Don't Tell Me You're Afraid

by Giuseppe Catozzella

  Though she did all she could to hide the fact, I knew that the Journey terrified her. How could it not? She was alone, she had no money, and she was prey to human traffickers called hawaian, beasts, who beat their victims like animals if they didn’t pay.

  Sometimes she wrote that she was afraid, so afraid. Sometimes she couldn’t help telling me. And even though I was more afraid than she was, I would write: “Never say you’re afraid, abaayo, because if you do, the things you dream of won’t come true.”

  It was what Aabe had taught me when I was little. You must never say you’re afraid, because if you do, fear—that vile, evil monster—will never go away.

  “Never say you’re afraid, little Samia,” Aabe used to tell me, and I repeated the words now to Hodan. “Don’t say it.”

  Because if you do, you won’t get to Europe.

  But, as Allah willed, Hodan was among the lucky ones.

  In early December of 2007, after traveling for only two months, she was able to board an old vessel that took her from the port of Tripoli to the coast of Malta.

  She had arrived.

  She had managed to defeat the monster.

  She was in Europe.

  CHAPTER 18

  THREE WEEKS AFTER HODAN’S ARRIVAL, when everything seemed sad and gloomy without her, I received the news that changed my life forever and that I’d been waiting for since the day I was born: I would compete in the Beijing Olympics the following year.

  When Xassan called me into his office to tell me, I couldn’t believe my ears. As soon as he uttered the word “Olympics,” my mind went blank. He kept talking, but I couldn’t hear a word anymore.

  “Samia, we think you can contribute a lot to our Olympic team and to our nation,” he began.

  “Thank you, Xassan,” I replied.

  “We value your efforts, your determination, and the will to win that you’ve been displaying.”

  “Thank you again, Xassan.” It was the first time he’d summoned me to his office and said such things; I was trying to figure out where this was going.

  “You won’t place very high, Samia . . . but we thought you should use it as a trial run for the next Olympic Games, the ones in London in 2012 . . . to gain confidence. . . . So I’m asking if you feel up to going to China and running in those Olympics.”

  At that point the world was suspended. All my thoughts converged on a single image, a snapshot of calm and serenity: a wicker chair, the slanting light of the sun filtering through a window, only partly illuminating the dusty, earthen floor, a room, Aabe and Hooyo’s, with me standing in front of Aabe promising him that, at seventeen, I would go to the Olympics.

  And here came the tears. Two of them. The usual two.

  Xassan thought they were tears of joy, and he made a joke that I only vaguely heard. But he was just half right. They came from deep inside, from my bitterness over the fact that Aabe was not there with me, that my sister wasn’t there to share my joy, and that my best friend had fled many years ago along with his entire family.

  The Olympic Committee had chosen me and Abdi Said Ibrahim, a boy of eighteen who in recent months had become my new friend and training partner. At first this had aroused a poignant yearning for Alì, but I quickly tempered and dismissed it.

  Abdi and I trained every day.

  But with Al-Shabaab having become more and more powerful, things had worsened. Sometimes we couldn’t make it to the stadium because we were stopped by militants who insulted us or demanded money, accusing us of supporting Western countries. On those days we were forced to run on the street, amid smoking car tires and burning garbage in the squares, hoping not to come across other militiamen.

  What’s more, even though I was an athlete on the Olympic team, I had to run covered. What I was doing, or in whose name, didn’t matter to anyone. I had to respect the laws of the Koran and cover my head, torso, and limbs.

  One morning Abdi was stopped and two Hawiye militiamen stole his shoes. “You’ll run better that way,” they told him. “Nigger. This way you’ll run barefoot like a real African.”

  We always tried to ignore it. We were determined to train with what we had: no coach, no personal trainer, no doctor, not even food. Not the type of nourishing food suitable for an athlete, with the right amounts of calories, protein, vitamins, and minerals. At times just the food required to live.

  Hooyo earned less and less, almost nothing by now, and every so often we were forced to eat only angero, a kind of crepe, made on the burgico.

  Bread and water.

  There was one thing I did have, and it had become one of my most important possessions: the stopwatch. With it I measured my times. Whatever else might happen, I was obsessed with my times. They had to improve. If I didn’t see them improve from week to week, or if they worsened, I went into a deep funk that only Abdi could help me climb out of. In the end I started out again with even more energy.

  We heard from Hodan frequently. She called us on Said’s cell phone, or we texted for hours on the Internet. She had settled in Malta and was engaged to Omar, a Somali boy whom she had met during the Journey. He had helped her a lot, and it was partly thanks to him that she had made it. She had told me about Omar right away; I’d realized that she had fallen in love the first time she spoke his name.

  In April we received some wonderful news, which at first seemed impossible to accept but which later filled me with joy.

  Our little Hodan—who was my older sister, true, but was still, along with me, the youngest in the family—was pregnant.

  She told us one morning, right after she took the test and confirmed it. She was ecstatic. She and Omar had been living together for some time in Malta, in housing provided by the government and humanitarian organizations. They had decided to start a family and move up north, maybe to Sweden, maybe to Finland, where assistance for war refugees was even greater.

