Sarai’s Story
My name is Sarai. I am 18 and a Muslim living in Mogadishu, Somalia, with my two-year-old son, Daude. As long as I can remember, there’s been war here. I haven’t always lived here. I grew up in a village about eight hours travel by camel over the dunes. My parents and I are strict Muslims. They always taught me to respect and fear God. The imam would tell us that the most important thing is to accept the will of God—Inshallah—“Let God’s will be done.”
While still quite young, I was prepared for marriage. For women in Africa marriage and children are very important. My mother had been preparing me with the skills I would need to be a good wife and mother since childhood.
When I was ready for marriage, the day came and I met my husband-to-be for the first time. But I couldn’t look at him, for in my culture a bride must always look down and be serious. However, inside I was happy, for I knew I was now passing from childhood to being a real woman.
After the wedding, I went with Ibrahim to live with his family in a neighbouring village. Life is hard in all Somalia. Water is scarce and often I would take our camel and walk for five hours to find a deep well. I worked hard and tried to please my husband, but he wasn’t content. He wanted to go to the city where he heard there were jobs and more money.
One morning I felt sick and, wondering if it was malaria, told my mother-in-law. She informed me that I was probably having a child. Allah has blessed me, I thought. I was happy and prayed it would be a son so that my husband would be happy also.
But he wasn’t happy. I was shocked when he told me he was divorcing me: “Go back to your parents,” was all he said.
I had nothing to say and sadly I gathered my few possessions and left. At least I would have a companion, I thought. A child will make me a woman and help me when I’m old.
Months passed until one night pains rippled through my body. An old woman skilled in traditional ways of childbirth massaged my tender abdomen with ointment to help the contractions. Through the night the pains came stronger and stronger, but no baby.
Why won’t this baby Allah has given to me come? I wondered between contractions.
By now my strength was leaving me, and I became scared. Then someone suggested I go to the nearby ADRA (Adventist Development and Relief Agency)–run health centre in a nearby town called Adale, so I was placed on a donkey and made the painful, uncomfortable journey.
At the clinic I was placed in a bed and examined. I was given medicine to give me strength and start my contractions again. Again the pains came, but to no avail. On the third day someone called in my parents.
“We’re sorry. We’ve done our best, but she is too small and the baby is too big,” a young Somali doctor told them. “She must have an operation if she is to live!”
I was upset at the thought, for that is not Allah’s way, and Mogadishu was eight hours away by camel. How could I travel? Then I heard my father say that word: Inshallah—if it is Allah’s will that she delivers, she will deliver; if not, that is His will. Inshallah!”
Now I was frightened. Even though I’d always believed I should be obedient to God’s will, this was about me, Sarai, directly, and I didn’t want to die.
While these thoughts raced through my head, I heard the voice of a stranger coming from the back of the room.
“Wait,” he said. “Inshallah. There may be something we can do.”
He was a kind looking man with silver hair and friendly eyes. “I’m a visitor,” he told my father, “but I am a hakim and have had experience with such cases. There’s a simple surgical procedure we can try, which in some cases, if Allah wills, will allow the baby to be born naturally. Allow me to examine your daughter and I will tell you if it is possible.”
My father agreed. As I watched his eyes above his blue mask, I prayed that he would be able to help me. Could this be Allah’s will that a stranger from some faraway land was to deliver my child?
“Yes,” he said, “she is very small, but I believe I can help.”
He gave me another injection, from which time I could neither see nor feel what he was doing, but I had confidence in him. Then, suddenly, I felt movement.
“Good,” he said. “Now pass me the forceps.”
Slowly my baby began moving. The pain was terrible despite the anaesthetic, but then I heard a faint cry. My baby—alive!
“It’s a boy,” the visitor said.
Oh, Allah, why did I doubt you? Oh, praises be to your name. Thank you for your gift, I said in my heart. My very own son. Now I am a mother, a full woman, I told myself.
My father took the man’s hand and thanked him. “Allah has come to us through your hands,” he said. “We have been blessed. We will call the child by your name, so we will never forget.”
“My name is David,” he said.
“Then my grandson will be called Daude,” my father replied.
Little Daude is growing so fast. Allah is good, and all is well in my life, but my country is still at war.
ADRA is still bringing life to many of my people. And when Daude is old enough, I will tell him of the stranger who came into our lives and brought Allah to us through his hands!
Health services in Somalia are meagre, especially in rural areas. The infant mortality rate is high and life expectancy is low. TB, malaria and leprosy are common. While education is free at all levels, it is not compulsory, so illiteracy is a problem. It wasn’t until 1972 that an officially accepted alphabet was adopted, and today there are primary and secondary schools as well as some vocational and teacher-training institutions. Somali and Arabic are the official languages, but English and Italian are also spoken.
More than two-thirds of the population lead a nomadic life, raising livestock, travelling as far as Kenya and Ethiopia to graze their herds. Permanent settlements are small and widely scattered. The needs are huge, and ADRA is doing what it can to alleviate poverty, illiteracy and improve the health of the population.
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