MAHMOUD
ESCAPE
We fled Somalia. Devastated, but grateful to escape. Or so I thought.
After seeing a story on a website about a Somali refugee who was sexually abused when she arrived in England, I sat down and began to imagine all of the different experiences refugees have but also the many we never even hear about. This monologue conveys that the hardest part was not the physical journey of this woman, but the emotional aspect and the results of her forced journey. She worked with her brother in a restaurant and was raped by her boss, scarring her for life. The piece ends with a message of hope to those suffering from emotional scars and shows that while this world can cause horrific events to occur, there is hope for a better future.
From the day I was born
To my 17th birthday
Beautiful, Cute, Sweet, Exotic, Sexy, Hot, Elegant
I've been called. Named. Labeled.
These words
Stamped onto my skin
Forever.
All the girls around me Begged, Wanted, Some needed, And most envied
These terms that became me and consumed me.
They had to be called this by a man to feel worthy.
I've been told I must be grateful for the way I look.
That I must cherish my flat stomach and tame hair and dark eyes
But the memories that have etched themselves into my veins Are not beautiful.
We fled Somalia
Devastated But grateful
To escape.
Or so I thought. Arriving in the new country
Greener grass and Sunsets
And a lot of different people.
My brother worked in the mornings
And I, In the night
We foraged for money and jobs and food to feed
Our bellies, Our sisters, Our widowed mother.
He enjoyed the restaurant.
The constant stream of people
Laughter, the Scent of coffee and the Red cushions
Fluorescent lights And a whole lot of dishes.
The restaurant for me, However,
Was a different place.
When I began work
I craved the busyness
To have something to do.
But one night I went to the back of the kitchen
Slipped off my shirt
Grabbed my uniform out of my bag
And began to unfold it
As my boss burst through the door.
My face burned
As my blood turned cold
And my hand shook uncontrollably.
His eyes bit into mine and I shivered.
He pushed me up
Against the wall
I screamed
But his hand
Covered my lips
Blocking the breath and the shrieks coming from inside of me
He pulled my hair
The hair people praised me for.
He called me those things
Beautiful, Cute, Sweet, Exotic, Sexy, Hot, Elegant
In a voice that reminds me of bile and violence
After who knows how long
My clothes were littered on the floor
And tears stained my cheeks
And I covered my dark eyes with my hands
And it was in that moment
That I truly realized
How young I am. 15.
I had spent my life being the adult
The working one. The supporter.
But really, I was not beautiful or sexy
I was fragile
Vulnerable and Desperate
Sad
And in so much need.
I don't remember much other than the sound of my brother's fist against the nose of my boss
And the color of my vomit on the floor.
It's been 2 years since that moment.
Since he took something from me that I will never get back.
My boss said that I was lucky to have work and that he was doing me a favor.
I realized that the moment I left Somalia Was not an escape. Not my escape.
I was still escaping from the terrors of my teenage years.
Now I live in a better apartment With my family
My brother takes care of me
And my mother must never know of the crime committed against my body.
I have deep pain, yes. But I have hope. Dignity.
I love myself now not for the way I look
But for what is inside my heart.
I feel that my future will be wonderful and I plan to work hard for it.
As a message to those that have been scarred by another, be better than them. Love yourself as best as you can and keep going.
Things take time, darling. But time does not have to be a negative concept. Time is healing and healing takes time.