A SEASON FOR BUILDING HOUSESsheldonrandall.weebly.com/uploads/5/8/3/9/58397941/season_for... ·...

A SEASON FOR

BUILDING HOUSES

A SEASON FOR

BUILDING HOUSES

A TELLING ROOM ANTHOLOGY

THE TELLING ROOM

225 Commercial St., Suite 201

Portland, ME 04101

© 2015 by The Telling Room

All rights reserved, including right of reproduction

in whole or part in any form.

Excerpt from "One Today: A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration

January 21, 2013" by Richard Blanco, © 2013. Reprinted by permission of the

University of Pittsburgh Press.

Photo credits: Molly Haley, Winky Lewis

Designer: Ashley P. Halsey

Managing editor: Molly McGrath

Associate editors: Abigail Chance, Caitlin Gutheil, Rose Heithoff, Hannah Kalkstein,

Emily Perkins, Kathryn Williams Renna, Sophia Rosenfeld

Consultants: Richard Akera, Heather Davis, Andrew Griswold, Patricia Hagge,

Molly Haley, Emmanuel Muya, Sarah Schneider, Nick Schuller, Sonya Tomlinson

Printed in USA by Walch Printing

Proceeds from the sale of Telling Room books support our free youth writing

programs, like the Young Writers & Leaders program.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always, always

home, always under one sky, our sky.

—Richard Blanco, from “One Today”

Contents

cairo kid 1Ibrahim Shkara, Iraq/Egypt

i started to explain 5Richard Akera, South Sudan/Uganda

stargazing 13Ahmed Abbas, Iraq

climbing barefoot 19Fadumo Issack, Somalia/Kenya

sparrows 25Omar Raouf, Iraq/Syria

inside the life i knew 33Clautel Buba, Cameroon

nuestra caza de noche 41Eric Martinez Rodriguez, El Salvador

ayaayo 49 Khadija Mohamed, Somalia

scattered seeds 53Rasha Usif, Sudan

when the sun disappeared 59Michée Runyambo, Democratic Republic of the Congo

breathing in the rain 67Amira Al Sammrai, Iraq

we can all jump in puddles 71Elahe Seddiqi, Afghanistan/Iran/Slovakia

a moment before a rainstorm 79Sahara Hassan, Somalia/Kenya

carrying heavy things 87Aden Issack, Somalia/Kenya

mamoutchka 93Judica’elle Irakoze, Burundi

through the storm 99Faris Baziga, Rwanda/Tanzania

jumping the wall 105Ali Aljubyly, Iraq/Jordan/Saudi Arabia

upti hassan 113Edna Adan, Russia/Somalia

three soccer players 117Chrispo Niyokwizerwa, Rwanda

Emmanuel Muya, Democratic Republic of the CongoRalph Houanche, Haiti

the fate of the trees 125Elias Nasrat, Afghanistan/India

in a tiny place 131 Annick Umutoniwase, Rwanda

swimming to safety 135Vassily Murangira, Burundi

hot noons and cold nights 141Hanen Mohammad, Iraq/Turkey

everybody had a good life 145Jordy Izere, Burundi

buckets of water in kigali 151 Rachel Iradukunda, Rwanda

my grandmother 157Maryama Abdi, Somalia/Kenya

a tricky question 161Edna Thecla-Akimana, Burundi

how marvelous it is 165Mohamed Awale, Somalia/Kenya

my bathing suit smells like medicine 173Yann Tanguy Irambona, Burundi

at night 177Benjamin Bivigete, Rwanda

Ibrahim Shkara Iraq/Egypt

Cairo Kid

I am a person who has lived

in three different countries on three continents,

but I still don’t know where my home is.

Moving from Baghdad to Cairo was like losing my vision—

eight years old in a big new city.

Dear Mother of the World—Egypt,

Can you tell me what home means?

Do you still have your sense of humor?

Can you make fun of us and how we live?

Do you remember, no matter what happens,

how you always say it will be fine?

Is it true you are no more yourself,

that you have stopped breathing?

Do you know there are people who no longer believe in you?

2 b Ibrahim Shkara

I met my friend Ali at a place where we felt not on Earth,

weightless when we jumped into the pool

where hours and hours felt like one moment.

Two bodies, one brain—

he made me feel safe and strong.

I knew him more than I knew myself.

Two friends growing up together in an ancient place;

without warning we started to grow apart.

I have always known you to be strong and never fall down.

When you do, you get up, stronger than ever.

Is it when people stop helping each other?

Always remember how beautiful you are,

even if you can’t see,

like a butterfly who can’t see how beautiful she is.

It’s true, when you drink from the Nile River

you will come back again.

Remember, you will be the first and the last home

I will ever have.

I still think about Ali,

even with five thousand miles between us.

I would tell him I am taking school seriously now,

playing sports, living the right way.

I would tell him I can see again.

2 b Ibrahim Shkara

“What is a home? A home is where I find love, peace, friends, joy, strength, faith, and trust in those around me.”

—Richard Akera

Richard Akera South Sudan/Uganda

I Started to Explain

I killed a dog once. When I was about thirteen, my brother Francis

and I were coming back from fetching water from the well in the

camp, and I was carrying a twenty-liter jerry can when I heard people

yelling from a distance. I asked Francis, “What do you think is going

on in the neighborhood?"

“I don’t know,” he said.

I heard my five-year-old brother Elvis before I saw him. “Mom,

Mom!” he screamed, in the way he had of calling our mother’s name

whenever he was hurt or frightened or in trouble. Then I saw him.

Elvis was lying on the ground. The dog had bitten some of his

teeth off, his lip was cracked open, his tongue had a hole in it, and he

was bleeding everywhere.

The dog stood next to my brother as if he was ready to bite into

him again. He was an old, red dog, huge, twice Elvis’s size. I was so

scared when I first saw Elvis’s face and so mad at the dog. I knew I

had to kill this dog before it bit another person, and I left Elvis with

6 b Richard Akera I Started to Explain b 7

Francis and some neighbors to chase after it. My mother was not

around; she had left for church that afternoon.

Rocks lay on the ground. I got some and started running after

the dog. I was so mad; I wanted to catch it and take all of its teeth

and eyes out, so that it wouldn’t be able to see anymore or bite any-

one again. I wanted to squeeze the life out of it. I was running after

the dog and throwing rocks like a crazy man. And I was crying like

a baby. I had no shoes, no sandals, nothing. I never noticed stepping

on sharp objects. I did not notice anything, not until I killed the dog.

My neighbor Kizito was there with me, helping me catch the

dog. Kizito, a strong guy who lived across the street from me, was

holding this huge stake; he kept throwing it at the dog and picking

it up again. The dog ran into the banana plants next to my landlord’s

house. Kizito threw his stake again. “I think I broke its leg,” he said.

And he did, because after he hit the dog, it was not running that fast

anymore and it got weaker and weaker.

I ran fast enough to hit it on the head with a stone. It fell down,

but I didn’t stop hitting it. I was kicking it, and continued hitting it

on the head to make sure it was dead and gone. And I was crying,

and crying, and crying. “You bit my brother, you go to hell! You mess

with my brother, you get to pay for it.” Kizito was trying to stop me,

and people were stopping their cars and staring at me like I was a

crazy person.

“I think it’s dead now,” Kizito said.

“No!” I cried louder. “It’s not yet dead!” I wanted to cut its head

off to make sure it was really dead. Like dead-dead.

s


I went with my landlady’s husband to get my mom from the church.

There were thousands of people there, and some people were even

sitting outside because the church was so full. It was crazy to me to

see people right then who were so happy. A lot of them were crying

with the joy of worshipping and praying to God, who at this moment

I didn’t believe existed. If God was really there, if God was real, why

would he let something so bad happen to a five-year-old kid?

When I finally found my mother, she too was smiling, dancing,

singing, and praising the Lord. Her face looked like she was from

heaven, like she was with the angels. Yet before you knew it, all the

joy and happiness, and maybe her beliefs, would be gone.

“What are you guys doing here?” she said, still singing and

clapping.

“Mom?” I called her.

“Yes,” she replied in a joyful voice.

“Mom, Elvis got bit by a dog.”

The ride back to my brother was a blur. When we got home,

Elvis had been moved from where the dog bit him. My landlady and

my brothers Francis and Fidele and the neighbors were around him.

He was bleeding. There was a lot of talking around him. “Oh my

God, is he going to be okay?” I heard someone say.

My mother got out of the car and ran toward the avocado tree

where my brother was lying. She worked her way closer to Elvis. As

soon as she saw him, she started crying. “How did this happen to

my boy?”

Then, she looked straight at me. I started to explain. I told

her that only a few hours after she left, Elvis was crying, needing

something to eat. I told her that I went to the neighbors to ask if

they would pay me to get them some water, so I could buy some


bread or rice for Elvis. Before I could finish, she slapped me across

the cheek.

sI wasn’t really crying because of the slap, I was crying for my brother,

and from watching him bleed and suffer like that. I was crying for

myself, not from the pain of the slap, but because it was all my fault

that the dog bit my brother. I was crying because I was trying to do

something that would make my mom proud of me, because I had

been trying to get something for my brothers to eat.

I was crying for all the ways my brothers and I tried to earn a

little bit of money for some food in the camp that we called home:

searching the streets and along the railroad tracks for anything we

could sell—bicycle parts, soda cans, water bottles; digging up the

ground for pieces of scrap metal; climbing trees to find ripe jack-

fruit and avocados to sell door to door; helping out at the Sudanese

church. There we could make money carrying jerry cans of water,

cleaning out the church, and helping to cook.

I was crying for the time my mother had to go out and look for

a job washing people’s clothes. I was crying because of the times she

had to go door-to-door, selling getengy or batiks or sarongs. I was

crying because she was always out in the hot sun and had to walk

because she didn’t have money for the taxi. She would come home

with back pain, and you want to know what? She would smile all the

time anyway, telling us that it was going to be okay, but in my heart I

knew that things were far from being okay. I knew it was never going

to be okay, at least not too soon.

The thing was, she was trying to hide it from my brothers and


me. She was wounded and she was dying. I could see it on her face.

I knew she could use some help, but who could help her? I could

tell that she was hurting, and it always bothered me to see her go

through all of the pain alone. I felt horrible about myself, that I

couldn’t do anything to help her out but just sit back and witness

her bleed from the inside.

My mother, a woman whose pulchritude was once admired by

many, was now talked about behind her back. Before, she would turn

the heads of every man passing by on the street of Kikoni. A woman

who had black natural hair and smooth brown skin, my mother now

seemed to be fading away. All because of the stress she was under.

After my dad died in 2005, my mother had to take over; she was now

like both the man and the woman of the house at the same time. She

was doing it all. And I was crying for her.

I was crying because of the embarrassment that my brothers and

I had to go through, going to the school across the street to ask for

leftovers so that we could have something to put in our mouths. I

had to watch my younger brothers cry because they had gone two or

three days without eating anything, just drinking water. And what

did I do? Nothing. I just sat there and sometimes joined in and cried

with them, too.

I was crying for the hunger, for my mother, for the embarrass-

ment. I was crying for the three months my brother would end up

spending in a hospital, having operations on his face and his tongue.

I was crying because of all the shit in my life. All of thi—I mean, the

hunger, the suffering, the camp that was home, the dog bite, my try-

ing to do something, my mother’s shock at what I had done—made

me ask, “Does God really exist? And if He does, where is He when

we need him the most? Why isn’t He doing anything?”


sWhat is a home? A home is where beautiful things will happen.

Wonderful things will happen. But a home is also that place where

we get bad news: someone got shot, someone is ill, someone is

paralyzed. It, she, he…is sick, dying, dead. Sometimes when bad

things happen we start to ask ourselves why things happen as they

do. You know, Why? Why? Why? No answer for that. And sometimes

we even go further, as I did, and put all the blame on the Creator—

our Heavenly Father.

My name is Akera. I was born and raised at a camp in Uganda,

a foreign land. I have never been to my homeland before, which is in

southern Sudan. I find that so painful. When people talk about how

beautiful it is…I’ve never seen the Nile River flow long, meandering

through the mountains.

Growing up I thought a home was this place where my family

and I lived—in the camp. It was overpopulated. People were fight-

ing, stealing, and starving. We lived in a building built with grass on

the top and mud on the side with no door or window in it. Some

were so close that they even touched.

But when we moved here, I became fully aware of what a home

really meant to me. It doesn’t really matter where you live or where

you sleep. It doesn’t matter which direction your door faces. What

really matters is the people in that home.

A home is those you love. A home is the people who love you as

you are. A home is the people who will always be there for you. A

home is the people who will never judge you. A home is the people

who will always hold your hand when you fall down. When you

need their help they will always be there by your side.


To me, a home is where I find love, peace, friends, joy, strength,

faith, and trust in those around me. I find home everywhere—at

school, at the mall, in a church. To me a home is where I feel safe

and loved.

Ahmed Abbas Iraq

Stargazing

I.

My childhood in Iraq

is painful to think back on

because of its greatness.

I think back to the sand that collected

outside my house,

and how we used to bathe the ground in water,

the damp smell filling each room

as if the day was just starting,

clean.

The power switched off at night.

I slept on the top of my house.

The stars I saw,

I kept in my head.

At least the stars

here are the same.

14 b Ahmed Abbas Stargazing b 15

II.

People I have never seen,

countries I have never been to,

combined, joined,

became stronger.

We heard the neighbor say

helicopters are coming

before we heard

the news declaring

it started today.

They didn’t say the time;

it was at eleven in the morning.

When the fighting started

outside my house,

around my house,

I thought they would hit my house,

like they hit my neighbor's house,

when I smelled the smoke.

But the rockets

we found in our garden

did not explode.

With every gunshot,

I thought they would hit me,

and I would be riddled with bullets

like my father’s car in our driveway.

I was afraid for my mother,

seven months pregnant,

and my father, brothers, sister, cousins.


I was afraid for the twenty-one people,

family, friends, neighbors,

crowded in our house,

in my living room,

holding, hugging each other.

III.

That summer was very hot.

We would sleep during the day or

I would play with water

in the garden

with my brothers and sisters

while my mother tended it.

“Be careful with the plants,”

she would say.

The garden was filled with

vegetables—tomatoes, potatoes,

eggplants, okra;

but sunflowers and roses, too.

My friends would pick

some of the vegetables to eat

without asking.

I had waited months

to pick them, so I would say,

“Why do you do that?”

They had no answer.

When I think back to that garden,

I see my mother, in red.

The garden is behind a wall.

She is beautiful, she is free.


IV.

Somehow, in that place, I was watching.

It is hard to see now, but I saw it all then.

The school house. The men shooting.

The broken glass.

The American soldier. The Arhap soldier.

The people.

Yemot, dead.

My heart hurts me once more,

but once more I make myself remember.

It is hard to live again in that time,

seeing those people

that I will never see again, but yet I yunther.

I see the days, just a few years ago,

my home,

my family,

my friends.

We were surrounded by four walls there—

they surround me here, as I remember.

Everyone, everything, shaking.

We were all thinking, “When will it end?”

But no one will know

until the atlak alnar stops.

V.

I picture one night

after a very dark day.

The power is off,

the weather is hot.

I am looking at the huge sky,


at stars, no end,

no number.

But it is good, as is

the top of the house—

a place to sleep under the stars

when the power is off

and the weather is hot.

When I see the stars now

I remember a lot of things,

I remember a lot of nights

on the rooftop.

When I see them now,

I look for the seven

that were always together.

There are seven

in my mind.

They were seven, then,

that I saw

when I was home.

They are not a constellation,

but they have always been there

in the same relationship

to one another.

It was very comfortable to

sleep on the top of the house

after that very dark day.

Fadumo IssackSomalia/Kenya

Climbing Barefoot

When a child is born, she learns how to walk, how to eat, how to

talk, and how to play. When I was growing up, I learned all of these

things, too; but for me, there was something else just as important—I

learned how to climb trees. They became a part of my body: the tree

limbs, my limbs. I climbed trees every day.

When I climbed up a tree’s branches I felt safe. I climbed as high

as I could, and then I would sit down and look out over the only

place I had ever known: Ifo, Dadaab, Kenya. Dadaab is the largest

refugee camp in the world, and Ifo is where I lived in the middle of

it. Trees are rare there, as there are too many people in one area, and

men and boys walk many miles in the dust to find firewood, leaving

women and girls home to face what may come. But there were a few

trees near me, which I climbed every day, and one that was the tallest

of all, which I would only climb once.

Never for a second did I blame the tree for what happened to me.

I never thought, “Maybe if I hadn’t been in the tree, my life wouldn’t

be like this.” My relatives thought this way. But for me, it wasn’t the

20 b Fadumo Issack Climbing Barefoot b 21

tree’s fault. It wasn’t Ifo’s fault, either. I knew Ifo like a book you

memorized, and when I looked down from the top of the tree, the

camp looked like a good place. I saw kids playing. When I climbed

back down, it was a mess, but up there, I felt like everything was

okay. I never thought that something bad could happen up there.

But it did.

It was a very hot afternoon, the time I climbed the tree. It hadn’t

rained for three or four months. I had been walking to the markets

to get sugar. I was five years old. When I went back outside, my

neighbor called me over to his house. He was twelve. I had known

him my whole life. His brothers and sisters and some of the other

kids from A-7 block were in his yard. His parents sat in the shadows

of their house. My neighbor dared me to climb the acacia tree in the

yard, the tallest tree in Ifo. I had never climbed it before. I wasn’t

scared, though.

I walked up to the tree, took off my sandals, and began to

climb. Even though my mom told me always to wear sandals, I

liked climbing barefoot. It felt good to feel the tree on my feet and

toes. I got to the top very quickly. It was easy for me. I sat down

on the highest branch and looked at everybody. None of the kids

could believe it. The boy who had dared me to climb the tree said

that he didn’t think I was really a girl, because I didn’t seem to be

afraid of anything. Right after he said that, he began to climb up

the tree, too.

At first I didn’t even notice him. I was yelling down to another

kid. He climbed up and sat on the branch next to where I was sitting.

He wanted me to be afraid of him and his family, because every-

one else was. But I wasn’t. God made me, and God made him; why

should I be afraid of him?

20 b Fadumo Issack Climbing Barefoot b 21

He said to me, “Your mom must be proud of you for being so

brave.” And then he pushed me out of the tree.

People as far away as A-4 block heard my screams. Later they

said that I was a quiet girl and they had never heard me scream like

that. My father heard me, and he ran to find me lying on the ground.

