A Somali man never gives up reuniting with his mother.
Hassan was born in Mogadishu, the youngest child in a family of nine. He has few memories of Mogadishu, having lived there for only a short time. What he does know of that life is what he’s been told. His mother is a high school graduate who worked with the postal service and his father was a driver. His father never went to school, but his lack of education was not an impediment. He went on to start a restaurant business and was able to support us and the extended family.
When the civil war broke out, my mother, my sisters, and I fled to Kenya, leaving my father and older brother behind. I later learned that it was not safe for men to escape with women because the armed rebels had set up several check points along the route where they forced fleeing civilians to identify what tribe they were from. If you told the truth, there was a high probability that you would be killed, which is what happened to many men and boys. The surviving women and girls, having no form of protection, making the journey alone, were often robbed, raped, and some killed. Life there was harrowing; the refugees faced extreme hunger and disease with many dying.
Months later, some went back to Somalia while my family relocated to another town along the Kenya-Somali border. Most of the families in the area were desperately poor, living in small traditional houses like they used to back in Somalia. Having been thrust into the role of provider, my mother set up a miis (small shop) selling groceries as a means of supporting the family. Sometimes mother’s store would run out of stock, and she would have to close for weeks or several months on end. My wonderful uncles did what they could to help get the shop running again or ensure that we had food. We didn’t go to school; we couldn’t afford it so reciting the Quran became the extent of my education.
I was not more than eight years old when my mother fell ill. She needed to go back to Mogadishu for treatment. Because she couldn’t take us with her, my siblings were dispatched to various relatives who lived close by. Being the youngest, we talked about going to Mogadishu together or going to live with my father, who by the way, I hadn’t seen in years. I decided to go and live with my father. I didn’t know then, that as I said goodbye to my mother, that would be the last time I’d be seeing her. Maybe if I had gone with her, my life would have turned out differently. My mother’s friends took charge of me and together we travelled to Mandera where my father and brother had settled. Arriving in Mandera, I didn’t know what to expect. My father was still working as a driver and, incidentally, he had a new family. He didn’t have enough money to send us to school, so I continued studying the Quran.
Later, two of my older sisters joined us and together with my older brother, we moved in with my grandmother. To take care of the family, my grandmother reared and sold chickens and goats as well as selling clothes. Others started pitching in as well. My brother learned tailoring from my aunts and uncles who ran the business, my aunt apprenticed at a pharmacy before getting a job in a local pharmacy in the area, and another uncle sold second-hand clothes. Our lives began to improve with all these income streams, guaranteeing us at least two meals a day, tuition at an informal school, and more Quran lessons. We all lived together in the same compound with my grandmother the matriarch holding us all together. With all this family around me, I didn’t miss my parents that much.
As we grew older, my siblings enrolled in a formal school, and I stayed back at the informal school while training to become a tailor. I was able to pay my tuition once I started making some money working as a tailor. My siblings often talked about our mother, wondering where she was. My older sister saved up enough money from her job as a tutor that she could travel to Somalia in search of her. My sister was gone a long time and there was no word from her so my brother went to Somalia to look for her too. He found out that she had gotten married and had been unable to locate our mother. He returned just as my other sister was making her own plans for marriage.
After a few months, I left the tailoring job to work in a restaurant, then left that to work as a poster man. The work involved using the radio to broadcast messages from people who were looking for their relatives in hopes of reunification. How much I made depended on my employer’s generosity. I was earning between 50 cents to $1 per day while working as a poster man, which was about the same when I worked in tailoring and the restaurant. I took pleasure in my work; it took me to places I’d never been to, and I met new people all the time. Then of course there was the added bonus of being part of a family’s reunification story. Those happy endings renewed my own hope that the same would happen to me and I would be with my mother again. Every once in a while, messages would come through from women who had the same name as my mother. I wondered if they were her although I was afraid to ask them, if they had a son they were looking for, whether that son was me.
One day a woman got in touch with me via email who I believed was my mother but later, after a lot of correspondence between us, it turned out that she wasn’t and my heart broke. The first time I heard from my mother was through a recorded message she made and passed on to someone who was traveling back from Somalia. I could hardly believe it. We started exchanging emails and continue to so occasionally.
