How I went from child refugee to international model Halima Aden
This is me at age seven.
And this is also me.
(Applause and cheering)
To be standing here in Kakuma
refugee camp feels so surreal,
and I’m overcome with so much emotion.
These very grounds are where I was born
and spent the first
seven years of my life.
I think many people are surprised to hear
that I had a great upbringing
here at Kakuma.
But I was happy,
I was smart, I had friends
and above all, I had hope
for a brighter future.
That’s not to say that we didn’t
have our obstacles.
I mean, boy were there struggles.
I would sometimes get sick with malaria
and didn’t always know
where our next meal would come from.
But the sense of community
that is here in Kakuma
and the pride that everyone here possesses
is simply unparalleled.
When I was younger,
I remember conflicts breaking out.
That tends to happen when people
come from different backgrounds
and don’t speak the same language.
Eventually, Swahili –
the main language here –
became our common ground.
I made friends with the kids at the camp
and even started embracing
some of their cultures,
celebrating holidays like Christmas
even though I was raised Muslim.
The other kids would embrace
my culture as well,
sometimes even praying right alongside me.
It was easy, as children,
to come together,
blend all of our beliefs
to form our own unique,
multicultural environment.
My name is Halima Aden
and I’m a black, Muslim,
Somali-American from Kenya.
(Applause)
Some have called me a trailblazer –
I was the first Muslim
homecoming queen at my high school,
the first Somali student
senator at my college
and the first hijab-wearing
woman in many places,
like the Miss Minnesota USA
beauty pageant,
the runways of Milan
and New York Fashion Weeks
and even on the historic cover
of British “Vogue.”
As you can see,
I’m not afraid to be the first,
to step out on my own,
to take risks and seek change,
because that’s what being
a minority is about.
It’s about using yourself
as a vessel to create change
and being a human representation
for the power of diversity.
And now I use my platform to spread
an important message of acceptance.
But it hasn’t always been easy.
When we first arrived to the United States
and made St. Louis, Missouri home,
I remember asking my mom,
“Is this really America?”
There were things
that were sadly familiar,
like hearing gunshots at night
and the streets looking impoverished.
But there were things
that were also very different.
Like when I started first grade,
I noticed how the kids played in groups.
In America, we call them “cliques.”
Back here, we all played together.
Gender didn’t matter,
and race most certainly never mattered.
I remember asking myself,
“Why don’t they understand Swahili?
Swahili is the language
that brings people together.”
To make matters worse,
the school I was enrolled in
didn’t have an English immersion program.
So everyday I would get up,
go to school, sit in my desk
and never learn a thing.
This is when I started losing hope,
and I wanted nothing more
than return to Kakuma,
a refugee camp.
Soon, my mother learned
that many Somalis found refuge
in a small town in Minnesota.
So when I was eight,
we moved to Minnesota.
My life changed as I met
other students who spoke Somali,
attended a school that had
an English immersion program
and found teachers that would go
above and beyond,
staying there after school hours
and lunch breaks,
dedicated to helping me
find success in the classroom.
Being a child refugee has taught me
that one could be stripped of everything:
food, shelter, clean drinking water,
even friendship,
but the one thing that no one
could ever take away from you
is your education.
So I made studying my top priority
and soon started flourishing
within the classroom.
As I grew older,
I became more aware of others
and how they viewed
my race and background.
Specifically, when I started
wearing the head scarf known as a hijab.
When I first started
wearing it, I was excited.
I remember admiring my mother’s,
and I wanted to emulate her beauty.
But when I started middle school,
the students teased me
about not having hair,
so to prove them wrong,
I started showing them my hair –
something that goes against my beliefs,
but something I felt pressured to do.
I wanted so badly to fit in at the time.
When I reflect on the issues
of race, religion, identity,
a lot of painful memories come to mind.
It would be easy for me to blame
those of another culture
for making me feel the pain I felt,
but when I think deeper,
I also recognize that the most impactful,
positive, life-changing events
that have happened to me
are thanks to those people
who are different than me.
It was at this moment that I decided
to step outside of my comfort zone
and compete in a pageant
wearing a hijab and burkini.
I saw it as an opportunity
to be a voice for women
who, like myself,
had felt underrepresented.
And although I didn’t capture the crown,
that experience opened
so many doors for me.
I was receiving emails and messages
from women all over the world,
telling me that I’ve inspired them
by simply staying true to myself.
The other “firsts” kept coming.
I was invited to New York City
by fashion icon Carine Roitfeld
to shoot my very first editorial.
It was around this time that I became
the first hijab-wearing model,
and in my first year,
I graced the covers
of nine fashion magazines.
It was a whirlwind, to say the least.
But with all the overnight success,
there was one thing
that remained constant –
the thought that this could be
what brings me back here to Kakuma,
the place that I call home.
And just a few months ago,
something incredible happened to me.
I was in New York City, on a photo shoot,
when I met South Sudanese
model Adut Akech,
who also happened to be born
right here in Kakuma.
That experience in itself
is the definition of hope.
I mean, just imagine:
two girls born in the same refugee camp,
reunited for the first time
on the cover of British “Vogue.”
(Applause and cheering)
I was given the distinct pleasure
of partnering up with UNICEF,
knowing firsthand the work
that they do for children in need.
And I want you to remember
that although the children
here may be refugees,
they are children.
They deserve every opportunity
to flourish, to hope, to dream –
to be successful.
My story began right here
in Kakuma refugee camp,
a place of hope.
Thank you.
(Applause)