by Dirie, Waris
He climbed on top of me and I squeezed the stone in my hand. With all my strength I brought it up to the side of his head and hit him squarely in the temple. I hit him once and saw him go dizzy. I hit him again and saw him go down. Like a warrior, I suddenly had tremendous strength. I didn’t know that I had it, but when someone is trying to attack you, kill you, you become powerful. You don’t know how strong you can be until that moment. As he lay there I hit him again and saw the blood flowing out of his ear. His friend who was driving the truck saw all this happening from inside the cab. He started yelling, “What the fuck is going on back there?” and looked for a place to pull the truck into the bushes. I knew it was over for me if he caught me. As the truck slowed down, I crawled to the back of the bed, and poised on the rocks, I jumped to the ground like a cat. Then I ran for my life.
The truck driver was an old man; he jumped out of the cab and screamed in a raspy voice, “You killed my friend! Come back! You killed him!” He chased me through the scrubby bushes for a short distance, then gave up. Or so I thought.
The driver went back, crawled inside his truck, fired it up, and started driving through the desert after me. The twin headlight beams illuminated the ground around me; “I heard the roar of the truck behind me. I was running as fast as I could, but of course the truck was gaining on me. I zigzagged and circled back through the darkness. He couldn’t keep me in sight, so finally he gave up and headed back to the road.
I ran through the desert like a hunted animal; I ran through desert, then jungle, then desert again, with no idea of where I was. The sun came up and I continued to run. Finally I came upon another road. Even though I was sick with fear at the
thought of what might happen, I decided to hitchhike again, because I knew I needed to get as far away as possible from the truck driver and his friend. What happened to my attacker after I hit him with the stone, I’ve never known, but the last thing I wanted was to meet up with those two men again.
Standing on the side of the road in the morning sun, I must have been a pretty sight. The scarf I was wearing was now a filthy rag; I had been running through the sand for days and my skin and hair were coated with dust; my arms and legs looked like twigs that might snap in a hard wind and my feet were covered with sores that would rival a leper’s. Holding my hand out, I flagged down a Mercedes. An elegantly dressed man pulled the car to the side of the road. I crawled onto the leather seat and gaped at the luxury of it. “Where are you going?” the man asked.
“That way,” I said, and pointed straight ahead, in the direction the Mercedes was already traveling. The man opened his mouth, showing his beautiful white teeth, and started to laugh.
Growing up With Animals
Before I ran away from home, my life had been built around nature, family, and our strong bond with the animals that kept us alive. Stretching back to my earliest days, I shared a common trait with children the world over: my love of animals. In fact, my earliest memory is of my pet goat, Billy. Billy was my special treasure, my everything, and maybe I loved him most because he was a baby, like me. I used to sneak him all the food I could find, until he was the plumpest, happiest little goat in the herd. My mother constantly questioned, “Why is this goat so fat, when all the rest are so skinny?” I took perfect care of him, grooming him, petting him, talking to him for hours.
My relationship with Billy was representative of our live in Somalia. My family’s fate intertwined with that of the herds we tended daily. Dependence on the animals created our great respect for them, and those feelings were present in everything we did. All the children in my family tended our animals, a task we began helping with as soon as we were able to walk. We grew up with the animals, prospered when they prospered, suffered when they suffered, died when they died. We raised cattle, sheep, and goats, but while I dearly loved my little Billy, there was no doubt that our camels were the most important animals we owned.
The camel is legendary in Somalia; Somalia boasts more camels than any country in the world; there are more camels in Somalia than people. In my country we have a long tradition of oral poetry, and much of it is devoted to passing along the lessons of the camel from one generation to the next, telling of its essential value to our culture. I remember my mother used to sing us a song, which basically said, “My camel has gone away to the bad man, who will either kill it or steal it from me. So I’m begging, I’m praying, please bring back my camel.” From the time I Was a baby, I knew of the great importance of these animals, because they’re absolutely gold in out society. You simply cannot live in the desert without them. As one Somali poet put it:
A she-cared is a mother
To him who owns it
Whereas a he-cared is the artery
Onto which hangs life itself… And it’s true. A man’s life is measured by camels, with one hundred camels being the price for a man who has been killed. A hundred camels must be paid by the killer’s clan to the surviving family of the victim, or the dead man’s clan will attack the killer in retribution. The traditional price for a bride is paid in camels. But on a daily level, the camels kept us alive. No other domestic animal is so well suited for life in the desert. A camel wants to drink once a week, but can go as long as a month without water. In the meantime, however, the female camel gives milk to nourish us and quench our thirst, an enormous asset when you’re far from water. Even in the hottest temperatures, camels retain liquid and survive. They graze on the scrubby bushes found in our arid landscape, leaving the grasses for the other livestock.
We raised them to carry us across the desert, haul our meager belongings, and pay our debts. In other countries, you might hop in your car and go, but our only transportation, other than walking, was our camels.
