Maisha Safari

The nature of humankind emits light

Laurence Bollen and Mugisha

colofon

© 2021 Droomvallei Uitgeverij, gdcbusiness

Epub: first edition February 2022

ISBN: 978-90-832088-9-3

Print: first edition January 2022

ISBN: 978-90-83208-84-8

Autors: Laurence Bollen and Mugisha

Cover design: gdcbusiness

Interior book design: Droomvallei Uitgeverij

Writing coach: Jolanda Pikkaart

Editor: Brenda Nieuwenhuizen

Illustrations: Shutterstock/Riccardo Mayer; iStock/dk_photos

Translation: Fairlingo, Delia Burggraaf, AQT Language Services

No part of this publication may be reproduced by printing, photocopying, computerised database, or any other means without the publisher’s prior written permission.

Contents

JOINT FOREWORD

PROLOGUE

1 LIVING IN A GHETTO

2 EXTREMISTS CAMPS

3 FLEEING TO EUROPE

4 WESTERN EUROPE, AMSTERDAM

5 LIFE ON THE STREETS OF EINDHOVEN

6 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

7 MY FUTURE IN THE NETHERLANDS

8 A RESIDENCE PERMIT AND HUMAN TRAFFICKING

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INFORMATION ABOUT UGANDA

SOURCES AND FURTHER INFORMATION

SONGS

PROCEEDS FROM THE BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

JOINT FOREWORD

Twello, 1 May 2021

Annette Nobuntu Mul

Executive and Organisational Coach ®

Senior Lecturer, The International School for Philosophy

Chairperson Ubuntu Netherlands/Founder Ubuntu Society/Columnist: The Optimist NL

Umntu Ngmuntu Ngbantu: People are people through other people. I am because we are, and we are because the planet is.

It is the heart of Ubuntu. A South African Zulu word and a deeply rooted African awareness of humanity and a worldview. Our Western view of humanity is very different: ‘I think, therefore I exist’, suggesting that we humans are independent, rational beings. Detached from the other, detached from the earth, detached from faith or spirituality. Because of this image of humanity and worldview, it seems understandable that we see ‘the other’ as a stranger and a threat. We think that our identity is an isolated entity without connection to the other on a personal and worldly level. In the West, (neo)liberalism has brought us much in terms of prosperity. But the big social issues like global warming, our health, the flow of migrants, discrimination and other social inequalities require joint solutions based on a humane view of humankind and the earth. Before we can act from a shared perspective, we must first undergo a deep self-reflection, a moral awakening. We must become aware of the fact that we are hollowing out the earth instead of seeing it as our partner, of which we are a part. We must become conscious of the fact that ‘we Westerners’ have also ‘exploited’ people and countries with our colonial past. We did not see them as fellow human beings but stripped them of their identity because we felt unjustly superior based on the ‘right of the strongest’. A new awareness can help us to understand, see and experience our interconnectedness. Not out of fear or guilt, but out of personal, shared and joint responsibility on the road to global equality. Every human being wants to bear responsibility when they feel part of a whole and feel seen and heard in a dignified manner.

Meaning and belonging. It is precisely this awareness that we can learn from the African continent, the Africans – like Mukisa – whom we meet through their wealth of wisdom. If we allow ourselves to deeply experience what ‘I am because we are’ means, we will embrace the other as a ‘lucky charm’, and every new story will enrich our lives.

One of Ubuntu’s pillars is the power of storytelling. A life story as told here by Mukisa, through the eyes, ears and by the hand of author Laurence Bollen, under the skin and through the mouth of Mugisha.

Mukisa takes us on a breath-taking journey of both gruesome and movingly powerful encounters with ‘the other’. Sustained by faith and the spiritual strength of his ancestors, blessed with talents and intelligence, he flees his war-torn homeland and family at a very young age. In search of basic human safety, he ends up going from one dangerous adventure to another. And at the same time, from an inhuman war to degrading human trafficking. The realisation that what we often call inhuman turns out to be human acts is very difficult to comprehend.

‘People are not monsters, but they are capable of monstrous acts,’ Archbishop Desmond Tutu said at the Commission of Truth and Reconciliation.

