You fill out forms. Then more forms. You wait. You don’t know where they go, who sees them. You wait. Programs are announced. Meagre training schemes occupy some time. You have lots of time on your hands. Not much else. Waiting in line for your weekly box of food. Playing or watching the football games become your main interaction and entertainment. Tempers can flair! Too much emotion with too few outlets.
Rumours fly as to possibilities of going to the USA, Canada, Australia! How many can go? What ages or qualifications do they accept? What’s the weather like there?
We heard they sent some nomadic desert dwelling Sudanese to Norway. What do Nomads do in Norway in winter? Priorities shift. It’s no longer about you or the older generation. Where can we go where our kids will have opportunities? Pray for doors to open where they’ll get good education! What of culture, status, retaining our identity? Luxuries. Who will they marry? Will they always be marginalised, misfits, alien? They’ll be safe from the threat at home and will be out of this interminable hell of a camp!
“I’m doing the best I can,” he says.
“You’re doing nothing,” she replies.
Powerless. Respect diminishes. We’re together but only physically.
The kids’ English improves. They begin interpreting. We’re reliant on them in interviews with officials.
“What did he say?”
“You fill out the form. It’ll go faster.”
“But Dad, the man said it’d be better if we . . .”
“Don’t talk to me like that! I’m still your father!”
What does that even mean now? Everything’s up for re-negotiation, but I’m powerless to control the outcomes. How did we get here? Oh yeah, we walked.
Finally out of the camp in Africa. Finally out of the resettlement camp in South Auckland. We were thrown together with people from so many places to learn how to cross the street in New Zealand, how to use and flush the toilet, make a phone all and get money from the ATM.
Now I’m sharing a house down a right of way with my sister. Ahhhh. The curtains don’t match the sofa, but we have curtains. Keep ‘em closed. This is safe here in this house.
Now what? English! It’s the key to jobs, education . . . our future. Which programme? How to get there? Who pays? More paperwork. Which form?
Ever seen a refugee cry? It takes a lot to push them over the edge. Another round of forms and glitches and explanations will do it. Huge tears, slowly coursing down her dark face.
Rumours fly as to possibilities of going to the USA, Canada, Australia! How many can go? What ages or qualifications do they accept? What’s the weather like there?
We heard they sent some nomadic desert dwelling Sudanese to Norway. What do Nomads do in Norway in winter? Priorities shift. It’s no longer about you or the older generation. Where can we go where our kids will have opportunities? Pray for doors to open where they’ll get good education! What of culture, status, retaining our identity? Luxuries. Who will they marry? Will they always be marginalised, misfits, alien? They’ll be safe from the threat at home and will be out of this interminable hell of a camp!
“I’m doing the best I can,” he says.
“You’re doing nothing,” she replies.
Powerless. Respect diminishes. We’re together but only physically.
The kids’ English improves. They begin interpreting. We’re reliant on them in interviews with officials.
“What did he say?”
“You fill out the form. It’ll go faster.”
“But Dad, the man said it’d be better if we . . .”
“Don’t talk to me like that! I’m still your father!”
What does that even mean now? Everything’s up for re-negotiation, but I’m powerless to control the outcomes. How did we get here? Oh yeah, we walked.
Finally out of the camp in Africa. Finally out of the resettlement camp in South Auckland. We were thrown together with people from so many places to learn how to cross the street in New Zealand, how to use and flush the toilet, make a phone all and get money from the ATM.
Now I’m sharing a house down a right of way with my sister. Ahhhh. The curtains don’t match the sofa, but we have curtains. Keep ‘em closed. This is safe here in this house.
Now what? English! It’s the key to jobs, education . . . our future. Which programme? How to get there? Who pays? More paperwork. Which form?
Ever seen a refugee cry? It takes a lot to push them over the edge. Another round of forms and glitches and explanations will do it. Huge tears, slowly coursing down her dark face.
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