One among you does not have ID. They are taken to a more secure area until that is resolved. How can it be resolved? There’s no going back to the school or clinic for corroborating documents. It’s out of your hands. You are powerless.
The rest of you are assigned to two tents in a long row of identical tents among identical rows of tents. It would be easy to get lost here. Hold on to the children!
At least you have two tents so you can utilize the space between for cooking or resting. You hear your children crying for home as they go to sleep. You hear crying from other tents. Sorrow gets no privacy.
Because you have two tents, you can carve out a bit of “privacy” or space without being either inside or right at the edge of the walking traffic between the rows. Exhaustion and fear make the situation appealing at first. Everyone has a cot and blanket. A box of veggies and a bag of rice comes on a big truck each week. You join the line and receive the allocation for your family. You walk “home” as the “provider”. Everyone’s relieved. So why do you feel so empty?
Months pass. Years. The old or frail die in the camp. Burial is again out of your control, none of the rites your culture assumed normal. Children are born in the camp. No naming ceremony or celebrations as you would have had back home. How can you celebrate the uncertainty you’ve brought this child in to? But then, you celebrated your older children in ignorance, never thinking this might happen.
What could you have done differently? Why didn’t you foresee . . . ? Can’t live there, in the land of “what if’s”. Must live here in this camp, everyday, surviving until an opportunity presents itself. “We are safe! Isn’t that enough?”
The rest of you are assigned to two tents in a long row of identical tents among identical rows of tents. It would be easy to get lost here. Hold on to the children!
At least you have two tents so you can utilize the space between for cooking or resting. You hear your children crying for home as they go to sleep. You hear crying from other tents. Sorrow gets no privacy.
Because you have two tents, you can carve out a bit of “privacy” or space without being either inside or right at the edge of the walking traffic between the rows. Exhaustion and fear make the situation appealing at first. Everyone has a cot and blanket. A box of veggies and a bag of rice comes on a big truck each week. You join the line and receive the allocation for your family. You walk “home” as the “provider”. Everyone’s relieved. So why do you feel so empty?
Months pass. Years. The old or frail die in the camp. Burial is again out of your control, none of the rites your culture assumed normal. Children are born in the camp. No naming ceremony or celebrations as you would have had back home. How can you celebrate the uncertainty you’ve brought this child in to? But then, you celebrated your older children in ignorance, never thinking this might happen.
What could you have done differently? Why didn’t you foresee . . . ? Can’t live there, in the land of “what if’s”. Must live here in this camp, everyday, surviving until an opportunity presents itself. “We are safe! Isn’t that enough?”
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