The animal’s personality is very similar to that of a horse; a camel will develop a close relationship with his master, and do things for him that he wouldn’t do for anybody else. Men break the young camels a dangerous practice and train them to be ridden and follow a lead. It’s important to be firm with them, because otherwise, when they sense a weak rider, they’ll buck him off, or kick him.
Like most Somalis, we lived the pastoral lifestyle of herdsmen. Even though we struggled constantly for survival, our large herds of camels, cattle, sheep, and goats marked us as wealthy by the standards in my country. Following tradition, my brothers usually tended the large animals, the cattle and camels, and the girls watched over the smaller ones.
As nomads we traveled constantly, never staying in one place for more than three or four weeks. “his constant movement was driven by the need lo care for our animals. We were seeking food and water to keep them alive, and in the dry Somalian climate these necessities were seldom easy to find.
Our home was a hut woven from grass; being portable it served the same purpose as a tent. We built a framework from sticks, then my mother wove grass mats that we laid over the bent twigs to form a dome about six feet in diameter. When it came time to move on, we dismantled the hut and tied the sticks and mats, along with our few possessions, to the backs of our camels. They’re incredibly strong animals, and the babies and small children would ride on top, while the rest of us walked alongside, herding the animals to our next home. When we found a spot with water and foliage for grazing, we’d set up our camp again.
The hut provided shelter for the babies, shade from the midday sun, and storage space for fresh milk. At night, the rest of us slept outside under the stars, with the children cuddled together on a mat. After the sun went down, the desert was cold; we didn’t have enough blankets for each child to have his own, and since we had very little clothing, we used the heat from our bodies to keep us warm. My father slept off to one side, as our guardian, the protector of the family.
In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens where we kept the herds, and milk them. Wherever we went we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night. The baby animals were
kept in a pen separate from the mothers so they wouldn’t take all the milk. One of my tasks was to milk the cows, taking some of the fresh milk to make butter, but leaving enough for the calves. After the milking, we’d let the babies come in and nurse.
Then we had our breakfast of camel’s milk, which is more nutritious than other animals’ milk as it contains vitamin C. Our region was very dry, without enough water to grow crops, so we had no vegetables or bread. Sometimes we followed warthogs, large wild African pigs, tracking them to plants. They sniffed out edible roots, digging down with their hooves and snouts to feast on them. Our family shared in their bounty by taking some home to add to our diet.
We looked at slaughtering animals for meat as wasteful, and only resorted to this in case of emergency, or for special occasions, such as a wedding. Our animals were too valuable for us to kill and eat, as we raised them for their milk and to trade for the other goods we needed. For everyday sustenance, we had only camel’s milk for breakfast, and again in the evening for supper. Sometimes there wasn’t enough for everybody, so we fed the smallest children first, then the older ones, and so on. My mother never took a bite of food until everyone else had eaten; in fact, I don’t remember ever seeing my mother eat, although I realize she must have. But if we didn’t have anything for supper at night, it was no big deal, nothing to panic about. No need to cry or complain. The little babies might cry, but the older children knew the rules, so we just went to sleep. We tried to remain cheerful, kept calm and quiet, and tomorrow, God willing, we’d find a way. In’shallah, which means it will happen ‘if God is willing,” was our philosophy. We knew our lives were dependent on the forces of nature, and God controlled those forces, not us.
A big treat for us as people in other parts of the world might regard a holiday feast was when my father brought home a sack of rice. Then we’d use the butter we made by shaking cow’s milk in a basket that my mother had woven. Occasionally we’d trade a goat for corn grown in the wetter regions of Somalia, and grind the corn into meal and make porridge, or pop it in a pan over the fire. Or, when other families were around, we always shared whatever we had. If one of us had some food dates or roots or maybe killed an animal for meat, we’d cook it and divide the meal among us. We shared our good fortune, because even though we were isolated most of the time, traveling with one or two other families, we were still part of a larger community. On the practical side, since there were no refrigerators, meat or anything fresh needed to be consumed right away.
Each morning after breakfast, it was time to take the animals from their pen. By the age of six, I was responsible for taking herds of about sixty or seventy sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them. If one strayed from the group, I used my staff to guide it back. They were eager to go, because they realized coming out of the pen meant that it was time to eat. Getting an early head start was important, to find the best spot with fresh water and lots of grass. Each day I quickly searched for water, in order to beat the other herders; otherwise their animals would drink what little there was. In any case, as the sun grew hotter, the ground became so thirsty that it would suck it all up. I made sure the animals drank as much water as they could, because it might be another week before we found more. Or two. Or three who knows? Sometimes during the drought the saddest thing was to watch all the animals die. We traveled farther and farther each day looking for water; the herd tried to make it, but eventually they couldn’t go anymore. When they collapsed, you had the most helpless feeling in the world, because you knew that was the end and there was nothing you could do.
No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to be cunning, and discover areas with lots of plants for my goats and sheep. My survival instincts were honed to look for signs of rain, and I scanned the sky for clouds. My other senses also came into play, because a particular smell or a certain feeling in the air predicted rain.
