“Going home? I would rather die.”
Zara loved her life in Ethiopia. She was in love. She and her husband had four perfect children, three girls and one boy. Both of us were working—him as a doctor and her running a kiosk—and meeting all of their needs. They were forced to uproot their lives when soldiers began to harass, threaten, and attack their family.
My husband was a doctor. He used to take night shifts and sometimes went out for fieldwork as well; those extra allowances allowed us to treat ourselves from time to time. I ran my own kiosk and had a boda I hired out that brought in extra money. Together, my husband and I were saving in an equb (chama) to build our own home and finally stop paying rent.
The harassment started in 2016. My husband had gone to an orientation meeting in Hawassa, and that got him on some kind of list. Soldiers were always on the lookout for my husband. They would arrest him, beat him up, and let him go. It happened several times. Then one day in 2018, while he was working the night shift at the hospital, they came to look for him. He hid. Four of them then came to the house trying to find him there. But he was at work. They were fuming angry, stormed into the house, shouting that my husband was a dead man. When they couldn’t find him, they threw me to the floor and raped me while the children cried and begged them to stop.
When they left, everything was unnaturally quiet. Nothing was moving. None of us said a word for what seemed like a very long time. Then I lifted myself up and called my husband at work. “We need to leave.”
I was so afraid. I didn’t know why they wanted to kill my husband. I couldn’t believe the violence we were facing. Then I had a new fear, how could my husband love me after this? He is such a gentle man and has always been faithful to our marriage. I felt I had betrayed him. I had been taken by other men, by his enemies. Would he ever look at me the same way again?
We grabbed a bag with my husband’s documents and all the money we had on hand from our savings and the capital from the kiosk. I threw in my gold jewelry as well. In total, the money was about $2,500 but all in Ethiopian birr. At 3:00 am we boarded a matatu heading to Addis. We didn’t know where we were going. Maybe we should go to Hawassa and hide out, my husband suggested. But then we got down from the matatu at Adama and heard a conductor calling out for Moyale. My husband had a former colleague living there and gave him a call. Does he have any relative who might take us in and give the children a place to lay their heads? He told us yes, we should get to Kenya since no one would be looking for us there. Once we get to Moyale, we should keep going to Nairobi, and his brother would meet us there.
I believe that God can see your inner thoughts, and when things are very difficult, he can make a way. That’s the only way I can describe our luck when we got near the border. We had found one man who offered to smuggle us across the border as long as we paid. But we didn’t feel good about him. Something was off. We told him we would pass on his services.
We decided to wait and see then if there might be another way. At that time there was also this very serious conflict in that area among the Boranas. Even the UN came in. When we saw crowds of people fleeing, and we just joined along. We didn’t know if we were going towards Kenya or back into danger in Ethiopia. It turns out we were crossing into Kenya, with the border open to allow people to escape the fighting.
After some time, we came across a car taking people to Nairobi, and we got in the car. We tried calling my husband’s colleague’s brother, but he wasn’t answering the phone, so we just asked people in the car to direct us to an Oromo neighborhood, and we got down there. After three days fleeing home, here we were.
We sat on a corner, trying to decide what to do next. We were so tired and dirty. We hadn’t carried any clothes with us. My period even started while we were on the way, and I had no clean clothes to change into. There was a woman selling food there on the corner. I introduced myself and bought some food for the kids. We started chatting, and she asked if we had a place to stay. No. Even though she lived in a crowded house with her five children and her mother, she took us in. She went around to other Oromos and asked them to donate some food and clothes for us. I wept with relief that night. No more running.
After only about five days, this woman heard about a friend, a fellow Oromo, who was leaving the country. If I wanted, I could take over their whole house, even the furniture that was going to stay behind so long as we could look after her mother. So I moved there with my family. I felt safer knowing my husband was a doctor and could treat the elderly woman when she became sick. Since we were just taking over her lease, we didn’t have to pay a deposit. Rent was KES 10,000 per month, and we paid KES 5,000 while the woman paid the other KES 5,000 for her mother. We didn’t know where to change our money into Kenyan money, so she went out and changed it for us. Even now, I can’t believe her generosity. I believe God sent her for us.
We realized our money would run out if we weren’t working. I was able to take a loan of $200 from Heshima and bought pots and ingredients to start selling samosas. Sometimes I also do injera, cakes, and sometimes these pastries we call kureza. I go up and down the streets of Eastleigh selling. By now people know me and that my food is very nice. My husband stays home with the kids. Once in a while Ethiopians who can’t afford to go to the hospital come to see him for treatment. They offer him $1 or $2 just small tokens to say thanks. It breaks my heart to see this skilled professional sitting at home, especially when sometimes we are even sleeping hungry. Life isn’t just about survival. You have to have your dignity, too. I hope that God will open doors for him so he can start working. He has gone everywhere asking for a job, but they say without a work permit, they can’t help. I can see him losing himself the more he sits in the kitchen with me, like a woman.
I worry about my girls, too. You have to protect your daughters in this country. And with this corona thing, they have not been going to school. When they go out, they are hounded by boys. My husband has to constantly look after them. The trauma they have experienced still sticks with them. You would be sad if you saw them, and they were kids who were brought up properly.
If you talk to other refugees, they will tell you they are scared of police and kanjo and stuff, but that has not been the case for me. I had only one fear when we arrived in Nairobi: Will my husband hate me? I was not even thinking of anything else. In comparison, everything else seems like such a small problem. If we had not left Ethiopia that day, I am sure my husband would have been killed and that I would have committed suicide. That lady who took us into her house knew I was not okay, and she took me to a clinic that works with refugees. They helped me get some mental health services, and with time I have gotten so much better. I am so happy for that.
It also helped to join a group, like a chama, with about 30 other women. Heshima organized us, and we supported each other and saved together, at least before COVID. Now things are harder. I keep my money in a small piggy bank and take it out to pay rent. I would prefer to save on M-PESA, but they say we are not allowed to register with just our refugee IDs.
There’s not much to save these days. Samosa sales went way down during corona. We were eating like half of the samosas and cakes I was making. There were just no customers. But things got better during Ramadan and Arafat. I’m still struggling to keep up with rent. Our friend hasn’t been able to help with rent during corona, so we try to get the full amount ourselves. It’s a struggle now, and when I’m late the landlords cut off our lights and our water. Even when I’m on time, they sometimes cut it off. I think they want us to leave. I heard they used to charge $130 and so they think they can get more if we leave. But they don’t ask us for more. They just cut things and then tell us, “If you’re not comfortable, you can leave.”
Lucky for me, I have a very good relationship with the watchman. I treat him like family. When they cut us off, I go and ask him to switch it back on for us. You have to be smart with how you treat people. Even now, we are living without water. Can you imagine, even in COVID, we have no water for washing hands! Our power has been out a lot as well, and that is very difficult for me. I normally have to stay up until around 2:00 am wrapping samosas. Sometimes if our lights are out, I ask to use a friend’s kitchen, but you can’t do that every day. It’s a nuisance to others who want a clean kitchen and who are trying to sleep.
We struggle so much here, but at least we still have each other. My husband is my best friend. We face our struggles together. Maybe one day, we’ll be relocated to Canada. Going home? I would rather die. How could I ever go back and look anyone in the eye? In that country, I was raped. I was treated that way in a country where once I was respected, where I gave birth. If there is any more “going” for us, it is going forward and farther away.