My name means “paradise” in Somali, but I was born to the hell of an endless war. I don’t know what life was like before the war.

As a child, it felt like I was in a film. The bombs exploding at the market and the bullets flying past all felt like special effects staged by a director.

I did not, however, experience the war as a spectator; I have it etched onto my body.

I decided to go, to leave Somalia forever in search of peace. The day I said goodbye to my parents for the last time was the hardest day of my life, because I didn’t know if I would ever see them again.

During the journey, I passed through many countries: Kenya, Uganda, South Sudan, Sudan, and Libya. There were 30 of us when we entered the desert.

I can still picture the despair in the eyes of those who, step after step, gradually realised they wouldn’t make it. 

They locked us in the dark, in the back of a truck, with our hands and feet tied with rope to prevent us from escaping. 

In Libya, they kept us in a small room for days without food or water, as they waited to send across the sea. 

When I saw the small boat, I was afraid; I wanted to turn back. They pointed a gun at the back of my neck and forced me to choose between certain and almost certain death. 

After a few hours of travel, the boat’s engine broke down. We were stranded at sea for five interminable days. 

I can still taste the salt on my tongue, growing ever more intense with each new wave. 

I wanted to turn back, I wanted to return to my blood-soaked land that will always smell of home; I wanted to go back to my family so as not to die alone, without roots, on an unforgiving sea. 

The Italian Coast Guard rescued us. When my feet finally touched solid ground, a new light took hold inside of me—the light of someone who knows there is still plenty of life left to tread. 

*Testimony of Fardusa, a Somali woman, accompanied by Centro Astalli/JRS Italy.