The dust that carried me 

They say every soul is born with a story. Mine began in Dollo Ado, under a sky that never wanted to go dark. The sun stayed too long, and the wind was always full of whispers. The red dust covered everything—clothes, skin, even your thoughts. I was born in a place where people didn’t talk much—because what could they say? Life was hard before I even knew what life meant.

I don’t really remember my parents. There’s a half-burned photo, old and curled. A woman looks into the camera with tired eyes, a baby in her lap. They told me that was my mother and me. They told me my parents died trying to cross a river. Many had tried. Many had drowned. The war behind us didn’t stop. The water didn’t stop either. All I had left was that photo and a necklace made from blue thread. Someone said it was xijaab—for protection. Maybe that’s why I’m still alive.

 Dollo Ado wasn’t just a refugee camp. It felt like a broken city made from plastic and loss. There were too many people and not enough of anything.

I didn’t grow up with a real family. Families stay. I was passed from one place to another like something borrowed. One aunt made me fetch water. Another made me watch goats all day. An uncle only let me sleep if I washed his jerry cans first. Nobody asked if I was tired or sad. I learned early not to cry. No one has time for tears. Even tears get covered in dust.

Dollo Ado wasn’t just a refugee camp. It felt like a broken city made from plastic and loss. There were too many people and not enough of anything. Fifty thousand people trying to live in a place that barely wanted them. We waited in long queues for water. We waited for food. Sometimes the rice had bugs. We ate it anyway. Hunger doesn’t care. Toilets were few and broken. Sickness spread fast. When cholera came, it was like the wind—quiet but strong. In just two weeks, more than a hundred people died. No time for funerals. Just white cloth and shallow dirt.

When I was thirteen, the last people I lived with disappeared during a fight over aid cards. I was left alone again. I started shining shoes near the market. My shoeshine box was made from rubbish—a sardine tin, a toothbrush, and an old rag. Men came to me with their boots. Some spat near me. Some called me names. But I kept smiling. You learn to smile even when your heart doesn’t want to. I kept my head down. That’s how I survived.

I passed the national exam when I was sixteen. Just barely. I went to a school in a nearby town and begged for a spot. The principal laughed. He said I was too old, too poor, too much of a refugee. I came back the next day. And the next.

I saved my money. Every birr I got, I hid under my mat. It was my dream money. My escape money. At night, I searched for old textbooks behind the aid buildings. I read them by moonlight. I didn’t understand every word, but I tried. One night, a teacher caught me doing maths in the dirt. She looked at me kindly and said: “Your mind is light. Don’t let this place take it from you.” That was the first time someone believed in me.

I passed the national exam when I was sixteen. Just barely. I went to a school in a nearby town and begged for a spot. The principal laughed. He said I was too old, too poor, too much of a refugee. I came back the next day. And the next. After a week, he gave me a seat at the back. I walked two hours each way. I ate once a day. I cleaned mosques at night. I kept going. That’s what I knew how to do—keep going.

I applied for resettlement three times. The first time, I was rejected. The second time, they lost my file. The third time, something changed.

But Dollo Ado is not a place for big dreams. Boys I studied with disappeared. Some joined smugglers. Some died. Resettlement was like a game, but the rules weren’t fair. Some people paid bribes. Some lied. Some gave up everything just to be considered. One girl spoke to a foreign worker. The next day, she was gone. They said she got lucky. But I wasn’t sure.

I applied for resettlement three times. The first time, I was rejected. The second time, they lost my file. The third time, something changed. Maybe someone found my file again. Maybe someone cared. A nurse came to me and whispered: “Canada. You leave in two months.” I didn’t believe it at first. Then I cried. For the first time in years, I cried.

Now, I write. Not because I’m healed. I’m not. I write because I still remember. I write for the boy with dust on his face and a toothbrush in his hand. I write for the girl who never got a second chance.

Canada was white. White snow. White silence. People walked past me without seeing me. The heater in my flat didn’t work. I slept in my jacket. I missed home, even if home had never really been kind. But the library was warm. The books didn’t care about my accent. I read all the time—history, sociology, stories of people like me, and people not like me.

I found a cleaning job in a building. I learned how to use a washing machine. I watched YouTube to learn how to tie a tie. I went to college. I wanted to know why the world works the way it does. Why some people suffer, and others look away. At school, I thought other Somali students would understand. But even there, old habits followed us. Boys talked over girls. People laughed at the ones who spoke up. One girl tried to talk about mental health. They called her names. I remembered the girls from the camp—quiet, careful, afraid. Silence followed us here too.

At a meeting, I stood up. My voice shook. I said: “How can we survive war if we bring it with us?” No one clapped. But one girl nodded. That was enough. That one nod said: “I hear you.”

Today, I am a legal analyst within the Minnesota judiciary, where I have since resettled. Now, I write. Not because I’m healed. I’m not. I write because I still remember. I write for the boy with dust on his face and a toothbrush in his hand. I write for the girl who never got a second chance. I write for the truth, even when it hurts. I write because I want to remember, and I want others to remember too.

I walk slowly now. Not because I’m tired, but because I want to see everything. I am still learning. I am still changing. I am still becoming. Maybe that’s what life is—waiting, hoping, not finished.

What Carries Me

Not wind, 

not wings, 

not maps drawn by others.  

What carries me 

is the weight of memory 

stitched into silence, 

folded into my back 

like a second spine.  

What carries me 

is the name I whisper 

to the boy I was 

when no one else 

would say it.  

What carries me 

is the dust, 

because even ashes 

remember where 

the fire started.  

What carries me 

is the ache, 

not as a wound, 

but as a compass 

pointing home.  

What carries me 

is the knowing 

that unfinished stories 

are still stories.  

What carries me 

is the voice 

I found between pages, 

in margins, 

in breathless moments 

of almost giving up.  

What carries me 

is prayer, 

even when I forget 

the words, 

the act of kneeling 

still counts.  

What carries me 

is the echo of yes 

in a world 

that only knew how to say no.  

What carries me 

is the girl 

who nodded 

when no one else did.  

What carries me 

is the step 

taken after 

being told not to move.  

What carries me 

is not strength, 

but the refusal 

to disappear.  

What carries me 

is the sound 

of a pencil on paper, 

scratching its way 

through silence.  

What carries me 

is breath— 

a small one, 

a stubborn one, 

a breath that said, 

“Keep going.”  

And I am still here. 

Still becoming. 

Still carried.