(3) Two Tales of Forced Exodus

"Why would anyone want to be displaced if they have a home to return to?" These poignant words, spoken by President Xi Jinping at the United Nations Office at Geneva in 2017, struck a profound chord within my heart.

In 1988, my hometown was thrust into the horrors of war. Our hospital, our homes, our cars — all were obliterated by the relentless bombardment. All of a sudden, we went from a semblance of paradise to a nightmarish hell, a transformation that I, being quite young at the time, hardly remember in detail. But I do know that my family became refugees, seeking shelter with relatives in Ethiopia. My mother, being a doctor, swiftly assumed the role of a volunteer physician for a local organization. She was dispatched to various cities to aid those in dire need. Her days were consumed by the demands of her medical duties, leaving us under the care of our maternal grandmother and uncle. In 1992, we returned to our hometown, endeavoring to rebuild our shattered lives. Just as our new home was taking shape, tragedy struck once more. My mother passed away suddenly, followed shortly by the loss of our maternal grandmother. Misfortune seemed unrelenting, as Hargeisa erupted in warfare once again. This marked my first direct encounter with the terrors of war and the specter of death. I had two elder sisters, while my elder brother had departed for Qatar at a young age. Consequently, I become the eldest boy in the family, bearing a semblance of carefree innocence. I would often take my two younger brothers outside to explore and play. One fateful day, while we reveled in the simple joys of childhood, a sudden and intense barrage of gunfire erupted around us. We were seized by paralyzing fear, our faces drained of color, ignorant of the cause of this sudden onslaught. Providentially, there was a shallow pond nearby. As the water receded, it had turned into a bed of thick mud. Without hesitation, my two brothers and I plunged into the muck, lying perfectly still and petrified. The bullets seemed to rain down from above, penetrating our very souls, instilling a profound fear of death. Time blurred in the face of our dread. Eventually, the scattered shots ceased, though we dared not stir from our muddy refuge. The weight of the moment hung heavy as the night descended. We only emerged from the mire under the shroud of darkness, creeping back home silently. We washed away the clinging mud in secrecy, finally resting on the room's carpet beneath the moonlight, trapped in the clutches of boundless terror.

My grandfather, who resided in the rural areas while we grappled with a series of unfortunate events, made a deliberate journey to the city to check on us. While my father and grandfather were on their way to visit a neighbor, a bomb came out of nowhere and tore apart a passerby who happened to be in its path, leaving his body scattered all over. The shock and horror of this incident left my grandfather deeply shaken. He hurried back to his pastoral homestead, and my father, no longer hesitating, made the resolute decision to lead us away from our hometown once more, this time towards the border town of Daba-goryaale in Somalia.

My recollection of our second exodus is more pronounced. After several arduous days of travel, we arrived at Daba-goryaale, where my grandfather, having lived in the pastoral areas for an extended period, owned an unoccupied house. What stands out most in my memory from this time is a windy night when the roof suddenly gave way in a gale. Struck by fear, my siblings and I huddled together on the carpet, forming a tight-knit bundle as we gazed at the vast expanse of the starlit night sky through the open roof. We remained in Daba-goryaale for four years, but as time passed, more and more people had returned to Hargeisa. In 1997, our father also led us on the journey back home.

Our first exodus, marked by trepidation, carried a glimmer of hope, as we were accompanied by our mother, maternal grandmother, and maternal uncle. Our return to our hometown brought about the construction of a new, large house, imbuing our lives with fresh optimism. Yet, in time, we lost our mother, maternal grandmother and maternal uncle, and the last vestiges of hope were utterly obliterated with the onset of new warfare. We were compelled to leave once more, burdened by profound fatigue and wounded hearts, with our apprehensions for the future looming large. After returning to our hometown in 1997, we found our emotional landscape mirroring our partially demolished home, plunging us once more into despair. My carefree childhood was forever left behind, and it was my father who bore the brunt of the suffering after our mother's passing. Fortunately, my father found the strength to rise anew. In 1998, he remarried, and soon, my stepmother gave birth to my youngest brother. However, the union was short-lived, and my father and stepmother divorced not long after. My sisters informed me that the reason for their separation was my stepmother's desire for my father to live solely with her, separated from us, his eight children, to which our father would not consent, therefore they decided to part ways. My stepmother departed with our newly born half-brother, and I never saw him again. However, during my second return to Somalia, my stepmother made a special effort to visit me. It had been almost twenty years since we last met, and I found her to have changed very little, except for having gained some weight and become more amiable. She remained unmarried and single-handedly raised my half-brother, who, as I later discovered, had become a remarkably successful businessman.

