Some of the men in the camp hold a protest, but you’re afraid to join in. You don’t know what they do to troublemakers here. Could it damage your chances for a visa? Do you even have a chance for a visa? Why won’t anyone tell you the truth?
You are hiding in a tent nearby. You hear a man with a megaphone make an announcement to the protesters.
‘Nobody is forcing you to stay here. If you wish to return to your own country, the Australian government will pay for your flight home.’
His words are met with howls of derision and anger. Slowly, they begin to sink into your mind.
You imagine being flown back to Mogadishu, and beginning the cat-and-mouse game with al-Shabaab all over again.
This man obviously has no idea what any of you are facing, should you return.
And suddenly, you understand – really understand. You’re trapped.
To return to your last decision and try again, go to scene 34.
‘It’s been a long path, from Mogadishu to Melbourne,’ you say. You look down at your hands resting on the speaker’s lectern. They are the hands of a young man.
These hands hold steering wheels and microphones; they press buttons in lifts and type a hundred words per minute. But they are still the same hands that carried a gun across the desert; wiped the sweat from Jamilah’s brow; installed plastic-bottle lights in Dadaab; gripped the deck of a boat, and the sides of a truck, on your quest for freedom.
The screen behind you on the stage shows the cover of your book, From Mogadishu to Melbourne, featuring the cover of those same hands again – yours – holding Aunty Rahama’s golden pen.
‘There were so many times that my life was in danger,’ you say. You are speaking to a packed high school assembly. Hundreds of faces watch you in amazement. Your story is unlike anything they’ve heard before.
‘Al-Shabaab – that’s the terrorist group that controlled much of Somalia and is still a terrible threat today – wanted me dead. But there were two things I had to live for: my sister, Jamilah, and this pen.’
You take the golden pen from your pocket. Your audience knows this part of the story, because it made international headlines. With the exposure of Bright Dream, hundreds of orphans destined for the frontlines of al-Shabaab’s dirty war were rescued and given true hope. And the money trail in the bank account left a clear set of footprints for the investigators to follow: who al-Shabaab had bought their weapons from; in what towns they had conducted transactions or built hideouts; which vehicles were purchased and what kind of technology they had for surveillance and attack. With this treasure-trove of information, the AMISOM forces conducted a series of major raids, bringing down a major military leader of al-Shabaab and dozens of unit commanders. The movement is still alive, but significantly weakened, with al-Shabaab one step closer to defeat and Somalia one step closer to peace, thanks to your efforts in bringing this crucial information out safely.
When you conclude your talk, the audience gives you a standing ovation. You take some questions from the eager crowd.
‘You said the pen has an interesting history – can you tell us about that?’ asks a boy.
‘Absolutely,’ you say. ‘Well, the story goes that back in 1825, an Irish convict brought a special bracelet to Australia, sewn into the hem of her skirt. The bracelet contained seven gems, and the first letter of each gem spelt out a word – in this case “F” for fire opal, “R” for ruby and so on, spelling the seven-letter word “freedom”.
‘The bracelet broke and the gems were shared. The ruby went to a man named “Inky” Williams, who was my Uncle Aadan’s great-great-great-great-grandfather! Of course, Aadan added the memory stick himself, to give as a gift to my Aunty Rahama,’ you add. ‘The other six freedom gems could be anywhere. But this pen brought me my freedom, because it gave me a reason to write and to speak up.’
A field of hands shoot up with further questions. ‘There’s time to answer one more,’ you say, and pick out a girl in the front row.
‘What are you going to do next?’ she asks.
‘Well,’ you reply, ‘you remember how I actually met some of the orphans from Bright Dream by accident when my sister and I hitched a lift out of the desert? At the time, I was sure they’d all be killed in an al-Shabaab mission before too long. But I’ve just been contacted by Hassan!’
The audience gasps, delighted.
‘Yeah. I know. I was so excited to hear it too. And now Hassan wants to go back to Somalia and start a real orphanage to help all the kids who were mistreated by Bright Dream.
‘He’s in Kenya at the moment. I’m flying there next month to interview him, before he returns to Somalia to start the new orphanage, and I’m hoping to use the money I raise here in Australia from my book sales and talks to support him.
‘I also want to visit my friends in Kenya who you read about in the book – Sampson and Abshir in Nairobi, and Jok and Adut, who still live in Dadaab. I also want to raise funds for Maryam and Majid; they’re still stuck in Indonesia until Australia starts accepting visa applications from there again, but they want to start a school there for refugee kids like their son, Mahmoud.
‘But that’s my long-term plan. In the short term, once I’m finished talking to you guys, I have a birthday party to go to. Thanks for being such a great audience!’
The principal shakes your hand warmly and you hurry from the hall into the summer afternoon sunshine – you don’t want to be late for the party. When you get to Aadan’s house, Jamilah is already there
