Fear and flight: my experience as a refugee

This blog is about a childhood experience of fear and flight, recollected in the midst of events in Afghanistan. The author, who is well known to us, has asked to remain anonymous. Refugees often live in fear, long after they have left their homes.  So, of course, we respect that wish and are grateful for a deeply personal reflection of what it means to be forced to flee violence, or the threat of violence.

I have got into the habit of checking my phone as soon as my morning alarm clock goes off. I know this is not the healthiest thing to do. But as soon as my eyes open, I am flicking through the many open tabs of local news pages. This morning I noticed that of the six I had open, each one of them featured a picture of thousands of people in Kabul airport. Every one of those news tabs had a picture of a father ushering his children to safety, or a mother running for the large military plane with her children. One of the pictures was a ceiling shot of people crammed together, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of a huge military jet. I stared at this photo for what felt like more than a minute. I sighed, put my phone down by my side, and looked out the window. My chest felt heavy as I stared at the endless blue sky outside of my window. Usually, when the sun rises, I smile because I feel hope at the sight of a gorgeous day beginning. I would normally say to myself! يوم مبارك (What a blessed day!). But this morning I felt many other things. I sat a moment in silence contemplating what it was that I was feeling, and why. I felt grateful. I felt hope for myself. But I also felt anger, sadness, and guilt, because while I was enjoying the comfort of my own home, others in the photos on my phone were fleeing theirs. 

What I know for sure is that people flee because they are in danger and because they do not feel safe at home – whatever home is for them. And they flee because they want to find a place where they feel safe. From the memories of my past, I too have experienced not feeling safe at home. Watching people from Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, or Palestine fleeing their homes reminds me of the stories my parents told me of when we too fled as refugees. 

I don’t remember how I left because I was only a baby. I guess I was lucky because this means I don’t have memories of being fully present. I don’t remember packing bags, making sure not to forget the jewellery that was passed down to me by generations, and personal diaries telling stories of my past. I don’t remember needing to decide which photographs were the most treasured not to leave behind and making sure I have enough cash to take through the airport that didn’t go over the travel ‘amount limit.’ I don’t remember sticking cello tape on my house’s glass windows to make sure they didn’t shatter if shells dropped nearby, and turning the gas and electricity off from the mains to make sure there is minimal damage in the event of an explosion. I don’t remember making sure the house doors were securely locked to make it difficult for people to break in, and saying farewell to my neighbours and loved ones while holding back tears of desperation. I don’t have memories like this, but I know that my parents do. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have felt like to turn their backs on our house to catch the next plane at the airport. But I can tell you that my parents who fled with me live with these memories every day. Every day they carry the burden of loss and trauma, and it is through them that I live these experiences.  

When my mother and father tell me the stories behind the hundreds of photographs that they took on the journey, I feel that I am living it with them. Today when I see photos of people leaving their homes in Iraq, Palestine, or Syria, I think that although the personal reasons for leaving are very different, the feelings in the aftermath of displacement and the memories of loss are things we have in common.  

I was a refugee living abroad for only a short time. I am told by my parents that the country was quite different when we returned. In the following years, the country experienced one uprising after the other. I have never forgotten one night when I was a teenager when a war siren sounded, and in our pyjamas, we ran to seek shelter in the house basement. The basement was the closest we could get to a bomb shelter and a haven. It had no windows and was frequently used as a stock room for canned beans, pulses, potatoes, bottled water, fizzy drinks, alcohol, lighters, a camping gas cooker, and old cutlery. There was always a Bible there too. There were even trunks of my childhood clothes ready to be taken down to a small orphanage around the corner that was run by local Catholic nuns. In the basement were also old photographs, redundant board games, and books. The basement was a safe place to store essentials, things to help us find joy in times when it would be necessary to hide for days at a time. That night in the basement, although we feared a missile would land nearby, we were hopeful. I am thankful that we got through the night. 

When I looked out my window this morning, I remembered how fortunate I was to resettle back in my homeland. But I am reminded that not every refugee from the Middle East has the privilege of returning home. Some remain displaced in their own country; others move to neighbouring countries or far overseas. Many will never see their home again. But they will always remember.