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Most of my early memories of travelling are filled with uncertainty, unwanted change and leaving behind my close family and friends. However, now all of those emotions give me a thrill that I can barely put into words; a feeling of breathlessness, heightened senses and great accomplishment. Before you ask, my family and I didn’t move around for anything fancy like work or buying a bigger house, we were refugees – we had no choice. I could write and tell you all about the cloudless blue skies of Mykonos, the crystal clear seas of the north pacific, perhaps even the majestic dolphins of the Indian ocean or maybe the strong and elegant glaciers of the Icelandic. But that’s not why I'm writing this story, fleeing from a nation filled with inequality, brutality and violence so much so that a woman cannot safely leave her home after dark is what really keeps me going. I almost forgot to introduce myself, my name is Sara and I’m a solo traveller and a survivor. Let me take you back to summer ‘16, I had just finished the academic year and it was the start of the holidays. My mother had told me that we were going to Dubai for a family wedding but what I didn’t know was that she had purchased a direct one way flight to Somalia for us, and not to Dubai. So she’d persuaded (forced) me to enrol into a “boarding school” in Mogadishu which was a fancy way of naming a place similar to Guantanamo Bay presented to parents as a rehabilitation centre for the diaspora kids who had become too “westernised” according to them. Nevertheless, I had no choice but to stay and so I tried to stay as positive as possible although it was all against my own will. I met all sorts of people from places like America, Europe and even London with whom I am still in touch with today and that I shared my trauma with, they made it all the more bearable and still do today. Back to the boarding school, the teachings were extreme a complete mis representation of the Islam that I was taught about when I was little. We could not have a mobile phone, freely communicate with the outside world or simply leave. When we were given permission to speak to, and only to our paternal parents, we’d sit in the office with somebody present at all times listening in on our conversations. We were always being monitored and prohibited from speaking English so that you wouldn’t be inclined to tell your mother if the teacher today had hit you, nor if he had tried to touch your bosoms whilst persuading you to marry him... or even if you’d just missed her and wanted her to come back and rescue you. We were surrounded by barbed wires, tall and white stone walls which I always thought that I could climb over one day but there were guards everywhere who watched our every move. If you dared to escape you would be left in room number six with no food or water and instead with men who used short hose pipes to lash you until you pass out. Stripped off your dignity and left to feel abandoned. Those are the last memories I hold for a place I should be calling “home”. Whereas now, I choose to call wherever I fall in love with a home, my home is a happy place without a specific address. This story does have a happy ending, three months down the line I escaped and went under hiding in the war-torn city with my face being televised as a missing person. Then within five days I was rescued by an angel who goes by the name of Fartun Elman, she helped me return back to London safely and is someone I will never forget and I hope to be alongside one day. The young woman I am today is fearless and smiles everyday not for joy but for gratitude, my love for travel comes from having to travel for safety. To think that I am only eighteen, I guess that’s life for you.