As-salaamu `alaykum wa rahmatullaah
I don’t usually share my personal accounts of life and what I get up to, but I thought it’d be a change from the usual blog entries to post something different. Below is my personal account of some things my family and I experienced during the war. I’ve tried to keep it short and general, inshaa’Allaah I hope it benefits everyone to know that life is so full of unexpected moments and circumstances. My parents both growing up seperately as orphans had their fair share of difficulties, but nothing can measure up to what the war brought.
A war child or a child of war
My earliest memory and very childhood lies surrounded in scenes of war, death, chaos and uncertainty. Actually, most of my memory of the events that took place have now died with time but they remain nonetheless as jagged pieces of a jigsaw that unlike an adult, as I child I could never piece together into any time frame.
On the move
I remember when the war broke out, electricity was the first victim! The city had plunged into darkness and light from gun shots, blazes and missiles quickly become a strange source of light. It was night time when my siblings called me to the balcony – in the distance we could see what looked like red dots and trails of light as artillery was fired everywhere. All I had been hearing for the past weeks were explosions, gun shots and the usual frightening sounds of war. None of us were strong enough (or even old enough) to handle the situation, with every explosion we screamed for our parents who tried to console us but were obviously too busy trying to think and plan a way out of the city.
They decided to evacuate us from the capital to somewhere safer – the war was quickly reaching many parts of the country so they had to act quickly. My mother decided to head for my grandmother’s house. It was a really nice house with a massive inside patio that was open to the sky and plantations surrounding its corner. I remember taking afternoon naps on a daily basis; the bedrooms were always so cool and breezy. One time however, my father had accidentally left his gun (which alhamdulillah he never had to use) on top of a short cabinet. My brother being only a year older than me sneaked into the room and picked up the gun – he innocently directed it towards my sister! At that moment a relative came into the room and quickly snatched it from him screaming and the whole house went into chaos. When they moved from the room, they forgot to put the gun away, so I sneaked in to see what the fuss was about. I remember picking up the gun with both my hands and sliding it across the surface to pick it up properly – but I stumbled over and almost fell due to the sheer weight of it! I was too small to handle it so I quickly ran out of the room and pretended like nothing happened!
Soon afterwards, the area worsened as the war picked up pace and the death toll was increasing by the day. I remember one afternoon; I was running around on the patio when a deafening sound drew all our attention. I looked up just in time to see a large missile fly metres above our house and strike a nearby place – I screamed at the top of my lungs, but I’m almost certain the screams were drowned out by the sounds that soon followed. I’m unable to connect events of the whole situation but maybe this was directly linked to the time when my mother had been outside sitting with some neighbours when a missile struck nearby. Large shrapnels were flung everywhere and one of them flew towards the direction of my mother, hitting the very ground beneath their feet. It was a close call, and for my mother this wasn’t the only time she was missed ever so slightly. Unfortunately, in any war, many of the victims are those not targeted. A lot of the time innocent people are struck by stray bullets, flying shrapnels, and mines that were never intended for them.
On your own
My father had to leave the country to search for some visas to exit us all out of the country. He had a hard time leaving us behind, but he had to do something. There was almost no way out, the airports were closed or incredibly dangerous, transport was limited and to each their own. At this time, my mother was pregnant with my little brother and despite the circumstances, she had to still work and sell her jewellery because money was quickly running out as basic items of food had doubled and tripled in price – all she could think of was her 6 children and another one very soon on the way. Whatever income came in, she would save some of it for the days after giving birth, when she would be out of work.
‘Get down!’
One particular day she was in the market when a bomb exploded metres from where she stood. A man standing close to her threw himself at her, crushing her to the ground, in an attempt to save her life, “Keep your head down!”, “Stay down!” Absolute chaos, confusion and disorder broke out. People were screaming everywhere. My mother, shaken to the bone, quickly got up only to see all around her dead bodies – people whom she knew throughout her life, spoke to only a few seconds ago now lay lifeless and limbless. She was heavily pregnant but she ran as fast as she could. The man who had saved her life shouted for her to get down, bullets were being shot everywhere. But my mother was still running amidst the artillery, she had to get home. She collapsed as she came in through the gates, struggling to speak through breaths she informed my relatives, “So-and-so, dead. So-and-so is also dead. So-and-so… lost… a … leg.”
A miscarriage? If only!
Some time later, weeks or months, my mother went into labour. The baby was unfortunately positioned horizontally as opposed to a vertical position and hence, an operation was vital. It was too late for my mother to go to the hospital & the path was too dangerous so they called for a doctor. He arrived with very limited surgical tools and to make it worse, he couldn’t operate. Many hours and possibly even a day went by, but they had to get the baby out somehow. In the long, painful process, my mother had almost died, but Allaah decreed that only one soul should be taken. Allaah knows best, but maybe it was the continuous fear and shock throughout the 9 months or the fact that she was crushed to the ground on her stomach that day in the market that took its effects. Whatever it was, the baby had died during the labour or just before. After a very long ordeal for my mother, the baby, Muhammad (as had been the planned name) finally came out stillborn, but very beautiful. As relatives took him away for janaazah and burial, I remember catching sight of him wrapped in a white cloth with his jet black hair showing. To have a miscarriage is one thing, but to go through the full 9 months expecting a child, only to deliver him stillborn in a land torn apart by war is enough to drive any mother insane. But I doubt my mother had time for that, life had to go on. Indeed, to Allaah we belong and to Him we are returning, the eye may weep but we only say that which pleases Allaah `azza wa jall.