By shining the light on the darkness, the darkness disappears: Mukisa retains his dignity, pride and faith despite all inhuman atrocities. This dignity is his source and beacon, his past and his future. On his life’s journey, through the stream of existence, he emerges from being a survivor to becoming a creator in and through his encounters with important others. Mukisa has had the strength and wisdom not to let himself be dehumanised by inhuman acts. It was precisely because of those people who saw him as a boy, a man, a person, and as Mukisa that he was able to experience that: illegal people do not exist, I am because we are. Like Uganda is called ‘The Pearl of Africa’, this book is ‘a pearl of happiness’ to anyone who reads it. Mukisa’s story touches the heart and is a worthy contribution to our collective awareness. Equality is a fundamental human right, not a privilege.

Sittard, 07 April 2021

Dr Sabrina Keinemans

Lecturer in Social Integration

Zuyd University of Applied Sciences

A simple word like ‘refugee’ is a term that has become loaded in our Dutch society, as in other Western countries. We see refugees as uninvited and unwelcome guests in Europe, who, in addition, threaten ‘our’ lifestyle when they hold different views. The language we use when talking about refugees and the views expressed therein often reveal a one-dimensional and categorising view of this group. We can observe this, for example, in certain politicians who make the position of newcomers in society the core of their political programme and for whom refugees are primarily a policy category. But we also see it in society itself, in which these people are often viewed with the same outsider’s perspective: as fortune seekers, or as vulnerable, with whom and to whom something must be done one way or the other; deportation, shelter, integration … As a result, little is said in this everyday language about the unsafety people are trying to flee from and to whom the term ‘refugees’ literally refers.

I call this view one-dimensional because, on the one hand, it ignores the diversity and pluriformity of a group such as refugees, but especially because it fails to take into account the personal experiences of these people when dealing with this target group. In other words: by looking at refugees this way, we ignore that all people have a story and history of their own that influences their daily lives. From the perspective of the society that receives refugees, the term refugee is just a label. It is a term used to label people who come to our country uninvited yet out of necessity and to help determine what should happen to them. But behind that term, are people: from different countries, with different beliefs, raised in loving – or not so loving – families. They have all had to deal with their own setbacks and dramatic events. And their life story is still evolving today, in a new situation, because they too must try to hold their own in a life full of challenges in a new country. Being a refugee is thus not a one-dimensional characteristic or trait of a person or group. It is literally a form of survival, dealing with hardships, threats and challenges that life throws at you.

This book tells the story of one such survivor. The story of Mukisa: of his life in Uganda, his escape to Europe, and his experiences here in the Netherlands. Mukisa recounts the unfolding of his life story in a gripping manner, the events that take place that shape him and how he struggles to stay afloat between life’s threats and opportunities. This is not a matter of conscious strategy, but something that must happen every day because people want to abuse you, you have no roof over your head, and you endure hardship. Mukisa has no choice but to go on and struggle through those situations.

His story broadens our view of refugees because it makes their daily struggle to survive visible and forces us to engage in self-reflection. It shows the reader that our outsider’s view of refugees falls short of the challenges they have to face.

PROLOGUE

Italy, 2017

The creaking bed makes music every time I move while I stare ahead gloomily. My roommate, Justice, is stretched out on the bed with his hands folded under his head. The space in which we are locked up is small; our two beds just fit. The room is sparsely lit by the small window just below the ceiling. No more than a sliver of daylight penetrates it. It is too small to escape through. Desperately, I wonder how it could have come to this. From the promised Utopia, a job in Europe and a plane ticket, to a victim of human trafficking. Is this really how my ‘Maisha Safari life journey’ is going to end?

Eindhoven, 2020

‘Hujambo, jina langu ni Mukisa, unatoka wapi?’ ‘Hello, my name is Mukisa, where are you from?’ Is it important where you come from?

I speak Swahili at home, but I also speak and write English and Arabic fluently well. Swahili is an attractive language because it is not a tribal language and therefore is spread across large parts of East Africa. The language originated when Arabs settled around the East African coast in 689 to trade. Did you know that the word safari is the Swahili word for travel? And thus, this book is a description of the safari of my life, or in other words: Maisha Safari. Mukisa is a common Ugandan name and means happiness. Re-reading the book, I realise that my name is predestined, even though I only found my happiness after looking into the depths of darkness. Of course, I had my doubts, but you must never give up. I always kept searching for the light, and every time I stopped expecting it, a source of light appeared between the cracks in the darkness. I share my story with you to create awareness so that you will have more understanding for everyone you meet in your life and because I feel that in our own way, we are all connected in our search for happiness. Therefore, be merciful because the search for happiness is a universal human right.

