Little Warrior

by Giuseppe Catozzella

  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’ll 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 water 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.

  I think I must have stayed there soaking for at least two hours.

  Then I got out and turned on the TV. Chinese channels, American channels. I could barely understand the English, even though I had studied it for years at school. I stretched out on the bed with the remote in my hand. I turned to the coverage of the Olympic Games on BBC and CNN. In exactly six days I too would be on that screen. The whole world would watch me run, would read my face, as I was now doing with the athletes who were competing.

  “You can’t lie,” I said to myself. Everything you are will be seen. The whole world will see it. One billion people.

  I got up from the bed and stood in front of the mirror that went from floor to ceiling alongside the TV table. I was extremely thin. I was truly a string bean. My legs were still spindly like those of a fawn; Aabe had been right when I was a little girl and he used to call me that. They hadn’t filled out much since then.

  I tried out two or three expressions up close to the mirror. Prostration at the end of the race. Poker-faced in front of the TV cameras before the start. A tense face during the race. Then I burst out laughing, all by myself, and lay down again.

  I was on cloud nine.

  That afternoon was wonderful. I had my whole life ahead of me, and my entire life would be full and glorious. I was a champion, and I had all the time in the world to prove it. I was a comet in a fabric studded with bright stars.

  Six hours later we joined up again in the lobby to go out to dinner. I felt relaxed, and Abdi and Duran seemed so too.

  We went out and ducked into the first restaurant we came to.

  Abdi was hungry as a lion; he could have even eaten the table. He had to settle for the usual rice, though. He thought Chinese food was awful.

  The opening ceremony of the Olympic Games was held two days later, on August 8. Being catapulted into a fantasy world inhabited by ten thousand other athletes fr
om 204 nations, all parading in traditional dress, was the most thrilling event I had ever experienced. The delegations entered the Olympic stadium in alphabetical order by country. When it was our turn we were euphoric. The stadium had been going wild, still excited by the glittering ceremony: an endless succession of dazzling fireworks, light shows, music, dancing, and choreography that had involved thousands of performers including ballerinas, drummers, and opera singers. It was a celebration, a feast for the eye, ear, and soul. An incredible immersion in the warm, multihued heart that is universal love, whose different colors are nothing more than distinctive patches that strengthen it and allow the world to breathe.

  Abdi, in front of us, carried the flag with pride. High, soaring, blue as the sky and sea. With the white star in the center pointing toward the firmament.

  I, behind him, was in our traditional dress, with long braids attached to my hair for the occasion, and I felt as beautiful as I’d been only at Hodan’s wedding.

  We went around the arena waving to tens of thousands of people. They all loved us, and we loved all of them. Most of all, we loved our country.

  That night, in bed, I told myself that life had already given me more than I deserved.

  But I was mistaken.

  Four days later, on August 12, Mannaar was born. I got the call from Hodan at the hotel that morning. She was bursting with joy. She said that Mannaar was healthy and beautiful, the same as me, that she looked exactly as I did when I was born. I couldn’t wait to meet her. In my heart that morning I sensed that that child would be the joy of my life.

  The day of my race, August 19, was extremely hot. The news that morning said that it would be one of the hottest days of the year. The heat didn’t worry me; I was used to it. It was the high humidity: The heavy air left me breathless.

  I woke up calm, with the urge to run. During those thirteen days Abdi and I had trained well, in a sports facility available to teams that required it. I was charged, full of energy.