Refugee Monologue

I entered one. Hundreds of bodies laying scattered on the ground. The chills of the night floating through the air as these brand new settlers rested peacefully at basecamp. Some of them hadn’t even heard of the country they were presently fast asleep in; others having only heard stories of such place. However, they all shared the same goal; to escape. They fought for their future, for their children, and for their lives. On a grueling journey - one I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

Not all survive. Not all survive. My mind repeats continuously in a mesmerising chant. My brain struggling to process the many horrors these people have encountered.

As the sun slowly rose above the many rows of tents at basecamp; migrants began venturing outside, in search of donated food and water. The screams of babies crying fused together with the early morning birds sing song cultivate a strange sound that echoed all through out the camp.

My main purpose here was to write an article about the day in the life of a refugee.

Painting the picture that these people were living a regular life.

As if. I think to myself as I watch a small line of 9 people slowly growing to a lineup of over a hundred. Dozens of families crowded together, eagerly waiting for their ration of food.

As I walk around observantly in desperate search of a person to interview, a young woman approaches me. She takes careful steps, noticeably anxious as she gets closer. Her head facing down while her young one pulls at her sleeve. Her hair is covered by a once bright blue, now dull blue scarf. Lifting her head, her eyes meet mine. Like her once bright blue scarf, her eyes are a piercing sapphire. Struggling to find the right words she begins pointing at my backpack.

“Tissue.

Tissue.” She repeats.

I rifle through my bag tossing out wrappers and empty water bottles, realizing I have no tissues left inside.

I look back at the woman, her infant still clinging onto her

arm.
“I’m sorry, I have no tissues. But maybe one of the volunteers do.” I say sympathetically.

Her head drops back down.

“What do you need the tissue for?” I ask.

She lifts part of her scarf, revealing a deep red wound under her chin.

“Tissue. Tissue.” She continues.

In utter shock I say, “No… No, what you need is a doctor. Follow me.”

The woman hesitantly followed, her child still pulling at her sleeve.

What happened to her? I think. My mind racing, dozens of questions filling my head.

I lead her into the doctors’ room. Inside, we face a long line. Dozens of people awaiting help. As we waited my curiosity took control.

“Why did you come?’’ I ask abruptly.

She gives a blank expression.

“I’m sorry. What I mean is why risk dying to come to a completely foreign country? You have a young child and...”

“What would you know?” She stops me.

Startled by her sudden change of demeanor, I look down apologetically.

She continued with a voice of power, “Do you know what it is like not knowing whether you will wake up in the morning? To see neighbours and friends mourning the loss of their loved ones? To have neighbours and friends themselves brutally killed – “

She wipes away tears.

“To witness your baby, the most important thing in your life scream in fright as you hear bombs going off in the distance. Our family is dead. There is nothing left for us there. I’d rather die trying to escape than die without a fight.”

We stand in silence. A moment later the doctor appeared.

I stayed with the child as she got checked up. Looking down at him, his eyes meet mine, an identic piercing blue. He yawned, his clothes soiled and coated in mud. Yet through all the mud and exasperation, he shone a light. It was a glimmer of hope, of potential; the reason his mother sacrificed their lives to begin with. They made it. Her dreams came true. She had gotten her tissue.