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Shmi Skywalker was six years old when the pirates came. It was the beginning of a nightmare she thought would never end. Her parents, Skywalkers who had fled from Tatooine and a life of slavery to wander the stars, fought the pirates with their whole being. Their daughter had been born free and they had promised her she would die free. “Dukkra ba dukkra” her father shouted before charging the pirates who attacked their home. Dukkra found him that day.
The pirates held onto her and her mother for what felt like forever, but Shmi knew it must have been only weeks. When their Quartermaster, an obnoxious weequay who smelt of lum told them they could stay if they had useful skills, Shmi’s mother stared at him with dagger eyes. The man looked sad when he grabbed Shmi and her mother and forced them to stand. “I did not want to do this. I am not a free man either.”
They were marched off the ship out under a sky Shmi had never seen before, lit with unfamiliar stars. There were unfamiliar beings all around her, some were bound as she was, others had done the binding. Shmi and her mother were forced to stand on an unfamiliar platform, while someone shouted in an unfamiliar tongue.
Shmi Skywalker was six years old when she entered the unfamiliar life of a slave.
—
When she was eight years old she had already lost count how many times she and her mother had been bought and sold and bought and sold. How many times she had heard some variation of the words “you could stay if you had useful skills.” She learned that the slaver’s definition of useful was different for her mother than for her, which was why her mother answered only with dagger eyes. Shmi was tired of moving from place to place, of learning the tiks of one master only to find the next one hated those same things.
The useful skill she taught herself was brought on out of necessity. She knew that if she could learn the secrets of the transmitters placed in their bodies then she and the others could be free. Learning technical skills was easy and when they were sold to the Hutts on Tatooine she knew she had chosen well. Her family had escaped Tatooine and she had heard the stories. A slave who could fix things here was a prize, for everything was always getting filled with sand and breaking down.
Jabba the Hutt, Lord of Tatooine, gave her and her mother a cursory glance before they were taken to the kennels under the palace. Shmi held her mother close. They would be useful after all.
—
By the time Shmi was fifteen, she knew how the galaxy worked. The Jedi were crusaders for justice and balance, in the Republic. Senators and Judges had laws preventing the ownership of and trafficking in sentient beings, in the Republic. The Republic didn’t exist on Tatooine, only self-serving criminals. Shmi saw many sister-slaves give up and give in to the darkness, become hard and cruel to others. She found her strength in generosity, offering help to those who needed it. Even if that help would never make her free, it did make her loved.
She wasn’t an elder, certainly not anyone’s grandmother, but that wasn’t important in the Quarters where she lived. Children and old women alike called her Grandmother and came to her for her kindness, her generosity, and her uncontainable spirit.
When she was twenty-five the desert had aged her, lining her face and cracking her hands before her time. But still she was no one’s Grandmother, and everyone’s.
—
When Shmi Skywalker was thirty seven years old, she heard the voice of her Mother.
Yet it wasn’t something she heard, not exactly. It was a call, but it was the sort of call you feel when the desert surrounds you like a storm. The storm seemed to sing to her, telling her she would not be alone forever. The desert whirled around her, whipping at her with a song she couldn’t hear, only feel. And she felt the song of the Desert speaking to her, calling her by name.
The Desert-song called her daughter, and asked her to bear a storm, one that would be pain and destruction, light and joy, hers for a time, before it must be shared with everyone. The Desert-song offered her love and a sense of home, loss too, because that was what the Desert had to offer.
Shmi said yes to the Desert-song and nine months later a child was born.
–
When Shmi Skywalker was fifty-two years old she tricked depur and gained her freedom. With the help of her new family, Cliegg and Owen Lars and Beru Whitesun she searched and searched until she found what she wanted. Her mother had never left Jabba’s palace, so finding word of the other Skywalker had been nearly impossible before she could leave the Quarters. Had she died? Had she lived? What had depur done with her?
Shmi never spoke of what she and Beru discovered. She left it out of the holojournal she kept for her son, she never told her husband. Shmi did tell the desert, and even then it was not by choice. The desert always heard the cries of her children, especially when they were silent. All that mattered was that Shmi was the Mother Skywalker now and she waited for her son to come home.
–
When Shmi Skywalker was fifty-seven years old she died free, in the arms of her son.
When she was sixty years old Lukka came home and Shmi knew her son would someday be free.