The night was thick with the scent of smoke and the deafening roar of war. Gunfire cracked through the air, and the ground trembled under the weight of relentless bombing. Our town in Somalia was no longer safe. My father burst into the room, his face pale with urgency.
We have to leave. Now! he commanded, his voice barely audible over the chaos outside.
My mother clutched my younger sister to her chest, and we rushed out into the night. The streets were littered with rubble, the air heavy with dust and the cries of terrified families fleeing just like us. We reached our old, battered car, and my father barely had time to start the engine before we sped off into the darkness, heading for the Kenyan border.
The journey felt endless, the long road stretching into uncertainty. The further we got from town, the quieter it became, but the fear never left us. My mother whispered prayers under her breath, her arms wrapped around my siblings.
Then, out of nowhere, headlights blinded us. A group of armed men emerged from the shadows, their rifles aimed at our car. My father cursed under his breath and slowed down. We had no choice but to stop.
The militia surrounded us, their expressions cold and unreadable. One of them barked orders, and my father hesitated for only a second before stepping out of the car, raising his hands. The rest of us followed, our hearts pounding.
Where are you going? one of the men asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
We're just trying to get to safety, my father said cautiously.
The man eyed the car, his gaze lingering on my mother and the other women with us. Then, before anyone could react, he grabbed one of the women and dragged her forward. A glint of steel flashed in the moonlight. A knife.
A scream ripped through the air as the woman fell, clutching her stomach. Chaos erupted. My father shouted, and in that instant, the militia was distracted.
Run! someone yelled.
And we ran.
My mother yanked me forward, my legs moving faster than I thought possible. The sound of gunfire erupted behind us, but we didn’t stop. The road became a blur, the night swallowing us whole as we fled into the unknown.
By some miracle, we made it.
When we finally crossed into Kenya, the air felt different—less heavy, less suffocating. We collapsed onto the ground, breathless and shaken, but alive.
The war had stolen so much from us, but it had not taken our will to survive. And as we looked back at the border we had escaped from, we knew there was no turning back. Only forward.
