I want to share a story from a book called the suitcase stories. The book describes a project done in inner Johannesburg with a group of refugee children. These children have lost their families, their homes and their identities. They fear the police and they fear strangers. Yet they are also survivors with a sense of humor and hope. The suitcases were chosen to represent a place to gather stories because they have a public outside and a private inside. Children only ever share what they place inside their suitcases when they feel comfortable doing so. Some never do. All feel the process to be a healing experience.
The following story first inspired the suitcase stories project. The story teller wanted people to know about the realities of living as a refugee.
"I was at school in Eritrea, in a boarding school. My parents live inside Ethiopia. We live in a very nice house. Once we went to Egypt, and I have been to Italy when I was very small.
During the holidays, I went home to visit my parents. I was 12. I found they are not at home. I ask a friend where my parents are. She said she does not know - I must go back to school. Then I went back to school. The teacher said I am not allowed to study at that school any more. I went to the Kenya border. From there I ask people to call my friend Wanya. I told her I don't know where my parents are. She told me to go back to school. I saw one of the girls at the border, I knew her from school. She ask me to come with her to Nairobi.
We stay in Nairobi for one week. Then we went to Tanzania, then to Dar es Salaam. After to Mozambique. Tanzania was so bad. In jail they gave us bad food. I was crying because everything was different and new at the same time. My friend, she was sick in jail with malaria. I was not feeling too good. Then to Mozambique. People from Mozambique were not nice - terrible. After, Swaziland for two days.
In South Africa border the police catch us. I was running - the police shoot two times in the air. I was running. One boy pay police some amount - I don't know how much.
Then I come to Johannesburg. I was living in a flat. In that place I was living with two girls from my country. One of the girls she leave me there. She was going to Cape Town on some business and she did not come back home, and she phone the other girl and she tell her she is leaving and I was crying because I did not know what to do, and one man said I must give him some money for rent. But I did not know how much it was. I was in the street and I was crying and someone asked:"Why are you crying?" I told him what is the problem. He said I must come to Ponte City, and there is a mother in that place who will take me to the place where there are people from other countries. And it was there I meet Miriam. I started living with Miriam's family in 1999.
If I had one wish, I wish to finish school and go back to my country to find my parents, my family. My family don't know where I am, or maybe they think I died. And I don't know where they are. Maybe they think I am dead."
I wanted to write about many things. After I read these stories all thought disappeared from my mind. There were just the stories.
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some of the many readers
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Liv
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Sin
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Also have a look at what stories Susanne, Jen and Mad has to share.
11 comments:
oh hel, what a beautiful, sad story.
am so glad your computer cooperated today. i've missed you.
oh hel. I am speechless and in tears. Stories such as this are important for us all to hear.
thanks for that post. it's something we all need to be notified of. it's easy to bury our heads in the sand.
oh. I just think of my girls. lost. alone. vulnerable.
I cannot imagine.
Thank you for citing my blog and for this story. It just reminds me, as daughter of Holocaust survivors, that there are Holocausts every day, all over the globe. My father had a brother he lost track of in the Holocaust and always hoped that he was alive somewhere. His older brother revealed to him on his deathbed that he always knew their other brother was dead but didn't have the heart to tell my father. Families are so ripped apart by war and strife.
her parents were just gone.
gone.
oh.
What lives people live...how lucky the rest of us are. Thank you for the wake up call.
This made me cry, beautiful story.
Thanks for sharing it...
That poor child, so cut off and alone. I'm going to go home and hug my kids tight.
Great post hel. I know I'm a little late with my comment but I wanted to tell you that.
beautiful, moving story. thank you for writing.
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