(4) My Nomadic Life

In Somalia, camels hold a position of great reverence, with the country boasting the highest population of these creatures globally. Our camels, of the dromedary variety, have the distinction of being a source of sustenance. Somalia is renowned for its traditional dishes prepared with camel meat, as well as a variety of camel leather products. Additionally, camel milk is universally acknowledged for its exceptional nutritional value. Fresh camel milk, with a subtle hint of salinity, is reserved for honoring esteemed guests and forms an integral part of the daily diet of nomadic pastoralists. My grandfather belonged to the nomadic lifestyle, and in Chinese terms, one might consider him a "landed aristocrat" among nomads. He owned a substantial herd of camels and an uncountable multitude of sheep. While there exists no official record, my grandfather lived well into his early 130s, passing away in 2011. He was a respected and experienced elder in the pastoralist community. Eventually, his role as a nomad was taken up by my younger uncle, who, throughout his life, remained unmarried and roamed far and wide, his sole companions being the camels that graced his nomadic path. 

During our stay in Daba-goryaale, my younger uncle, along with two of my cousins, were grazing in the nearby pastoral area. While on vacation, my father arranged for my younger brother and me to experience the traditional nomadic way of life. We embarked on this journey from Daba-goryaale, riding in a vehicle owned by our elder uncle. The vehicle served a busy route between northern Somalia and Ethiopia due to a vast number of displaced Somalis seeking refuge. It was a large truck one often sees today, capable of accommodating many passengers. The journey extended for over three hours, bringing us to a small Ethiopian town. Inhabitants here were primarily Somali pastoralists. Our elder uncle came to pick us up and we headed to his house. The surrounding area of the small town we had just left was all pastureland without any signs of human habitation or vehicles. We walked for more than two hours, following our elder uncle’s tall figure, before we reached his home, where he lived with his younger brother. To honor our visit, they prepared a freshly slaughtered sheep for my younger brother and me. Following a restful night's stay, our elder uncle guided us to my younger uncle's camp. We walked for another two hours, returning to the town we had visited the previous day. This town was a trading hub in the pastoral area, where camels and goats were exchanged, as well as a marketplace for drinking water. During the dry months when rainfall was scarce, pastoralists would bring their camels to this town to quench their thirst. Additionally, various daily necessities were traded here, with white sugar and tea powder being the most sought-after commodities. Our elder uncle took us to a rest area within the town, which is similar to a tea house in China. This place was quite spacious, offering shade with a central open area where people sat on the ground. After we had all sat down on the carpet, our elder uncle ordered three cups of tea. The tea was typically served in two varieties: one made with goat milk and the other with camel milk. The tea was scalding hot, and we watched in astonishment as our elder uncle promptly sipped it down. This scene highlighted the distinction between urban residents and pastoralists, as the latter were accustomed to consuming piping hot tea, while city dwellers were not. There were many people resting at noon, as no one wanted to travel under the scorching sun at midday. We resumed our journey in the more temperate afternoon hours, and by dusk, we finally arrived at my younger uncle's encampment.

In his thirties, my younger uncle, being unmarried and lacking female kin, solely herded camels while avoiding the complexities associated with goats, which typically required the presence of women or children to tend to their needs. Accompanied by my two younger cousins (sons of another younger uncle of mine), aged eleven and twelve, he was responsible for a sizeable herd of over a hundred camels. Despite their tender years, my two cousins possessed an unusual stature. Another family, also comprised of two unmarried men in their thirties, handled an equivalent number of camels. Like my younger uncle, the two men chose not to herd goats. When my younger brother and I joined my younger uncle's encampment, they welcomed us with genuine enthusiasm. At that time, I was thirteen years old, while my brother was twelve, and together with our younger cousins, we were entrusted with the guardianship of the younger camels. These camels only needed to graze in the vicinity of the camp, their sustenance primarily comprising tree leaves, which would signal our departure when withered. As the sun rose, we would start our day by drinking the camel milk from the previous night. The three of us, carrying a container of camel milk and a small water flask, would set out with the camels. The pasturing grounds for the young camels were not far from the camp, allowing us to either observe them or release them to graze autonomously. Our free hours were spent playing and collecting dry branches for the evening campfire. As the sun descended, we herded the young camels back to the camp. By the time evening approached, the adults also returned with the older camels. The camels were guided into enclosures, the mother camels were milked, and their milk was also used to feed the younger camels. Typically, we provided the young camels with a substantial amount of milk in the evening, while their morning feed was more modest. After tending to the young camels, we would divide the remaining milk into three portions. One part served as our dinner, the second as breakfast for the following day — for both us and the young camels — and the last part was allocated as our midday meal. The camp's central space was home to our nightly campfire, ignited using the dry branches we had collected. We would gather around the flames, sipping camel milk as our dinner. Initially, my brother and I struggled to adjust to this diet, enduring pangs of hunger every day. However, the lack of alternative sustenance left us no choice but to adapt to the daily routine, which ultimately saw us accept three camel milk-based meals each day. In the evenings, we would congregate by the campfire, engaging in conversation or occasionally staring into the mesmerizing flames. As drowsiness descended, we would recline on the arranged blankets for sleep. The nature of our camel-herding group, devoid of families, negated the need for erecting tents. We slept on the ground beneath the sprawling expanse of the star-studded night sky that served as our coverlet, with the earth beneath acting as our bed. To protect ourselves from potential hazards, we would place a semi-circular arrangement of thorny qurac branches over the sleeping area. At our feet lay the campfire, and beside us were the camels. Here, if a camel herd numbered fewer than fifty, it would be combined with those of other families, resulting in herds typically surpassing a hundred camels. Accompanied by several hundred camels, all of us entered a tranquil slumber beneath the vast expanse of the night sky.