1 LIVING IN A GHETTO

Kampala – Uganda, 2005

Let me take you back to 2005, the year I turned eight and lived in the ghettos on the outskirts of the fast-growing metropolis of Kampala.

Over thirty-five million people live in Uganda. Most of them are poverty-stricken, and about thirteen per cent are Muslim. This includes my family, we are Muslim, and my father supports four wives. And then one day …

As I wake up, I hear my father’s scuffling footsteps. Cautiously I look in his direction and try to make out whether it really is him. He is walking towards my cotton sleeping mat.

‘Mukisa, don’t forget to pray,’ he says with a sombre undertone in his voice.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I nod clearly and get up.

‘Go lie down; I will see you again in a few weeks.’ Father is leaving again today. We did not play or talk much during the time he was at home. I must always go to bed early, and then I hear my father and mother talking until late in the evening. Sometimes my mother laughs or lets out a cry.

My father puts a crumpled envelope on the table and stares at it briefly. ‘This is for your mother.’ He does not look at me when he speaks. Then he scuffles out of the doorway on his sandals and leaves.

I probably will not see him again for the next few weeks. My father travels back and forth between his wives. My sisters tell me that he is often at the market in Kampala, where he has a wooden table filled with second-hand clothes from Europe.

One day, my sisters take me with them, and I am able to watch my father from a distance. He does not want us to go to Kampala city centre, but I asked my sisters to take me anyway.

‘Nice clothes for sale! Not old and not many holes.’

Father has a loud and dark voice. You can hear him clearly above the shouting. Hundreds of colourfully dressed men and primarily veiled women shout that they have the most beautiful goods. A little later, I see my father drinking tea from a small glass cup. He sits down on a yellow folding chair that has been repaired with grey tape. With his feet stretched out, he closes his eyes to tiny slits. He keeps an eye on his goods, and at the same time, he rests. Looking around, I realise that there are more sellers than buyers in the square. ‘Father is a good seller. He sells at least five pieces of clothing a day,’ I hear my sister say with some pride in her voice. Frowning, I stare at my father for a moment.

‘We can buy food with that money, Mukisa,’ she whispers. She puts her arm around my shoulder, and we saunter back home.

We live in the ghetto, Mulimira-zone Kamwokya, close to Kampala city centre. My mother, Ayana – beautiful flower – has four daughters and one son. My father also has children with his other wives. I rarely have any contact with my half brothers and sisters. Father usually stays outside Kampala in a small village called Masindi. The conditions there are not much better, but there is less air and noise pollution. At home, my mother and sisters soon notice that I have the memory of an elephant and can interpret information in a unique way. They bring home all the books, magazines, and loose bits from old newspapers and journals.

‘Mukisa, read this information; it will make you smart,’ they keep repeating tirelessly and lovingly.

In Uganda, it is certainly not easy for ghetto children to find affordable books. Unfortunately, my parents do not have the money to send me to the state school. At the state school, the classes consist of up to one hundred children and only one teacher. In some cases, the teacher has had the opportunity to study himself. Classes are often held outdoors. As soon as it is time to harvest, the whole class goes with the teacher to harvest. However, at the age of eight, I was already reading books for adults. My reading ability surpasses that of my schoolmates who attend the state school.

One day, I was walking through the ghetto reading a Koranic revelation, my thoughts turning to the story of Mohammed receiving visions in the desert from the angel Gabriel, which gave rise to the source of the Koran. At the end of the street, I take a random turn and walk through the ghetto for minutes. Suddenly, I bumped into an old man who did not move aside as is customary in our culture. I fall to the ground, and my book plunges right into a puddle of water. ‘In the name of Allah, the Exalted, young man, you should respect the elderly and move aside.’

I don’t respond but drop to my knees and see if my book can be saved. I take it out of the puddle and see dirty water dripping from all sides. Tears well up inside me, but I manage to suppress them. I shake and jiggle the book to try and dry it. Then I see the man standing there again. His face has softened, and he takes a packet of paper handkerchiefs from his jacket pocket.

‘Put these tissues between the pages; you might be able to save your book. Make sure you become a smart boy because here in the ghetto, you have no future, insha’Allah.’ And the man walks on, not waiting for a response from me.

I look at the man as he walks off, let his words sink in and then I think of my father. He expects me to be important in the ghetto. Besides selling shirts, my father is also a local sheikh, an Islamic teacher. Father has gained prestige within the local community. According to my mother, he is proud of my eagerness to learn, and she points out the books in the mosque that one is allowed to read, as long as you treat them with care and respect.

