Touch the Sun

by Emily Conolan

‘You do not bargain with al-Shabaab. You are not smarter than al-Shabaab. You do not leave al-Shabaab. The only thing you can give that al-Shabaab wants is your faith and your undying loyalty. You do not play games with al-Shabaab. You train, and if you are lucky, you will die a glorious soldier’s death. Your life now is for jihad. Nothing else.

  ‘Send him back to his room,’ he commands, and the hail of blows stops. You struggle to get up, but Sunglasses drags you down the hallway by your ankle and throws you back into the same room as before. The door slams shut behind you.

  FROM THAT POINT on, you try to escape so often that your nickname becomes Jiir Weyn: ‘Rat’.

  You try to escape from the locked room that night, and from the van the next day, when they take you to the desert for training. You make countless further attempts over the months you spend training in the desert, even though each ends in a beating.

  You vow that you will never stop trying to get back to Jamilah. Your rage towards al-Shabaab – for taking your aunty from you, your sister, your home, your freedom – burns brighter with every passing setting of the sun.

  Eventually, you decide the only way to escape is to lull al-Shabaab into a false sense of security, so you pretend to become a model recruit until, at last, your unit commander selects you to go on patrol in Mogadishu.

  Your heart swells with hope as you approach your old neighbourhood. But when you arrive in your old street, where the grocery shop and your home once stood there is now nothing but charred rubble. There is no trace of Jamilah.

  Your limbs stop working. Your heart, your body, your lungs – everything feels as heavy as wet concrete. The other boys in your patrol shout at you to move, but their voices seem to be coming from another planet. Only when an AMISOM solider starts running towards you, his weapon raised, does the adrenaline take over, and you run and hide just in time.

  Something in you stops bouncing back that day. Instead, you become mute, obedient, filled with aggression. You stop crying, or looking at the stars at night in wonderment. You are no longer a child. There is something hollow in your heart, which al-Shabaab fills up with war.

  The boys who fight beside you say they’re your brothers, but when they die, you feel nothing – just a bricked-up deadness. It will be your turn to die one day, and you will welcome it.

  For now, the only feeling you have left is a glimmer of pride when you see the fear in people’s eyes as you walk towards them.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 4.

  You step back from the bomb and run across the street. You can still see the back of Rahama’s red hijab through the window.

  ‘Bomb!’ you yell at the top of your lungs. ‘Rahama, get out of the building!’

  Come on, come on, you think desperately, your heart hammering. Her head doesn’t turn. She must be wearing her headphones. Allah, help me now, you pray.

  ‘Bomb!’ you shout again, and some people eye you warily; a few edge away from the building, unsure if they should believe you.

  There’s a small, broken piece of concrete at your feet. You pick it up and pelt it at Rahama’s window, but you miss. The concrete falls onto the roof of an expensive-looking car parked nearby. The car alarm starts honking and wailing.

  Good! you think, and you throw another rock at the window. This one clinks against the windowpane, then tumbles to the street and nearly hits a woman in a blue dress. She screams and looks around, outraged.

  Any minute that bomb’s going to go off, and right now I’m still close enough to be killed by it, you think.

  ‘Come on, Rahama, come on! Bomb!’ you yell again, so loudly that you feel a scraping in your throat.

  Now people are taking notice. Some are muttering and walking away quickly. Others are shaking their heads and pointing at you.

  ‘Hey!’ shouts the woman in the blue dress, crossing the street. ‘Did you just throw a rock?’

  ‘Yes, because there’s a—’ you begin, but you’re cut short by a shopkeeper.

  ‘You hit my customer’s car with your rock, you dumb kid! Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to throw rocks?’

  There’s nothing for it. If you stay around to argue the reasons with them, the bomb will go off, and you’ll all be killed. If you run, they might chase you. Maybe you can cause enough commotion on the street that Rahama will hear it, take notice and come outside too. Gulping back your fear, you turn and start sprinting.

  ‘Hey!’ shouts the shopkeeper.

  ‘Stop that kid!’ yells the woman.

