When Stars Are Scattered

For me, the first years are lost. Now, in a place as crowded as this, I’m afraid we’ll never be found.

Life in the camp was not easy…but Hassan and I were together. We had Fatuma. I was learning new things. And as soon as the war ended in Somalia, we could go back home. Back home, we’d be safe. No one would bother Hassan. And we would find my mother.

Every day in a refugee camp is the same…except when it’s not. Sometimes your life can change in an instant, but you can never be sure if it’s a good change or a bad change.

“The world is changing, Fatuma. Who knows where any of us will end up in the next few years? With an education, he’ll be prepared for whatever comes next.”

“You have a gift, Omar. You’re smart. And when God gives you a gift, it is your job to use it.”

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, or when something’s bothering me… …I know it sounds silly, but I go outside and look at this one star. I don’t remember much from when I was little. Or maybe, I don’t have much I want to remember. I remember this star, though. Maybe it’s not even a real memory, but this star makes me feel safe. Like my mom and dad are nearby. I used to actually talk to the star, which seems really childish to me now. Still, feeling like my parents are close makes it easier to make big decisions.

It was so hard to leave Hassan. I tried to shove my fears deep inside me. But even with my brother crying as I walked away, even with fear gnawing at my insides…a tiny part of me felt…happy. What was wrong with me?

On days like today, it really sinks in just how big Dadaab is. Huge crowds, thousands of people. Maybe you’ll see someone in the crowd you recognize, and you didn’t even realize they were here.

I try to forget. I want to forget.

“It’s just…you kind of baby him sometimes, just like people baby me. And Hassan isn’t a baby. He takes care of animals, and he helps your neighbors.”

“But life is still going to be hard for him. Don’t you ever get mad? Don’t you ever think that your life would be easier if you didn’t have a disability?”

“Sometimes. Look…I didn’t ask for this limp. But I didn’t ask to live in a refugee camp either. But here we are, right? I guess you just have to try to appreciate the good parts and make the most out of what you’ve got.”

I thought I knew everything there was to know about my brother. I thought I was helping him and keeping him safe by shielding him from new people.

But I think Jeri was right. Maybe I don’t know everything about Hassan after all.

“I know, Fatuma. Everything will be OK.”

But I’m not a child anymore. I know maybe everything won’t be OK. But we have to keep going anyway, and make the most with what we’ve got.

If I couldn’t go back to my village….I guess I needed something to believe in. Like school.

“You’re using Hassan as an excuse. You think you’re helping him by always hovering over him and trying to fight all his battles for him. But he’s more capable than you think he is.”

Of course, thinking like this doesn’t do you any good. Somalis even have a word for it. Buufis. It means the intense longing to be resettled. It’s almost like your mind is already living somewhere else, while your body is stuck in a refugee camp.

She seemed really nice, and like she really meant what she said…but I also knew the UN workers lived in a big compound, with big walls to protect them, and electricity and running water. I knew they drove around the camps in big fancy cars. What did she really know about being a refugee?

“Don’t be scared, my brave boy. I need you to take care of your brother. I will come back to you as soon as I can. Everything will be OK.”

In a refugee camp, it felt like all you ever did was wait. Wait to see if your brother gets well again. Wait for water. Wait for food. Wait to hear from the United Nations. Wait for your life to start.

I slid deeper and deeper into a dark hole. Not only that, but I felt like I had a darkness growing inside me too. It made me feel angry and mean, and I took it out on the people I loved most.

But the good news was, we weren’t friends. We were brothers. And the thing about a brother is, you don’t need words to understand each other.

I didn’t believe it was real…not for a long time. I had wasted months—years—of my life, waiting and hoping to be resettled to another country. But even in a refugee camp, my fate is in my hands. I wasn’t going to waste another minute of my life hoping for the impossible. So I keep going to school, every day. I keep fetching water. I keep caring for my family as best I can.

“Omar, the United Nations may call me your guardian….but I feel like your mother. And a mother wants her children to move on. To lead a better life than herself. That’s what a mother’s love does. So yes, Omar. If you love me…you will leave me. You must.”

“But…I thought you knew. ‘Hooyo’ isn’t a sound—it’s a word. A Somali word. It’s the only word Hassan has ever said.”

“Hooyo!”

“‘Hooyo’ means Mama.”

“But…I don’t understand. After all these years….your mother….”

“After all these years….maybe he still hopes we can find her.”

But I don’t know if this is true. Maybe I am the one who still hopes we can find her. If we go to America, if we leave Africa….what happens to that hope?

No one chooses to become a refugee. I didn’t choose to leave Somalia when I was a little boy. I am choosing to leave Dadaab now. Leaving Dadaab may seem like the obvious choice…. ….So why is it so difficult to leave?

“Hooyo.”

I think about that word. The only word Hassan has ever said. I can’t remember the last time I said it. Hooyo. Mama. In a refugee camp, you are always reminded of the things you have last. It is a valiant and agonizing struggle to focus not on what you have lost, but on what you have been given.

Many years ago, we lost our mother.

But maybe she is not gone.

She is in the love that surrounds us and the people who care for us.

Maybe she is in the very sand beneath our feet.

So perhaps we’re not leaving our mother behind. Maybe she’ll always be with us. Even in America.

I can only think of one thing to say to Hassan, as we leave our home.

“Hooyo.”