One Day the Soldiers Came - Charles London [36]
Telling their stories helps to create a sense of community. The children in Zahaq were eager to tell their stories, supported each other’s stories, asked each other questions to learn more about the escape from Kosovo, and filled in the gaps in each other’s memories.
Barika, the Congolese to whom I gave a copy of The Little Prince, participated in a performance group that put on scenes about refugee life, that encouraged the youth to write poems about their experiences, and performed pieces about their history. Continuity of place is disrupted when the young are forced to flee their homes, but by sharing their stories they can maintain the narrative of their lives, both as individuals and as communities. Inviting willing young people into the process of telling can help them to heal, can help them to integrate their own suffering into a larger picture and, perhaps, combat the isolation so many of the young survivors of violence feel. Of course, the nature of this narrative matters too. The story can stir nationalism and ethnic hatred as much as it promotes psychological healing, as the Kosovo Serbs and Albanians taught me.
“Everyone was in the same position after the war,” Nora told me toward the end of our discussion in Zahaq. We had left the classroom in which we had been speaking, and the five of us walked around the school. They wanted me to see the ways in which their building was broken. They were very concerned that I understand the present conditions, not just talk about the wars of the past.
“No one could talk about what happened,” she said. “There was too much hurt. Everyone was in shock.”
“How can I explain it to you?” Karl interrupted, looking around at the schoolyard, where a group of children were playing soccer and others were laughing and staring at us. “One day I lost my father and my grandparents.” He looked at me in silence.
“But life continues,” Valerie added. The others concurred. “Life continues.”
THREE
“We Can’t Stay Here”
Migrants and Refugees in Hiding
Siha suggested that maybe I didn’t see the fear.
“The children don’t say it, but their parents are afraid and they are afraid.” He had stopped drawing a picture of himself flying a jet in order to tell me about the fear that permeates the lives of the Burmese, then he returned to his paper. We were sitting on the floor of his aunt’s house. As I had noticed was his habit, he poked his tongue out of the side of his mouth when he drew. His aunt told me that he would rather be playing video games than anything else.
Siha denied it instantly. “My favorite game is soccer. I love to play sports. I don’t just play video games.” He feigned anger at the false accusations against him, but smiled widely at his aunt. Everyone in the room laughed loudly, Siha, his aunt, my translator, and me.
Siha’s aunt sat in her chair and listened to our conversation. I sensed she was something more than curious about the interview. When I suggested we play soccer for a bit to pass the time, the aunt urged us to stay inside, smiling all the while, pointing at the drawing material I had. She wasn’t suggesting we stay inside; she was demanding it as politely as possible.
Times were dangerous for the Burmese migrants living in Thailand, and the attention brought by a foreigner could mean harassment, prison, or deportation back to Burma.