He carried me home. When I woke up later he was next to me,

splashing water all over me. I tried to get up, but every part of my

body—my joints, my bones, my skin—hurt. I couldn’t move. I was

just lying there like a dead person.

My father began to read the Qur’an over me. He did that for

such a long time. I fell asleep and woke up, fell asleep and woke up.

I was confused and in so much pain. They took me to the hospi-

tal ,and we met the doctors. They examined me and really tried to

help, but because I had broken so many bones and joints, they didn’t

know what to do. They didn’t know how to cure me.

It was a painful year for all of us, my family and me. We couldn’t

do anything to bring justice to what had happened. Our neighbors

were dangerous and had killed people we knew. Whenever my dad

wasn’t out looking for some way to help me, he read the Qur’an over

me. For months, he had looked for miracles from Allah, for some

way or for someone who could help somehow. Then one day he ap-

proached a man, a specialist, who burned broken bones to heal a

person, which was an old technique from back home in Somalia.

The man came.

I remember I cried so loud when he burned my skin. I screamed

my nearest brother’s name out and cried, “Please help me! Take me

away!” My brother broke into tears. My mom did, too.

It took many more months to heal the burns. Pain became my

friend. It told me when I was seriously injured, it kept me awake and

22 b Fadumo Issack

angry, but the best thing about it was that it let me know that I was

alive. Each day I began to feel a little better. One day I could lift my

hand. Another day I could stand up. Finally, I was able to walk again.

The first day that I was strong enough to stand on my own and

walk, I walked out of the bedroom, across my yard, and right to a

tree. Even though I hadn’t climbed in months, my body remembered

how. I put my bare foot on the tree and reached my arm up to the

closest branch, and my brain helped my body move in the way it

knew so well. I climbed and moved as though nothing had ever hap-

pened to me, even though so much had. When I reached the top of

the tree and looked out over Ifo again, my eyes began to tear, but for

the first time in so long, I cried with joy.

I realized that so much had changed within me since the last

time I had sat high up in the trees. I was now seeing with new eyes—

as a stronger and wiser person, very different from others. Looking

out over my block, at my house, the place I knew so well, I knew that

there would be more hard times in my life to come, but that I would

have the strength to meet them. I also knew that there would be

many joys in my life. I didn’t know it then, but I would one day leave

the refugee camp and move to the United States with my family.

I looked down at one of my hands where I had a scar from the

burning. I have round scars on both of my hands and my ankles.

Sometimes it feels good to wear a scar on the outside to represent

something on the inside.

22 b Fadumo Issack

“Leaving the place where you grew up makes you feel like a tree being pulled, roots and all, from its environment.”

—Omar Raouf

Omar Raouf Iraq/Syria

Sparrows

When I was nine, I had a sparrow that lived in a small cage by the

window. One day, I left the cage door open and the sparrow flew out

the window. I never thought I would see the sparrow again, but later

that day he came back. My grandmother had thrown breadcrumbs in

the garden, and he had come back to eat them. It’s almost impossible

to tell one sparrow from the rest, but I knew he was my sparrow.

There were many little things that were different about my sparrow

from all the other sparrows, but I can’t really tell you what they were.

I just knew he was mine.

Trying to recognize one sparrow from another for humans is like

trying to tell apart the two factions of Islam if you’re not a Mus-

lim. For our family, however, in 2006, the blind hatred between two

religious groups was terrifying. People in both groups were killed,

whether they were involved in the conflict or not. One blind-minded

group wanted to avenge what they thought was a terrible offense

against them over 1,000 years ago. They believed they still needed

26 b Omar Raouf Sparrows b 27

to avenge this offense. That’s a long time to hold a grudge. There-

fore, my father decided we had to leave Baghdad. He said we had

no choice.

Leaving the place where you grew up makes you feel like a tree

being pulled, roots and all, from its environment. Then you get

planted in a different place. I can clearly recall the day I got into the

GMC with my family to leave Baghdad, perhaps forever, I thought

then. I was leaving behind nine years of laughing, crying, and playing

with family and friends, leaving behind the smell of my aunt’s sweet

flatbread and me eagerly awaiting my small piece. I remembered my

grandmother breaking open olive green, cardamom pods and add-

ing them to our small cups, called istikan, and then pouring the red

tea over them. The cups are not at all like European cups. Istikan are

shaped like upside-down bells. I remember the echo of the spoon

hitting the edges of the cups as everyone stirred their tea. The sound

is still ringing in my head.

This is only one of many memories of my life in Baghdad. I will

tell you more as they occur to me. Time got slower as we walked

closer to the GMC. Our feet knew what our hearts felt, and they

didn’t want to go either. As I turned around, my eyes fell on my dad.

I saw him brushing a tear off his cheek, and I felt his sadness and

love for our old home. I felt his sadness for being forced to leave and

love for the family, friends, and the streets where he grew up and

spent his best days. I was shocked, watching my dad. I looked at the

rest of my family and saw we shared the same look of sadness and

love.

As we rode out of Baghdad, I sat in the back seat looking

through the windows, trying to see as much as I could of my home,

a huge city, as the sunlight hit my eyes. The car carried me farther


from home. Everything blurred into lines of lights, buildings, and

people, all flashing by like the pages in a book turned so quickly that

I couldn’t read the words.

When we stopped in the traffic, I felt better because I could rec-

ognize the buildings and give them a last look; I could say goodbye.

The line of traffic was so long that I couldn’t see the light when it

turned green. The only way I could tell it was green was when I

saw the brake lights of the cars ahead of us turn off. That meant

we’d move forward and farther. It was like this over and over again

until we left the city and got on the highway, where we moved faster.

Then, after a short time on the highway, I couldn’t see the city that

we had left behind and couldn’t tell when we would stop.

I kept asking my dad how long it would take until we reached

our new home. He told me, “In seven or eight hours, son.” As we con-

tinued along the highway, the landscape became a desert. I leaned

my head back, but there was nothing left to see. Asking myself all

sorts of questions about that day and the day before, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the sun was about to set. The sunset in the

wild was the best thing I had ever seen; I didn’t want to close my

eyes, even for a second, so that I could enjoy every moment of that

view. It was something I had only seen in cartoons and never thought

I would see in reality. It was one of the best moments that I have ever

enjoyed with my family. It seemed to ease our minds and lighten the

pressures that we were feeling. The sun kept moving until that blaz-

ing orange sank behind the horizon. That was when darkness cov-

ered the wild, and all I could see were clusters of stars, like candles

that lit the sky.

I could hear my dad and the driver talking about “the border,”

but I didn’t know what it was or what it would look like. Then my


dad asked my mom for the passports, another subject I didn’t under-

stand, even though they were speaking in Arabic, my first language.

My mom had prepared some food for the car ride and told me that

as soon as we reached our new home she would cook my favorite

meal. While I ate my sandwich, I could see the sand particles reflect-

ing the moonlight out over the desert.

All night we drove closer to the border, but we were still on the

very dangerous highway. When I woke up, it was almost sunrise. I

looked through the window to tell where we were and what was go-

ing on around us, even though I couldn’t recognize the places. I saw

this weird dark shape on the side of the road. Some smoke was com-

ing out of it. It was visible because the orange sun was once again in

the sky. I could see a shape that had once been an automobile: I had

never seen one burn before.

Just after this scene, I looked at my dad. I could see he was get-

ting more worried. I don’t remember my dad’s face looking relaxed

at all during the trip. I had many questions that I was anxious to ask,

but every time I looked at my dad, I stopped myself because I didn’t

want to bother him with my silly questions. There were other cars

on the highway, and I could tell that they were fleeing Baghdad, too,

from the suitcases piled on top of the car or stacked in the back win-

dow. I felt better knowing that other people were leaving and that we

were not the only sparrows.

After a few more hours, I could see several long rows of cars

ahead of us. I began trying to count them so that I would know

how long it would take us to reach the border. As I was counting, I

stuck my head out the window a little bit so that I could see more

clearly. When my mom saw me, she told me to pull my head back

in the car quickly. American and Iraqi soldiers and snipers manned


the checkpoint, and they were armed to their teeth, she said. They

got suspicious of anyone leaving a car or peering out of the windows,

suspecting that they might shoot at them. The primary strategy was

to shoot anything that moved out of place.

My dad had prepared all of the paperwork, and I could see that

he was less worried than he had been, but our driver was getting in-

creasingly nervous because he was the one who was usually respon-

sible for taking care of the paperwork. Finally, we got to the check-

point. It was dark outside, but there was some light in the check-

point building. The driver left the car with the paperwork. Some

time later, he came back and asked my dad to go inside with him for

a security check. As my dad left with the driver, two policemen came

up to our car holding flashlights and machines that beeped. They

checked the car.

Inside, my dad had to give his fingerprints and put his face to a

machine that would scan his eyes. However, my dad’s vision was de-

teriorating and his retina was damaged, and the police got suspicious

because they did not find him on their computers. He had to stay

there for a while. The driver came back and told us what was hap-

pening. My mom was praying. I was even more worried than she was

because I didn’t understand what they might do to him. Fortunately,

our fears were not realized. My dad came back to the car unharmed,

and we were able to pass through the checkpoint.

We finally reached Syria, passed through Damascus, and were

approaching Tartus. While we were still on the road, we stopped at

a restaurant, and I tasted Syrian bread and other food for the first

time. I was hungry, so I had no choice but to eat, and after I finished

I realized that it wasn’t bad to try new foods. While we were eating

our lunch, I listened to the people speaking around me. I could tell

30 b Omar Raouf

what they were talking about, but I couldn’t speak the same way;

they were speaking much faster than I was used to. I was afraid to

talk because I felt I would reveal myself as a stranger, someone who

didn’t belong.

We got back on the road, and the closer we got to my new home,

the more the things I saw excited me. Tartus is a beautiful city in

Syria, lying next to the Mediterranean Sea, surrounded by valleys

with rivers cutting through it. I could see olive trees on the steppes

and covering the sides of the mountains. As we drove, I wondered

what school I would be going to and what it would look like. Would

I still be able to chase a ball? Would I easily make new friends?

Would I ride my bike in my new neighborhood? All these thoughts

hit me in all at once. For a moment I felt sad. I had never worried

about being a stranger to a place before, and once I did, I knew I

would always miss the old home I had loved. Suddenly, my whole

experience of this new city changed.

My worries, however, ended up being fleeting. Once I got to

know the city that would be my new home—the buildings, houses,

mosques, and churches—I learned that it wasn’t that different from

my old city. What I really liked was the view and smell of the sea.

The water reflected the sun’s light, like the sand did in the moon’s

light in the desert. I would learn to love this place as much as my

former home in Baghdad. Sparrows are very adaptable; they can be

happy anywhere. Maybe they have no choice.

30 b Omar Raouf

“As you keep listening, it sounds like music. The water falls off the roof in straight lines and dots the brick redground.”

—Clautel Buba

Clautel Buba Cameroon

Inside the Life I Knew

My story may not be like the stories

that people who live in cities

can say:

The Abubaca drinks from the Wubat River

and runs through my village, Balikumbat,

in Cameroon.

Abubaca River—

gray soil banks,

monkeys hanging from fruit trees,

mangoes, oranges,

papaya the size of my two hands.

The lines in my hands are like this river.

They bend and spread

like the long, dusty road running along it

34 b Clautel Buba Inside the Life I Knew b 35

from my village to Bamenda,

the bigger city.

When I go to the city,

I spend five days outside the life I know.

I see lights, TV, and running water.

But I am from the village,

where I live with my grandmother.

I have big hands from building houses, farming corn,

and growing up at age seven

from hard work.

I.

Dry season—

Christmas is coming, and we are out of school.

It is a season for building houses

from large clay bricks.

Many friends work together for francs.

We work as such young children

from six in the morning to six at night.

We make the bricks by hand.

When you dig a hole

in cracked soil, so hard to dig,

you use a dig axe, a pick axe.

Blisters cover your hands until they are hard.

You go through layers of black, red,

orange, white, and gray,

and only then you know you will start seeing water.


You have to cut through tree roots

with a machete.

Holes can be giant.

Water comes from the river.

It is easy for me to get water anytime

because I live next to the Abubaca.

I don’t have to wake up early in the morning

like my friends,

who have to walk a long way to get it.

Girls carry jugs of water on their heads,

or, if they are strong,

they swing them to their shoulders

or hold twenty liters in each hand

like men.

We pour the water into tubs

bigger than we are that sit

in a metal truck we push to the hole.

We pour the water into a huge barrel

five of us could fit inside—

pour it through a faucet

into the clay in the hole,

mix it in the ground.

We pound the clay,

frame it in wood,

put water on our palms,

smooth it on them,

pull the bricks out of the mold,


spray dry dust on the bricks,

leave them to dry in the sun,

cover them in grasses so they will not crack.

Lay the bricks in rows.

Someone counts them, won’t pay for broken ones.

$10,000 francs—not enough for a nice cell phone.

Christmas comes.

We take showers, wear nice clothes,

dance, let off fireworks, stay up all night,

waste a lot of our little money.

When it comes to having fun

we act like little kids,

when it comes to work

we act like grown men.

In the dry season, the danger is the wind.

When the sun comes up it’s hot

but at night we all gather around a big fire,

burning cassava, eating, and getting warm.

Hunters build fires in the woods.

Winds blow and spread fire to the bushes.

Dust storms bring twisters.

If one comes in your door

it can suck the roof off your house.

People get sick from breathing in the dust.

II.

The rainy season comes—

this is a hard time, too.


It is time to grow crops

like corn, grannut (peanut), okra, beans, cocoa,

cassava, plantains, potatoes.

We plant corn at the beginning of the rainy season

in a big field that we hoe by hand.

The fields are huge and we are so small.

We farm for survival,

not for fun.

You plant corn as deep as your finger

with your heel—

too deep and it won’t grow,

too shallow and the wind knocks it down.

Cover it up and the rain grows it.

There comes a time when

you take the grasses out that grow around it.

Corn is ready at the end of the rainy season.

We break it off when it is still fresh and green

and put it in bags.

We store the corn up under the roof

of our house when it is half-dried.

The heat from grandmother’s cooking underneath

dries it all the way.

Rain on the roof,

wavy tin roof,

beats over the corn.

It starts as a single note that you hold your breath on,

and when you take a new breath the song continues on.


When I was little I covered my ears

with my hands and beat them

to hear the sounds change.

As you keep listening it sounds like music.

The water falls off the roof

in straight lines

and dots the brick red

ground.

When it is raining we go outside

to run and play.

Soccer in the rain, sliding in the mud,

dribbling through splashes.

My cousin and I sometimes take a big mixing bowl

from my grandmother’s kitchen, fill it with rain,

pour it down over our heads,

and throw it on each other.

When lightning comes—it always comes fast—

and then the thunder, we run,

run inside the house.

Great puddles form in the road.

Cars get stuck.

We push them out for money.

Sometimes people can’t pay so they wait

for the puddle to dry.

Danger in the rainy season

is when the Abubaca floods.

It damages the houses we built.

Corn plants get ripped out of the soil,


beans wash up, cassava bends to the ground.

My life by the gray soil banks

of the Abubaca River

was inside the life I knew.

But we were like animals living in the zoo.

Animals who were born there.

The food they eat is the only food they know.

They don’t know there’s a whole forest out there

where they can eat as much as they want,

do whatever they want to do,

go anyplace they want to go,

and be free.

Eric Martinez RodriguezEl Salvador

Nuestra Caza de Noche

The day had gotten late and it was difficult to see. I left my house,

walked across the grass, and climbed the nearby hill so that I could

make a phone call to my tía Evangelina. I had called to see if my

cousin’s health had improved. Evangelina told me that they had

taken her to the hospital, and that she was beginning to feel better.

I heard relief in her voice and felt myself lean into the maple tree at

my back, relieved, too.

She continued to explain, but from the hilltop I saw the head-

lights of a car heading down the dirt road to my house. This was

very strange, because almost no one visited us at our home in La

Tecolota, much less at night. Our nearest neighbors were more than

an hour away on foot in Montenegro. The car parked halfway down

our driveway in front of the yard, keeping its distance from the

house. I told my tía that I had to go. After hanging up, I could hear a

few voices coming from the car, but I didn’t recognize them.

42 b Eric Martinez Rodriguez Nuestra Caza de Noche b 43

Curious, I walked toward my house. I could see many shadows.

Two of the figures were smoking. “Buenas noches,” I said to them.

Three adult voices replied, “Buenas noches,” and two smaller fig-

ures remained quiet. When I heard their voices, I thought I might

recognize them. One of the men who was smoking lit a lamp. It illu-

minated their faces and I realized I recognized many of them. They

had come from El Pinar, a town named after the pine trees there.

I invited them in and went to find my father. He was sitting in

bed, reading his favorite book, Almanaque, which was full of curiosi-

ties and jokes. When he heard about our visitors, his face became

serious. He put on his boots and went outside. While he spoke to

the men I ate a few tortillas with cheese, waiting. After a short while,

my father came into the room, and his face was alight with excite-

ment. He told me we were going hunting.

My father and I spent our days working in the fields, and milk-

ing our cows, Mariposa, Quesadilla, and Oscurana. But at night, we

liked to go hunting. I began to prepare for the long night ahead, put-

ting on my boots and changing into a darker shirt. I found my ma-

chete and gathered my flashlight, hat, and sweatshirt. Hunting was

my father’s favorite pastime. A coffee farmer by day, when night fell

he would go hunting, often by himself, climb a tree and stay quiet for

hours, waiting for the fast-moving cotuza. Dressed entirely in black,

including a black sombrero, he almost always came home with an

animal.

Maybe that is why our home was in the forest. Green hills, pines,

maize fields, and sugarcane surrounded us. Leaving the suffocation

of the city, he had moved us all far away and into the woods of La

Tecolota, or “The Owl,” as the place was known for the nocturnal

birds living in the trees. He built our brick house near a moun-


tain. Legend has it that this mountain had a tree that grew the best

fruit—the sweetest oranges. You had to peel and eat them at the site

of the tree itself. If you tried to take them with you, you would get

lost on the mountain. I never looked for the tree myself, but I had

heard of people who had found it.

A few others gathered and the adults began to plan out the hunt.

The group included my dad and Nando, who were both excellent

hunters. Nando fought in the civil war and lost four fingers on his

right hand when a grenade exploded. My dad fought in the war, too.

They had known each other since they were boys. Then there was

Gerson, who always had a cigarette in his mouth. Our fathers were

friends. Antonio was really quiet and only spoke to Gerson. I didn’t

know him. Javier and José, their boys, talked and played in the mud

while we began walking.

