IT WAS January 2006 when I arrived in Ireland – and it was cold. I had no English, knew nobody, and had no idea what would happen to me.
When you enter the refugee application process, they put you in a hostel and you wait to be called for an interview. It sounds funny now, but newly arrived, I was very confused and I remember thinking: ‘Are they going to kill me?’
Arriving at the hostel, there was another Somalian girl there. When I saw her, I cried ‘Oh my sister!’ then burst into tears and hugged her, which is a bit embarrassing now. People were saying, ‘Do you know each other?’ But we became friends. She gave me pyjamas, actually.
The hostel was in Drumcondra – it’s closed now – and the girls used to have a lot of fights. I had a radio and would go downstairs to get away from it. I remember one time, two girls were fighting and one slapped the other in the face. There was shouting and roaring, and the gardaí came and said “Just shut up!”
The two girls were separated, but the next day before breakfast, one dashed out to confront the other one, who ran across the road to the Garda station wearing only a T-shirt! It was really funny, and crazy! I told them: “No-one fight, let’s be happy.”
I remember the first English ‘food word’ I learned was cucumber. For a while, I used to eat nothing but rice. I wouldn’t eat bread or pasta. Or corn flakes – I’d never seen them before. I remember when I started English classes, they asked me what I ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I said rice, rice and rice.
Then I learned cucumber, and I would ask the Indian chef at our hostel “Can I have cucumber?” Now if I see him, he jokes with me, saying “I remember you used to just say ‘cucumber’ and look at you now, you are speaking English better then me!”
I remember before my interview for refugee status, I clung to the heater and a man asked me if I wanted tea, coffee or water – I took water. There were white people everywhere; I saw no black faces.
At the hostel, lots of the girls waited every single morning for the post, wondering if they’d get news on their refugee status. One morning I told the woman in charge that I felt sick, that I couldn’t go to English class. Sometimes I had a feeling that the post would come for me – and I did on this morning.
Later she came up to my room, carrying a big envelope. Before she opened it, she said: “Ifrah, even if you’re rejected, there’s ways to appeal…”
People would say that when you get refugee status, the envelope is light, but when it’s heavy, you’ve been rejected. Mine was heavy. The woman opened it and gave me the news: I’d got refugee status!
The first people I rang were a few of the hostel girls. “I got my papers!” I told them. They shouted and screamed and left school to come and see me. They brought me juice, some cream and a card saying ‘Congratulations and good luck with your life’. I think I still have the card – but the cream and juice are long gone.
Ifrah Ahmed is originally from Mogadishu in Somalia. She is an active promoter of Somali culture and campaigns against female genital mutilation (FGM)
