Don't Tell Me You're Afraid (21 page)

. . . 
Dream, Samia, dream, like the wind playing among the leaves. . . .

In Lampedusa I'm cared for.

They keep me in the hospital for two days. I tell them that I have to meet my coach in England, so they release me and take me to the airport.

From Lampedusa I take a plane to Rome.

From Rome another one to London.

In London, at Stansted, Mo Farah himself is waiting for me with his coach.

The first thing they do is complain about how long it took me to get there.

I apologize and we laugh; then all three of us head straight to the training field. I have a lot of time to make up, I know; I'm aware of it. I'll have to work hard.

I recover quickly; I respond well.

In a few weeks I'm as strong as I was before, even stronger than I was.

. . . 
Run, Samia, run, as if there were no particular reason. . . .

I just manage to make it in time to qualify for the 2012 London Olympics.

I'm in seventh heaven. I've never been more ecstatic.

I get through all the preliminary phases and, against all odds, make it to the finals.

The fans are with me.

On the starting blocks, televised worldwide, I'm in the fourth lane.

To my right is Veronica Campbell-Brown, to my left Florence Griffith Joyner, the fastest woman in the world.

. . . 
Live, Samia, live, as if everything were a miracle. . . .

Boom.

There's the start.

Now we run.

S
AMIA
Y
USUF
O
MAR
died in the Mediterranean Sea on April 2, 2012, while trying to reach ropes tossed out from an Italian vessel.

At the 2012 London Olympics, Mo Farah won the five-thousand- and ten-thousand-meter races, becoming a national hero in England and Somalia. A picture of him with Usain Bolt was viewed around the globe: the world's swiftest sprinter and strongest long-distance runner in the same photograph.

Mannaar is five years old and still looks a lot like her aunt. It seems she is one of the fastest girls her age.

 

T
HIS
BOOK
IS
THE
RESULT
of the efforts of a great many people—those who in various ways helped me write it or played a part in improving it once written or, even before that, gave me needed support to find the determination to write it.

First of all, thanks to my parents, who have always been there for me and who are a mainstay at even the most difficult moments, times when you're not sure which way to go. Thanks to my
nonna
Michelina, who I know is smiling down from somewhere, watching me as I tap this keyboard. A big thanks to everyone at the Feltrinelli publishing house. Thanks to Carlo Feltrinelli for having loved the project from the start. Thanks to Gianluca Foglia for wanting to see it realized and for taking such care with it. Thanks to Alberto Rollo for having played a role in developing the emotional sensibility in me to “hear” Samia's voice and for having been the first to tell me, “It's beautiful.” Thanks to Alessandro Monti for his attentive, profound words after reading the
book. Thanks to Giovanna Salvia for her invaluable work on the text. Thanks to Chiara Cardelli and Bettina Cristiani for having caught many things that still weren't right. Thanks to Theo Collier and Bianca Dinapoli for having promoted this story to so many people around the world. Thanks to Alberto Schiavone, one of the first whom I let read this book. A collective thanks to Francesca Cappennani, Annalisa Laborai, Silvia Cassoni, Benedetta Bellisario, Rossella Fancoli, Francisco Lopez, and Ludovica Piccardo and Agnese Radaelli of the Association
Il Razzismo è una brutta storia
for agreeing to read the first draft and for the enthusiasm they expressed to me. Thanks to Andrea Vigentini and Salvatore Panaccione for their words, on more than one occasion. Thanks to Rodolfo Montuoro for his support and energy throughout. Thanks to Rosie Ficocelli for her precision on each of the drafts. Thanks to Raf Scelsi, who was able to listen at times when I was at a loss. Thanks to Giulia Romano, who shared many talks with me. Thanks to Gomma for the constant encouragement from afar. Thanks to Ana Díaz Ramírez for the photo. Thanks to Cristiano Guerri and Duccio Boscoli for all the work I made them do on the cover.

A huge thank-you also goes to my agent, Roberto Santachiara, a pillar of support and the second person ever with whom I shared this story, for having immediately encouraged me to write it.

Thanks to Roberto Saviano for having told me at what for me was a difficult moment: “Write!”

Thanks again to Igiaba Scego, with whom it all started.

Thanks to Francesco Polimanti for being responsive and open
during the talk I gave about Samia's story at the University of Miami in October 2013.

Thanks to someone who is always there for me: my sister Nicoletta.

And finally, my thanks to Chiara: There's no need to reveal here how much you helped me before, during, and
after.

I
CAME
UPON
THE
STORY
of Samia Yusuf Omar by chance, on August 19, 2012, in Lamu, Kenya. It was morning, and Al Jazeera's news report had briefly mentioned her at the conclusion of the London Olympics. The story struck me. A few days later I returned to Italy, where the writer Igiaba Scego had written about it in
Pubblico.
It is thanks to Igiaba and to Zahra Omar, far more than a mediator and interpreter, that I was able to meet Hodan and Mannaar in Helsinki during the frigid February of 2013. It is thanks to Zahra that Hodan and I were able to communicate in what immediately seemed like the same language. It is only thanks to Igiaba and to Zahra, therefore, that this book exists.