In the end, it was decided that my father and Nando would go

one way and I would lead Gerson, Antonio, José, and Javier in an-

other. Our meeting point would be in the valley at the grand amate

tree. My father and Nando picked up their rifles and walked out

into the darkness. We waited about fifteen minutes and then went

a different way.

We hoped to find a deer. If we did, my family would eat for three

days. We didn’t expect to see any armadillos because we didn’t bring

any dogs with us. Dogs are experts at seeking them out in their

caves. Maybe we’d hear a coyote, but I knew we would never see one.

There was a story of a man from another village who came face to

face with a tiger in those woods near the spring, nacimiento del agua.

We walked in a long line because the path was narrow. I was at

the back behind the young boys, José and Javier, who were afraid of

being left behind. I felt energized to be in the forest again. Every-


thing was wet from the rain that day, and I could smell the humidity

moving between the trees. The air felt cold in my lungs. I felt a con-

nection to these woods deep inside me. A nighthawk flew over us,

but as we walked and walked we didn’t see any other wildlife, only

cows out to pasture. I wondered if maybe this was because we were

a large group making quite a bit of noise.

We carried flashlights, hoping to catch the two little lights of an

animal’s eyes at the end of the beam. Oftentimes we would see rab-

bits, but we saw nothing. It was so dark. There were times where we

heard strange sounds in the dry leaves, maybe rats, but how could we

have known for sure? The most challenging thing about our night

walk was that it was winter, and the grass had grown tall and thick

and was difficult to pass through. The brambles and thorns stuck

in my skin like nails, scratched me, and took my blood. Our sweat-

shirts, jeans, and shirts ripped, and pieces remained behind us in the

forest.

We came across a spot on the trail where we saw many diverging

paths. Gerson turned, suggesting we try a different route. Everyone

agreed. I felt like he might be wrong for some reason, but I didn’t

want to be disrespectful, and he seemed confident, so I didn’t say

anything. We followed him, hoping to have better luck.

We came across a large swamp and had no choice but to cross it.

It was deep and I almost lost my boots in its mud. The young boys

followed in Gerson’s and Antonio’s boot prints, no longer laughing.

We were all more serious, trying to remain quiet so as not to scare

the animals. On the other side of the swamp, the brush was thicker.

I did not recognize the forest around me, and the night grew even

darker. The strange thing was that, bit by bit, the path began to dis-

appear in front of us. I knew we had gone the wrong way.


Soon Gerson admitted his mistake. He didn’t stop walking,

though. Javier and José looked afraid. The night was nowhere near

over, and we were far from home. We forgot about the hunt and

concentrated on finding our way back to a route we knew. We came

across a ravine, and took great care on the slippery rocks and ledges

so we would not fall into the deep rainwater-filled ditch below. We

kept our eyes forward, hoping to see the light of my father’s lantern.

The only light we saw was that of the stars above. The stars’ shine

calmed me because they were so constant and sure of their place in

the sky.

I looked down from the sky and saw a light far away through the

trees. The light moved across the trees, and then dimmed. Gerson

started making signs with his own flashlight, hoping to catch the

other’s eye. We knew it was my father. It was impossible for him to

get lost in the woods. He knew them like the palm of his hand.

It was a relief to see his light, and soon he came into view. Find-

ing him meant that everything was going to be all right because he

always knew where he was. I liked that about him. My father wanted

to complete our journey so he led us the final stretch to the amate

tree. We sat on its enormous roots and rested. We talked over the

night, lamenting that neither group had found an animal. Standing

up to go home, my boots wet and stiff under me, I hoped that maybe

we would find an animal on our way back.

We had been walking for a few moments when my father noticed

a possum on the limb of a pine tree. These possums were known for

eating our chickens, so my dad pointed and shot his rifle. Maybe he

did this because we had had such bad luck on the hunt, or maybe

just because he enjoyed using his rifle. The possum didn’t fall imme-

diately. It took its time and gripped the branch it stood on. When it

46 b Eric Martinez Rodriguez

fell we simply picked it up by the tail and looked at it. It was a female.

We threw her to the side of the path and continued on toward home,

tired from our long walk.

I had never gotten lost in those woods before, and I haven’t since.

Now I live in the United States with my sister. There is deer hunt-

ing here, but you have to have a permit. Back home, you didn’t have

to ask permission. Everything was wild. I call my dad on the phone

in La Tecolota and he asks me if I remember the woods there. I tell

him that I do. I can still smell the wet fur of the catch, feel the night

air in my chest, and the forest’s heat on my skin.

46 b Eric Martinez Rodriguez

“We searched, one-by-one, through the wall of sheep. Laughing our way to the collars of white and black, we led them by the leash.”

—Khadija Mohamed

Khadija MohamedSomalia

Ayaayo

I.

I didn’t mean to cry, but I couldn’t control it.

I hated it when the world hurt my dad.

Allah, God, took away what belonged to him—

Ayaayo.

She told me to be strong.

I didn’t know what that meant.

Determined, courageous, modest, religious, that’s who she was—

Ayaayo.

II.

Walking side by side,

my grandma and me

50 b Khadija Mohamed Ayaayo b 51

no words needed to be said—

we were communicating through our minds.

The sun came out

as though the world was at ease.

Gently releasing her hand, I grabbed a flower and handed it to

Ayaayo.

The sheep were released with a thudding of hooves,

dust rising, coming toward us.

Eyes itching, fingers desperately trying to take the dust out.

Light brown, fine.

Blurriness in the way.

We searched, one-by-one, through the wall of sheep.

Laughing our way to the collars of white and black,

we led them by the leash.

Determined, courageous, modest, religious, that’s who we were—

Ayaayo.

III.

My mom is calling me like I am far away.

A table between us,

her hands clap together lightly,

her teeth make a screeching sound.

I squint my eyes,

50 b Khadija Mohamed Ayaayo b 51

her voice hits me like a rock, “Why didn’t you go to dugsi?”

Stuttering on each word coming out of my mouth,

my tongue knows I am lying.

My eyes capture my mom’s impatience.

A small chair is in her way.

She bends down and moves it with both hands.

Her eyes wide-awake, mouth half-closed,

mumbling: she walks into the kitchen.

I need guidance.

Slowly walking away,

Step by step I went toward the stairs

near my grandma’s room,

my hands shaking on my way to her door.

Determined, courageous, modest, religious, that’s who I usually am—

Ayaayo.

Rasha UsifSudan

Scattered Seeds

I used to live in a house in Darfur where the roof was red, near my

grandmother’s farm. It had two windows and more than eight brick

steps leading up to it. We had three rooms. My grandmother and my

mother had their own rooms, but I shared mine with my brother,

Esam. There was another house next to this one that was ours, too.

The windows were big, and if I was in one house, I could see my

brother in the other. They were very close together. My grandmother

wasn’t comfortable when there were many people in the house so

close together. She was always worried something could happen.

She knew things like that—she knew guns would come, and bombs,

and the place would be turned upside down on her.

My house was a three-minute run from our farm. I didn’t like

the red brick steps in front of the house. I fell down them sometimes

because the rain made them slippery. The last time I was in Sudan

when it rained, the water came up to my shoulder. When that hap-

pened, men and women in the town dug trenches. Sometimes my

54 b Rasha Usif Scattered Seeds b 55

grandmother directed the water to the farm, and sometimes it just

ran out and away. When it was the dry season, I would go see my

father in Khartoum, which was a three-day train ride away. My fa-

ther worked at a company there, in an important position, and every

day a brown car would come and pick him up and take him to work.

Sometimes my mom would miss us, and tell us to come home, to

return to the farm.

I loved the farm so much. The thing I liked best about it was that

we grew a lot of peanuts. I also loved watching my grandmother and

the cow doing the plowing. My grandmother walked in front, came

back to hit the cow, ran in front again, and the cow followed, pulling

the plow. It looked funny when my grandmother was in front and

the cow was behind her, instead of the other way around. When the

plow flipped the soil over, it looked like someone stirring it. When

the cow finished, people came into the field and sprinkled all kinds

of seeds and red and black beans into the ground, hoping for a good

growing year. I liked scattering seeds, too. We used our feet to tuck

the seeds in and close the earth around them.

I learned so much from my grandmother. She would often say,

around the farm, “Watch! Because next time you’re going to be doing

it!” She was tall and strong, full of hope and determination, and still

young. The farm was a gift from her mother. She felt very close to it.

It was the one thing her mother left her, and she loved it. She was the

one in charge. She had a lot of people to do what she told them to do.

About fifty people came everyday to work there. Some of them were

related to us, and some were close friends. She trusted them and

wanted them to work for her. Sometimes she would go help at other

farms, and other times people from other farms would help her.

Sometimes my grandmother and I rode our horses to the farm,


especially if my mom was already there. We never went straight there

on the horses. She took us in big loops, around and around, because

sometimes she was tired of working and wanted to have a little fun.

Every time we rode, we passed a big, green tree. She told me that her

grandmother and her mother were born under that tree, and she

was, too. They were like a part of the tree—they came from its roots.

My grandmother told lots of stories like that. She told my

mother about how she learned to grow seeds by herself. My mother

takes messages of hope and strength from my grandmother’s stories,

because she thinks that one day everything will happen just as her

mother says it will. My grandmother just knows things.

sA day came when my brother and I were standing next to our

farm gate and we saw some people on horses holding guns coming

straight into town. They were tall and were wearing women’s

dresses and scarves on their faces. They got close to us and then

started shooting people down. At that time, I was really afraid that

they might shoot me, too, but my grandmother and mother came

and took us into the house. My mother moved my grandfather’s

bed away from where it usually was, and there was a hole in the

floor. Later, I learned that the hole had always been there, always

meant for hiding children when bad people came. My brother,

mother, and I got inside the hole.

My grandmother did not come with us. She knew, from many

other times, what these people wanted to take from the town, and

she knew how to talk to them. Once or twice a year they would

come, their faces always covered. My grandmother knew some of


these people. One of them used to live in the town with her, and she

recognized him when his scarf fell off his face. Half of them would

come to the middle of the town to negotiate for the town’s food and

animals because they did not have houses to live in, food to eat, or

animals of their own. The other half of the people would go to the

houses around the edges of town and steal from them.

We were down in the hole for almost an hour hearing people

call their children and mothers. It took six or seven hours for the

bad people to steal what they wanted, but the townspeople decided

not to let them take their animals and food, and tried to fight them.

They caught one of the bad people on the horses, but the others ran

away. At last, my grandmother came and opened the door for us to

get out. It was around 7:00 or 7:30 when the fighting finished; we’d

be in the hole since noon.

The next morning the townspeople talked to the man that they

had caught to ask him why the bandits had done what they did,

and who had told them to come to our town and steal from us. He

told the people that he was working for someone, but he would not

say who that person was or where he was. My grandmother was

there, and she decided it was time to speak. She asked the man if he

wanted to live or die. If he wanted to live, she said, he had to show

them where the person he worked for was.

For the rest of the day, we waited for the man to tell my grand-

mother who the man was that he worked for, and after hours and

hours he decided to tell. When they finally found his accomplice, the

people in our town made him pay money and bring back all the stuff

he had taken from us, and my grandfather was the one to tell the pair

of men that if they ever returned to our town again, it would be their

last day. They believed it, too, because my grandparents are the kind


of people everyone listens to and respects, even bandits. They have a

kind of strength that seems as though it cannot be stopped.

sDays after the bandit left, my grandmother was walking to work

when a bomb exploded near her. She flew to the far side of a nearby

house. People ran to my grandmother and helped her, before coming

to tell us what had happened. They took her to the hospital and

looked after us. This was because of my grandmother’s kindness and

care for everyone. It was her turn.

My mother, my brother, and I went to the hospital to see her. It

was hard for us to see her, our strong grandmother, in the hospital.

She was there for almost six months. My mother sometimes slept by

her side. On the days when my mother was in the hospital, a person

from our town came to be with us until the following day, and then

another person came. My grandmother’s farm stayed the way it was

because the people loved her and didn’t want to her to lose it.

My grandmother got out of the hospital, but she never found out

who had put that bomb there. I know that if she had, she would have

taught the bad person a thing or two about how to behave. She does

not walk the same way she used to—strong, like the tall branches

of the tree that she had been born under, and firm, like the plants

that grew from the seeds she’d scattered so hopefully—but she still

works on her farm, and still she knows things.

It has been almost ten years since my mother has seen her moth-

er, but this March, she will go back to Sudan and see her after so

many years. I hope my mother will carry my grandmother’s own

messages of hope and strength back to her.

Michée RunyamboDemocratic Republic of the Congo

When the Sun Disappeared

It is the morning of the second day. No birds are singing, and no

kids are playing soccer in the street. The air is thick and cloudy, but

day has finally come. We can actually see the damage by the light in

the sky. Now we can see where they hit. Now we can see that we are

at war.

sThe day before we had traveled to our vacation house up in the

mountains. That house was my haven. It was beautiful, covered by

trees and isolated from the world. It was made of brick and its floor

was so smooth that we used to slide in the hallways.

When we arrived birds were singing in their nests and our

dog ran around trying to catch butterflies. The breeze hit my face

60 b Michée Runyambo When the Sun Disappeared b 61

smoothly and the river down the valley was very blue. The moun-

tains around the house are what make it so beautiful, and it was cold

at night, yet warm in the morning there. The mountains guarded

the house.

Our family had a feast and it was majestic. The air was filled

with the intoxicating smell of home cooking. We all sat at a big table

under a tree with huge branches. I sat to the right of my father, and

served myself. We made jokes and I laughed so hard that my stom-

ach started to hurt.

After supper we ran to the top of the valley and lay there for

hours. The sun pierced my face. The warmth was relaxing and made

me sleepy. Then the sun disappeared, and the air felt disturbed and

tense. I opened my eyes and saw figures overhead. They were big and

white, with enormous wings. There were so many that they covered

my beautiful sky and seemed to be heading toward the city, toward

my home there.

More planes came. My dad got a phone call, and he told my moth-

er something and she ran to our room and came back with our suit-

cases. We all got into our car and left the mountains for home.

sMy neighborhood was so beautiful. I loved the quiet of the place,

the mango trees, and the forest on the side. Every house was a

different color. Ours was red. Nothing ever happened in one house

without the others knowing about it. The streets were narrow and

full of dirt, and whenever the sun was out you could always hear

the women singing. At night it was the drunk man’s turn.

It was a Saturday morning, when we returned, the busiest day at


the market, but the streets were abandoned and all the stores seemed

empty. No one was buying Tom’s delicious papayas. His stand was

pushed to the side and the fruits were on the ground. Cars were left

in the street. I could see people closing their doors. I didn’t under-

stand it at first. Why was everybody afraid of the planes?

When we arrived home, my dad called our neighbor and told

us not to go in our house, but to hide in the neighbor’s house in-

stead. Our house was big, with about eight rooms, and I remember

that the floors were always squeaky. Our neighbors were family, and

our next-door neighbor was a very good man. Almost every week

he would bring food to our house, and whenever my dad and mom

weren’t home we would go there.

My dad sent us to hide in his house because ours was too dan-

gerous. It was too big, too noticeable, and they knew where my fa-

ther lived. My father was a doctor; he was also one of the people who

had helped elect the president, and he was one of the biggest targets.

He explained this to me before he left us and went to the hospital.

He would find it packed with people, and he would perform surgery

on five people that day.

sAll eight of us were hiding in one room, trying to keep ourselves

quiet and eating what we could find, which was mostly water and

beans. There were only two beds, so some of us slept on the floor.

The room we were stuck in was small. The walls were made out of

mud over bricks and the roof was made out of metal.

It rained that first night. I always loved it when it rained.

You could hear the drops of the rain and that relaxed me. With


everything that had happened—my father leaving, bullets flying

all around us, and bombs exploding—all that fear seemed to burst

out of me. With my father not there to calm me down, the rain

took it away instead.

We sat there for hours in the night, not saying a word, just lis-

tening and hoping that the next bomb wouldn’t fall on us. My little

sister was five years old. I remember her crying at night and our

mom telling her it was okay. “God’s with us,” she said. She would

hold her tight and you could see all the trouble leaving the little

girl’s face.

My mother is a brave woman. She took responsibility for keep-

ing us safe. As the rain continued to fall, I could hear my mother’s

voice singing in the corner of the room. Her voice filled my head, and

my eyes gave up. I started crying. It seemed as if the more she sang,

the calmer I became, and the more I thought that it was all a night-

mare. My little brother was lying next to me. He told me he couldn’t

stop his hands from shaking, and I held them and told him to sleep.

“Everything will be okay tomorrow morning.”

The joy in the room was found in my youngest sister. She was

small and innocent, and whenever bombs exploded she clapped her

hands and laughed. A plate of beans was in the middle of the room,

and she struggled to crawl over to the plate to eat from it. Minutes

later, the small room smelled like our neighborhood dump yard.

My baby sister sat there laughing, and through her smile you could

see her only two teeth. The smell was so intolerable that we were

tempted to get out, because even the bullets seemed better at that

moment. We all sat there laughing together, and for a brief mo-

ment, we forgot about the fear that was keeping us there.


s

This day, the second day, a Sunday, had arrived slowly. The sky isn’t

blue anymore; it is blood red. Everything seems quiet. For a moment

I almost believe it is over. I get out and can’t believe what I am seeing.

My beautiful home is ruined. Destroyed. My mother starts sobbing

at my side, and my siblings stand there watching in horror as the last

piece of our childhood burns to the ground. Then everything moves

too fast, bullets ricochet around us, and a bomb explodes not ten feet

away. We run back into the small house and close the door.

The soldiers start going into houses, taking people out and

executing them in the street. They come into the neighbor’s house,

find us, and force us out. They shoot the neighbor right in front of

us. His family isn’t there so they mistake him for our father. He is

like our uncle. We call him by that name, and they hear us too late.

They leave us outside and burn his house to the ground.

They go to look for our father next door at our destroyed house

but can’t find him, so they leave and go to the hospital. There, the

soldiers find his patient and kill him instead. My father escapes the

building with one of his friends and together they run into the forest

next to the hospital.

My dad and his friend spend the night there and walk to a river

that divides the forest in two. The river is next to big white rocks. I

remember how I used to go swimming there. The water was always

icy cold and it seemed as if nothing could live in it, but on that day,

my father and his friend find a crocodile in the water blocking their

path. The crocodile doesn’t move until nightfall, and they can’t go

back because the soldiers are still looking for them. So they wait.