Every group of camel herders was armed with a shotgun and a machete. The shotgun was rarely employed and mainly served as a deterrent against larger wild animals. In pastoral areas, encounters with lions or cheetahs were infrequent, but encounters with hyenas were more common. These hyenas would occasionally ambush the camels, yet during my two months' stay, no perilous incidents occurred. The machete was the most ubiquitous tool for herders, who would use it to craft the wooden bells hung around camels' necks. Although each camel had its distinct markings, incidents of camels straying were not unheard of. Experienced herders could rely on the sound of the wooden bells to locate their camels. Machetes were also used to create everyday items such as wooden pots for storing camel milk, among other things. Resourceful nomads would even take these crafted items to the local town markets for sale. Losing a camel was a herder's worst fear. If one went missing, they would track its trail. In these remote pastoral areas, herders might walk for an entire week before finding the lost camel. Although lost camels would eventually be found, the process of searching was exceedingly arduous. Whenever they encountered fellow travelers, they would inquire about any news and share the information about their lost camels, asking the herders who were heading to the town market to relay the message to their relatives and friends, so that they could also help them find their lost camels. Those who had found stray camels would also walk for several hours to the resting point in the town and pass on the news, so that the owners of the found camels could come and claim them. Most people were able to find their lost camels within two or three days. In an era without mobile phones, oral transmission of information, a practice that had been handed down through centuries, played a pivotal role. In today's world, mobile phones have become ubiquitous, but signals in these pastoral areas are sparse, so people still rely on word of mouth to pass on message.

Herders typically stayed in one pastoral area for varying duration, ranging from a year to six months, before embarking on a migration. The path for migration was typically scouted by seasoned herders within the group, taking anywhere from two to seven days, depending on the conditions. While some may be lucky enough to hitch a ride on the way, such fortune was rare. Experienced herders often endured several days of strenuous travel before reaching their new campsite. After settling into the new location, they make their way to the nearby market town to exchange message. Nowadays, such towns often possess a telegraph telephone, allowing herders to leave messages in emergencies, saving the time for communication.

The two-month experience of nomadic life remains one of my most indelible memories. Each night, under a sky blanketed with stars, I would be serenaded by the distant rustle of the wind and the rhythmic breathing of the camels. In the hushed embrace of these nights, my spirit found gradual healing.

During this time, my most vivid impression was of my younger cousin. He was two years my junior and, being born into the life of a nomad, never had the opportunity for formal education. His daily existence revolved entirely around tending to the camels, and his pride lay in the wealth of knowledge he had gained about herding. He often declared that he would grow up to become the most skilled herder, a statement that I, looking at his slender frame, regarded with skepticism. However, there came a moment that entirely altered my perception of him.

On one occasion, we left our lunch, a large container of camel milk, beneath the shade of a tree, covered with leaves and grass, feeling secure as we walked away. Upon our return, we discovered that the milk had vanished — our lunch had been stolen. Frustration enveloped us, yet my cousin remained undaunted. He urged, "It's alright, let's go and retrieve our camel milk," and began examining the various tracks on the ground. He then pointed in a direction and said, "They went that way. Let's follow." Intrigued but bewildered, my younger brother and I tagged along, bombarding him with questions like, "How are we doing? Will we find it?" Each time, he replied with confidence, "We'll find it, and soon!" Following the tracks on the ground, we ventured far and ended up at the front gate of an unfamiliar household. We stood there hesitating, not knowing what to do next, as we had no evidence that these people had taken our camel milk. Thus, we couldn't decide whether to knock on the door or just depart. In a bold move, my cousin stepped forward and knocked loudly on the gate. Simultaneously, he loudly greeted the residents and informed them that our camel milk had been stolen. Upon hearing this, the people within the house warmly invited us in and presented each of us with a substantial cup of camel milk. We felt a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment and refrained from saying much further. On the way back, my cousin expressed his indignation. He was convinced that the people had offered us the stolen milk, and he found it upsetting that they would serve us our own milk. My younger brother and I remained silent but were deeply impressed by his resourcefulness.

Today, many people are no longer willing to engage in the nomadic way of life. Numerous nomadic families have no successors due to an inability to endure the prolonged isolation and harsh living conditions. Their yearning for a more stable existence has led them to urban areas. The population of farmers and fishermen has steadily increased. The era of the nomad has waned, and even my cousin, who aspired to become the finest herder, has left the pastoral area to seek his livelihood in the city.