November 19, 2006

That flight was the loneliest time in my life. Nobody talked to me, and I didn’t talk to anyone. I kept thinking about Laura, and what she was like. I hoped she would still take me in. I thought about all the stories she had told me. What would school be like? Could I still rap and hip hop dance? Would people ask me about the war? I must have fallen asleep, because all of the sudden we were flying over New York harbor. After a while, the plane finally landed. I moved through the sea of people, looking for Laura. I heard her voice calling “Ishmael, Ishmael Beah.” I moved toward the sound, until I finally found Laura. She gathered me up in a hug, and we embraced for over five minutes. She whispered in my ear, “Sorry about your uncle.” I just pulled her closer.

July 23, 2006

The plane flight to New York was the scariest I have ever been on. People stared at me, and the clerk stared at my small, dirty bag of clothes. I walked quickly to customs, ignoring the small shops along the way. I handed the customs officer my papers. He took them with a grunt, and sat there shuffling through them. I began to sweat, thinking that something was wrong. Finally, he pushed them back to me. I grabbed them and almost ran to the terminal. When they opened the gate, I was the first one on the plane, and couldn’t wait for takeoff. I kept thinking the customs man would come onto the plane, call out my name, and take me back to Sierra Leone. Finally, after what seemed like a year, the plane took off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was headed to America, where the war couldn’t touch me.

May 2, 2006

Here is a picture of me:

March 17, 2006

My therapist has encouraged me to find a way to share my feelings.  A diary didn’t sound cool, so he suggested a blog. I like this idea better, because I get to work with a computer. I really don’t feel like sharing my feelings with the world, but I can tell what happened when I left Sierra Leone. Once I made it to Guinea, Laura was able to wire me money. Now I just had to buy a plane ticket. This turned it out to be much harder than I thought it would. Seeing as how I did not speak French or a local language, I had a hard time even finding the airport. When I got there, the attendants could not understand me, not even when I showed them my money and said “New York, America,” repeatedly. I left there feeling rejected. I went back to the embassy, and spent the rest of the night thinking of what I should do.  I would have to ask someone who spoke the native language to buy a ticket for me. This was dangerous, because if someone found out I had money, I could get mugged or have it stolen while I slept.  I spent two days sitting at the embassy and listening to people who spoke the local language. I found a man who seemed trustworthy. He would buy things from stores for people, and often told stories to the children. When I asked him to help me buy a ticket, he said he would. His name was Ahmet, and he worked as a janitor. He was originally from Sierra Leone, but he had picked up the Guinean language while working. He bought me my ticket, and I gave him some of my leftover money as a thank you. I went back to the embassy and called Laura, who told me what forms I needed. I took care of those that afternoon. Laura had said she would wait for me at the airport. I barely slept that night, clutching my ticket to my chest.