Personal Narrative Essay: Life Before The Civil War

My mother owned a successful shop in the heart of Mogadishu.

However, when the civil war broke out she was forced to leave everything behind and make a dangerous trek with my father and brother, all desperately seeking asylum. Before the civil war, Somalia was a hotspot for tourist attraction. It was a coastal town, famous for it's ancient and modern architectural design. It had beautiful white sandy beaches and clear blue oceans that fused with the color of the sky. My mother’s shop was located in an open market alongside of 20 other venues. It was always bustling with people trying to buy the freshest food because refrigerators were mainly used for keeping ice. Constant honks of cars, everyone pushing and shoving one another, and customers yelling at merchants, bargaining for a lower price, are all too common when going to the market. The call to prayer silences all of that. Merchants leave their stores unprotected and head to the mosque. There was a strong level of trust in Somalia that's been robbed when the civil war

happened.
My mother was never person to obsessive over current affairs.

Yes, There has been talks of nearby villages being destroyed to the ground. Yet, It hadn't occurred to her that the war will come to the cities. Sadly, it did. It happened on a sunny summer afternoon. It was scorching hot to be outside and so everyone was confined to their homes, only leaving when there's a call to prayer. My mother was cooking food for my father and oldest brother Mohamed. She didn't have the tomatoes or the onions to make the paste.She decided to quickly run to the market and buy these essentials. The walk there was eerily quiet or a summer afternoon. When she arrived at marketplace the walls were riddled with bullet holes. Overcome with fear, my mother froze in place. These group of armed men that look like they’ve been doped on khat stood on the other side of the street. An older gentlemen approached her. My mother lost the will to run but instead mustered in a meek voice, “adeer what are you guys

doing?”
He arrogantly gestured his hands around the market, “Can’t you see the government is overthrown”
Her flight or fight instinct kicked and she ran as fast as she can. My mother only looked back once, to her dismay she saw the rebels set the market a blaze.

My mother left three months after the rebels took over. Those three months were horrendous. My family were in hiding and the only time they went outside was for food. Since, their tribe was associated with the government, they had pseudo names that were similar to the rebels. If the rebels found out about your tribe, you’d get killed. My mother realized that life wasn’t going to get any better in Somalia. They packed their bags in the middle of the night and hopped on a bus that was heading to Kismayo.

The calm demeanor and the generous hospitality of the people of Kismayo shocked my mother. Were these people not aware of the hell coming their way? She was uneasy about their naivety of the war. They stayed at relatives for a few weeks. Everything was peaceful but there was always that thought the kept creeping up on my mom's mind, "What if the rebels reach Kismayo?"
Her fears became a reality. For some reason as my mother tells this part of the story she can't seem to control her laughter. You see the rebels did enter Kisamayo and they opened fire in a crowded marketplace. At the same time this is happening, my mother was causally taking a stroll unaware of what's going on. All of sudden, she sees a flock of people running her direction and without any hesitation she ran with the distressed crowd.
"Why did you run if you had no clue what's going on?" I had troubling understanding why she would do such a peculiar thing.
"People running is never a good sign. I didn't take the chance to found out what's going on. I ran then asked questions later"
Need I remind you, my mother forgot my oldest brother at home. I guess when you're in a life or death situation you start to forget those you love. Fortunately, my father was among the crowd that ran. He was carrying Mohamed and Zakaria, one of the relatives. They couldn't find Zakaria's family and they couldn't afford to stay back and look for them. My mother saw a group of men that hijacked a cargo that was heading to Kenya. They hopped on the ship but Zakaria who feared water, bit my father's hand and wiggled free. At this point, the ship is taking its own course making it impossible to retrieve Zakaria.
Distraught and hungry, the ship landed them in the border of Kenya and Ethiopia. Fortunately, my father was Ethiopian and familiar with language. They found asylum in a refugee camp.

Walda was the name of the refugee camp. It was a newly built camp by the UNHCR. It was quickly flooded and overcrowded by neighboring countries seeking help. It had Ethiopians, Sudanese, and Somalis. The houses were built from scraps of metals and dead woods. They had many issues in the camp concerning everyone's safety and health.

My mother conceived a baby which she named Arafat. He had these big beautiful brown eyes and dark brown curly hair. Unfortunately, like most of the babies in the camp, he too succumbed to diseases, he was only 8 months old. Arafat was buried in a mass grave with other corpse. Walda became unbearable to live in, the natives of Walda, the Gabra and Borana, would constantly fight non-stop. One time, in the midst of their fighting, they burned a house down that killed an entire family.

One day, a white Christian gentleman approached my mother. He asked her if she wanted to go to America. My mother wanted nothing to do with America. She didn't want to leave to country where she sticks out like a sore thumb and the call to prayer was non-existent. However, looking around and seeing the current conditions they were living in, my mother reluctantly took the offer.
Leaving Africa that day was an emotional time for my mother. She was scared that once she came to America she could never be able to back to Somalia. Yet, she was still optimistic of the future of her country and I think that's what kept her sane throughout the flight. They landed in Minnesota. They were the first wave of Somalis in there.

Fast Forward to the present. My mother spent nearly half of her life in America. She still persevered her culture and religion. In fact, whenever she decides to move states, my mother makes sure she's living around a mosque. Even though, she never had the chance to go back to Somalia being surround by a strong Muslim community was enough for her. Of course she's still optimistic for the future of Somalia. Hopefully, one day we can all visit her home country.