I tuck the book under my shirt and continue on my way. After zigzagging through the ghetto, the Kamwokya Mosque appears on the horizon. It is a simple but well-maintained building just over one storey high. On the outside, it is plastered yellow, and the rainwater drain running across the façade is annoying, but it allows us to collect the scarce rainwater during the dry season. We use that water for drinking or ritual ablutions.

ritual ablution

First, you say the following words: ‘Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahiem.’ That means: in the name of the Beneficent Allah, the Merciful.

Followed by the ablution, and everything in threes:

Wash your hands, rinse your mouth, and clean your teeth;

Wash your nose by sniffing a little water in and out, wash your face, then your arms up to the elbows;

Wash your head from your forehead to the end of the hairline and back again;

With one movement, you continue washing your ears, and then you wash your neck with the back of your hand;

Finally, wash your ankles and feet three times.

I get goosebumps when I see the mosque. Then, warmth and excitement flow through my body in a pleasant way. When I walk from the sunlit street into the mosque, my pupils dilate; there is no daylight shining in. Inside, I immediately feel the serenity, even though I am still a child. It is one of the few places in the ghetto that exudes dignity. The people speak softly and calmly, very different from the loud shouting in the market square. Suddenly, someone opens the shutters on the outside of the windows, and bright white sunlight rushes in. A beautiful shadow transition from darkness to light occurs. All at once, the space and energy you didn’t see before becomes visible. My own shadow walks out in front of me on a red woollen carpet, and I zigzag between the prayer places woven with ochre silk. Two large metal fans fastened to the ceiling by heavy bolts are hanging above my head. In a cove at the far end of the mosque is an empty space with only a raised pulpit. This allows the Imam to sit a little higher so that he can better see those present. Next to the pulpit, an old cupboard with detailed woodcarving receives much attention. The cabinet doors are ornately carved, and arches filled with transparent coloured glass give it an enchanting look. As I approach, my inquisitive gaze catches the leather-bound holy writings. Fascinated, I stare through the glass, wondering what there is to discover. A hand touches my shoulder. I turn around, and the bearded Imam smiles broadly at me.

‘Good day, my son. I will give you an explanation of the special books you are staring at. The Arabic word “Kutub” literally means “books”, and the Koran uses this word to refer to revealed writings. The books you see here are the Suhuf-i-Ibrahim – Scrolls of Ibrahim, the Tawrat – Torah, the Zabur – Psalms, the Injil – the Gospel, and the Koran. The faith in all these books is one of the five foundations of Islam. Islam includes many conceptions that other religions also adhere to.’

‘Thank you for your explanation, the books look beautiful, and I would like to read them.’ An inner heat takes hold of me. I sway from one foot to the other several times, scratching my head.

‘Rest assured, my son, that you want to read these books is a good thing. At the back of the mosque, there is a library; read as much as you want. The copies of the holy scriptures are there as well but start with a simple book.’ He nods at me and then walks in the direction of another visitor of the mosque.

‘Thank you,’ I call after him, but he is already busy talking again. I walk towards the library and cheerfully greet the believers present. Then I walk straight to my goal, the bookshelves. The following days, I devour books and discuss them extensively with the elders who are always present in the mosque. While reading, I feel that the texts are special, but I still do not always understand the deeper meanings; I have not yet unveiled all the knowledge.

The next day, as the sun peeks over the horizon, I am back in the mosque. The Imam is already busy preparing the prayer. I use my hands to hide my mouth from which a big yawn escapes while walking to the dark wooden minbar, the raised pulpit for the sermon during communal prayer on Fridays.

‘Imam, I want to make sure I understand the texts correctly.’

The Imam looks at me with twinkling eyes and begins to speak. ‘The elders notice your eagerness; we support your urge for self-development. According to the Koran, developing yourself is one of the most important goals in a human’s life. You are a clever boy, and I have heard that you ask the elders many questions and share insights that make them think. Therefore, I invite you to join the discussion and to hold talks. Normally only the elders have this privilege.’

‘Yayyy!’ My cry echoes through the mosque. Startled by my own reaction, I feel my face turning red.

‘It’s all right; Allah is pleased with your happiness.’

Around noon, I am saturated from all the reading, and a restless energy stirs inside me. My body wants to move. I drink as much water as I can get my hands on and leave the mosque. Skipping, singing, and with the water sloshing in my belly, I walk to the football field. My friends from the ghetto are already playing football. When they see me, they shoot the ball in my direction. Smiling, I take the ball in my hands and shout: ‘This is the most beautiful ball in Uganda.’ I press the ball of folded old clothes tied together with string and tape to my heart. When we kick it too hard, the ball comes apart, and a dirty and torn jumper falls on the ground.