When the crocodile swims away at last, they cross and find an


abandoned camp. The soldiers who were looking for them had used

it, until very recently; faint white smoke is still escaping the fireplace,

and fresh tire tracks are all around them in the muddy ground. This

is when my father realizes that if they had crossed the water any

earlier they could have been caught.

sFor us, the third day arrives and we are running low on food. We can’t

run because surrounding us are soldiers celebrating their victory,

singing and shooting bullets in the air. We are hiding in our burned

house, what is left of it. All hope has left us. Our neighborhood is

destroyed. Our friends have been killed. I do not know if my father

has survived or if he is ever coming back. But I can’t look as if I have

lost hope to my siblings. Being the oldest son, I have to tell them that

everything will be okay, even though I don’t believe it.

I am sleeping next to our fireplace keeping watch, when I hear

the familiar sound of an engine. Before the war began, the sound of

an engine had been my alarm clock. It was the sound of my father’s

car coming home from the hospital, and it meant that I had to go

to school. The noise, I realize for the first time, sounds like a plane

taking off. I hate the sound, but at this moment it fills me with hope

and joy despite myself.

But it is no dream. My father has arrived! He gets out of his car

and has the same expression as us when he sees our house. I wake

everybody up, and we all run down to him, climb into the S.U.V.,

and drive away.


sLooking behind me then, I knew that I would never come back to

that place. I would never be with the same people, never walk the

same street going to school, and never go out to play in the same

forest.

I remember a time when I needed my father: I was at school,

sick. I remember wishing he was there, and he showed up out of

nowhere. I used to think that he knew whenever I needed him. With

every bad situation I went through, my father was my rock. That was

the first time that I called him and he couldn’t come.

That day, we drove back to our vacation house and found it un-

disturbed. That night, there seemed to be more stars than usual and

I asked my father about them. He told me the stars were all the

people who were killed in the war, all the people that deserved bet-

ter. I slept soundly knowing that our neighbor was in a better place,

above me in our sky.

Amira Al SammraiIraq

Breathing in the Rain

One time I lived

in a room with a window

I had to lean far out of

to see a small patch of sky.

I could hear children playing outside,

but through that window I saw

no sunlight and no stars.

I couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

I was in a small bird’s cage.

I remember one night—

the clouds hugged each other

and the sky rained.

That night I hated to stay

68 b Amira Al Sammrai

in my room so I went out

to breathe the roses’ perfume

and see rain falling on the paper bark

of trees washed from the hot season.

Thin water flowed between my feet.

Back inside, the rain fell on my window,

making a beautiful voice

and mixing its steam with my breath.

That day, I flew with the raindrops

and I saw the gardens and deserts.

I saw farms. I saw houses.

The rain is a miracle of God.

After the rain eased

I could still smell it,

and I went to bed

to sleep

and to wash my heart again.

68 b Amira Al Sammrai

“Out the window, I see houses made of wood and painted white. They look clean and pretty, and bright flowers and trees are all around them.”

—Elahe Seddiqi

Elahe SeddiqiAfghanistan/Iran/Slovakia

We Can All Jump in Puddles

It’s so hot in these jeans I’m wearing. And this long shirt is really

bothering me. I’ve been wearing mostly boy’s clothing for three years

now. They have never bothered me this much, but this bus has too

many people on it. Everybody is tired; some are sleeping and some

are talking to each other. My head is leaning against the window,

looking out, wondering what’s going to happen in our new life.

My mother, my sisters, and I are traveling from the airport in

Slovakia to the evacuation transit center in Humenné, which will be

our new temporary home. We left Iran two days ago, and eventually

we will get to the United States. Two years before this, my mother

decided that she had to leave Iran, after we had emigrated from Af-

ghanistan, where we are from, so her daughters could be educated. My

father doesn’t believe in education for girls, so he wasn’t interested in

coming with us—he always wanted to have sons instead of daughters.

72 b Elahe Seddiqi We Can All Jump in Puddles b 73

It took two years for my mom to get permission to immigrate to

the U.S., and we were told that first we had to go to Slovakia to learn

English, get the right documents, and get to know the U.S. better.

All I knew how to say was “Hi,” or “How are you?” in English, so I

had a lot to learn in Slovakia. In Humenné there would be classes for

small children, adults, and teenagers.

Out the window I see houses that are made of wood and painted

white. They look clean and pretty, and there are bright flowers and

trees all around the houses. In Iran, we lived in Tehran, in an apart-

ment house made of brick. The weather in Tehran was warmer than

here, but there is something different here that I can’t explain. I don’t

know if it is emotional or physical, but I feel like I have been changed

already. I don’t really know whether I’m happy, sad, or if I am going

to be surprised or regretful in my new home. I have no idea.

My little sister Mahnaz asks one of the interpreters, “How far is

it? Aren’t we there yet?” He replies, “Ten more minutes.” I can see her

disappointment when she leans back against the seat. I know how

she’s feeling right now. We have already had two long flights. Fortu-

nately, this bus is the last part of our trip to the new home where we

will be staying for six months.

Finally, we pass a big red gate opening into a huge yard. We pass

two brick buildings with many windows. One has four floors and is

tall and handsome. There is also a small building for trash, a store, a

building that houses illegal immigrants, a playground, a field, and a

laundry. In the middle of the yard, I see a single small tree with many

leaves, like none I had ever seen in Iran. It is exactly the opposite of

what I imagined. I thought it was going to be a bad place, but this is

nice. I find out later that it used to be a military base.

We stop. The interpreter is telling us that we can get out of the


bus. I’m so thankful to hear this; it is like someone told me that I

could fly.

We don’t leave the settlement for the two first weeks. Everybody

wants to go out and see the city, but we have to wait for identification

cards. When we finally get going, everybody is very happy—we all

jump up and down. I hate being cooped up.

sWhen we lived in Tehran, there was a funeral for an imam who was

very important. The boys and men were in a group in front singing

sad songs and hitting themselves lightly with chains. The women

and girls walked behind crying. I wanted to be in the front with the

boys—it would be so much more exciting and fun.

I wanted to know what it would be like to be a boy. They had so

much more freedom. I decided I was going to cut my hair, dress like

a boy, and go where boys go and do what they do. I wanted to see

what made people treat girls and boys so differently.

My parents and youngest sister were out of town, and although I

told them that I was going to cut my hair, I wasn’t sure they believed

me. I went to the barber who was my friend and sat with the other

boys waiting. The boys told me not to cut my hair. They said, “If I

were you, I wouldn’t cut my hair because your hair is cool.” I had no

idea if they thought I was a boy or a girl. I didn’t have a scarf on, and

I was wearing a shirt that could have been for a boy or girl. But I got

it cut, and I was so excited to see what was going to happen the next

morning.

My parents came home when I was falling asleep, and they

checked on my new hairstyle. My mother thought it was beautiful.


Mahnaz said, “Oh my goodness, there is my brother.” My dad just

walked away. The next morning I saw myself in the mirror, and I was

shocked to see that I was fabulously cute, a real lady-killer!

A couple of days later, when it was time for the funeral, I walked

with the boys. At first I thought, Oh my god, I am walking with all these

boys and they think I am one of them. Out of nowhere, one of them

slapped my shoulder and asked, “What’s up, bruh?” I blushed a little

because no one had ever done that to me. I didn’t know how to re-

spond. All I did was smile, sort of like a girl. Later, a friend said that

I should have slapped him back and said, “What’s up with you?”

After that, I was two people: During the school day, at my all-

girls school, I wore a headscarf and was a girl; and when I wasn’t at

school, I took off the scarf and acted as if I were a boy. My friends

in school wanted to know what the boys talked about. They would

ask me if certain boys were talking about them. It was like I was

a spy.

One day one of my friends asked me what my boy-name was,

and I told her I didn’t have one. That afternoon I asked my sisters

and mother what my boy name should be, and they all had ideas, but

my mother insisted that the name should have Mohammad in it. I

really wanted to be called Mehdi so we decided I would be Moham-

mad Mehdi. When I went back to school I told my friend—who

also sometimes dressed like a boy—that my name was going to be

Mohammad Mehdi. She said, “No, I’m gonna be Mohammad and

you can be Mehdi. How does that sound?” I said, “I don’t mind.” And

so I became Mehdi.

I became more used to being a boy. I took an acting class with

my sister in Tehran. I told the teacher I was a girl but was pretending

to be a boy and she said that was okay. Then a girl in the class fell in


love with me as Mehdi. My sister told her I was a girl, but she didn’t

believe it. I scolded my sister.

Another time, I was walking with my uncle. I was mad because

he wouldn’t buy me an ice cream, so I wasn’t talking to him. He

said, “If you don’t talk to me, I am going to yell to everyone that you

are a girl.” Then he started yelling, “Everybody! This is really a girl

dressing like a boy! Her real name is Elahe!” And people looked at

us, wondering if he was a lunatic or if I was really a girl. When we

were having immigration meetings about our trip to Slovakia and

the United States, the first thing I asked was if we would have

to wear headscarves. Everyone in the group laughed at me then

because they realized that I was really a girl. I was relieved when

I was told I wouldn’t have to wear a scarf. I had given all my girly

dresses away.

sIn Humenné, I am called Elahe, my girl-name, but I am mostly a

boy to the other boys. Some of them are afraid of me because when

we fight I beat them up. After one or two weeks, more refugees

come to Humenné. The building is full. Every family is living in one

room.

We play every day in the yard with the other kids. It rains a lot in

Slovakia, and one rainy evening my sister Hayde is excited because

she likes it when it rains. Hayde calls our other sisters Nila and

Mahnaz, some of our friends, and me to play in the rain. The rain

makes lots of big puddles. We take our shoes off and play tag. We

jump into the puddles. We are all muddy and wet, but we are having

a lot of fun. I think happiness is important in life.

76 b Elahe Seddiqi

sWhat is the difference between a boy and a girl that made my mom

suffer when she gave birth to her daughters and not sons? That

made my dad’s family blame her, ignore her, beat her, and curse her

because she didn’t have a son? What is the difference that made

my dad decide that he didn’t want his daughters and made him

compare them to the boys he never had? What is the difference

that makes most people in the world think boys are more useful

than girls? What is the difference that makes people not let girls do

things that boys do? What is the difference that makes a girl full of

fear when she walks alone at night and when a boy does it is like

the darkness was made for him? What is the difference that made

my mom think she had to move so far away to make sure that her

daughters could be educated and made my father not care to follow

us? Being a boy and a girl did not give me the answers to these

questions.

When we came to the United States, my sisters and I found that

we have more freedom here as girls. I started to think that I could be

more myself, as a girl. So, I gave away my boyish clothes, like button-

down shirts, and started being more comfortable with who I am.

When I was in Iran and Slovakia, being a boy was more fun because

parents didn’t worry about their boys being outside late at night,

or sliding down a dangerously tall hill. But it doesn't really matter

where you call home. I have experienced being a boy and being a girl

and prefer to be myself because that’s who I am, and I love who I

am. Really, the difference between a boy and girl doesn’t mean much

anymore—we can all jump in puddles.

76 b Elahe Seddiqi

“There was a suffocating stillness in the village as I washed dishes outside, like a moment before a rainstorm.”

—Sahara Hassan

Sahara HassanSomalia/Kenya

A Moment Before a Rainstorm

I started having doubts about how Somali women were treated when

my mother began telling me stories about brave women, I wondered

if the way women were treated was just a cultural thing, and not a

religious thing.

I was confused and did not know what to believe. All my life I

had seen that women stayed home and cooked while men fought and

worked outside of the home. But one night, as my mother cooked

rice with me in Kenya, she told me this story:

“It was a hot sunny day, and there was a suffocating stillness in

the village as I washed dishes outside. Everything around me was

quiet and very still like a moment before a rainstorm. The clacking

sound of dishes and the slow wind in the trees were the only things

I heard. Suddenly, I heard a loud gunshot coming from a distance

not far from my house. I was shocked and my whole body became

80 b Sahara Hassan A Moment Before a Rainstorm b 81

numb and cold even though it was at least a hundred degrees out.

People started running out of their homes toward the direction of

the gunshot. My siblings and husband also went toward the gun-

shot. I had no idea who was shot, but I had terrible feeling inside

that made me feel sick. I put my firstborn baby, Osman, on my back

and ran.

“As I got closer to the area, I stopped in my tracks. The place

everyone was running to was my brother’s house. Hot tears ran

down my cheeks and burned my face as I whispered, ‘No, no, not

my brother.’ A huge crowd gathered around beside someone lying

on the ground. I ran as fast as I could, and could not believe what I

saw. My brother had been shot in the stomach and blood was oozing

out. Everything else that happened was a blur because I fainted, face

first—I was probably protecting the baby on my back—and came

to the next day. My husband told me that two rebels had killed my

brother as he was getting ready to pray. The rebels took his camels.

“I had five brothers from the same mother and father and six

brothers from my father’s second wife. I loved all my brothers, but I

had a very special bond with the brother that was killed. Unlike the

rest, he would always help me with chores and make me laugh when

I was depressed or angry. I felt a deep sorrow after this tragic event.

“War had started in Somalia and no one was safe. Many people

were already migrating to other countries, especially Kenya. The

death of my brother was unbearable for me, and I did not want any-

one else in my family to be killed. Your father and I started packing

up whatever we had and were ready to move the next day.

“The next day most of the neighborhood started to get ready for

departure. I put Osman on my back and helped your father bring

everything we owned outside. A while later, your father and one of


my brothers were chatting under a tree when someone with a gun

entered the room I was in. I was getting the last thing from that

room when I heard a man’s voice. He told me to go outside if I didn’t

want him to shoot my son and me. I turned to face him and laughed

in his face. ‘You killed my brother, and now you are threatening to

kill my son? You must be out of your mind, man.’

"The man was shocked because he had never seen a woman who

was brave enough to talk to him in such way. He managed to slap

me on the face, but I kicked him in the gut causing him to stumble

backward. The man laughed at his own pain but could not believe

what I had done. Luckily, my father and uncles heard the laughter

and rushed to save me.”

Even though the intruder had a gun, my mother still was brave

enough to save her son and herself. She kicked an armed man, not

knowing what he would do to her. My mother told me many stories

of her life that I thought were very courageous. This event was be-

yond bravery; it told me something about what women are capable of.

sWhen my family and I eventually got to America, I went to fifth

grade in New York. I did not know English or anyone in the whole

school. Everything looked strange to me, and I felt like I didn’t

belong, with my hijab and long skirt. Being a Muslim in a new

country where Islam is often misunderstood is very challenging. Not

knowing how to speak English only made this worse. I was also very

shy and couldn’t look in people’s eyes. When talking to anyone or

when they were talking to me, I looked at the ground.

Five months later, my family and I landed in Maine, where I con-


tinued with fifth grade. My first day of school at Longley Elementary

School in Lewiston was November 15th, 2006. My dad dropped four

of us off in his new green minivan. We had never seen a playground

before, and there were kids doing tricks on strange things with wheels.

Now I know they are called skateboards, but back then nothing made

sense.

I was sent to a group of students lined up in a straight line and

taken into the classroom. I sat in a chair next to a blonde girl who

looked me up and down. She was looking at the way I was dressed.

Later that day she asked me what I was wearing and why. Even

though I did not understand a word she said, I knew from the way

she was looking at me that she was talking about my scarlet hijab

and the long dress I wore. I nodded and smiled because I hoped she

was friendly, but then I saw an expression flicker across her face that

said, “What is wrong with her?” I saw that expression many times in

the next couple years as I learned the ways of living in America.

I was put in a class for English Language Learners (ELL). On

Fridays we went to the library, where we’d pick up books and return

them the next Friday. I would stand there and look at all the other

kids picking up chapter books and reading them. I would pick up a

picture book and just look at the drawings. I would not even try to

read it. I would just see a bunch of words that I’d never seen before

and stare at them. I thought, “Can this still get worse? When will I

learn to read? When will I learn to write? Am I ever going to speak

English?” Those were the kinds of questions that echoed in my mind

constantly, especially when I saw how some immigrant kids, who

had been in America for longer, spoke English to each other.

It was embarrassing to me and other immigrant students to be in

ELL. Everyone else in the school knew that Room 213 was an ELL


class. Back then, some students made fun of the ELL students. They

teased us, saying we were very dumb and that we should just go back

to our country. They made fun of the way we dressed, the language

we spoke, and the color of our skin. I did not care about the way I

was dressed because it was my choice to be modest. I did not care

about the color of my skin because I knew that God created me and

that even though everyone was different on the outside, we were all

the same within. However, when they said that the ELL kids were

dumb, I was embarrassed. Sometimes I would wait in the bathroom

until everyone went to class and then I would sneak back into Room

213 in order to avoid being teased. Even though their words hurt

and made me angry, they also made me stronger.

Despite all the challenges I faced learning English, I have finally

started to feel confident with this new language. I progressed from

ELL classes and now take all mainstream classes. One day my uncle

gave me a copy of the Qur’an and the Hadith, the sayings of the

Prophet Mohammed, both translated into English. When I was a

little girl living in a small refugee camp in Kenya, memorizing the

Qur’an was easy for me, but I never understood it because it was in

Arabic. I never understood my religion because no one ever taught

me. I prayed five times a day like any other Muslim without really

understanding what I was saying or why I was praying. I knew that

God existed, but I never understood his commands. Now, as I began

to read the Qur’an in English, I finally understood the words I had

been memorizing for nine years. It was so beautiful and powerful

that I felt as though God was talking to me through it. Reading the

Qur’an in Arabic was also beautiful, but to be able to understand

what it mean—it was just so powerful.

After reading for some time, I came across a page that talked

84 b Sahara Hassan

about the rights of women. It said women were equal to men. The

Qur’an said to treat women with respect and not abuse them. Many

unanswered questions went through my mind. I thought, why do

these men claim to be religious if they don’t follow what Allah said?

Why do they abuse women and make them feel oppressed when

clearly the Qur’an states the opposite? Then I realized that these

men sacrifice their religion for the sake of their culture. They pick

and choose the part of Islam they want to study and leave the rest,

the very important parts. They are nothing but cultural Muslims. I

don’t understand why people claim to be Muslims if they don’t study

it correctly.

Finally I realized how pure and beautiful my religion was and

how culture has nothing to do with it. Islam is very simple, but add-

ing things like culture make it very difficult to comprehend. Now all

I want to be is Muslim, a Muslim American because America is my

home now. Not a cultural Muslim, but a Muslim who will submit

to Allah alone and worship him alone. I want to be brave and coura-

geous like my mother. I want to be a strong American Muslim girl

and nothing else.

