“Ashes. That’s what I remember most.” I said, trying to recall what I remembered most vividly. They weren’t just regular ashes. They were the kind of ashes that you get right after all the wood is burnt, when there are some charred remains of wood in the gray dust that the fire corroded away. It has a magical sort of feeling to it, like your own personal sun is shining just for you. It was a ray of hope in a hopeless world. I remember it from when I was still a kid, back in the slums of Ethiopia. 

When I was a kid, I lived in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. I lived with my father, Abioye, and my brother, Amare. Each night, we would stay in a different place, so that there was a lesser chance that we would be taken. One day when Amare and I were scavenging for food, we heard a scream and a loud boom coming from the direction of the camp that we had set up. We both sprinted towards the ear piercing sound, and it was my father that had screamed. He was dead. Hovering over him was a large, burly man with an enormous gun. My brother and I each have different ways of reacting to fear. Most, like my brother, are smart. They choose to run, run away from their troubles and be safe. I, however, was not very smart that day. I stood still, paralyzed in fear. In my native language, the big man commanded “take him away” and two smaller men with guns appeared out of seemingly nowhere. They started to drag me along the ground, and at that moment I stepped out of my shocked state. I started wildly thrashing to try to escape their clutches, but it didn’t work. I realized too late that I should have run. When I started to struggle, one of the men struck me on the head with his gun, and I was knocked unconscious.

When I awoke, the first thing that I saw was the dissipating fire, lighting up the starless sky that seemed so bleak. It looked like I was in a desert, with nothing in sight for kilometers upon kilometers. The sand felt cold, like someone had taken an ice cube and put it right under the desert. I was afraid of what would happen if  the fire went out. Luckily, there was a pile of wood next to me. Right then was when I saw the fire red ashes at the bottom of the fire. They were comforting to me. I tried to pick up another log to throw in to the fire, but found my hands bound behind my back. That’s when I saw it. That’s when I saw the cage filled with kids like me, and my morale went down like water on a fire. My father had told me about these places. This is where warlords went about training kids to fight for them.

When I awoke that night, I was taken away by two armed men. They dragged me across the rough sand, and threw me on to a pile of straw, which they told me would serve as my bed for the time being. I was alone, lost and scared. The only thing left that I could do was try to keep the image of my dead father laying on the ground out of my head, and fall asleep.

The next morning, I was awoken by the sound of firing guns. I opened my eyes and saw what the camp looked like. It looked to be about half of a kilometer long. On the left side of the camp were several hastily thrown up tents. They were deathly black, and had an intimidating aura about them. There were guard towers at all four corners of the camp. In the middle, there was a seemingly desolate road that passed through the camp. On the right side was what my father had described as a firing range. All of the kids that I had seen in the cage last night were standing in a straight line, and were firing at targets. I noticed that on their feet were shackles. When one of the guards noticed me stirring, I was immediately taken in to one of the few lonely buildings that they had strewn about camp. One of the guards held up a gun to me. “Take it,” he said, with a hint of impatience in his voice. “No thank y-” I tried to say. Before I could finish my sentence, however, the guard punched me in the stomach. It felt like a boulder fell on my stomach. “Take it,” he said again. I heard the aggression in his voice now. Suddenly, I realized that no guns were being fired. I glanced out of the open door and realized that all of the boys were staring at me, anticipating my next move. Seeing no other option, I took the gun.
The next couple of weeks in the hellhole that was the camp went by agonizingly slow. After the guard gave me the gun, I learned how to fire it, how to aim, how to reload it, the basics. I learned later that the guard’s name who had hit me was Benaim. He was the cruelest guard in the camp. The first week in the camp had a distinct pattern. The other boys and I (I was sleeping in the cage now) would wake up and eat whatever food they gave us. When we were done, we would be escorted to someone who taught us more about our weapons. After that, we would eat the trash they gave us, and go to sleep. The second week was the same as this, too. So was the third. Once a week, a truck would stop in the camp, and drop off a box. I never learned what was in it. On the last night of the third week, I looked down at myself and was horrified at what I saw. My already scrawny stomach had shriveled up to nothing. My ribs were distinct even with my shirt on. Right then, at that exact moment, I knew what I had to do. I had to escape the camp.

