Desert Flower (3 page)

The hut provided shelter for the babies, shade from the midday sun, and storage space for fresh milk. At night, the rest of us slept outside under the stars, with the children cuddled together on a mat. After the sun went down, the desert was cold; we didn’t have enough blankets for each child to have his own, and since we had very little clothing, we used the heat from our bodies to keep us warm. My father slept off to one side, as our guardian, the protector of the family.

In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens where we kept the herds, and milk them. Wherever we went we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night. The baby animals were kept in a pen separate from the mothers so they wouldn’t take all the milk. One of my tasks was to milk the cows, taking some of the fresh milk to make butter, but leaving enough for the calves. After the milking, we’d let the babies come in and nurse.

Then we had our breakfast of camel’s milk, which is more nutritious than other animals’ milk as it contains vitamin C. Our region was very dry, without enough water to grow crops, so we had no vegetables or bread. Sometimes we followed warthogs, large wild African pigs, tracking them to plants. They sniffed out edible roots, digging down with their hooves and snouts to feast on them. Our family shared in their bounty by taking some home to add to our diet.

We looked at slaughtering animals for meat as wasteful, and only resorted to this in case of emergency, or for special occasions, such as a wedding. Our animals were too valuable for us to kill and eat, as we raised them for their milk and to trade for the other goods we needed. For everyday

sustenance, we had only camel’s milk for breakfast, and again in the evening for supper. Sometimes there wasn’t enough for everybody, so we fed the smallest children first, then the older ones, and so on. My mother never took a bite of food until everyone else had eaten; in fact, I don’t remember ever seeing my mother eat, although I realize she must have. But if we didn’t have anything for supper at night, it was no big deal, nothing to panic about. No need to cry or complain. The little babies might cry, but the older children knew the rules, so we just went to sleep. We tried to remain cheerful, kept calm and quiet, and tomorrow, God willing, we’d find a way. In’shallah, which means it will happen ‘if God is willing,” was our philosophy. We knew our lives were dependent on the forces of nature, and God controlled those forces, not us.

A big treat for us as people in other parts of the world might regard a holiday feast was when my father brought home a sack of rice. Then we’d use the butter we made by shaking cow’s milk in a basket that my mother had woven. Occasionally we’d trade a goat for corn grown in the wetter regions of Somalia, and grind the corn into meal and make porridge, or pop it in a pan over the fire. Or, when other families were around, we always

shared whatever we had. If one of us had some food dates or roots or maybe killed an animal for meat, we’d cook it and divide the meal among us. We shared our good fortune, because even though we were isolated most of the time, traveling with one or two other families, we were still part of a larger community. On the practical side, since there were no refrigerators, meat or anything fresh needed to be consumed right away.

Each morning after breakfast, it was time to take the animals from their pen. By the age of six, I was responsible for taking herds of about sixty or seventy sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them. If one strayed from the group, I used my staff to guide it back. They were eager to go, because they realized coming out of the pen meant that it was time to eat. Getting an early head start was important, to find the best spot with fresh water and lots of grass. Each day I quickly searched for water, in order to beat the other herders; otherwise their animals would drink what little there was. In any case, as the sun grew hotter, the ground became so thirsty that it would suck it all up. I made sure the animals drank as much water as they could, because it might be another week before we found

more. Or two. Or three who knows? Sometimes during the drought the saddest thing was to watch all the animals die. We traveled farther and farther each day looking for water; the herd tried to make it, but eventually they couldn’t go anymore. When they collapsed, you had the most helpless feeling in the world, because you knew that was the end and there was nothing you could do.

No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to be cunning, and discover areas with lots of plants for my goats and sheep. My survival instincts were honed to look for signs of rain, and I scanned the sky for clouds. My other senses also came into play, because a particular smell or a certain feeling in the air predicted rain.

While the animals grazed, I watched for predators, which are everywhere in Africa. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off from the herd. There were lions to worry about and wild dogs; they all traveled in packs, but there was only one of me.

Watching the sky, I carefully calculated how far I had to travel to return home before night fell. But many times I miscalculated, and that’s when trouble began. As I was stumbling along in the dark, trying to get home, the hyenas would

attack, because they knew I couldn’t see them. I’d swat one here, and another would sneak up behind me. As I chased that one away, another would run up while I wasn’t looking. The hyenas are the worst, because they’re relentless; they never quit until they get something. When I got home each evening and put the animals in the pen, I counted several times to see if any were missing. One night I returned home with my herd, and as I counted my goats, I noticed I was one short. I counted again. And again. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t seen Billy, and hurried through the goats checking for him. I ran to my mother screaming, “Mama, Billy’s missing what should I do?” But of course it was too late, so she simply stroked my head as I cried when I realized that the hyenas had eaten my fat little pet.

Whatever else happened to us, the responsibility of taking care of our livestock went on and was always our first priority, even in times of drought, sickness, or war. Somalia’s constant political turmoil caused enormous problems in the cities, but we were so isolated that for the most part no one bothered us. Then, when I was about nine years old, a large army came and camped close by. We’d

heard stories about soldiers raping girls they caught out alone, and I knew a girl this had happened to. It didn’t matter if they were the Somalian army or the Martian army, they were not part of our people; they were not nomads, and we avoided them at all costs.

One morning my father had given me the chore of watering the camels, so I headed off with the herd. Evidently, during the night, the army had arrived, and now sat encamped all around the road, their tents and trucks stretching as far as I could see. I hid behind a tree and watched them milling about in their uniforms. I was frightened, remembering the other girl’s story; certainly I had no one around to protect me, so the men were free to do whatever they pleased. At first sight I hated them. I hated their uniforms, I. hated their trucks, I hated their guns. I didn’t even know what they were doing; for all I knew they could have been saving Somalia, but I didn’t want any part of them all the same. Yet my camels needed water. The only route I knew that would avoid the army camp was too long and circuitous for me to travel with my herd, so I decided to turn the camels loose, and let them walk through the camp without me. They marched right through the middle of the soldiers, making straight for the water, as I

had hoped they would. I scurried around the camp, ducking behind bushes and trees, until I joined the camels on the other side at the watering hole. Then, as the sky grew dark, we repeated the procedure and headed home safely.