While the animals grazed, I watched for predators, which are everywhere in Africa. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off from the herd. There were lions to worry about and wild dogs; they all traveled in packs, but there was only one of me.
Watching the sky, I carefully calculated how far I had to travel to return home before night fell. But many times I miscalculated, and that’s when trouble began. As I was stumbling along in the dark, trying to get home, the hyenas would
attack, because they knew I couldn’t see them. I’d swat one here, and another would sneak up behind me. As I chased that one away, another would run up while I wasn’t looking. The hyenas are the worst, because they’re relentless; they never quit until they get something. When I got home each evening and put the animals in the pen, I counted several times to see if any were missing. One night I returned home with my herd, and as I counted my goats, I noticed I was one short. I counted again. And again. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t seen Billy, and hurried through the goats checking for him. I ran to my mother screaming, “Mama, Billy’s missing what should I do?” But of course it was too late, so she simply stroked my head as I cried when I realized that the hyenas had eaten my fat little pet.
Whatever else happened to us, the responsibility of taking care of our livestock went on and was always our first priority, even in times of drought, sickness, or war. Somalia’s constant political turmoil caused enormous problems in the cities, but we were so isolated that for the most part no one bothered us. Then, when I was about nine years old, a large army came and camped close by. We’d heard stories about soldiers raping girls they caught out alone, and I knew a girl this had happened to. It didn’t matter if they were the Somalian army or the Martian army, they were not part of our people; they were not nomads, and we avoided them at all costs.
One morning my father had given me the chore of watering the camels, so I headed off with the herd. Evidently, during the night, the army had arrived, and now sat encamped all around the road, their tents and trucks stretching as far as I could see. I hid behind a tree and watched them milling about in their uniforms. I was frightened, remembering the other girl’s story; certainly I had no one around to protect me, so the men were free to do whatever they pleased. At first sight I hated them. I hated their uniforms, I. hated their trucks, I hated their guns. I didn’t even know what they were doing; for all I knew they could have been saving Somalia, but I didn’t want any part of them all the same. Yet my camels needed water. The only route I knew that would avoid the army camp was too long and circuitous for me to travel with my herd, so I decided to turn the camels loose, and let them walk through the camp without me. They marched right through the middle of the soldiers, making straight for the water, as I had hoped they would. I scurried around the camp, ducking behind bushes and trees, until I joined the camels on the other side at the watering hole. Then, as the sky grew dark, we repeated the procedure and headed home safely.
Each evening, when I returned home at sunset and secured my herd back in the pen, it was time to start the milking again. Around the camels’ necks we hung wooden bells. The sound of these bells is indeed music to the nomad, who listens to their hollow clunk at twilight as the milking begins. The bells always act as a beacon to the traveler searching for home as the light fades. During the ritual of our evening chores, the great curve of the desert sky darkens, and a bright planet appears, a signal that it’s time to herd the sheep into their pen. In other nations this planet is known as Venus, the planet of love, but in my country we call it maqal hid hid meaning ‘hiding the lambs.”
Frequently, it was around this time I would get into trouble, because after working since sunup, I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer. Walking through the dusk, I’d fall asleep and the goats would bump into me, or as I squatted milking, my head would begin to nod. If my father caught me dozing off, watch out! I love my father, but he could be a son of a gun; when he caught me sleeping on the job he’d beat me, to make s
ure I took my work seriously and paid attention to my business. After we finished our chores, we’d have our supper of camel’s milk. Then we’d gather wood for a big fire and sit around its warmth talking and laughing until we went to sleep.
Those evenings are my favorite memories of Somalia: sitting around with my mother and father, sisters and brothers, when everybody was full, everybody was laughing. We always tried to be upbeat, optimistic. Nobody sat around complaining or whining or saying, “Hey, let’s have a conversation about death.” Life there was very hard; we needed all our strength just to survive and being negative sapped our vital energy.
Even though we were far from any village, I was never lonely, because I played with my sisters and brother s. I was a middle child, with an older brother and two older sisters and several younger siblings. We chased each other endlessly, climbed trees like monkeys, played tic-tac-toe in the sand by drawing lines with our fingers, collected pebbles, and dug holes in the ground to play an African game called manca la We even had our own version of jacks, but instead of a rubber ball and metal pieces, we threw up one rock and grabbed other rocks in place of the jacks. This was my favorite because I was very good at it, and I always tried to get my little brother, Ali, to play it with me.
Our greatest pleasure, though, was pure joy at being a child in the wilderness, the freedom to be part of nature and experience its sights, sounds, and smells. We watched packs of lions lie around all day, baking in the sun, rolling onto their backs, sticking their feet up in the air and snoring. The cubs chased each other and played just as we did. We ran with the giraffes, the zebras, the foxes. The hyrax, an African animal that’s the size of a rabbit but is actually a descendant of the elephant, was a particular favorite. We waited patiently outside their burrows for their little faces to appear, then chased them through the sand.