On the move, again
It was too dangerous for us to stay, many relatives and friends advised my mother to put her trust in Allaah and evacuate to a nearby city. As she boarded the bus with all of us, she gave the keys of the house to her cousin. A young man in his twenties, he had planned to wed in that house and as a gift, my mother gave it all to him. She left for a new city and her cousin entered the house. However, only a few moments passed when the house was raided with armed men. They shouted, accused, blamed and finally, they killed my mother’s cousin spraying him with bullets. News reached a cousin of ours who despite being a teen himself was the Imam of the local masjid. He came running out of the masjid and found the dead body. Terrified and distraught, he quickly called some locals for janaazah and burial. He tried to contact my mother, but she hadn’t even reached her destination! Finally, the news reached her and it hit her like a bullet – for days she was unable to sleep. The very people whom she would only speak to a few moments before were dying as soon as she left them. Another close relative who used to fix our curtains and another who would always visit and take care of us were both shot down dead around about the same time as well as countless friends of our family.
Our final destination?
We reached the new place; it was very calm and green! My siblings and I would run between bushes, picking the berries which I remember tasted so nice. My mother settled down with some relatives – we were only women and children. All the men were either fighting, taking refuge, seeking ways out of the anarchy or simply trying to stay sane. Trouble followed us one day when our place of only refuge was raided by armed gangs. My mother only had about $200 which she stuffed inside a pillow and the women hid all their gold into bags of flour. The men ordered us out of the house and lined us all up. To this day, subhaan’Allaah I still remember the heat, sweat and smell of fear as the men held every single one of us at gunpoint. Heavily armed, they shouted and threatened to kill us all. My sister who at the time was about 8 years old couldn’t contain herself. She ran up to one of the men and tugged at him, pulling his chin, she begged him not to kill us. Maybe Allaah put a moment of mercy into his heart, but anyway they decided to spare us for now and instead they stole our belongings including a couple of 4×4 that belonged to my father.
Hopeless journeys, he had to travel with hope
My father all this time had been going from country to country in search of anything that could help us get out of the turmoil. Sometimes he went by bus or car, other times he had to walk. He finally ended up in Egypt; the land that had once upon a time took him in on a scholarship and was the source of his education and upbringing for many years. They were unable to help. He had to walk from Egypt to Libya. Finally alhamdulillaah only by the Mercy of the Most Merciful, he managed to obtain some visas – to London. London? I couldn’t even say the word! In fact, it was so foreign to me that the only thing I knew about it was that the ‘fact’ that people there ‘walked on their heads’ – as a close relative had fooled me into believing (I was very gullible as a kid). I was petrified, how was I going to ‘walk on my head?!’ lol
My father through his travels across countries had totally lost contact with my mother who was always moving. He didn’t know if she was alive or if any of us kids had managed to survive the war – and my mother bore the same thoughts. As an act of gratitude to Allaah `azza wa jall, my father went for ‘Umrah.
Reunion
After ‘Umrah, my father couldn’t re-enter the country to get us out. So he sent my mother a quick message with some people. She had to board such-and-such plane and meet him across the border at such-and-such place. Alhamdulillaah there was finally some ray of hope in this anarchy. I’m unsure about the events that followed, but I do remember the long, bumpy journey to, I don’t know, wherever we were to take the plane – some makeshift airport maybe?
We boarded our ‘plane’ which was believe it or not a small cargo jet that was only used to export drugs as we came to know. There were no seats of course, so we all sat on the bare floor. I remember before we boarded the plane, the pilot counted us all one by one and matched each name to the name written in the passport. The numbers didn’t match up – there was someone amongst us who wasn’t enlisted to fly. It was a young boy only of 12 years or thereabouts, he was trying to flee the country on his own. My mother, seeing his desperation and fright had spontaneously included him amongst us 6 kids in hope that the pilot didn’t catch on. The pilot ordered that the boy give $100 if he wanted to fly. He gave the amount. Then the pilot told us to get inside, but held the boy back. He shut the doors in the face of the young kid and climbed in himself, speeding off with the $100. My mother’s heart broke. What injustice. We protested and shouted but were quickly threatened. The boy was left behind with nothing, but Allaah was sure to aid him later on, and wallaahu a’lam what the reward of that pilot was to be.
Sitting on the floor of the small plane, we weren’t alone. In fact, I distinctly remember behind me was a man seriously injured with a severed leg, limbless and in need of urgent medical attention. It was an uncomfortable ride, and I couldn’t sit still… many times I’d accidentally fall back on the man’s wounded leg! I would apologise profusely for every time I’d make him flinch.
We finally arrived across the border and my parents reunited. There was finally some real hope of surviving and despite it being only 2 years, it felt like a lifetime. Despite all that though, I’m almost certain we didn’t experience even 70% of the ordeals of war. We know people to have gone insane, lost every member of their family. Others tried different routes of escape only to meet death by the bullet halfway. History definitely lies behind them including my family and I’m almost certain more history lies ahead.
In Britain
I don’t think I have enough time to write everything, but one thing I do remember is our early period living in the UK. We arrived and tried to settle down to deal with our experience. Soon afterwards however, the very familiar sounds of ‘gun shots and explosions’ ripped across the town! My heart sank as I thought the war had caught up with us yet again. For some weird reason my mother and siblings were calling me to the window to look outside. It was a stark similarity to the time they called me to the balcony at the start of the war. I remember I screamed, cried and pulled my mother’s clothes to get her away from the window, I was sure we had to go on the run again! My mother tried to console me and make me realise that the sounds were not really artillery but mere fireworks. I obviously didn’t understand – how can you explain to a kid who just spent the last two years hearing nothing but the sounds of weapons, what a firework was? It took me a while to get over it, and alhamdulillaah I did.
May Allaah reward my parents who I can’t believe went through all that they did – the majority of things I’m unable to recall and document. Only Allaah knows the limits to which my mother was driven, may He multiply their rewards – for their patience and gratitude, strength and care. Ameen
Please make du’aa for this Ummah
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