Day...I'm not sure anymore
It feels like it's been years since I've lived a normal life. My home, in my home country is gone. And I thought that maybe...just maybe, the rest of the world would show me some sympathy. But I guess I expected too much. Mama and Baba always told me to respect those who, many times, won't respect you. But how can I respect people that feel nothing seeing my Mama and Baba taken from me? What had they done to anyone?
Mama was warm and lively, she would always give the poor families that would wander next to our house with warm, freshly baked bread even if it meant us having a little less to eat for dinner that day. And Baba? Baba ran a small store, so I could go to school, so that, "she could make something out of herself", as he always said. They weren't hurting anyone, they never wanted to hurt anyone. Ukhtl kabeer (big sister) had just gotten married, she was supposed to be happy. What had we done to anyone? I don't think we did anything. But then, why does the world see me as a criminal?
I'm just a normal little girl. I wanted a normal life. I wanted to go play dolls at my friend's house. I wanted to grow up and help people. But then why am I here? Why did my family have to die?
Everyone around me is a stranger. They were strangers when we first boarded the bus. But they're the only piece of home I can see before my eyes now. So many of them are just like me. They've lost family members, some have lost limbs...and their eyes stare into nothingness. Void of all hope. All happiness. I'm only ten, but now, I feel like a full grown woman with the burden I carry.
I'm holding one battered suitcase with the few things I had left...a toothbrush, a torn picture of my family, the few clothes I was given, a hairbrush, the stuffed dog Baba bought me just a few days before he died, and you..my diary, with the remnants of my last pencil.
But I carry another suitcase, too. One that no one can see. This one is filled with the memories of home. The sweet perfume of Mama's hijab. The scratchy feeling of Baba's mustache on my forehead when he kissed me before I left for school. The joy I felt when ukhtl kabeer gave me piggy back rides on the way to the market. This suitcase is heavy. It's filled to the brim. But I don't carry it as a burden. I carry it as a reminder. A reminder of what I lost. A reminder of what I'll always have.
I've heard broken bits of conversations on the bus. The adults that still have the energy to talk are saying that we've been banned from where we were supposed to go. They are saying we may be turned back, and have to return here. Or somewhere else. I'm trying not to listen to what they're saying. I'm trying to stay positive like Mama always told me. But I can feel tears creeping into the back of my eyes. I want my family back. I want my life back. And I think if I start crying here, who will hold me? Who will console me? Everyone carries their own burdens, I'm sure...there wouldn't be any room for mine.
Today I am a refugee. Tomorrow...will I even be human to the world?
*Author's Note: We never realize what we have or how good we have it until we see others around us suffering. Please take this opportunity to see those suffering. Let them know that they aren't alone. Let them know they are wanted. Compassion is a good currency to exchange these days.