‘You kicked the spirit out of the ball,’ one of the children shouts, and we laugh out loud. We repair the ball again with tape and rope. The football field is crowded, many children come here to meet each other every day. There is no grass; it is more like a dusty sand field. We made the goals on the field from branches of the Vachellia tree. In Swahili, we call it the mugumba. The tree is nicknamed ‘hook and stab’, a literal reference to the straight and angled thorns on its branches. We also use the tree for its good quality firewood and charcoal.

One day, the Imam pauses by our field while we are putting a goalpost in the ground. We walk up to him out of respect and gather around him and greet him.

‘You have made beautiful goals. Do you know that it is said that Noah’s ark was made from the wood of the Vachellia, a tree belonging to the Acacia species? I will tell you Surah Noah. God said: “Build an ark from Acacia wood and cover the wood with tar to make it waterproof. Divide it into decks and shelters. Make it one hundred and fifty metres long, twenty-five metres wide and fifteen metres high.” And this ark protected the people on board from the endless rains during the flood of Noah.’

We are all quiet as a mouse and enjoy it when the Imam tells us remarkable stories.

‘Go and play football again.’ And the Imam walks on.

We shout in unison: ‘Bye Imam!’

For now, the tree’s main function is: goalpost. We strip the branches of their hooks and spikes and push and twist them into the ground. We play a match with great dedication, technique and humour. After a few hours, we are tired but content and go back home.

From a distance, I can already hear my mother singing. She has a kettle of water boiling on the fire.

‘Are we going to eat?’ I ask enthusiastically.

‘Mukisa, you are always hungry. Can you wait a little longer?’ mother answers with a teasing tone in her voice.

Rocking on a piece of scrap wood that functions as a deck chair, I pick up the nearest reading book and thumb through it. My eyes are blinking from dryness, and while yawning, I can hear my stomach rumbling.

‘Are we going to eat?’ I try again.

My mother comes and sits with me, takes me on her lap and starts singing the national anthem of Uganda. I let my arms and legs hang limp, close my eyes, and listen to her.

After singing, mother explains: ‘This song was written by George Kakoma in 1962 when Uganda gained independence from the United Kingdom.’ The song is the shortest anthem in the world, with only six bars. The lyrics of the song make us muse about a better future:

Oh Uganda, Land of Beauty

Oh, Uganda! may God uphold thee,

We lay our future in thy hand;

United, free for liberty

together we’ll always stand.

Oh, Uganda! the land of freedom,

Our love and labour we give;

And with neighbours all

At our country’s call

In peace and friendship, we’ll live.

Oh, Uganda! the land that feeds us,

By sun and fertile soil grown;

For our own dear land,

We’ll always stand,

The Pearl of Africa’s Crown

There is no food today. The boiling water on the fire created the idea that there was food. Usually, we eat a bowl of rice with vegetables every day, but sometimes there simply isn’t anything. By the way, you should not think that there are not enough food supplies in Uganda. In fact, people in Uganda often joke that you can even put a broomstick in the ground, and it will still grow; that is how fertile the land is. But many people move to Kampala, hoping to find a safe and prosperous future there. In the city, most people cannot afford to own land, and it is not enough to provide food for everyone. In the city, you live and eat from what you earn there.

The time has arrived to celebrate the Sugar Festival, and the whole neighbourhood works together. Neighbours and people living nearby are important to us. We talk to each other a lot, live with each other, and share our joys and sorrows. Before the feast, the elders go to the houses of the residents to ask for a contribution. We use the money we collected to buy chickens and sheep that residents ritually slaughter just before the party. I run through the streets excitedly, and I see the Imam walking in the corner of my eye. I run up to him and greet him.

‘Hello, my son, it’s a beautiful day today, you can have a nice meal. Do you know that in Islam, there are rules for slaughtering animals for consumption? Only when these rules are met, the meat is pure (halal).