84 b Sahara Hassan

“This was the first time I’d been alone in a place where I lived—in Jilib, Kismayo, Mogadishu, Garissa, Virginia, or Maine. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

—Aden Issack

Aden IssackSomalia/Kenya

Carrying Heavy Things

My family had a big house where even animals were welcome. We

had a variety of animals such as goats, cows, and camels. Jilib was

a small town—a very good place. People cared for each other. We

knew our neighbors well. The weather was beautiful: always warm,

but not hot. We had a lake nearby. There were bright greens in

Jilib—trees, grass, and big mountains.

Every day, my family and I woke up early and sat outside in our

front yard. This was the time of day that we were all together, and we

could talk about how we were doing. My mother would make us all

black tea with fresh milk from our many goats. All of us, after we ate

and talked, would feed the goats. I fed the little ones.

My father had given me the choice of learning the Qur’an or tak-

ing care of the goats. I chose the goats. I learned from them. It was

my job to take all of the little ones to the forest behind our house

88 b Aden Issack Carrying Heavy Things b 89

every day for their exercise. We took long walks—sometimes going

very slowly because some of the babies were still learning to walk.

Although they were animals I knew that they loved me. They always

wanted to be close to me and interact with me. I wished they could

talk so that I could understand their love and their needs.

We had thirty goats, including the little ones, while I was grow-

ing up. The names I remember are Cadan, Semin, Waxara, Kasi-

wanin, and Cadiya. Cadiya was the sweetest one. She gave my family

so much. She was old, nine, and had given birth to so many beautiful

babies, and given us so much rich and delicious milk. She and I had a

lot in common—we were both quiet, relaxed. I can’t describe it, but

when I hear her name now I feel like she’s right next to me.

One morning my mom was visiting the neighbors to see how

their night had been. My father, brothers, sister, and I were sitting

,having our tea with goat milk and talking, when my mom entered

the yard. Everything was different about her: her face, her walk, and

her voice. She said that we had to leave Jilib, that the war was com-

ing. Then she said that the only way we would be able to afford the

bus tickets would be for us to sell all of our goats.

sOn the bus there were many families. The babies were crying because

of the lack of freedom and space. My little brother cried, too, and my

mother struggled to comfort him. I was very nervous, but one thing

that excited me about going to Mogadishu was that we would be

living with my Uncle Abdi. I had only met him one time, when I was

very young, and was looking forward to knowing him.

When my family arrived in Mogadishu, we were happy to be


done with the long trip and the safety issues along the way. Outside

in Mogadishu it was very dark and it was raining. I could see some

very tall buildings around us. Also, there were so many people. I felt

different. I was glad to see my uncle, who met us there. He took us

to his house. My aunt thought we should have a cup of tea to warm

up, but it was strange. The color was different, too dark, and the taste

and smell were all wrong.

My Uncle Abdi was twenty-seven years old then. He had a short

beard and moustache, brown eyes, short ears, and a small face. He

always smiled when things were going well for him. When people

described him, they would say he was a hard worker. He was a teach-

er and he dedicated his time to give opportunities to kids through

education. When people asked my uncle why he liked to teach, he

would say, “I don’t know if I will die tomorrow. I want to take my

knowledge and teach other people.”

My uncle liked his job even though he was making a small wage.

All the kids in my uncle’s class wanted to be a teacher because it was

one of the most important jobs, and it was not physical, like cleaning

someone’s house for money. Everyone had goals of becoming doctors

or teachers because for those you only had to use your mind and

work with people.

Uncle Abdi had three days off from work: Friday, Saturday, and

Sunday. Those three days, he and I would have conversations about

how things were going: the good and the bad about the past week.

We’d spend three hours talking about those things and then play

soccer, just the two of us. I really miss him—his encouragement—

but most of all his personality. We still keep in touch by phone, but

I miss when we were together.

Life in Jilib was beautiful. It was my home. It was a rich life, full


of traditions and closeness with my family, animals, and the land.

When I moved to Mogadishu, I lost my community. I lost the goats

and the delicious tea and traditions. But when I moved there, I was

able to meet my uncle who taught me about work, and what it means

to be educated enough to work only with your mind and use your

knowledge to teach others. I had only ever known work that involved

your body in Jilib—carrying heavy things, or walking long distances.

sThree years later, I was in the United States. It was raining. I walked

from school to my house, which was not a long way. I lived on the

second floor and had to climb many stairs to get to my family’s

apartment. I was thirteen years old. I opened the door and it was

quiet in the house. I listened for the sound of my little brothers

yelling.

“Hello,” I said. But nobody was there. I checked the rooms and

still nobody was there. I put my bag down and went into the kitchen

to look for some food. I opened the refrigerator and found an apple

and ate that but I was still hungry because I hadn’t eaten lunch. I

didn’t like the food at school that day. I tried to make some pasta

but I was scared because of the fire. I had never cooked for myself

before. I called my mom on her cell phone but she didn’t answer. She

was usually home.

This was the first time I’d been alone in a place where I lived—in

Jilib, Kismayo, Mogadishu, Garissa, Virginia, or Maine. I wasn’t sure

what to do. I heard really loud music coming from someone else’s

apartment upstairs. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. I was so hun-

gry but I couldn’t find any food that I knew how to make.


Then I decided that I would try to make tea for the first time in

the United States. I took the kettle and put some water into it and

then put it on the stove. The water boiled and I saw that so much

steam came out when it was ready. The water was very, very hot and

I poured it into a small glass cup. I thought that this was tea. I nev-

er thought that maybe I’d have to add anything else to it. I’d never

made it on my own. My mother had made it when I was growing

up in Jilib, or my uncle when we moved to Mogadishu during the

war, but this was my first time. I remembered my mom saying that

she added sugar to tea to make it sweeter, so I took the grocery store

sugar box off of the shelf and poured it into the cup. I wanted to take

a sip right away but it was too hot—so I put it in the freezer.

When I finally took a sip it tasted like something else—it wasn’t

tea. I threw the cup into the sink and gave up. I went into the living

room and started watching TV. That was the last time I had tea. I

am seventeen now, and still I have not had it again. I won’t drink it

again until I can go back home to my country of Somalia, and have

it: dark familiar tea with fresh goat milk. That is the only tea for me.

Judica’elle IrakozeBurundi

Mamoutchka

I was born in a place where no one is certain about his or her

future. During the war, Bujumbura was a place where people did

not know if they would wake up the next morning. It was a place

where people killed each other to settle an argument over property

or money. Anything that you may have today, may not be there

the next. People are uncertain if they will have anything to eat the

next day, government workers do not know if they will receive their

wages at the end of the month, and the students never know if they

will be able to continue their schooling. People are insecure about

their homes, which could be seized by the government without any

warning. In Burundi, there is no guarantee.

In all of this uncertainty, my family was the only part of my

life I could rely on. My mother, Mamoutchka, is kind, strong, and

determined. She is my treasure, now and always. My papa is a

quiet business man. My three sisters, Naomie, Tessie, Chance-

line, and my sweet young brother, Billy; I love them very much,

94 b Judica’elle Irakoze Mamoutchka b 95

too. In the evenings, my mom would make pundu with rice and

homemade mayonnaise on fries and we would all sit around the

wooden table together. We would forget that we were a family

because we were having fun and laughing as best friends. In my

heart, the only thing I knew for certain was that I would always

be a part of my family.

One January morning during agatasi, the rainy season, the fields

turned green, the birds returned, and the flowers grew tall. I was

in my senior year of high school and had begun thinking about

my plans for university. We only had one public university, and

people from all of the provinces would travel to seek out an edu-

cation. I worried I would not receive a good education there as it

was overcrowded with students and there were constant strikes by

the professors. Because the university struggled to stay organized,

students were unable to finish their degrees or find work.

In my opinion, it’s not about education in Burundi; it’s about

who you know. For example, a mayor of one of our provinces became

mayor simply because he knew the president—not because he was

educated or right for the job. If you don’t know someone, you need

to give him or her money. Even if you have a job, the wages you

earn are not enough to afford necessities like food. There are many

difficulties. I had begun to worry about my future, and so had my

Mamoutchka.

One night, I was keeping her company as she cooked in the

kitchen. She had been preoccupied lately. I had seen her thinking

by herself a lot. Cutting onions, she paused and became very serious.

She told me that I would be leaving Burundi. I stayed quiet. I was

amazed by her decision to send me away.


She asked me, “If you leave Burundi, will you be able to take care

of yourself, prioritize, and move forward without your parents by

your side?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. I never had imagined my life

without my parents. My mom was hoping to make me free, inde-

pendent, and mature. She wanted to send me far away from all the

problems of my country, to a place where I would be free to make my

own decisions and be in charge of my life.

I knew I didn’t have a say about the decision because I was al-

ways obedient to Mamoutchka. “Yes, that is the best decision you

have ever made,” I replied.

At that moment, I was excited about the opportunity to find

a better education, and also to be free of my parents’ rules. I was

seventeen and just like any teenager, I didn’t like having a curfew

or being told I had to study instead of watching television. What I

didn’t realize was that a part of me would stay in Burundi forever.

It was only after we bought my airplane ticket that I realized that I

was really leaving.

I brought one suitcase with me. In it was my pink diary, some of

my favorite dresses, a photo of Mamoutchka when she was twenty-

one, my bible, and scented oils that Nyokuru, my lovely grandma

who lives in the mountains, gave me. The airport was full of people,

hurrying and preoccupied. My conscience began to wake up when I

walked toward the ticket agent and looked back to say goodbye to

my family and saw them staring at me. As I kept walking, I felt alone

inside. I looked behind me again and discovered that my family was

gone. Yes, my family was gone, and that was the last day I saw them. I

began crying until I heard a voice say, “Your passport, please, miss.” It


was the ticket agent. I stopped crying and handed him my passport

with a smile, but inside I was in pain.

Since that day, I have felt empty inside. When the plane took off,

I began to think about the eighteen years I had lived in Burundi, my

motherland, the place where I was born and had lived until this mo-

ment. I remember my first day of school. My mother turned to leave

me and I began to cry so hard that she stayed with me at school. I

felt so good with her, safe in the middle of the new faces of children

like me who were starting school. There would be many new things

ahead of me, but I would not have my Mamoutchka with me now.

In the United States, I go to a good and safe school that I do not

have to pay for. My teachers care about my success and me. I live

in an apartment with a roommate in the middle of the city. I cook

pundu but I don’t know how to cook it like my mother. I like to cook

chicken, which I taught myself how to do. I clean my room, and I go

to school. Every month I have to remember to pay my bills and my

rent. My new friends and roommate have helped teach me how to

manage these responsibilities.

One day, I was with my friend Evelyne in my apartment. Sud-

denly I heard a sharp sound I thought it was a gunshot. I ran and

hid in my room. My friend, surprised and laughing, found me and

helped me up. She explained to me that it was just fireworks for the

Fourth of July. To me, these were the sounds of violence, but here

they were the sounds of independence. I then realized that I was so

far from my home and the war there, and instead was in a country

of peace. She invited me to go outside and see them and I went with

her.

It was when I looked up into the night sky and saw the shining

and beautiful fire lights that I realized I had found an answer to


mother’s question. When she asked if I would be able to manage my

life without her, I could finally tell her that yes, I was in charge of

my life. I had grown into an adult daughter. It was not easy, but I’ve

changed my own mind about myself.

Faris BazigaRwanda/Tanzania

Through the Storm

I went walking through the streets during a snowstorm. Houses,

cars, and sidewalks were hidden by white cold ice. I wore sweatpants,

a sweater, and a string-clothed hat. I had my Jordans on. I walked

along Merrill Street, up on Munjoy Hill. No one was in the streets.

It was foggy. You couldn’t see anybody. I was trying to find the new

apartment my family had moved to in the East End. The new

apartment was about a fifteen-minute walk from where we used to

live. The night seemed unending.

I kept moving through the same streets, but yet the snow still

dropped. Big snowflakes hit my eyes, and the coldness raised goose

bumps all over my arms. The cold burned. I felt like going into a ran-

dom apartment just to catch the warmth inside. I walked up the same

block I had been down. When I had moved along Lafayette Street for

the fourth or sixth time, I realized I had lost my way back home.

s

100 b Faris Baziga Through the Storm b 101

Home was back in Africa, where it was full of markets, people,

and motorcycles. I loved sitting on the small front porch of our

house. We had a little garden where we planted a few crops, such

as tomatoes and avocados. I remember two big trees we had. One

of them was called muarbini. It could treat forty illnesses. The other

one was known as mravumba, and could treat skin diseases and

headaches. My mom was the one who told me that the muarbini tree

could treat the worst disease in Africa, known as malaria here. The

smoke from burning the wood or bark of the muarbini could kill

all the mosquitoes in one’s house. Putting its leaves into a pot with

water and drinking the liquid helped destroy malaria. I once tasted

the muarbini, but it tasted sour, like green pepper, but worse. If you

couldn’t resist it, you could puke.

Near those trees, in my neighborhood, I loved playing soccer.

Blocks bet money on games. My friend Tutu and I played a lot. I

used to play as a defenseman or midfielder. We played eight-on-

eight games. I knew most of my teammates well because we lived

close to each other. My best friend Tutu played striker. During the

weekends or on vacations, we wandered through the streets of Mu-

mena and Kivugisa, where the sun shined upon us.

sI grew even colder. I couldn’t feel my fingers. I had to heat myself up

by rubbing my hands together for friction. I kept moving through

the snow, still wondering where our new apartment was. At times,

I thought I saw familiar buildings, but when I got closer to them

my hopes died and the fear in me grew. I couldn’t take it anymore. I

asked a man for his phone to call my mom for directions. The man


was tall and he had covered himself in a long coat.

“Excuse me, sir, can I use your phone to call my mom?” I asked.

He looked at me and said, “No, I don’t have a phone.”

sIn Africa, I felt fear, too. It wasn’t always sunny and safe. Sometimes

it was worse than the snowstorm. Wild things had surrounded

me, back when I lived on the banks of the Akagera River. I saw

dangerous animals there: crocodiles and hippos, and some wolves.

The harm they could cause was either injury or death. They were

a threat to me, especially when I went to collect water in the

morning. News could come back to us that someone had gotten

caught by a crocodile and died, no remains found. That really

scared me. And even worse, small and medium-sized snakes from a

military camp that we lived close to came to our house. Sometimes

I stepped on the small snakes, killing them without even knowing

it. I remember when a cobra snake was in our outdoor kitchen. It

frightened my mom really badly.

“Aaaaahhh!” she yelled, and then called my dad on his cell phone,

and one of my uncles who lived close to us. A few minutes later, they

came to our house and told my mom and me to stay away from the

kitchen. They used a machete and a metal bar to kill it.

sThe idea of death came to me when the coldness got to my feet. I

couldn’t feel my toes. That was the worst feeling ever. But in me I

said, “I can do it. Let me just keep moving.” And then I saw a kid


about my age. He was a white kid, kind of big. He was dressed for

the weather, in a big jacket.

I asked, “Hey, there, do you have a phone I could use to call my

mom?”

He replied, “No, I don’t, but there’s a gas station across the street.

You might find one there.”

I felt relieved. I thanked him and walked fast to the gas station,

where I met a lady who was polite and gentle. She let me use the

phone. I dialed my dad’s number, but I didn’t get an answer. And

then I called my mom’s phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello, Mom, it’s me, Faris. I’m at 7-Eleven, and I’m lost,” I said.

“What are you doing out this late at night?” she asked.

“Mom, I’m freezing. I’ve been out here looking for the house for

two hours,” I said.

“Well, walk straight up the street from 7-Eleven till you see

Emerson Street, and turn left,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

She ended the call, saying, “Get here quick. It’s too dangerous

outside.”

sIt was way more dangerous in Africa, because of the witchcraft that

occurred, day and night. We had to stay away from witches and evil

spirits. Some people in America do not believe in witchcraft; they

say they never believed in that voodoo stuff. But I do, because I’ve

seen it. Witchcraft is used out of greed and selfishness, or to get back

at someone, or to get wealth, love, and more. For example, you could


find yourself at the same income level as someone else, but the day

after some witchcraft you might find out that he or she became rich

out of nowhere.

Some witches contain more power than others. Some send evil

creatures to carry out their power, such as a human bat. This scares

other men and me because it is believed that it can rape any man it

can catch. These spirits and witches have rules that should be fol-

lowed to avoid their evil doings, and if not followed properly the

wicked deeds could come back at them. The majority of people who

use witchcraft are rich politicians and famous people who seek more

than they have and do not think of the poverty and misfortune they

cause the victims of their actions.

sI finally got home and I felt really happy, at last getting to see my

parents and my sister. But I was also angry that if I had only moved

further out from where I was at first instead of making the same

small circles I could have reached our new apartment on my own.

But still I felt relaxed and calm, and I headed to the shower. While

in there I thought of my connections to my friends back in Africa.

I thought, “If I die, or something bad happens to me, how would

they know what happened?” It was pretty horrible to think about,

but on the other hand the people I love most are with me, and living

together in a country of peace and prosperity, where I know I am safe

at all times. I took a glimpse out the window, and I saw the snow was

still falling, but it looked soft. I thanked God that I made it home.

Ali AljubylyIraq/Jordan/Saudi Arabia

Jumping the Wall

A wall with a small door surrounded our school, and we could

escape any time we wanted. I must have been eight when I first

went over the wall, probably getting away from math class, because

I have always hated math. Our classroom in Karbala was small.

Maybe it had ten desks. Sunlight came through windows and open

doors. It was hard to concentrate. Looking out into the courtyard

you could see kids playing soccer. I remember the teacher checked

our fingernails to see if they were clipped. If they weren’t, you got

smacked on the knuckles with a ruler. You had to put your hands

on the desk and she would bring down the ruler right on top of

them. I could never seem to get my nails trimmed right. It hurt,

but I got used to it.

I wanted to go outside. There were days when I wanted out so

bad, I would ask to go to the bathroom and never come back to class.

I didn’t get what she was teaching anyway. I always went to a hiding

place underneath the school. It was dark under there, but the light

106 b Ali Aljubyly Jumping the Wall b 107

would come through slats of wood that kept me hidden and cool

and I could still watch the kids play. School got out at noon and then

I would come out, jump the wall, and go play with the other boys at

last. Girls and boys had separate school times. One week, boys went

from 7 am to noon, then the girls from noon to 2 pm. The next week

we switched.

One day, my teacher gave me back a math test. I saw the “F” on

it, and I crumpled it up and threw it on the ground. My aunt who

worked at the school found it on the ground and called my mom,

and I got punished—sent to my bedroom. I jumped out the window

to run the streets.