I developed an interest in computers and through a friend, I started volunteering at a cyber-café even as I continued my job at the radio station. I worked as a secretary of sorts, helping elderly customers who were not computer savvy write documents. I still had an interest in going to school but also needed to continue working. I was earning between 50 cents and $2 at the cyber-café and sometimes a little more in tips. I talked to my employer about letting me work part time and when he said no to that, I asked for a raise, a request he also declined. With that, I left the job at the cyber-café, going back to my job as a poster man while enrolled in informal school. Our town was, however, prone to attacks and the rising insecurity drove people away. I went back to the restaurant where I often worked late into the evening. For over seven months, I saved up $7, keeping my expenses to a minimum by making sure I ate at the restaurant. I also helped my father financially from time to time.
Around mid-2006, I used my savings to travel to Dadaab where I connected with my uncle who was working as a block leader at the camp and enrolled in school. My uncle was well respected within the refugee community because of his advocacy work. However, his work ruffled feathers to the extent that on one occasion, he was viciously attacked and badly injured. We reported the matter to the police and the case was moved to court with my uncle being awarded about $10,000 in damages which the perpetrator was required to pay. The men however decided to resolve the matter out of court through the customary Somali system though I don’t know what the outcome was.
Up until 2011, when I was finishing high school, I’d see my uncle’s attacker around the camp. He was always trying to intimidate or threaten me because of the way I had helped my uncle report the case to the police. Because of threats to his safety, my uncle didn’t stay much longer after that, moving his family to Kakuma. I stayed on to finish school then got a job soon after earning $55 per month. I worked for about seven months and was able to save $150. I made plans to move to Kakuma but first I took a detour to Nairobi in search of a better job.
I spent about a year in Nairobi working as a shopkeeper earning $60 a month when I started, to between $140 and $170 by the end of that first year. I lived with friends, paying my share of the rent and utilities. During that time, I was thinking about enrolling in evening classes so I could improve my computer skills and also take driving lessons. With good work and good pay, things were looking up for me until my refugee status documents and my work permit expired. I toyed with the idea of staying in Nairobi and continuing to work covertly, but it was risky. If arrested, I could be sent to Dadaab or deported to Somalia. The only things waiting for me in Dadaab were poverty and insecurity. It was a difficult decision but when you are a refugee there’s a constant reminder of how little power you have. Kakuma was my best bet because at least my uncle was there so I would be with family. It was several months before I got a job but when I finally did, I worked for an aid agency earning $40 a month which later increased to $55. I supplemented my income by working for another agency for about six months earning $30 a month.
Later, I dropped one of the jobs and enrolled into a training institute to become an English language trainer. I then teamed up with my cousin to offer free language classes in the community. I worked with several organizations on short term jobs where I received pay that barely covered my expenses, and sometimes my brother would send me some money to see me through the month. In general, the jobs with research organizations paid better but they were short-term contracts often lasting three weeks at a time. In one organization I made $110 working as an interpreter and in another $40 for eleven days working as research assistant. I also put in an application to be resettled in the United States, but the process was put on hold. The incoming Trump Administration was making drastic changes to the US Immigration Policy that among other things, affected refugee admissions and resettlement.
I travelled to Nairobi because I was unwell, staying with friends for nine months during my treatment while also trying to regularize my refugee status documents. Unable to renew my paperwork, I returned to Kakuma in December 2019.
I started the Kakuma READ Project with a friend, an initiative with three program areas: an adult literacy program, a weekly podcast raising awareness on COVID-19, and community health and development. We are raising awareness of the challenges experienced by vulnerable groups within the refugee community like women, girls, and persons living with disabilities. We are also highlighting the impact the COVID-19 on refugees. We still have a lot of work ahead of including building support and attaining community buy-in. The position is voluntary so I’m looking for a job. I want to support my family even though employment opportunities for refugees are scarce. I’m living with my uncle and cousin who offer both emotional and financial support, even with their limited resources. As for my mother, she was living in Yemen but the protracted civil war there forced her to move to Egypt. I don’t know if or when I’ll be able to see her.