  You dart away down the street and cross the road, dodging in front of cars and a goat-herder, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Someone swerves and falls off his bicycle. There is bleating and tooting and shouting.

  The more noise the better, you think grimly.

  ‘Idiot!’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Angry faces surround you. Instead of helping the man on his bicycle up, on impulse you grab the fallen bike, and try to ride away.

  A woman catches you, though. She gets you in a headlock, and is she ever strong. She must have raised twenty children, as she knows exactly how to put an end to mischief. ‘A bike thief!’ she shouts triumphantly.

  ‘A rock-thrower! A vandal!’ adds the shopkeeper.

  ‘He won’t pay for the damage he’s caused. Teach him a lesson!’ cries the bike-rider.

  Any second now, you think. You pray desperately that Rahama is getting out. The woman forces your face-downwards onto the ground and you can hardly breathe. Spit and tears stream from your eyes and nose. You brace yourself, because you know the crowd is about to start raining blows on you.

  ‘Criminal kids like these,’ says the headlock woman conversationally to the crowd, ‘hah, I’ve caught dozens of them. They have no fathers to teach them morals. One day, Somalia will have a proper police force and strong families again. Until then, you just have to discipline them as best you can.’

  With these words, the mob comes at you from all directions. You can’t escape, and the blows become faster, until you’re feeling scared you might black out. You pray for it to end soon.

  ‘Stop!’ shouts a commanding male voice. ‘I know this boy. I will take responsibility for him.’

  You struggle to look up and you see – to your horror – Qasim. His eyes have a hard, glittery look to them. The woman lets you go and you stand up slowly, massaging your neck. Everyone in the crowd takes a step back, like a pack of jackals when a lion steps into their midst.

  ‘He is Rahama Daahir’s nephew. I know where he lives. I’ll take him home myself and see to it that this won’t happen again.’ When the crowd still seems wary, Qasim opens his wallet and starts handing out notes. ‘For your troubles, madam. Please, sir, this will pay for your car’s broken window.’

  The crowd is pleased now: in their eyes, you have paid for the damage you caused and justice has been done. Qasim clasps your shoulder. Then he gets out his phone. Your heart stops. If he calls the number of the phone that’s attached to the bomb, it will explode and Aunty Rahama will be killed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he tells you quietly in your ear. ‘Walk away with me now, and you will come to no harm.’

  You could walk away with Qasim. He has helped you to get away from the angry crowd, and perhaps it’s safer to play along. Given that he could detonate the bomb at any moment, it seems unwise to enrage him, especially with the crowd on his side.

  But you also know that Qasim is completely untrustworthy. You put your hand into your pocket and your fingers curl around a small weapon: Aunty Rahama’s pen. Instead of playing along, you could stab him with its sharp nib, make a grab for his phone, and run.

  What should you do?

  If you walk away with Qasim, go to scene 9.

  If you try to fight Qasim, go to scene 8.

  You whip the pen out of your pocket. You stab it, as hard and fast as you can, towards Qasim’s face, but he puts up his hand to block
you. Your arms collide, and Qasim’s phone falls to the ground. You both make a grab for it – but as Qasim bends over, you shove him, hard, and he loses balance. He sprawls on the pavement, and you grab the phone, pen still in your other hand, and start running.

  Three strong-looking bearded men in black run towards you.

  ‘He’s Rahama Daahir’s nephew!’ you hear Qasim shout to them. ‘He has the phone!’

  You know that the men will do anything to get hold of Qasim’s phone, and quickly, so that they can still detonate the bomb. They’re not shooting just yet – probably because they don’t want to raise the alarm and have people start to evacuate the area – but they might fire at you at any moment.

  You see a broken hole in the pavement. A deep pool of dark-brown sewage sits below. You throw the phone down the hole, shove the pen in your pocket, and keep running.

  ‘We’ll get him – you finish the job!’ you hear one of the men behind you shout.