When I lived in Iraq, we played nonstop. We didn’t do our

homework, and we didn’t do well in school. Our mothers would get

angry with us, but we didn’t care. Back then, there was nothing to

study for. We all knew that. Instead we played soccer, day and night.

Sometimes we wouldn’t even eat, we’d be so busy running, and play-

ing soccer, and we also liked to spar a lot. You always have enemies,

and we used to love to spar just for fun. Every week we would fight

just to see who was toughest. We were never really angry at each

other. That’s how we played with each other.

I miss fighting. It was just what we did. I don’t know, it’s just

how we would feel alive. We would go to an open lot where there

was a lot of sand, and where there was one way in and another

way out in case adults showed up. If you got hurt you just put

some dirt on the wound. And in Iraq, we had respect for our

families, so if your brother had a fight with a friend, you backed

up your brother. If your friend was fighting your cousin, you

backed up your cousin. If it was a one-on-one fight, you stayed


out of it. Our parents didn’t like all the fighting, but I think they

understood it.

My father was not around to stop the fights anyway. He lived

in America, from when I was six. He had left Iraq to find a bet-

ter job. He always hoped that he could bring us with him to find

better schools and a better life. When I was eleven, he came to us

and helped us all to move to Jordan, and then to Saudi Arabia.

But for a long time it was just my mother and my brothers and

sisters.

sWhen we finally came to America ourselves, to New Orleans, I was

twelve and didn’t speak any English. It was difficult to adapt, and

people treated me differently because I was from Iraq, you know,

that country that has a war going on. At first it was hard to make

friends, not speaking any English, but now my English is pretty

good. After a year or so, I got used to America and things became

fun, but it was hard work.

In New Orleans, we lived on Durant Street in Metairie. It was

always hot, not much rain, which kind of reminded me of home in a

certain way, but the city itself was full of Hispanic immigrants and

African Americans. The neighborhoods were full of drugs, drink-

ing, and shooting. Kids like eight years old were drinking alcohol.

And there was no discipline or respect for adults. Kids were more

violent than in Iraq. Most of them didn’t fight unless they meant to

hurt someone. When we rode the school bus in New Orleans, the

students cursed, laughed, fought, played rap, and the bus driver was


scared of them. At school, kids beat up the teachers. The students

knew that the teachers couldn’t hit back.

In other ways, I felt at home there. Every day kids were spar-

ring, breakdancing, playing ball—just basketball instead of soc-

cer. People were always outside. I ran the streets with my friends,

jumped walls and fences, all of that. In the summer it was so hot,

it reminded me of living again in Karbala. I can still hear the ice

cream truck coming around the corner, but we’d already be think-

ing about the pool.

My boy Dante was from another apartment complex. He was

born in New Orleans. Kareem, Abdul, and his little brother were

from Egypt—we all used to run together. I’d make fun of Dante,

saying he was scared to jump the fence to the pool, and then he

would climb the apartment complex fence and let us in the gate. The

fences were black metal like prison bars, and he could climb so fast.

We had some good adventures.

sThat was actually the second time I lived in New Orleans. The

first time was when my family had just come from Amman, Jordan,

to the States. We were in New Orleans for only two weeks when

people said there was a storm coming, but not to worry; it happens

all the time. We left all our stuff and got out with everyone else,

crossing over the bridges before the lake walls gave way. We didn’t

think it was a big deal, but it was. Katrina hit, and I don’t have much

to say about that. People went crazy; all our stuff was trashed. We

stayed in Houston for a while before moving back to New Orleans.


When we heard there was another hurricane coming we moved

to Portland, Maine. Once again, it’s been hard to adjust. The first

time I saw snow was when I came here, in 2008. At first I was

very happy to see snow, because in my country it never snows. My

brothers and sisters and I played outside, made snowballs, and had

fun throwing snow at each other. But the winters are so long and I

can’t go out and play enough. My brothers and I don’t like winter

anymore.

Back in Louisiana, the streets had felt more like home. Boys ran

together there. Yeah, New Orleans has a high crime rate and I’m not

saying that’s what I want, but it is alive there, it’s exciting. People

are more engaged in living in Louisiana. They have jazz, and it’s all

about expressing how you feel. I can’t do that here; people don’t have

the same understanding. Maine is too quiet, too efficient. When I

first arrived here some kid came up behind me and put his hand on

my shoulder and I turned without even thinking and hit him. It was

just a reaction. I’ve learned that it is too expensive here to hit people.

I miss life with less control. I feel contained here. But I might go back

to Louisiana again soon anyway.

It’s like a cycle. I get used to a place, but I know I am going to

move again soon. I try to get comfortable with the idea of moving

back to New Orleans for a third time. Like, on the one hand, my

dad has connections down in Louisiana, and that makes life easier;

but on the other hand, the education there is not so good, and also

there is not much help for immigrants there. Then again, in New

Orleans there is so much to do. If I get bored with one thing I can

go do something else. In Iraq, my family had stores, food markets,

and furniture-making outlets. I could always get a job from a family


member. Here, in Maine, we don’t have those connections. In Iraq, I

didn’t have to worry about it. Here, I don’t have high expectations. If

you don’t have a master’s degree, you are not going to get a good job.

sWhen I was in Iraq, I could provide for myself. If I wanted to buy

something, I’d find some copper from an old car or some machine,

sell it, and have the money I needed. My friends and I made up our

own games, like “sand in the bottle.” A bunch of kids would fill a

bottle with sand and make a ball out of socks. One of us would

knock the bottle over with the sock ball and everyone would run.

Everyone understood how the game was played. Every year, in “kite

season,” kids would buy a kite or make one. I made mine. We were

very competitive. Each of us would get a special string: it was sharp

and would cut the string of another kite. There was a system: if you

cut a kite, you would sell it to the owner or to someone else, or you’d

keep it.

After I’d been here for a while, my creative spirit began to fade.

In Iraq, I had this leadership quality: I’d make up a game, and pretty

soon, everyone would be playing it. When I came to the States, that

changed. Whenever I suggest, an activity, kids say no, they want to

play video games or watch TV or get on the computer. This was

new to me so I felt like I had to explore the way they played, and

eventually I lost interest in my way of playing. I became lazy and sat

around watching TV, playing video games, and using the computer

like everyone else.

But I really want to stay here in Maine. I want to become a bet-

ter writer, and do better in school. I’m thinking of becoming a rap-


per. I miss that life, what feels like home, but now I can escape in

other ways and find other walls to jump. My own imagination is

what keeps me inspired. I know that life is slower and not as exciting

as in movies. I have to believe in a better life, a successful life, and

even if I don’t get it, it’s good to think about. And what if does come

true, huh?

Edna AdanRussia/Somalia

Upti Hassan

You know, I didn’t always wear the hijab; there were times in my

childhood when the sun would beat against my bare back on the

beaches, when the snow would land on my hair and I’d just brush

it off, and most importantly, when other girls would touch my hair,

amazed at how soft and thick it was. On those days I was beautiful,

free and carefree. I would look back on these times in the early days

of wearing the hijab, often sobbing.

In Arabic, the word hijab means “curtain” or “screen.” It’s a curtain

of sorts, distancing men from women. It has certainly distanced me

from the opposite sex more than a few times. At first it was a curtain

I couldn’t really handle; it distanced me from my peers. It took me

away from people who would’ve otherwise accepted me as I was. It

was awkward when I had to play sports in school because the only

pants I had were baggy sweatpants that had to be pulled up after

every step. The first few days I wore it, I was in darkness, hidden

behind this curtain, like an actor with immense stage fright. The dif-

114 b Edna Adan Upti Hassan b 115

ference was, the actor thrived on that fear and used it to guide him

through his passion. Other than the fear of society, what passion did

the hijab bring me?

A man, my uncle, helped me find my way beneath the veil. Upti

Hassan liked to chew gum, but he didn’t smoke. He once nodded to

a drunk and told me if I ever went that way, he’d disown me. I guess

his favorite drink was coffee because I’d never seen him put it down.

My uncle and I talked about food a lot, often during Ramadan be-

cause I knew it made him angry, and I told him I’d only stop if he

took me out for dinner and he did. This was when I first wore my

hijab.

Sometimes when I think of my uncle’s great character, I get a

horrible feeling in my stomach. Although I was born in Russia and

raised in western culture, I had very ethnically Somali parents, but

they, like everyone, assumed I was aware of the old Somali ways.

My uncle was the only person who understood that I had adapted

to this culture, and he was an incredible bridge for the culture clash

between my parents and me.

Every time my uncle came to town, he gave us some pocket mon-

ey. My sister often got mad at me because my uncle gave me more

money than he gave her, and his explanation was always the same.

“She’s older than you, has more responsibilities than you, and car-

ries more burdens than you.” He always spoke in Somali, never in

English, trying to incorporate our culture in any way he could. My

sister never understood why it was so hard to be an older sister, how

I had to be the first one to go college in America, to enter school

wearing the hijab. This wasn’t my culture but at least I had my uncle

to help me.

There were mother and daughter problems. I used to fight a lot

114 b Edna Adan Upti Hassan b 115

with my mom because she wasn’t aware of my general awkwardness

as a teenager in America. In her culture, it’s supposed to be the oppo-

site: I’m supposed to grow more love and respect toward her instead

of defiance and independence. When my uncle came to town, he

not only gave us money, but he passed on his advice about how to

understand my mother. “Aren’t you aware of your mother’s struggles?

Your younger siblings are in need of leadership and the hopes and

dreams you parents have for you.” His maxims of leadership in my

family played a role in almost everything I did. Because of his advice

I grew a lot as an adult.

Who will be my child’s Upti Hassan? Who will tell my kids that

we came here because we were immigrants, and though we were here

to stay, this place wasn’t our place? I don’t know how well I could do

on my own without guidance as strong as my uncle’s.

My hijab identifies my standing not only in my religion, but also

as a woman. It covers some of the pain of being a young Muslim in

America. Replace this story and put it in a different location, a differ-

ent home, a different language even, but the experience I’ve had can

relate to a similar story of another young Muslim girl somewhere

in the world, who wouldn’t be at home with who she is without her

family’s guidance. In my case, my guide is Upti Hassan.

Chrispo NiyokwizerwaRwanda

Emmanuel MuyaDemocratic Republic of the Congo

Ralph Houanche Haiti

Three Soccer Players

The BallChrispo: In Africa, we made our own balls with plastic bags tied with

rope. The ball couldn’t fly or bounce because it had no air. We were

not allowed to use these balls at school or at home because they were

always smashing through windows and breaking everything.

EmmanuEl: I used anything that was smooth or round and moved

when I kicked it. It could be a puppet or a mango or even something

fragile. I started loving soccer when I was very young—probably

when I was five years old. My mom used to tell me that.

ralph: It’s hard to believe that thirty years ago my dad used to play

soccer without a ball. He didn’t even have soccer cleats. In Haiti, he

played in bare feet and used anything round for a ball, like an orange,

an avocado seed, or socks stuffed into one another.

Three Soccer Players b 119118 b Chrispo Niyokwizerwa / Emmanuel Muya / Ralph Houanche

One DayChrispo: One day, I sat down to watch the kids choosing teams and

one team was down a player. They looked around and I was the only

one there. Because I was quiet and hadn’t played with them before,

they didn’t even know if I could play, but they put me on their team

to complete the number of players. They started playing and no

one passed me the ball. By chance, the ball came to me. I kicked a

crossover through my opponents and then I scored. Everyone was

astonished and my teammates started cheering for me, calling my

name. I had never felt so happy.

EmmanuEl: One day, my mom bought me a soccer ball, and I played

with it, kicking it and throwing it up in the air.

ralph: One day, I was in front of my house watching some older kids

play when a player asked me if I could sub in because there weren’t

enough people that day. I said yes, but I knew my mom wouldn’t let

me. It was too dangerous for me to be in the crowded street. I went

inside to change my mom’s mind. My heart was beating fast. I had

never asked her before. She is the kind of person who doesn’t like

to say no, I wasn’t sure about this time. But I made up my mind

to stand up for myself, to argue for myself, to be my own man. She

didn’t want to change her mind. I decided to give up. But right before

I stepped out of the room, she called me back and said, “You have

until seven to come back inside.”

Street SoccerEmmanuEl: I taught myself soccer in the street. The street wasn’t

paved, so we had to play on the sand, in bare feet. It was my routine.


I played with my friends and cousins everyday. We were so stuck

together that we felt like a family.

ralph: All of the kids in the neighborhood played. When I was little,

I stood on top of my roof watching them play in the street. My dad

never allowed me to play. He always said that it was dangerous and

that I would get hurt. The area was only fifteen feet wide and twenty-

five feet long. The goals were made with wood held together by

ropes. The ground wasn’t flat and was covered with rocks. The street

was dusty, and when it was windy the dust blew down it. When it

was rainy, the street turned to mud. But this never stopped anyone

from playing. They played until the sun went down. Sometimes, the

temperature was over 110 degrees, but that didn’t stop them, either.

Every time a person or a car wanted to pass through, one of the

players held the ball and everybody moved to the side and waited

until the street was free again to play.

Role ModelsChrispo: I remember that as soon as my mom and dad left for work

in the mornings, my older brother Fabrice and I always played soccer

together. For a while he was the best soccer player, at home and at

school. He could beat five people by himself. The more I used to

play with him, the better it made me. To my surprise, I found myself

beating him one day.

In Rwanda, we have two rival soccer teams. The fans of both teams

call their team “the greatest of all teams.” One of those teams is called

“APR” and the other is “Rayon.” I am a fan of APR. When these

teams play each other, stores close, and the whole country’s eyes are


on the TV and the stadium is full of the fans of each team. All of

Rwanda goes crazy and people shout until morning. My country is

full of mountains, and when people shout, their voices travel and

come back to you.

EmmanuEl: My brother Marc and I loved soccer like crazy, but

unfortunately my big brother has one leg that is handicapped. He

limps when he walks. But he is a tremendous athlete. He used to

play all the games and is very skillful. He was doing things that even

I couldn’t do. He was strong and courageous. My brother and I used

to have a dream about becoming star soccer players just like those

we watched on TV.

ralph: My dad did anything in the world to watch or play soccer. I

remember him telling me that when he was young and he wanted to

watch a game he had to go to a store downtown where fifty people

stood around one television for an hour and a half yelling,and

screaming at the screen. Throughout his life, he played for many

different clubs in Haiti. Just like my father, I started playing soccer

as soon as I could walk. Every afternoon after kindergarten, I stood

in front of the door, waiting for my father to come home from work

and play with me. He taught me everything about the game. He

always wanted me to play harder than all the other kids my age.

ObsessionChrispo: Back in Rwanda, I had to be home by curfew at 4:59, but

sometimes I would stay at school and play soccer until I could see my

shadow in the moonlight. I would run home late, and the question


from my parents was always the same, “Where have you been?” My

response was always, “I was playing soccer.”

EmmanuEl: By the time I was seven years old I was so obsessed with

soccer, it was all I could do.

ralph: In elementary school, we were addicted to soccer. We were in

a private school, boys only, and we had to wear uniforms: white shirts

and gray pants. We had thirty minutes every day to play soccer and

eat lunch. Some of the kids didn’t eat, to have more time to play. And

the rule for after school was that we were to sit down quietly and

wait until our parents came to get us, but my friends and I would

look for a space where the principal wouldn’t see us and play soccer

with a plastic bottle.

More Than a GameChrispo: This is why I love soccer. No matter how bad you might be

at communicating with people, once you play soccer with them they

love you and start to care about you. No matter how many places I

pass through, from Rwanda to Uganda to the US, soccer is the only

constant that remains the same to me.

EmmanuEl: I came to the United States in 2009. Playing in the

United States is much different than playing in Congo. The system

in Congo is slower because we don’t play one- or two-touches, where

your foot only comes in contact once or twice with the ball; we stay

with the ball longer, and that’s why we are very good dribblers. I was

extremely confused when I first started playing here. Today I am

122 b Chrispo Niyokwizerwa / Emmanuel Muya / Ralph Houanche

feeling more confident. I hope my senior year will be successful. I’m

dedicating myself to running a lot in the summer and playing more

so I can be ready for the coming season. I even hope to reach the

state championship. I dream about it sometimes.

ralph: I remember the day of the final game I played for my high

school in Haiti. The following year my family and I would move to

a new home in the United States. All kinds of people were there:

students, teachers, parents, and friends. Our team made a circle and

prayed. After the prayer, we all screamed at the same time, “Dieu,

Dieu, Dieu, Saint-Louis, Saint-Louis, Saint-Louis, dan di, sousi kadnase,

nou pral goumen pou sa nou kwe.” That means, “God and Saint-Louis,

help us to fight for what we believe.” The referee blew the whistle and

the game started. It was tough: fifty-fifty possession, and both teams

had chances to score but the goalies were making saves like pros.

When the referee blew the final whistle, we were out of our minds,

screaming and hanging on to each other. We had won.

I wish that my father had been there to see that final game. He always

wanted me to do my best, and that year, I did. My father taught me

how to play soccer, but more than that, he taught me to believe in

myself, to work for what I wanted, and to be a good person. People

learn how to play soccer, but soccer teaches people not to be selfish

and to work as a team. For me, it has always been more than a game.

122 b Chrispo Niyokwizerwa / Emmanuel Muya / Ralph Houanche

“The empty land brought us,the neighborhood children, together.We were home, and safe, as long as we were there.”

—Elias Nasrat

Elias NasratAfghanistan/India

The Fate of the Trees

I.

An alley on the left

and a street in front

formed an angle

that embraced our home.

Across the street

grass and sessile trees

stared through the windows.

I know

why they stared, for

my father told me once

126 b Elias Nasrat The Fate of the Trees b 127

that our house

was a field.

The empty land

brought us,

the neighborhood children,

together.

We were home,

and safe,

as long as we were there.

We were the only ones

to worry about

the fate of the trees.

Otherwise, where would we hang

our swings? Or hide

from the sun on a hot summer’s day

while we walked to school?

II.

I remember when we first moved

there was heavy snowfall.

Older children

took advantage of the land’s shape

and built from it a slope.

I watched them from the window

or sometimes went along.

126 b Elias Nasrat The Fate of the Trees b 127

After winter, spring came:

The grass grew tall

and butterflies flew

from flower to flower.

The tall grass was

a better floor to fall on

than the dry hard floor

of summer

or the sloppy floor

of winter.

When spring ended, summer came.

We hung our swings in the trees

or made ourselves soldiers

firing at each other

with water-filled guns.

The older children did not care

what we did.

They flew kites instead.

Autumn made me feel alone,

not because my friends were gone—

there was something in the nature

of this season:

Maybe seeing

barren trees

and the sky clear…

128 b Elias Nasrat

III.