I can never thank Hodan enough for those lengthy talks during endless days of seclusion in a hotel room, for her tears and sobs, for her laughter and her songs, and for giving me the courage and strength to tell her sister's story. My gratitude to her for having entrusted me with this story, which I hope I have been able to re-create in some small way at least. And my thanks for
the delicious Somali food that she brought me at the hotel when every restaurant nearby was closed.

Thanks also to Mannaar, who in the hours we spent together filled me with energy and vitality.

I also want to thank the young woman who in the book is called Nigist—who wishes to remain nameless, still afraid of what the Libyan police could do to her if they found her—for telling me about her endless conversations with Samia in the thirty days they spent together in Tripoli, in the same house with forty other women.

T
HI
S
IS
A
MOVING
STORY
about an extraordinary, spirited young woman. We first meet Samia in the setting of her childhood years, where two Somali families—hers and that of her childhood “brother” Alì—share meager rented quarters. Their courtyard with its giant eucalyptus tree is an island of normality in a country racked by poverty and brutal warring among clans, and it is these conditions that Samia is determined to overcome.

A word about the time line. Samia was born March 25, 1991, in Mogadishu, Somalia, and died August 2, 2012, in the Mediterranean. The narrative opens in 1999, when Samia and her best friend, Alì, are eight years old. By 2005, when Alì and his family are driven to move away, Samia is fourteen. In 2008 Samia travels to China to represent Somalia at the Summer Olympics in Beijing. When she turns twenty in 2011, she undertakes the long, harrowing Journey out of Somalia, hoping to eventually take part in the London Olympics in 2012. She drowns at sea trying to reach Italy in 2012, at twenty-one years of age.

The setting of the novel—the war-torn country of Somalia and, in particular, Samia's beloved Mogadishu—acts as a character in its own right, the nemesis that Samia both loves and opposes and from which she is forced to reluctantly flee.

Born the same year Major General Mohamed Siad Barre was overthrown as president of Somalia and the government collapsed, Samia grows up with war as an “older sister.” Barre had ruled the impoverished country for more than twenty years, after seizing power in 1969 and establishing the Somali Democratic Republic. Under his dictatorship Somalia had been a relatively stable nation. Barre's government collapsed in 1991 as civil war broke out. His departure from the scene (preceding his death in exile in Nigeria in 1995) left Somalia without a central authority and with a government in disarray: Chaos broke out as local warlords battled for territory. As civil war raged among feuding clans and their militias, municipal services ceased and the country was left on the brink of destruction, with no food, no clean water, and no power. In a city where the parched soil had crumbled to white dust and ruins dominate the landscape, the atmosphere was one of inevitability.

Despite the inexorable bleakness and despair, the indignity, violence, and loss, Samia's determination thrives and a mood of hopefulness prevails throughout her early life. The setting of her childhood years—the two families living around the eucalyptus tree, Samia and her childhood “brother” Alì promising that nothing will ever come between them—is an oasis of calm, an island of normality, in a country racked by poverty and brutal warring among clans. Only when she eventually embarks on the Journey
to escape the jagged circumstances of her homeland does Samia's single-minded, hopeful optimism desert her.

It is on her journey to freedom that Samia becomes an outcast, an exiled refugee, or
tahrib,
who is ostracized from human society. The process of dehumanization begins in Ethiopia, in Addis Ababa, before she even starts the Journey, when she is forced to watch the other athletes practice from behind a wire mesh fence outside the stadium: “I remained a
tahrib,
running alone.” As the Journey drags on, the process of marginalization intensifies to the point where she is no longer able to remember who she was before. By the time she reaches Sudan, the traffickers are referring to their downtrodden charges as
hawaian,
animals.

When I finished reading the book, I was left wondering what had become of Alì, Samia's onetime “brother” and “coach.” I asked Giuseppe Catozzella whether he had ever tried to find Alì when he was doing his research for the book. I knew he had spoken at length with Hodan, Samia's sister, but I wondered if he'd been able to speak with Alì or knew where he might be now. I thought a brief word from this individual who is so central to Samia's story might make a wonderful afterword to the narrative. Giuseppe was quick to introduce a note of reality, explaining that circumstances in Somalia made it impossible to trace Alì. He added that the latest word is that Alì is still in Somalia, although no one has seen him in years.

I also asked Giuseppe if he had copies of any of the letters that Samia read during the time she spent in prison in Ajdabiya. The text reads: “Pray, wait, and read. In fact there were letters in that prison. In Arabic, in Somali, in Ethiopian, and in English, left there
somehow, for some reason, tossed aside in a corner, accumulated over years and years. Letters from prisoners or from their loved ones. Maybe they were mementos of the dead that the guards had never had the nerve to discard. In those letters there were lives. And so, reading them, I rediscovered what no longer existed inside of me. Life. Memories. Love. Promises. Courage. Hope.”

Throughout it all, the young woman with the resilience of a survivor remains stubbornly anchored to her family and her homeland, and though she leaves them, it is with the hope of pursuing her goal and finding her way back. All in all, Samia's story of hope and aspiration, written with the passionate urgency of a firsthand account, is an affecting narrative with truly wrenching, very moving moments.

Anne Milano Appel