the dream. The air was misty and sticky, the sun blazing and the ground scorching underfoot, painful to walk on. It seemed the journey would never end.

In my dream I had stopped to rest under a tree, when I was awoken by deafening bursts of sound. Then I heard screams, my mother’s screams. I jumped out of bed and ran to my parents’ bedroom. Their bed was empty. I ran out of the house and saw two figures, armed with machine guns, dragging my mother and father across the yard by their feet and loading them onto the back of a truck. My heart was pounding. If they had been alive, they would have resisted, would have done everything in their power to come back to me. But their bodies were limp. I wanted to shout out, but something made me stop. The engine of the truck started up noisily, and then the vehicle drove off into the night. I was alone.

For the rest of that long night I hid in the cupboard in my parents’ bedroom, burying my face in my mother’s clothes. I was too shocked to weep. The tears came later. Early the next morning I packed my things and began the long journey to my grandmother’s house in Kismayo. At first the air was cool, but it grew misty and sticky as the sun rose. Soon the ground was scorching underfoot and the sun blazing high in the sky, unforgiving. Whenever I heard people approaching I would hide behind bushes, trembling in fear. I had nothing to eat and no water to drink. Eventually, when my hunger and thirst overcame my fear, I begged passers-by for water and food.

I walked for three days. It was late evening when I finally reached my grandmother’s neighbourhood. A taxi driver I recognised as a friend of my grandmother kindly stopped and asked me why I was not with my parents. He listened gravely as I told him what had happened, then told me to get into the car, and drove me to my grandmother’s house. He told my story – I could not find words for what I had seen.

In sha’Allah (If God wills it), my son,” my grandmother said. Then she took my face in her worn old hands, looked searchingly into my eyes and embraced me. For the first time, my tears flowed.

“It is a very terrible thing that has happened to you, Abdul. We must pray to Allah for healing.”

Hoyo (Mama), please can I live with you? I am afraid to go back to our village.” Even as I said the words I knew that living with my grandmother could not undo what had been done, or prevent what was still to come. The beautiful land and way of life we had known were no more.

“No, my son, I am afraid you can’t stay here, it’s not safe. But we can talk about all this in the morning. First you must bathe, eat and sleep – you need to rest after such a tiring journey.”

*****

That night I slept restlessly and woke at sunrise. Walking through to the kitchen I found Grandmother rolling up her prayer mat. I had missed my Fajr (pre-dawn) prayer. A traditional Somali song was playing on the small, battered radio by the stove. The song told of a young cattle herder who had fallen in love with a girl he had seen in the marketplace and it reminded me of my childhood. My father used to sing it sometimes as he worked. He bred cattle and sold them at the farmers’ market in the nearby town. I would help him on market days. He would pat me on the head and say that I had a head for numbers, because I could count the money accurately and always made sure that we were not being cheated by the customers.

“Good morning, my child,” Grandmother said, rising slowly to her feet. “I heard you shouting in your sleep last night. Are you all right?”

I nodded, but suddenly recalled, too, that I had had a nightmare. The only part I remembered clearly was my parents kneeling with guns to their heads as I watched through the crack between the cupboard doors, too scared to come out, knowing that I would be killed too if I did.

Grandmother walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Abdul, we need to speak. I heard on the news that these attacks on innocent people are just beginning. I don’t want you to live in danger, or to have your life cut short by this senseless war. You need to leave Somalia.”

“But, Grandmother, I have nowhere to go!” I protested. I could not understand why she would want to send me away from everything I held dear.

“Do you remember your Uncle Hassan, your mother’s brother, who lives in South Africa?” she asked.

“I remember Mother telling me stories about him, but I do not remember him.”

“He left Somalia when you were still a child. He is a kind man, Abdul. He will take you into his home.”

“But, Grandmother, I do not want to go there. South Africa is not my country. I am sure Uncle has a family of his own and enough responsibilities.”

“Abdulrahman, he is my son. He will help you. You must accept his help. I will call him now from my neighbour’s house. While I am gone, eat some bread – it is freshly baked. I will ask my neighbour, Fatima, for some of her son’s old clothes. You need a change of clothing and some warm things for your journey.”

I had no appetite, but I ate the bread and drank some sweet tea. An hour later Grandmother was back from her neighbour with a bag full of clothes, for which I was truly grateful.

“You must prepare to leave, my dear child. There is no time to lose. I managed to speak to Hassan and he is expecting you.”

My heart sank, but I knew that I had no choice. By that evening I was packed and ready to go.

In the morning Grandmother gave me a parcel of food for my journey: baasto (pasta) and digaag (chicken) left over from dinner the night before, some samosas and two loaves of canjeero (sourdough flatbread). Then Grandmother and I caught the bus to the centre of Kismayo and stood in the queue outside the office of a man called Mr Jimale, who advised people on how to get into South Africa. Eventually it was our turn. Mr Jimale gave us the name of a man at the nearby taxi rank and explained that he would take me to the harbour, where I could get onto a boat called Horiya (Freedom) headed for Cabo Delgado in Mozambique.

Grandmother walked with me to the taxi rank. She moved slowly, as if to delay the moment we would have to say goodbye. When we had found the taxi driver she took my hands, and pressed something into them. With tears in her eyes, she said, “Please take this money. And go well, my child. Pray to Allah for your protection. I will do the same. I know that we will meet again when the war is over.” I did not know what to say. I hugged her for a long time, trying to hold back my own tears.

***

Tell us what you think: do you think Abdul’s troubles are over yet?