Now, years later

I live in another place.

Here,

three fields are near our house:

One with full grass but no trees.

One with full grass surrounded by tall maples.

One with nothing

but tall trees.

When I was young I wished I would

grow up fast.

Now that I am older

the snow stays a long time

and I don’t have time

to play outside.

128 b Elias Nasrat

“All I ever did in my tiny place was lie in the water with my back facing the ground, and my face toward the sky.”

—Annick Umutoniwase

Annick UmutoniwaseRwanda

In a Tiny Place

When it wasn’t raining, without the sound of the water, it was just

a beautiful, quiet place surrounded by yellow flowers. I had a perfect

view of it from inside the window. It was tiny, but just right for me.

It was my favorite place to go, because it was the one place where

I could convince myself that I could swim. My parents and other

elders in my house were always worried that my sisters and I would

catch some dangerous bacteria in that place. All of the water that

came around the edges of the house and down from the roof was

dirty.

I never cared much about anything I did back then. I told myself

that a ten-year-old was still too young to care about her actions and

the consequences that came with them. I was just a little girl without

responsibilities. I remember one time when the sky changed from

sunny to gray. There was lightning and thunder was booming. The

power of the raindrops made big holes in the sandy ground. But I

knew that as long as it was raining, I didn’t care about how bad the

132 b Annick Umutoniwase In a Tiny Place b 133

storm was because there would be a lot of fresh water in my place.

The middle of a rainstorm was the perfect time to be there.

My nanny told my sisters and me not to go outside because it

was dangerous, but I always thought she didn’t want me to go be-

cause the water was dirty. She was protective because she loved us

so much. She was a kind and generous woman who treated us like

we were her own daughters. She liked to tell us stories whenever

we came home from school. Funny ones, sad ones, and sometimes

stories about what it was like when she was our age. I would listen

to her stories, but I couldn’t keep my mind there. Standing in the

living room, looking through the window, watching water run down

from the drainpipe in my favorite place, I snuck out the back door

and went there.

All I ever did in my tiny place was lie into the water with my back

facing the ground, and my face toward the sky. But once, I pretended

like it was a pool and tried to dive deep. I wasn’t looking where I was

going, and the power of the current pushed me as I surfaced from

my dive. I hit my head at the end of the ditch. My senses started to

dull. The only thing that I could feel was the cold of the water and

the force of the current that kept me pinned alongside the ditch.

I couldn’t move or talk and that scared me. How had it all hap-

pened so quickly? I prayed for someone to come outside to save me.

I thought I was going to die. I thought no one would come outside

while it was raining, unless of course it was an emergency. Then, as

if my prayers were answered, my nanny came outside to find her

sweater, and she saw me lying there. She lifted me up immediately,

and I felt relieved to be saved. The doctor said that I hit my head so

badly that I had to stay in the hospital for at least a week.

There is a big difference between who I am now, and who I was

132 b Annick Umutoniwase In a Tiny Place b 133

then. The little girl inside of me who made me act selfishly became

a big girl with a lot of responsibility. Since that time, I never go

outside when it’s raining because I still think of that tiny place. I

gave it up because of what happened to me there. Sometimes when

I comb my hair where I hit my head, it still hurts, and I remember

when I couldn’t be patient and stay in the house during that good

soaking rain.

Vassily Murangira Burundi

Swimming to Safety

The best time to cry is at night, when the lights are out, and even

if you sniffle a little, nobody can hear you. If people know that you

are crying, they start asking about it. Sometimes, you don’t feel

comfortable enough to tell them who you are.

People may wonder why I write these things. Two years ago I

found myself alone. I wondered what would become of my future

without my family. I had learned from my parents how to be a ma-

ture person, and from my brothers how to wrestle. I wished I could

have stayed and continued sharing these things with my family. This

did not happen. But this is not the story I want to tell because it

reminds me of many unbearable memories. Instead, I will tell you

about a time in Africa that makes me smile.

It takes place in Burundi, my country, where my friends and I

lived in a lakeside town called Bujumbura. The town had a beach

136 b Vassily Murangira Swimming to Safety b 137

where a crowd of people was always swimming, drinking soda and

beer in the beach bar, and sunbathing on the sand. It’s called Saga

Beach. Sometimes at the beachside hotel both tourists and Burun-

dians danced to an outdoor DJ. Sometimes people played volleyball

or soccer in the sand. On the hottest days, when it was more than

thirty-five degrees Celsius, I traveled to the beach with my friends. It

was only twenty minutes away from my house.

On the day of my story, when we finished putting on our bathing

suits, we went to play in the water. My friend Thierry was very com-

petitive and told everyone else that we should have a swimming race.

We would see who swam the fastest from the shore to a rock stick-

ing out of the water. Elijah, Olivier, Chrislain, and me—we were all

about the same age—decided that this would be a fun idea to keep

us fresh on a hot day.

To make it more interesting, I proposed that my friends and I

would give the winner 2,000 Fbu (which is about $4 U.S.) from our

pockets. We would leave the money on the beach under our clothes,

where it would be safe and dry.

Chrislain and Olivier, who were sitting on the sand like everyone

else, immediately agreed to the terms because they thought they had

a good chance to win the money. Elijah didn’t agree. He grumpily

told me that 2,000 Fbu was too much money. He pretended to be

angry with me, firing out insults like “dirty thief,” and accused me of

turning a fun game into something more serious. He complained

that Chrislain, Thierry, Olivier, and I could easily afford to gamble

but he couldn’t because his family had less money.

As a solution, we decided to let Elijah play without putting in

the money. We still put in our own money because we wanted the


competition to depend on it—to put in everyone else’s mind that

there was more at stake. This was how our games became more ex-

citing. Just like Elijah said, the game had become more serious, but

now it was seriously fun.

We all stood up from the sand and formed a line at the top of the

beach. Thierry yelled, “Go!” without counting. But we were ready for

that. All five of us sprinted down the sand and dove into the water,

making five big splashes.

As soon as we hit the water, I knew I was going to lose. I’m not

a very good swimmer, I thought, but at least I’m not the worst. Chrislain

was the worst because he was really fat. He liked to eat—he was the

one who always wanted to eat French fries and fish and chicken at

the beach bar. At least I knew I would not come in last place.

Everyone swam the crawl stroke, even Chrislain. We were all in a

straight line. After just a few minutes of swimming, Elijah took the

lead because he was so fast and had a muscular body. I was skinnier

than Elijah, and that’s why I was a little bit slower.

While we were swimming on ahead, Chrislain just gave up and

floated on top of the water. He waved for us to come back, but we

were still racing. I didn’t have the money on my mind because I knew

I was going to lose, but I kept swimming behind my friends to en-

courage them to swim even faster.

Elijah won by two body lengths. Thierry came in second place.

Olivier came in third. I was fourth. And the last, of course, was

Chrislain, who didn’t even finish.

When we finished, we stopped swimming and just floated out

by the rock, catching our breath. All of a sudden, we heard Chrislain

yelling to us, “Gustave! Gustave!”


Gustave was a massive Nile crocodile who was sixty-five years

old and twenty feet long. He was famous for being the biggest croco-

dile in Africa, and sometimes he made his home in Lake Tangan-

yika, our lake, when he was not in the Nile, Congo, or Zimbabwe.

I was scared for my life. I did not want to be eaten. We took

Chrislain only half seriously, because he liked to joke around, but we

headed out in the water, fast. People say that Gustave is a notorious

man-eater because he has eaten over 300 people on the shores of

Lake Tanganyika and Lake Risizi in Rwanda. The last time Gustave

had been seen was February 2008, and it was here, in our lake. He

might still have been there.

All four of us screamed when we heard the name Gustave. We

swam even faster than in the competition to get back to shore. Chris-

lain was waiting for us there, and he was screaming, too. I didn’t

know why I was swimming so fast because it probably wasn’t true,

but I wanted to save my life just in case. It was hard to breathe.

When we got to shore, we turned around, and saw that there was

no Gustave behind us. Chrislain was laughing. We surrounded him

while he was still laughing and we tackled him in the sand. He told

us to forgive him, and he promised he would not play those kinds of

games again, because he could have made us drown with all of our

fear. We forgave him, and then we showered and got dressed.

Elijah, who didn’t even put in any money, received his prize. Be-

fore we left, Chrislain tried to get Elijah to buy him something to eat

at the bar, but Elijah refused. He had a plan for his money. We all

walked home together.

This is my last happy memory I have of my friends. Now I do

not hear from them, but I hope that God will protect them. I hope


they’re still together as friends. A few days after this, my life was

threatened and I had to escape Burundi to save it. I’m now living

in the United States. Whatever happens on the earth, I won’t be

stressed, because God has the solutions. But I wonder if I will still

be myself when everything is over.

Hanen MohammadIraq/Turkey

Hot Noons and Cold Nights

Dear City:

You were the city that stole my hopes and delayed my dreams. I

want to know what remains of you. You have taken so much of me,

yet I love your nights, which granted me the opportunity to watch

wistfully the deceitful stars in the clear sky, while eating roasted

sunflower seeds on the roof of my grandparents’ house with my

family.

I want to know whether your sky is still clear with the unrea-

sonable bombing that has been taking place between your children,

and you sending them away so soon without giving them the chance

to blossom? Or do your people even remember to look at your sky

anymore?

I would like to know if people still praise you for your hot noons,

142 b Hanen Mohammad Hot Noons and Cold Nights b 143

which you provide to them for a nap, or the humid evenings when

your people gather to drink homemade lemonade, which makes

them forget all about their tiring work during the day?

What remains of your pungent spice shops, which force people

to stop and take a look at what is hiding in each woven sack? Or your

traditional fabric shops, where women gather to chitchat and pick

clothes for their children or grandchildren?

In fact, I am so curious: What remains of your bone-breaking

cold nights, which brought my shoulders to my siblings’ and made

us hug each other to stay warm?

Do you miss me as much as I do, even though I couldn’t be good

company?

Dear Hanen:

Knowing your dreams, I have never tried to delay them nor did I

try to steal your hopes, but I have prayed that you’d get what you

desired. I am so thankful that you, my little compassionate human

being, were able to laugh from your sea-sized heart, with your loved

ones, while eating the sunflower seeds that once bowed down with

sadness when the sun left them.

My skies still remain crystal clear waiting for your hopeful gaze.

My people love my skies; they use their precious time to watch them

with encouraging eyes letting their waves sink deep down into their

souls.

My people appreciate the noons that provide for them comfort

and ease. They are thankful for the evenings that gather them and

grant them the time to laugh and be free of worries.

142 b Hanen Mohammad Hot Noons and Cold Nights b 143

The stores remain open where mothers, daughters, and sisters

meet to interact with one another while looking for things to make

their little ones happy.

And the cold nights remain, reuniting loved ones and holding

them close to keep one another warm and cozy.

I miss seeing you here in my arms playing with the different

shaped beards with your friends. Keep in mind that the future could

be hiding astonishing moments.

Jordy IzereBurundi

Everybody Had a Good Life

I’m from Burundi, and this is how I used to live. In my country,

between Rwanda and Congo, there were days I couldn’t go swimming

because of crocodiles. Unlike the giant U.S. grocery stores, open-

air markets where people carry baskets on their heads, full of fruit,

surrounded us. Fresh fish were sold from Lake Tanganyika.

My grandma has a dairy farm in Burundi that she started with

my grandpa. They also had a family-run neighborhood store. They

worked so hard and always came home late. Now my grandma runs

the farm alone because my grandpa passed away. He and I didn’t

have a lot of time together, but he was a great man, respected by

everybody. He is the person I respect the most.

My grandma is good at building houses and anything else you

can think of. She loves gardening and cooking, and never gets tired,

even though she works so hard. I would like to be like her when I

grow up, and I bet that right now she is working on a new project.

146 b Jordy Izere Everybody Had a Good Life b 147

Her farm is at the beach. Each cow has a place to sleep and eat.

They eat herbs, grass, and hay. The Amasayewari cows produce a lot

of milk, and the Brune Swiss produce a lot of meat. On the weekend

we would go to my grandma’s house. We would eat dinner together

and afterward I would play outside in the yard with my brother.

When we slept over at her house she would make us muffins the

next morning. She told stories and we’d listen and laugh and play

games together. When we came home, we’d tell our parents her sto-

ries and we’d all laugh again.

The economy and the violence of Burundi made my parents

move to the United States. It was hard to leave Burundi, knowing

that my friends are still there. I was the only one who could make

it. I want to help them but I feel like I can’t. I still talk to friends on

Facebook but it’s hard because some of them aren’t used to technol-

ogy. I can’t see them and I know their lives are difficult.

When I first arrived in the U.S. it was late at night and what I

saw was lifeless, silent, and peaceful. But, when I woke up the next

morning, outside my window I saw a sunny playground with kids

running around and birds in the sky.

I saw buildings, tall as a mountain, where people work, and I

thought maybe someday I could work there too. I saw what America

was all about. Being thirteen years old, it didn’t take that much to

impress me. I noticed the air filling my lungs was fresh and crisp. At

the same time I felt that life in America would be better than life in

Burundi.

In America, I expected a place where people had money and

weren’t homeless, and everybody had a good life if they were willing

to work hard. I expected that there would be struggles but I always

knew I would be okay.

146 b Jordy Izere Everybody Had a Good Life b 147

In Burundi, people are getting killed and the government is so

corrupt that it doesn’t do anything to help. The people are scared

so they say nothing. The Hutu and Tutsi are fighting for power. It’s

like Democrats and Republicans, except the parties kill one another.

It wasn’t safe to go out at night. The Hutu and Tutsi are the same

people, made by the same God. They even speak the same language

but they still kill each other for power.

The biggest challenge being here is getting used to a new country

and getting comfortable with learning English. Gaining confidence

and speaking without people laughing at you is difficult. I didn’t ex-

pect it to be easy to adjust, but the schools here help me learn. In

Burundi, it wouldn’t be so easy. For kids who are trying to learn and

have a better life, this is the place. If you want a better future for your

children you want them to be in the United States, a place where

there is peace.

The best part of being an immigrant for me is being thrown into

a completely new environment and having the chance to observe the

differences and similarities between my native and new cultures. Im-

migrants who are able to succeed recognize the differences and ac-

cept them, and take courage from the similarities they find. Their

ability to mix the best ingredients from their old culture and their

new one creates new ideas and ways of thinking that teach people

from all backgrounds.

In Burundi, I learned to be generous, to be kind, and to know

other languages. Being an immigrant is an advantage that allows me

to talk to more people. It opens up my world and my possibilities.

These days only my grandma still lives in Burundi. She’ll

probably stay there for the rest of her life, no matter what’s go-

ing on in the country. When she’s home she’s safe and nothing

148 b Jordy Izere

else matters. I still talk to her on the phone, and my mom and my

grandma talk all the time. I’ve thought about returning to see how

it’s going, but they still have a lot of problems there. I don’t think

things will change; it’s only getting worse. America is my home

now and I feel safe here.

148 b Jordy Izere

“I sat at the cove, and I thought about how I had lived two different lives. One here, and one there.”

—Rachel Iradukunda

Rachel IradukundaRwanda

Buckets of Water in Kigali

I never really understood how my mother was playing both the roles

of a mother and a father until a couple of years ago when I came

to the U.S. When I was living with my mom in Kigali, Rwanda, I

didn’t see any difference between how I was being raised and how

my friends who had both parents were being raised. But Stephanie

Nyirabazungu was and still is the strongest woman I’ve ever known.

That sounds too complimentary and maybe a little bit cheesy,

I know; but it’s the truth. My mother is on the shorter side with

black hair to her neck, and she has a soft voice, even when she is

frustrated. If you have someone in your life who is literally willing

to lose everything for you, you better take some time and appreciate

his or her actions, because, I’m telling you, it doesn’t happen often.

I’ve lived two lives: the first with her in Kigali, where she taught

me right from wrong, how to be patient and calm in every horrible,

152 b Rachel Iradukunda Buckets of Water in Kigali b 153

terrible, very bad, no good situation, and how I had to be persistent

if I wanted to succeed in life. The second life was two years without

her in Kigali, when I had to learn how to behave well as a woman,

how to be confident as a woman, how to speak my mind as a woman,

and how to accept my different personalities as a woman. She wasn’t

there to teach me any of that. The world had fallen apart. It was bad.

I hated every single moment I had to spend without her.

In Kigali, we lived in a neighborhood called Muhima, near

downtown. Kigali isn’t surrounded by water like my new home in

the United States, nor does it have a lake in the middle of the town.

It’s just many hills and a few paved streets. It is hot all the time in

Kigali. When it rains, everyone thinks that the weather is horrible.

I never liked to go outside in the rain. Now I like the rain, because

rain is calm and nice and so much better than snow. Here, everyone

walks in the rain.

Two big stairs outside our house led to a metal gate that opened

into our courtyard. We had a water fountain in the courtyard with

a red spigot. My mother used to put a lock on the spigot when the

water bill was too high. Water was everything at our house. It was

how we cooked and how we bathed and cleaned the clothes. When

the water came out of the spigot, we couldn’t drink it until we boiled

it. I think that was pretty common throughout Kigali, since we all

got water from the same citywide water cooperative.

When we ran out of water, we got very busy in the house fetch-

ing it from the neighborhood spigot at the water co-op, which was

also red and had a long rubber hose attached to it. The hose could

reach even the people furthest away in line who carried big, yellow

plastic buckets. The whole neighborhood would go fetch water.

Some people liked to fetch it because it got them out of the house

152 b Rachel Iradukunda Buckets of Water in Kigali b 153

and they made new friends. This public spigot was a half-mile walk

from the house, and it sat in an open yard where you paid money

for the amount of water you wanted. I never liked to fetch, because

I didn’t like the crowds. But my mother made me. She was strict.

Laundry in Kigali is done by hand. You need a lot of water to

clean the clothes: two full rounds of it—one to clean and one to wash.

When we went to high school, my sister and I had to take responsi-

bility for the washing at home. My mother said it was time, because

we were already doing it in our boarding school. At home, my sister

used to take the bucket to the spigot in the courtyard and bring it

to the back courtyard where I waited with the pile of dirty clothes.

My sister was the fetcher—back and forth she went—while I was

the washer. I rubbed the clothes with a big block of white- and blue-

striped soap, and my sister filled many buckets with water so I could

rinse them.

We knew that the water was precious and that we couldn’t waste

it. It was really, really good if we had water. And when water didn’t

come out of the spigot, we had no showers. The priority then be-

came cooking. If you wanted a shower, you had to go fetch. It was

on you.

