Chapter 1: Ashes of Childhood
The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked, barren land of the Somali region. What was once a lively landscape had turned into a plain, endless stretch where lush pastures and bustling herds used to flourish, now only a patchwork of dry earth and gnarled, leafless shrubs remained. The air shimmered with a stifling heat, distorting the horizon like a mirage, as if the land itself was silently crying out in agony. Faint whispers of what used to be lingered memories of greenery, distant rains, and life that had long since slipped away into the past.
In this unforgiving terrain, the childhood memories of Farah and Ayan were painted in harsh strokes—images of violence, loss, and the desperate fight for survival. Their early years were embroidery woven with threads of suffering and fleeting glimpses of fragile hope that sparkled like distant stars in the overwhelming darkness.
The Day It Changed
Farah’s father was a simple herdsman, caught in the crossfire of a brutal raid by Ethiopian soldiers. With their heavy guns and armored vehicles, the soldiers stormed through the village, their faces cold and detached amidst the chaos. Little Farah, just four years old at the time, crouched behind a thicket, his heart racing as gunfire erupted around him.
“Run, Farah! Go!” his father shouted, his voice filled with panic and urgency.
Terror gripped Farah’s tiny heart as he huddled behind the tangled branches, his eyes wide with fear. He watched as soldiers burst into the village, knocking down doors and shouting orders, their boots thundering against the ground. Then came the gunfire—sharp and deafening, piercing through the air. His father stood firm, trying to protect his family from the chaos.
In an instant, a soldier fired. Farah’s father collapsed, blood seeping into the dust, mixing with the dirt that clung to his clothes. Farah watched, frozen, as the life drained from his father’s eyes. The boy’s voice caught in his throat as a gasp of horror escaped him.
“No… no…” he screamed, trembling.
That moment—the violent loss of his father—etched a scar on his young soul, a memory he could never shake off.
From that day forward, his childhood was irrevocably changed. The once peaceful landscape, with its gently rolling hills and the laughter of children, was drowned out by the relentless rumble of tanks and the crackle of gunfire. It was 2007, and a so-called “military operation,” as the government termed it, had descended upon the Somali region, where the Ogaden National Front (ONLF) was fighting against Ethiopian rule.
The close-knit community he once cherished, where neighbors lived in harmony and shared stories by the fire, was torn apart fragmented by fear, violence, and chaos. In the midst of this turmoil was Ayan, a girl just a year younger than Farah, whose bright smile and quick wit provided brief moments of joy in the darkness
Chapter One, Part 2 of this story to be continued in my next post. Stay tuned! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this story and how you personally relate to it.