  Each time we texted, Hodan said she felt that it would be a girl and that she would be like me, with fast legs. She told me that already, at twenty weeks, the baby was kicking like crazy.

  That’s how I spent the four months before I was to leave for China: training, attending an occasional meeting at the Olympic Committee to learn how to improve Abdi’s and my times, and chatting happily with Hodan.

  Hooyo, however, was increasingly concerned.

  Aabe’s death and Hodan’s departure had made any separation, even if only temporary, unbearable to her. Whenever one of us brought up the subject of the Olympics, Hooyo’s eyes teared up. We told her she should be happy, that what was happening to me was very special, but by now she was able to see only the possible negative consequences of any event.

  As might be expected, the news had spread quickly through the mutilated district of Bondere. The closer my departure came, the more people dropped by to see me and wish me well or bring me a small token of good luck. It happened almost every day before supper. These were all people with whom I’d grown up; they were my people, neighbors who had seen me born and develop into a young woman. People I loved and whose affection was for me a precious treasure.

  “Have a safe trip, Samia, and bring honor to our country,” old Asiya said in a trembling voice; the elderly woman had held me in her arms the day I was born. I considered her a kind of grandmother, given that two of my natural grandparents had died and the other two lived far away, in Jazeera. “Take this,” she said as she handed me a cotton T-shirt. “I bought it at the market for your departure, to wish you good luck. I don’t know if you’ll want to wear it when you run. . . .”

  “Of course, Grandma Asiya. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best. And I’ll wear the T-shirt during training sessions,” I told her.

  “Samia, say hello to China for us and don’t eat any of those strange little fried creatures,” warned Taageere, the lifelong friend of Aabe and Aabe Yassin.

  “Okay, Taageere, I’l
l only eat fresh fruits and rice,” I reassured him.

  And so it went.

  Every day at least ten people came to give me their blessing.

  When they paid me compliments, though, I tried to make light of it, to minimize it, saying that it was only a race, a competition like any other, nothing all that important.

  But in my heart I couldn’t minimize the importance of what I was doing.

  I was little but I was also a warrior.

  And the little warrior was ready, once again, to fight.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE EVENING BEFORE I LEFT for China, Hodan called, saying she would soon give birth and was going to the hospital. Maybe that wasn’t a coincidence either but a sign from destiny.

  I felt bound to the little creature who was about to come into the world: a strong, vital bond, even though we were so far apart and I had never even seen Hodan’s big belly. It was August 6, 2008.

  That news was all it took to make me definitely sleepless. That night I didn’t once close my eyes.

  Just the idea of getting on an airplane filled me with anxiety; then too to go so far away, to the Orient, a place I’d barely heard of and that I knew only through stereotypes, scared me to death. I pictured people with yellow skin. And I’d never understood how they could see through those slits they had for eyes. Besides, they must be very swift; it would be like stepping into a crazed anthill. I was afraid. But most of all the race itself scared me. I had run many of them, but never, except for the one in Djibouti, a really important one. I didn’t know what to expect.

  What would the other girls be like?

  I thought about real athletes, the women I considered my role models, and I felt totally inadequate. I didn’t even have a coach.

  I wondered what Abdi was thinking at that moment, in his bed. That morning at the track I saw that he was more agitated than I, or so it seemed. Would I be able to run? Or would I stumble at the first step and be left behind at the starting block, rolling on the ground like a floppy fish in front of TV cameras from around the world? Then I wondered: How many people would see my face? Xassan had told us that nearly a billion people would see us, in all the countries of the world.

  A billion was a number I couldn’t even imagine. When I thought of that many people, I thought about the stadium in Djibouti, the stands full of women, men, and children, jubilant and excited about the races. But my imagination stopped there. There must have been thirty thousand people, maybe. But a billion. What stadium could hold a billion people? These were questions that made my head spin. But then my thoughts would take a turn, and each time they would pause at the image of my infant niece who was about to be born and was already kicking in the belly to get out and run. And everything came back to the peaceful calm of familiar, known events.

  It would all be over soon. China. The Olympics, that word that made me burst just thinking about it. It would all last no longer than a dream, and then I’d go back home, I would hug Hooyo and my brothers and sisters again, and I would resume running in my beloved, seedy field, as always.

  The next morning three of us set off. Abdi and I and the vice president of the Somali Olympic Committee, Duran Farah.

  What I had hoped for—that dawn would take away my fears—hadn’t happened. No. The idea of landing in China charged me with adrenaline, but it was everything that came before then that filled me with terror.

  The plane didn’t just scare me. It put me in such a state of anxiety that I felt faint. Maybe partly because I hadn’t eaten for days.

  When they saw me at the Olympics Committee headquarters, Abdi, Xassan, and Duran Farah asked me if I was sick, if I had caught malaria. I was depleted. They forced me to drink sugar water and an energy drink. My stomach was so shrunken that I had to go to the bathroom to throw up that little bit of fluid.