Each evening, when I returned home at sunset and secured my herd back in the pen, it was time to start the milking again. Around the camels’ necks we hung wooden bells. The sound of these bells is indeed music to the nomad, who listens to their hollow clunk at twilight as the milking begins. The bells always act as a beacon to the traveler searching for home as the light fades. During the ritual of our evening chores, the great curve of the desert sky darkens, and a bright planet appears, a signal that it’s time to herd the sheep into their pen. In other nations this planet is known as Venus, the planet of love, but in my country we call it maqal hid hid meaning ‘hiding the lambs.”

Frequently, it was around this time I would get into trouble, because after working since sunup, I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer. Walking through the dusk, I’d fall asleep and the goats would bump into me, or as I squatted milking, my head would begin to nod. If my father caught me dozing off, watch out! I love my father, but he

could be a son of a gun; when he caught me sleeping on the job he’d beat me, to make sure I took my work seriously and paid attention to my business. After we finished our chores, we’d have our supper of camel’s milk. Then we’d gather wood for a big fire and sit around its warmth talking and laughing until we went to sleep.

Those evenings are my favorite memories of Somalia: sitting around with my mother and father, sisters and brothers, when everybody was full, everybody was laughing. We always tried to be upbeat, optimistic. Nobody sat around complaining or whining or saying, “Hey, let’s have a conversation about death.” Life there was very hard; we needed all our strength just to survive and being negative sapped our vital energy.

Even though we were far from any village, I was never lonely, because I played with my sisters and brother s. I was a middle child, with an older brother and two older sisters and several younger siblings. We chased each other endlessly, climbed trees like monkeys, played tic-tac-toe in the sand by drawing lines with our fingers, collected pebbles, and dug holes in the ground to play an African game called manca la We even had our

own version of jacks, but instead of a rubber ball and metal pieces, we threw up one rock and grabbed other rocks in place of the jacks. This was my favorite because I was very good at it, and I always tried to get my little brother, Ali, to play it with me.

Our greatest pleasure, though, was pure joy at being a child in the wilderness, the freedom to be part of nature and experience its sights, sounds, and smells. We watched packs of lions lie around all day, baking in the sun, rolling onto their backs, sticking their feet up in the air and snoring. The cubs chased each other and played just as we did. We ran with the giraffes, the zebras, the foxes. The hyrax, an African animal that’s the size of a rabbit but is actually a descendant of the elephant, was a particular favorite. We waited patiently outside their burrows for their little faces to appear, then chased them through the sand.

Once, on an excursion, I discovered an ostrich egg. I decided to take it home with me because I wanted to watch the baby ostrich hatch, then keep it as a pet. The egg is about the size of a bowling ball, and I hoisted it up from its hole in the sand and was carrying it away when Mama Ostrich came after me. She chased me and believe me, ostriches are fast; they can run forty miles an hour.

She quickly caught me and started pecking my head with her beak, kakaka. I thought she was going to crack my skull like an egg, so I put down her baby and ran for my life.

Seldom were we close to forested areas, but when we were, we loved to see the elephants. From a great distance we’d hear their thundering roar and climb a tree to spot them. Like lions, monkeys, and humans, elephants live in communities. If they had a baby in their midst, every adult elephant, the cousin, the uncle, the auntie, the sister, the mother, the grand all of them would watch after that baby, to make sure nobody touched it. All of us children would stand high in the top of a tree and laugh, watching the elephant world for hours.

But gradually all those happy times with my family disappeared. My sister ran away; my brother went to school in the city. I learned sad facts about our family, about life. The rain stopped coming, and taking care of our animals was more and more difficult. Life became harder. And I became harder with it.

Part of that hardness formed watching my brothers and sisters die. Originally there were

twelve children in my family, but now there are only six of us left. My mother had a set of twins who died right after they were born. She had another beautiful baby girl who was about six months old. One day the baby was strong and healthy, the next my mother called to me, “Waris!!!” I ran to her and saw her kneeling over the baby. I was just a little girl, but I could tell something was terribly wrong, the baby didn’t look right. “Waris, run get me some camel’s milk!” my-mother commanded. But I couldn’t move. “Run, hurry!” I stood staring at my sister in a trance in terror. “What’s wrong with you?” Mama screamed at me.

Finally, I tore myself away, but I knew what would be waiting for me when I got back. I returned with the milk, but the baby was totally still, and I knew she was dead. When I looked at my sister again, Mama slapped me hard. For a long time she blamed me for the baby’s death, feeling that I had some sort of sorcerer’s powers, and when in my trance I stared at the baby, I caused its death.

I had no such powers, but my little brother did have supernatural gifts. Everyone agreed he was n o ordinary child. We called him Old Man, because when he was roughly six, his hair turned

completely gray. He was extremely intelligent, and every man around us came to ask for his advice. They would walk up and say: “Where’s the Old Man?” Then, by turns, they would sit this little gray-haired boy on their laps. “What do you think about the rain this year?” they would ask. And honest to God, even though in years he was a child, never did he act like a child. He thought, talked, sat, and behaved like a very wise elderly man. While everyone respected him, they were frightened of him, too, because he was so obviously not one of us. While he was still technically a young boy, Old Man died, as if in a few short years he’d crammed in an entire lifetime. No one knew the cause, but everyone felt his passing made sense, because: “There’s no way he belonged to this world.”