Young people are the future keepers of memory in communities whose voices are never heard, who have experienced war and displacement. They can reclaim erased histories through education, activism, and storytelling, and in doing so, empower our communities and create a more just future.
I have firsthand witnessed how histories can be erased, misinterpreted, and hidden. In a community that often forgets the voices of the displaced people, who are torn apart by war and the marginalized community, this has forced them to take a crucial point to either allow their histories to disappear or preserve them through memory and passing them on through generations. Growing up in Kakuma refugee camp, I have heard and seen many stories that haven’t been told but are worth sharing.
Our stories are rarely shared in the media, rarely written down, and many times dismissed as unimportant. But these stories hold value to us. They carry pain, resilience, dignity, and truth. And when no one else keeps that memory, it becomes the responsibility of the youth to carry it. As youth in a displaced community, we are the future keepers of the untold historical memories. It is my responsibility to reclaim our untold and erased histories through education, activism, and storytelling. When I do this, I believe I give back dignity to my people, show pride in my identity, and build a better future for the next generation.
Remembering stories is not just knowing about facts; it is also about taking action. Memory is a form of activism. In a community like Kakuma, many painful stories are hidden, and it is upon us, the youth, to share them. Stories of girls who resisted forced marriages, stories of families running from war, stories of teachers giving everything, even when they had nothing.
Education is one of the most powerful tools we have. In Kakuma, I have witnessed how learning has enabled individuals to become readers, writers, thinkers, and leaders. We sat in makeshift classrooms, with few chairs and overcrowded classrooms, because we believe that learning about our past could change our tomorrow. Education allows us to have an open mind, it gives us a language to ask, “Why are we displaced? Who is going to tell our story?
Education enables us to overlook our differences as a diverse community, which unifies us. Through education, we can come together and share our cultures through stories. Education has allowed me to learn more about my home country, Somalia. Through listening to my mom, I also learned more about the history of Somalia that had never been written. Through the mentorship and tutoring program I participated in at the camp, I ensured that I passed on the stories that were shared with me to the youth. I made sure they learned from it and continued keeping the memory alive.
Remembering stories is not just knowing about facts; it is also about taking action. Memory is a form of activism. In a community like Kakuma, many painful stories are hidden, and it is upon us, the youth, to share them. Stories of girls who resisted forced marriages, stories of families running from war, stories of teachers giving everything, even when they had nothing.
One day, I came to school sick with a cannula in my arm, but I was determined to do my chemistry exam. My teacher sat beside me and gave me a compass as a sign of hope and direction. That small act reminded me that even in our weakest moments, we have something to offer. These are the stories that must be kept and passed on, not just for memory but for healing and truth. Every time we act, we are saying, ‘We are still here.’ We remember. We will not be silenced.
But not all stories are easy to tell. Between 2014 and 2017, a deep darkness fell over the Somali community in Kakuma Refugee Camp. The Somali people, known for their generosity, had established businesses and provided employment opportunities to members of the host Turkana community. Some even allowed their workers to sleep in their homes despite rules that the host community should not be in the camp after 6 pm. Many Somalis did not believe in saving money in banks at the time.
Instead, they bought gold and kept it at home for emergencies. Word spread. Then the robberies began. Every night, armed groups roamed the camp. If you made eye contact with them, they would shoot. If you refused to give up your property, you were shot. They targeted Somali homes, but the violence didn’t stop at robbery. In homes where there were girls, they raped them. Every single night was a nightmare. Women began to sleep wearing over ten trousers, just to protect themselves. Somali men stayed up all night, trying to guard their families. But even that wasn’t enough.
One story still lives in my heart. A girl I knew was preparing for her KCSE exams. One night, she woke up at 2 am, turned on her small solar light, and started reading. The robbers saw the light, broke into her room, robbed her, and raped her. She was just two months away from her exams. After that, she went into deep trauma and depression. She nearly slipped into a coma. She didn’t manage to sit her exams. And just like that, her story, her dreams, her voice were silenced. No news covered it. No one wrote it down. It was buried like it never happened. But we, the youth, carry it with us. We remember. That is why we must speak. That is why we must write, learn, act, and share our stories. Because if we don’t, who will?
In places like Somalia and Kakuma, memory has been attacked by war, silence, and distance. But as young people, we have the power to protect it. Through education, activism, and storytelling, we can make sure that the stories of our people don’t disappear. We can give truth to the voiceless and strength to the broken. We are not just survivors; we are memory keepers. And as long as we can remember, we are never truly powerless; we use memory as our power.
Image credit: Axel Fassio/CIFOR-ICRAF