  At the airport the situation worsened rather than improving. I’d never been there before. For me, ever since I was born, airplanes had been dragons that plowed the sky, leaving behind endless white trails. I had never even thought that I might get on one. Let alone get on one at seventeen to go to Beijing.

  We made it through the documents checkpoint with special permits that the Olympics Committee had managed to obtain for us with some difficulty. Neither I nor Abdi actually had a passport, since we’d been born during the war. Destined to live confined in our land, thanks to the mortars. Or, alternatively, to confront the Journey.

  To our great surprise there was a small gathering of supporters to send us on our way: ten or fifteen in all, wearing the blue headband with the star of Somalia on their foreheads. From a distance we raised our arms; my heart was pounding nervously.

  To get through the checkpoint I forced myself to try to appear as healthy as possible. As soon as we got past the officials, however, my legs were shaking so badly that I had to find something to lean on.

  As we waited at the gate, I didn’t move from the red velveteen chairs, while Abdi and Duran busied themselves at the Coke and coffee machines. When our flight was called, they looked at each other and nodded. To load me onto the plane, they forced me to swallow a sleeping pill dissolved in a plastic cup from the coffee machine.

  I slept as only my infant niece, yet to be born, might sleep: the sleep of the just. Twelve hours straight, after collapsing soon after takeoff. Only the sight of the sea—which appeared unexpectedly below me as the plane cut through the clouds and which from above seemed like a miracle to be embraced—was able to hold off sleep for a few minutes. Then I succumbed to the power of the drug.

  All in all, the flight was less difficult than I’d expected.

  Upon arrival in Beijing I was beaming. Finally on the ground, everything was back to normal.

  The airport was very modern, vast and striking. All glass and steel—you could see your reflection everywhere. The opposite of the one in Mogadishu, which by comparison looked like Taageere’s bar, all wood and corrugated sheet metal. The glass doors opened by themselves, mirroring the image of three figures, two wearing blue track outfits and one in a dark suit, looking ill at ease amid all that technology: elevators, escalators, restaurants with shiny counters, Wi-Fi Internet hot spots, shops selling computers, cameras, and camcorders.

  We were moving slowly in the midst of a sea of people who by contrast were almost running; there were all nationalities speaking all languages. We felt inadequate faced with all that speed and modernity.

  It was as if we’d come from another geological era. Would everything here be so fast? Even my opponents? And was I really so slow, deep down? Or was it just an impression, would I be like the others on the track? Maybe I carried my country’s lethargy in my bones, and I would never reach their level.

  Just outside Beijing’s Capital International Airport we were assailed by an abundance of bodies and smells completely foreign from those I was used to. As if the air were both thicker and sweeter, more humid. As if someone, somewhere, were sprinkling confectioners’ sugar around. It seemed like there was soot everywhere, and a pervasive stench of charcoal came from every corner.

  “Hey, Abdi and Samia, move!” Duran yelled. The whole time we’d been standing motionless, looking around, he’d been on line for a taxi: Now he was standing next to a short, bald man in front of the open trunk of a yellow cab.

  “Coming,” we chorused, like two fish out of water. The same word in unison.

  We hopped in the taxi, me and Abdi in back, and headed toward the center of the city.

  Skyscrapers. Skyscrapers everywhere, so tall that from the car you couldn’t see the tops of them. The scorching-hot sun reflected off the glass-and-steel facades, ricocheting in ways that seemed unnatural to us and that forced us to squint or lower our eyes. Again, as in the airplane, that powerful air-conditioning—it felt like being in a refrigerator.

  Outside everything was dazzling and enormous. We passed the aquarium, a giant cube of w
ater and light. Abdi was speechless; he pointed to it and then he didn’t speak for several whole minutes; he thought it was magic. In fact it looked that way. It was an immense glass structure that seemed full of water. But you couldn’t see the glass, and the water seemed to stand on its own.

  “But . . .” was all he said.

  “Yes, dear Abdi, haven’t you ever heard about it? Of course it’s magic, like many things here in China. Haven’t you ever heard of ancient Chinese magic?” I teased. Duran, up front, laughed. Abdi, however, was mesmerized, speechless.

  After twenty minutes we arrived.

  The hotel too was stunning. Nothing like the one in Djibouti.

  Marble columns and floors, automatic doors.

  The room was spacious and immaculate. There was a television set and a telephone. The softest bed I’d ever been in. Wall-to-wall carpeting. A wardrobe in which to put my few things. Towels of various sizes in the bathroom. Two amazing sinks, a huge counter with different kinds of creams, shampoos, and conditioners. On the marble floor, a rug in the colors of the Orient. And a bathtub.

  We had the entire afternoon to ourselves. Duran had advised us only not to stray too far. But I didn’t have the slightest intention of going out. There was a beautiful bathroom that was too good to waste wandering around the city.

  I filled the tub. The contact with the hot water was a wonderful sensation. Like being all wrapped up in a big caress. The first bath of my life. The tension, the adrenaline, the concerns and fears were quickly drowned in that water, swallowed up in its warm embrace.