  You glance back and see Qasim peel off and begin to run away from you, towards the broadcast building. You duck and weave down the busy street, trying to shake off the three men still in hot pursuit. Every so often, you manage to glance behind you. An AMISOM soldier is running towards Qasim, and Qasim raises his gun, but he doesn’t shoot the soldier. Instead, he points his gun at the backpack by the rubbish bin. He shoots the bomb.

  A fountain of fire shoots upwards. The noise seems to rip the world in two.

  Rahama.

  An invisible wave of pressure slams your body and knocks you off your feet. There is a deafening crunch as the broadcast building collapses behind you. Smoke, ash and debris are falling all over the street, and the air is filled with screams. You struggle to your knees, then a piece of flying rubble hits the side of your head and you black out.

  You wake up some hours later, as the sun is setting. AMISOM soldiers are pulling the debris away from around you.

  ‘This kid’s alive!’ you hear one of them shout.

  You sit up and brush off the dust and ash. Your whole body feels unsteady, as if there’s a pile of scrambled eggs where your guts should be, but you’re otherwise not badly hurt.

  ‘Rahama?’ you croak. ‘She was in the broadcast building …’

  Your rescuers’ faces look grim.

  ‘You’re the only person we’ve found alive so far, this close to the blast,’ one of them says, shaking his head sadly.

  You manage to climb to your feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ cries the soldier. ‘Wait here and we’ll take you to hospital!’

  But you have to get back to Jamilah as soon as possible. You stumble away from the chaos, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You make it along street after street as night falls. When you see your street, relief washes over you. Safe at last.

  Except, you realise suddenly, home isn’t safe any longer. You still have a copy of the story that al-Shabaab killed Aunty Rahama for, hidden in your pocket. You were found at the bombsite trying to raise a distraction to foil their plans. You threw the detonator into the sewer, and that forced Qasim to shoot the bomb, which probably killed him, so you are partly responsible for Qasim’s death now, too.

  The men who were pursuing you knew you were Rahama’s nephew – and even if they were killed, there’s a good chance that more of them know where you live. You can only hope and pray that you get to Jamilah before they do.

  To read a fact file on religious extremism click here, then go to scene 10 to continue with the story.

  To continue with the story now, go to scene 10

  You let Aunty Rahama’s pen fall back into your pocket. You walk away from the crowd, Qasim’s hand firmly on your shoulder.

  ‘Um … thank you, Qasim,’ you say, acting like this is just a normal situation and you don’t know anything about the bomb. ‘I, uh, promise I won’t get up to any more mischief …’

  ‘That’s right. You won’t.’ Qasim’s voice is as hard as his hand. He is steering you towards the broadcast building. You are still a safe distance away from it, but you are facing it now.

  Qasim moves his grip from your shoulder down to your hand. ‘I want you to see what happens to those who ignore Allah’s law; who disrespect al-Shabaab.’

  With his free hand, he holds the phone in front of you. You see a number on the screen. With his other hand, the one holding yours, he forces your finger towards the green ‘call’ button.

  ‘Call this number,’ Qasim says. ‘Call it, and you will see what we are capable of.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ you shout, and with all your strength you try to wrestle away from him. But Qasim is much stronger than you are; he won’t release your hand. You panic.

  ‘Bomb! Bomb!’ you start screaming. ‘There’s a bomb in the broadcast building! He’s trying to make me blow it up! Bomb!’

  Qasim’s eyes light up with fury. You manage to snatch the phone from his other hand, and you smash it against the ground with all your might. Qasim growls like an enraged dog and grabs you around your neck. You feel his fingers pressing into your throat.

  ‘That was a stupid thing you just did,’ he hisses.

  Another bearded man in black – an al-Shabaab militant – appears at Qasim’s side. ‘People are starting to notice!’ he snaps. ‘Why haven’t you detonated it?’

  Qasim stiffens to attention. This man seems to be his superior. ‘This boy just destroyed the detonator,’ he mumbles, nodding towards the broken phone at your feet, and for a hopeful moment you think you’ve foiled their plan.