Two weeks later, I had a plan and was ready to put it  into action. I had analyzed where the guards were at what time, and what day the truck came in to camp, at what time. Although it had pained me to do so, I wasn’t going to bring any one else with me. I couldn’t. With one boy gone, there was a slight chance that I could have left unnoticed. With two boys gone, that would almost definitely be noticed. As the time of day approached for the truck to arrive, I started to get nervous. What if I was caught? What will happen if I do make it? I knew that I had to push those questions out of my mind, and had to focus on the task at hand. In what felt like an eternity, I saw the outline of the truck coming over the first of the many large hills, in front of the already setting sun. I knew that I either had to do this, or I would die.

Getting out of the cage was easy. Back in Addis Ababa, my family needed food. I learned how to pick locks to get inside food pantries. When no guards were looking and all of the boys were asleep, I attempted to pick the lock using a piece of metal that had fallen off of the truck. As I was about to open the door, I stopped. I realized that this was my last chance to quit, turn around, and fall asleep. I wouldn’t be in trouble, and I wouldn’t get hurt. Then I remembered something. I remember how Benaim had hit me for almost no reason, and realized that I was lying to myself. I was going to be in trouble, and I was going to get hurt no matter what. I took a deep breath, summoned all of my courage, and picked the lock.

When I opened the door, I half expected there to be soldiers waiting for me right outside, weapons pointed at me. Thankfully, there were no soldiers in my sights. About 300 meters away, I saw my target. There was the truck, engine running and ready to go. I was about to sprint towards it, but then I stopped myself. I knew that if I was going to make it, I needed to be careful. I stuck to my plan, and stayed close to the tents, so that the guards in the guard towers couldn’t see me. I snuck around like this for about 150 meters, when I encountered the first several guards. They weren’t paying much attention to anything but their conversation, so I easily slipped by them. I continued to sneak throughout the camp until I was so close to the truck that I could see the individual bolts on the wheels. I was about to sprint and jump in to the back when someone came out of the tent that it was stopped in front of. It was Benaim. My spirits sank like a rock in a lake.  I hadn’t guessed that this would happen. He climbed in to the drivers seat, and started to drive away. It was either I stay here and slowly starve, or I go with Benaim and possibly find asylum. I quickly snapped out of my daze and started sprinting towards the back. Thankfully, no one saw me as I jumped on, and crawled in to the back of the truck.

We drove for a full day and a half before we finally stopped. When we stopped, I dared to take a glance at my surroundings. What I saw made me drop my jaw in awe. I had only heard about it in stories. It was an airplane! It could take me to safety, if I could somehow miraculously get on it. Benaim got out and started talking to someone that looked like one of the guards back at the camp. While they were talking, I ran as if my life depended on it (which it did) to where the airplane sat. The back of it was open, so I climbed in. The inside was very strange. All around the plane, there were bags with some kind of white powder in them. I was about to open one and see what it was when I heard Benaim and the other man’s voices coming closer. I heard Benaim naming off places that I had never heard of. “Rome, Paris, London, Berlin. That is the order that you must drop these off in” The other man replied “Yes, sir” and got in the cockpit of the plane. I got one final look at my tormentor before he closed the back, and started to walk away.

I’m not sure how much time passed when the plane finally landed. It was a very long flight. I looked out one of the windows to see that we were in a grassy field. Beyond that, about 5 kilometers away were the tall buildings of a city. Based on what Benaim said, I guessed that it was Rome. All of a sudden, the back doors were thrown open. I stood there, paralyzed in fear as the man and I locked eyes. Seconds passed, and we said nothing. Eventually, the man asks “Are you from the camp?” I nodded yes. There was a glimmer in his eye. He said “I used to be your age, and I was taken from my family to go to the camp. Go. Run away, so you don’t have to be like me!” And so I ran. I ran until my lungs hurt, but I still ran. I ran until I was shouting distance from the closest house. I had no idea what to do. Everything seemed so…. quiet. I walked up the steps, and knocked on the door.