The most important conditions are:

the slaughterer must be a Muslim who is skilled in the slaughter of animals;

the slaughter place must be clean;

the slaughterer must ensure the comfort of the animal. The slaughter knife must not be visible to the animal or sharpened in the vicinity of the animal. Other animals must not be able to see the slaughter;

the animal is placed with its front towards the qibla – Mecca;

before slaughtering an animal, the slaughterer utters the words Bismillah, Allahu Akbar – in the name of God, God is the greatest – with which he shows his gratitude and respect for God who, according to Islam, provides the food for humankind;

a sharp knife is used to sever the carotid artery and windpipe in a single movement;

the animal is not allowed to suffer longer than is necessary.’

The Imam patiently explains it all to me, and I am all ears.

‘Thank you, Imam, for your explanation; I will help to make it a true feast.’ I hurry along.

Doing the slaughtering yourself is still a matter of course here. Some well-known women from our streets are busy collecting from residents. I curiously follow them and see that they are given rice, vegetables and meat. When they have finished collecting, they walk to an open spot close to our house. They put the goods on a table, and a few women, who usually stand behind the cooking pots, prepare the food. The meat is lightly seasoned with salt, onion and garlic. More and more residents gather around the cooking pots and the campfire, dressed to the nines and talking loudly. Some older boys carry white plastic garden chairs or fruit boxes and set them up around the fire. I see a couple with two large shopping bags filled with plastic bottles of fruit drinks, sweet snacks and fruit.

Once everyone is present, the meat is barbecued on the fire, and some of it steamed over a kettle of hot water. The women braise the vegetables in the iron pots whereby, judging by the smell, a true feast unfolds before our eyes. Musically talented locals make charming music with drums and song, a good rhythm sets the tone, and we tell stories while singing. We rhyme less and hardly use the traditional melodies. Even though the subjects of our songs are often serious, the sounds are cheerful and energising.

The smell of the food is irresistible by now; I enjoy standing by the fire, and I stare at the meat. That evening, everyone eats a sumptuous meal; the residents dance with loose hip movements, laugh and are elated.

It is dusk, the blood-red sun is slowly setting, but it is still pleasantly warm. We are all sitting in a large circle. My sisters are throwing wood and paper on the campfire, which is burning even brighter now. The glowing coals provide light and warmth. It becomes quiet for a moment, and the crackling campfire is heard above everything else. Then my grandmother gets up and starts telling a story according to ancient tradition. Tonight, she tells a Ugandan tale called Story off the Rat.

It becomes very quiet as she starts speaking.

‘There was a rat, a hen and a cow. They lived in a villager’s house. The rat ate the food, and this enraged the owner. His wife demanded that he chase the rat away. The owner went to the shop, bought a rat trap and put it where the rat often came.

The rat got scared and asked the hen, “Hen, you are stronger than I am, and we can work together. Can you take the trap away?”

“It’s not my problem; I am not interfering,” the hen said.

The rat was sad and went to the cow. “Cow, can you take the rat trap away? You are much stronger than I am.”

“It’s not my problem; I won’t interfere,” the cow said indifferently.

The rat was very disappointed. That evening, a snake came into the house. The snake was wild and, due to an unfortunate movement, got caught in the rat trap. Fortunately for the snake, its tail got caught in the trap. The owner heard the trap slam shut, got out of bed and ran towards it. But he slipped and was unable to see on time that the snake launched its attack, and it bit him in the face. The owner was in terrible pain and eventually died from the snake venom. The man’s wife was inconsolable; she had to arrange the funeral but had no money. She loved her husband and wanted his burial to be proper. She sold the cow to a slaughterhouse to pay for the funeral. A few weeks later, the husband’s family came to visit the woman. The woman had become even poorer and had nothing to offer her visitors. To be able to make food for her guests, she decided to slaughter the hen.’

Grandmother’s voice slowly fades until only the sound of crickets can be heard in the background. We stare ponderously into the flames.

Now, after all these years, I fully understand the moral. Do not look away but intervene in time. Do not be indifferent; the problem can grow and suddenly become your problem too.

Several elderly people tell stories that evening. At the end of the evening, everyone helps to clean up, and those present look content. When I get home, I am exhausted and fall into a deep sleep.

In the following weeks, I read adult books with increasing ease. Every time I come to the mosque, the elders praise me for my dedication, insights and progress over the years. One day just after my tenth birthday, the Imam asked me to hold talks for the youth in the mosque. I love speaking in front of groups, and I enjoy doing it. Despite my young age, I know how to touch a nerve and tell stories in a colourful way. My stories are spontaneous, except when I recite literal texts from the Koran. It seems as if the words are handed to me by a higher power.

I later hear that there is talk in the neighbouring ghettos of a boy who is an inspirational speaker and who moves people.