  But the other man presses a gun into Qasim’s hand. ‘Then go and finish it yourself,’ he barks. ‘I’ll take care of the boy!’

  Qasim runs towards the broadcast building with the gun in his hand. You break free of the other man’s grip and start sprinting after him, shouting, ‘Stop that man! There’s a bomb!’

  People are screaming and running away now. Qasim glances back at you and raises his gun.

  You think, Allah, please, help me.

  But instead of shooting you, Qasim turns again, points his gun at the black backpack … and shoots the bomb.

  You are hurtling through the air. There is no up or down anymore, only the blast, and you are inside it. The noise rips through you. You are caught in a cartwheel of debris and death.

  Time slows, and though even the air itself seems to be on fire, a calm and thoughtful voice in your head simply says: So, this is how I die.

  A huge piece of concrete topples from the broadcast building. You see it falling towards you. Your last thought is just: Jamilah. Then you are slammed to the ground. The impact kills you instantly.

  Rahama’s golden pen melts in the fire, taking her story with it – now just another mystery held in Allah’s unknowable hand.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to scene 7.

  You creep down the alleyway to the back door of your home. You can hear a whimpering, like the sound of a puppy who’s been left alone in the dark. You open the door a crack and the whimpering stops. You can’t push the door open any further, because someone is huddled against it, trying to keep it closed.

  ‘Jamilah,’ you call softly, ‘it’s okay. It’s me. Let me in.’

  The door swings open and Jamilah gives in to sobs. ‘I hate you!’ she shouts. ‘I hate you!’ But she’s clinging to you like she’s drowning.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry you were all alone …’

  ‘I heard a bomb!’ She hiccups. Her shoulders are shaking. ‘And then you didn’t come back, for hours and hours. Where were you?’

  You take in a sharp breath. This quivering, messy, terrified child is yours now. Nobody else is going to protect her, or explain to her what’s happened. Whether she lives or dies could well come down to the choices you will make in the days and weeks to come.

  Now you know how Aunty Rahama must have felt, when she was left to raise you both after al-Shabaab laid siege to the marketplace where your hooyo and aabe worked and they were killed. You want someone bigger an
d wiser than you, showing the way. But you’re it.

  There’s a note, you remember. She said to look under her pillow. She said it will explain everything.

  ‘Where’s Aunty Rahama?’ Jamilah asks you. ‘Where is she?’

  You can’t answer her – not yet. You pull Jamilah down to sit with you on Rahama’s bed, keeping her close with one arm while reaching for Rahama’s pillow with the other. It still smells like her. You blink away hot tears.

  Under Rahama’s pillow, your fingers find a piece of folded paper. You can only pray that this letter will hold a clue as to what you should do next. You don’t want Jamilah to see how scared you are.

  As you unfold the letter, a wad of banknotes falls out, and you quickly stash it in your pocket with the pen. You breathe a sigh of gratitude. Now at least you’ll have a little cash to help you.

  To my favourite nephew (all right, you’re my only nephew),

  When I was little, I found an ants’ nest in the corner of our food cupboard. I poked it with a stick, and the ants came for me. I squashed as many as I could, but there were too many, and I was badly bitten. Writing reports exposing the truth about al-Shabaab has had the same effect.

  If you’re reading this, it probably means that al-Shabaab has finally caught up with me. But please try not to be sad. Instead, be fast, be smart, be brave. When your mum and dad were killed and you came to me, I was only two years older than you are now. I know you can do everything I did, and more.

  Keep out of al-Shabaab’s way. They don’t know that you and Jamilah exist, or about the pen and what it contains.

  That pen is my sword! It was a gift from a man I love, an Australian–Somali called Aadan Williams. I’m sorry I haven’t told you about him sooner – he lives in Melbourne, Australia, and I’ve been looking for a way for us to move there too, but it was too early to get your hopes up. He is a journalist like me, so he understands why I’ve risked my life for the truth.

  If something bad does happen to me, I want you to call Aadan on the Australian number on the back of this letter. Tell him what’s happened, and he should be able to help you.