My mother made rules, but she also knew that it was crucial that

we knew why she was making the rules. She wanted us to under-

stand why, and she wanted us to give our opinions. So that meant we

had family meetings regularly. These meetings happened randomly,

on their own, but they happened a lot. “Come talk,” she would say.

And we would all sit down together.

September 18, 2010 was the last day I saw my mom in Kigali.

She came to the United States and lived here with my brother for

two years, until December 25, 2012, when my sister and I landed at

154 b Rachel Iradukunda

the Portland airport and saw her again. It was an unbelievable and

wonderful moment. We hugged and cried tears of happiness.

After I got here to Portland, I went down to the cove near the

supermarket, and I sat and stared at the water. That was something

I had never done before in Kigali. It made me feel good, and it made

me think of my mother’s mother back in Rwanda who is eighty-

three. She lives in a village outside of Kigali. To get there we used to

cross a bridge over the Muhazi River. I can’t swim. Not many girls

in Rwanda can. Most of the men swim, but only a few of the women

do; it’s not something that their parents teach them. The river scared

me a little when we drove by it. I liked to look at it, but I knew I

couldn’t go in it. I sat at the cove, and I thought about how I’d lived

two different lives. One here, and one there.

I never once heard my mother complain about or regret why

things were the way they were in her life. She had to be a mother

and a father simultaneously, and you know what’s impressive: she al-

ways, always hoped for the best and if disappointments occurred, as

they did very often, she always maintained a positive mental attitude.

And, my friend, I’m telling you right now that if my mom had lacked

self-assurance, and didn’t have God in her life, I probably wouldn’t

be here writing this story.

154 b Rachel Iradukunda

“I was born on our way to Kenya, at the border,when my mother went into labor with me.”

—Maryama Abdi

Maryama AbdiSomalia/Kenya

My Grandmother

My grandmother still lives in Somalia. Sometimes I call her.

I love my grandmother. I was the closest person to her.

She used to take care of me. I was born

on our way to Kenya, at the border

when my mother went into labor with me.

But when we came to America, there was no place for her here.

I wanted to stay with her but she said I had to go

with my mother, that she was too old to take care of me.

She went back to Somalia.

You always believe in me, you always tell me,

“Don’t let yourself down. No matter what.”

You ask me how things are going,

I always say things are fine and going well.

But I never tell you the truth of how things are really going with me.

I don’t want to break your heart. Still, you know

158 b Maryama Abdi

I am living a life that is not comfortable without you in it.

I know you are far away but your love keeps me safe

and gives me peace. And I wish you were here with me.

You would say, “Keep focused on your education,

Don’t mess up your life.” You would tell me, “I am waiting for you.”

My dream is to build a mosque for you in Kismayo.

But I have to finish my education, and get a good job.

I have to have a plan,

I have to work hard, to achieve my goals.

We came to America for the opportunities,

for the free education.

It will be arduous.

I am an immigrant, I am a Muslim,

I am a woman and I have dark skin. I am no fool.

I know it will be hard but I will make my dream come true.

I will make your dreams come true, Grandmother.

My family knows how hard I have to work,

how hard it will be to achieve my goals.

But they came to America so I could do this.

158 b Maryama Abdi

“Yes, this is how life is: one day you smile, another you cry. But still you have dreams.”

—Edna Thecla-Akimana

Edna Thecla-AkimanaBurundi

A Tricky Question

In Burundi, kids were afraid to express themselves to their parents

and would just obey their orders; and parents bought big and

long clothes that fit their whole bodies and told them, “Izi nizo

uzokuriramwo,” meaning, You will grow into those clothes.

It is believed that a person becomes mature at twenty-one years

of age. My case was different from that. I learned that some people

have to grow up too fast, like me. I did not have a choice. I started

learning how to take care of myself by paying bills, going to school,

and working in the afternoon in order to cover the costs. And when

people see me they think that I am not that mature. They start ask-

ing questions about my life, which sometimes are hard to answer.

I am amazed when people ask me about my life and end up only with

words to describe how I impress them. It is kind of funny. Everyone I

meet always has the same questions and the same responses:

“How old are you, girl?”

Smiling, I answer, “I’m twenty years old.”

162 b Edna Thecla-Akimana A Tricky Question b 163

“Do you live with your family or relative?”

“No, I am here by myself.”

“By yourself? How come?”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“So where do you live? Are you a permanent resident?”

“I live in a place with roommates and get support from General

Assistance, and I am not a permanent resident, I am just an asylum

seeker.”

“What is that? Why are you here?”

And this is where the long story starts, by explaining my status

in this country. After that, people usually ask me:

“So where are you from?”

“I am from Burundi.”

“Where is Burundi?”

“In East Africa.” Just to help them to find it on the map I say,

“Burundi is near Rwanda and Congo.”

“And how many languages do you speak?”

“Three languages.”

“Oh, that’s a lot.” Yes it is.

“So are you planning to go to college after high school?”

Here is a tricky question. Hmm, yes, I don’t know. I think so.

There is no right answer to that question. After this long interroga-

tion they end up with the same words: “Oh, you are so amazing and

strong.”

And I ask myself, how can this be possible, that everyone asks me

the same questions, and ends up with the same reaction?

The first few times this happened I felt that they were asking me

questions just for fun, almost as if they were laughing at me, because

most of the people who asked me questions were not going to help

162 b Edna Thecla-Akimana A Tricky Question b 163

me. I felt they were just wasting my time and hurting my feelings. I

discovered when I started talking to other kids who had immigrated

and lived by themselves that they were all getting those same ques-

tions, and the same response.

Here is my wish, that after these questions, Americans would

ask how they could help us, instead of telling us that we are strong,

responsible, and mature at a young age. Sometimes I do feel strong,

or responsible, but there are times when I do not feel strong enough

to do everything by myself in the middle of a hard situation. But

when I think about my past, I get the energy and confidence to

continue.

I wish that we as immigrants could all be lucky, that we could all

have the chance to continue our studies like other. Instead we hear

that we are not eligible for this and that, and seeing those who have

the opportunity to get financial aid for college stop at a high school

diploma. I wish we had parents who had good jobs, and that we had

grown up with peace and justice in our home countries.

Maybe some of us will not end up being depressed, and living

with worry all the time. Yes, this is how life is: one day you smile,

another you cry. But still you have dreams. Each day you have a new

chance. You hope, hope, and hope that the shape of things, of your

own life, will come.

Mohamed AwaleSomalia/Kenya

How Marvelous It Is

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A simple question asked every year, every day.

To some, this question is unanswerable.

But to me, and my siblings from discord,

the answer to this question

is more of an anthem,

always repeating in our heads, silently.

It seems like we all came here

with pre-set directions,

like we must be perfection.

Perfection is being free and clean.

Not dirtied by this world.

Taking knowledge and moving forward.

166 b Mohamed Awale How Marvelous It Is b 167

Any harm to this dream

is like a bullet piercing through my parents’ hearts.

“Kids who come to this country get ruined.”

Sex, drugs, alcohol: the dangerous three.

This is always banged into my brain.

I can never be, and never be,

never making it to where I want to be.

People forget this.

People forget the fact that we’re a new generation.

This world is made out of people

from different nations.

See how marvelous it is to be an immigrant.

You are another building block for this world

with pressure driving you

and success completing you.

This country is like a gift.

My greatest blessing is also God’s testing.

Because as much as this world tries to ruin me,

and I feel like I’m backed up against a wall

and I’m facing it all,

I know that my life, our life,

is a story, and it’s just begun.

I am from Kenya.

It’s a country in the horn of Africa.

I came to the U.S. at the age of three.


I’m American African fusion.

My story is like yours, very common,

something I didn’t understand

till later in my life.

My mother was born in Somalia.

She has seen our country

at its best and its worst.

Her mother ran a shop;

her father, a man of faith.

My mother would talk to me about the happy times

she had with her brothers.

How my uncles argued with one another,

how her mother bought her treats,

and how I looked like her brother, Abdul.

She also spoke of the bad

in short sentences,

like how her mother died

when she was eighteen,

by a bicycle;

and the day the fighting started;

and how she left my father and sisters

in Somalia for the U.S.

In these short stories,

I pieced together my origins

and decided my future.


In Kenya, we went to a refugee camp.

God must have been watching us.

After a while we went to Maine.

Our clan was predominant there, and there

she would get the right support.

Our first apartment was a glorified room,

the walls a disgusting yellowish-brown.

Each day my mother would leave the house

looking for work.

I was never to open the door

without hearing her voice on the other side.

Her first job was at a seafood packing company.

We weren’t rich,

but definitely better off than others.

Life in the U.S. in the beginning was easy for me,

but for my mother it was horrible.

Imagine being forced

to label all your knowledge as useless,

finding that your language, culture, and religion

would not help you.

All of these things counted against her,

but instead of crying, she grew.

She internalized all her suffering in this new world

and gave them to me as life lessons.

She took all she could and put them into me.


This world was built by people like my mother,

ones who sacrificed so much

to create a better future for others.

I was this future she wanted to build,

but in my early years I disappointed her.

I think into the future these days;

the past is useless.

My mother never looked at me as just her son,

but rather a partner in this world,

someone she could count on.

Part of me loved this responsibility,

it was a badge of honor,

but when I was growing up I resented it.

I never got the other kids’ jokes,

never understood their interests or desires.

I didn’t have time to.

Babysitting so much,

I never got to know anyone.

I was a total outcast.

I was a playing card trying to find its suit, my niche.

I lashed out at the people closest to me.

I felt alone.

I felt something only few could understand.

I didn’t know who I was.

I was African, but I spoke perfect English.

I was black, but didn’t get rap music.


I was confused.

My mother never understood my suffering.

She knew who she was.

She was Habiba Abas,

daughter of Ibrahim Abas and Howa Abas.

She had a clan, close friends,

and knew her interests,

music and fighting,

but I didn’t.

I was jealous of her stories,

but with hers, I found out how to make mine.

I once read a book that talked about culture,

and about how without it humans have no story.

Man without story is nothing but a beast.

I needed to create a story, a grand one at that.

I’ve decided that in my life

I will live always as if I am writing my memoir.

I want to learn as much as I can

and experience as much as I can.

I do not quit and I do not cry.

I took my mother’s lesson,

and with every blow I grow stronger.

I will live my life building my story,

making sure that I will have a tale for my kids,


something for them to be jealous of.

My story right now is unfinished,

but as I’m writing it, I’m hopeful.

Yann Tanguy IrambonaBurundi

My Bathing Suit Smells Like

Medicine

Some people I swim with on the Deering High School swim team

are in a clique. They don’t want a black person on their team. They

don’t want to make friends. I remember when I was at a team dinner

and my Burundian friends and I were excluded from the circle. They

don’t care if we exist, and make me feel that I do not belong here.

The only person I’m close to is my coach. He is the only one who

talks to me. After practice, my coach tells me if I did well or if I need

to practice more. Then one day, he told me how Portland, Maine,

was, many years ago—how people then had come from other coun-

tries to live in the U.S., just like we do today.

My coach told me, “We are all strangers.”

174 b Yann Tanguy Irambona My Bathing Suit Smells Like Medicine b 175

I responded, “Yeah, the people from this country, their great-

grandparents might be from another country.”

Later, my coach asked me, “Yann, how did you learn to swim?”

I said, “I learned when I was a kid. I swam for fun, not for practice.”

The pool here smells like medicine, even my swimsuit does.

Thank God I take a shower after practice. Back in my country, the

pool smells like palm trees, grass, hot sun, and popcorn from the

beach restaurants. Burundi.

Burundi is the great place where I used to live. When I was three

years old, I used to go to the pool called Entente Sportive. I was put in

a small pool, and I was scared. My mom held me and took me into

the big pool with her to teach me. Then, when I was six years old and

I had started to get taller, I went to the medium pool for a couple of

months. Finally, I was in the big pool.

That pool was fun. On Saturdays, my dad would wake me up in

the morning and say, “Come on, get up and go to swim!” I would re-

ply, “Yeah! I’m ready!” I was always excited when it was Saturday and

I got to the pool and saw the sun shining in it. People were happy

and I heard a lot of happy voices. Some people were buying food,

and others were playing games and jumping in the pool. Smelling

the fresh air, always eighty-six degrees, I would hear my friends tell

me to come play with them. I felt like I was home with my friends

at the pool.

There, you could make new friends you just met at the pool, but

back here at the YMCA, children practice, they don’t play games. In

the pool in Burundi, children are having fun and there are no lanes,

like at the YMCA, which separate you.

I remember one day in my country I saw a white Belgian swim-

ming by himself. All of the people were looking at him. My friends

174 b Yann Tanguy Irambona My Bathing Suit Smells Like Medicine b 175

told me to go talk to him. I said, “No…how about you guys go?”

They wouldn’t go talk to him because they were nervous, but I

wasn’t. I said, “Whatever, I’m going to talk to him.” I was nervous,

but I swam straight to him, shook his hand, and then we talked and

we were friends. Now when I remember this, I feel what it felt like

to be the stranger in the swimming pool.

I have become the Belgian man on the Deering swim team. I

want to tell the people I swim with that the lanes in the pool can

make you isolated. What I wish is for someone from my swim team,

or a person from the YMCA, to come and cross all the lanes to talk

to me and say, “Hello,” like I did with the Belgian man. I want all of

the people from my team to have the courage to come talk to me and

other strangers.

But I don’t care about those people in that clique. I swim every

day, no longer to look for friends, but to look to my future goals. I

think that colleges will like me because I improve every year. I imag-

ine that in five years I’ll be a good swimmer in college. I wish that

the pool in college could be divided so that half of it has lanes and

half is without lanes, because then, after practice, my teammates and

I could play games together.

Benjamin BivigeteRwanda

At Night

I remember waking up in the night

and hearing my sister singing,

sharing her sweet voice with my mother.

It was at a family meeting that Emily

learned she could sing.

Someone asked her to try, and

when she opened her mouth her wondrous

voice came out.

That night, my mother sat in the living room and listened

and then sang, too.

What else could she ask for after a long day of work?

My sister was the only daughter left in the house.

They were close.

They were in tune.

Sometimes the two of them would talk

about the past,

178 b Benjamin Bivigete

about crossing the border into Congo because of the war,

about the rebels,

about my mother’s fear.

Listening, I was thankful I never experienced it.

I was born after it.

Listening, I felt comforted by their voices,

by their stories,

by their presence.

Now at night at home I wake and it’s quiet.

Now I wake and I’ve heard them in my dreams.

I’ve seen them.

178 b Benjamin Bivigete

THE TELLING ROOM

The Telling Room is a nonprofit writing center in Portland, Maine,

dedicated to the idea that children and young adults are natural

storytellers. Focused on young writers ages 6 to 18, we seek to build

confidence, strengthen literacy skills, and provide real audiences

for our students’ stories. We believe that the power of creative

expression can change our communities and prepare our youth for

future success.

Our fun, innovative programs enlist the support of local writers,

artists, teachers, and community groups. At our downtown writ-

ing center we offer free afterschool workshops and tutoring, and

host field trips for school groups from all over Maine. We also lead

workshops at local schools and community organizations; bring

acclaimed writers to Maine to give public readings and work with

small groups of students; publish bestselling anthologies of student

work and books like this one by our young authors; and carry out

community-wide storytelling projects and events.

We serve those who are reluctant to write as well as those who

already identify as writers, including: children and young adults

who are a part of Maine’s growing community of immigrants and

refugees, those with emotional and behavioral challenges, students

struggling in mainstream classrooms, homeschoolers enthusiastic to

join a creative community, and passionate young writers who need

additional support beyond what their schools are able to provide. To

learn more, please check us out online.

www.tellingroom.org

THE YOUNG WRITERS & LEADERS PROGRAM

These thirty-two writers came to The Telling Room as part of

its Young Writers & Leaders (YWL) program, a free, afterschool

literary arts and youth development program for Portland’s rapidly

growing community of international, multilingual, high school

English Language Learners.

YWL provides: creative writing and arts programming, financial

literacy and college-prep assistance, and leadership training.

The program uses traditional art mediums like music, film, and

photography as familiar points of access to writing, storytelling, and

literacy learning. Students work on their own, as a team, and one-

on-one with their mentors to create poems, craft a personal narrative

for an annual anthology, produce a multimedia piece, and present

their work to the public at several community events. Collectively,

YWL students have lived in over fifty countries and most were quite

new to the United States when we worked with them. All of them

had stories to tell.

The Young Writers & Leaders program has received generous

support over the years by many individual donors, corporate part-

ners, and foundations including cornerstone funders such as: Beim

Foundation; Edward H. Daveis Benevolent Fund of the Maine

Community Foundation; Hudson Foundation; Key Bank; Leonard

C. & Mildred F. Ferguson Foundation; Maine Community Founda-

tion; Charlie Miller, Moser Family Foundation; National Endow-

ment for the Arts; Stephen & Tabitha King Foundation; United

Way of Greater Portland’s Diversity and Inclusion Fund; Unum;

and the Maine Arts Commission, an independent state agency sup-

ported by the National Endowment for the Arts. We thank you all.

In November 2015, Young Writers & Leaders won a National

Arts and Humanities Youth Program Award, the nation’s highest honor

for out-of-school arts and humanities programs that celebrates the

creativity of America’s young people. The award was presented at

the White House by First Lady Michelle Obama.

TELLING ROOM BOOKS

Student AnthologiesWhen the Sea Spoke

Beyond the Picket Fence

Illumination

Exit 13

How to Climb Trees

Can I Call You Cheesecake?

Tearing Down the Playground

I Carry It Everywhere

I Remember Warm Rain

Special Anniversary AnthologyThe Story I Want to Tell

Individual TitlesBetween Two Rivers by Aruna Kenyi

Forced by Zahro Hassan

Sleeping Through Thunder by Grace Roberts

The Road to Terrencefield by Henry Spritz

Hemingway’s Ghost by Noah Williams

The Presumpscot Baptism of a Jewish Girl by Lizzy Lemieux

Simona by Samantha Jones

When the Ocean Meets the Sky by Wilson Haims

Because, Why Not Write? by Cameron Jury

Find these books at: tellingroom.org/store

To hear these stories and poems in the authors’ voices, check out:

https://soundcloud.com/tellingroom

A SEASON FOR BUILDING HOUSESsheldonrandall.weebly.com/uploads/5/8/3/9/58397941/season_for... ·...

Documents

Transcript of A SEASON FOR BUILDING HOUSESsheldonrandall.weebly.com/uploads/5/8/3/9/58397941/season_for... ·...