Refugee Camp in Holland – Part One

It was a cold winter day when we arrived. The city was still and calm, the roads nicely asphalted and lined. We walked towards the police building where we had to submit our request. Going to the police frightened me. I had a painful picture in my mind. I had the feeling I was going to jail, or that they may treat us like criminals. In my confused mind, I likened those organized roads to Kabul’s dusty, chaotic roads.

When we entered the building, despite my fears, the policemen were nice and patient towards us. A nurse came to me, smiling, and said with a peaceful voice, “May I help you?” She took my three-month-old baby in her arms and said, “She is so innocent and nice.” She guided me to a warm room especially designed for children. She gave my four-year-old daughter cookies, and asked, “What is your name, gorgeous?” My daughter was looking at the nurse with a surprised expression and shook her head. I said: “Nilab, she is asking your name. Please tell her what is your name.” My daughter answered in trembling voice: “Nilab.”

“Beautiful, beautiful name,” the nurse said, and asked me if my daughter wanted to play with toys. Again, Nilab shook her head; she didn’t want to play; she was not used to playing with toys. The nurse turned to my baby, and said softly, “Oh dear, you are tired, you need a bath.” She began giving my baby a bath. She changed her clothes and diaper. While she was doing this, I was looking at all those items for kids: a small bath, soft beds, toys for different ages. On one wall hung kids’ drawings. One of those drawings was horrible. It showed fire, demolished houses, injured people, a lady’s dead body and a crying child. Can you imagine a child drawing an awful picture like this? You could read the child’s mind so easily. I was thinking about children growing up in war. Do these children ever have a toy? Do they ever have a bath with warm water? No. Suddenly I wanted to talk to the European children and tell them, “You are lucky. You are in safe hands. You should be thankful for your governments.”

I was struggling with my thoughts when that nice voice interrupted me: “What is her name?” I asked, “Whose name?” “Your daughter’s. She is amazing. She has got sharp eyes.” “Laila. Her name is Laila.” “Beautiful, beautiful name,” the nurse said and added, “While the baby is sleeping, you can leave her here. Once she wakes up, you can take her with you.” Since my baby was in deep sleep, I asked the nurse if she could look after her. She said, “Of course, that is why we are here.”

She guided us nicely to the waiting room. I wanted to take hot shower and have a rest, but it was not possible. They had just two big sleeping rooms for men and women. In the waiting room, the chairs were uncomfortable and small. After two days, my whole body was stiff and in pain.

When I entered the waiting room, everyone was staring at me as if I had bad news for them. Between those worried eyes, I saw my husband with his half-opened mouth and an anxious look. “Where have you been?” he asked. “In child services. Why? What is wrong?” “I thought they called you for an interview,” he said. But it was not that easy. When we spoke to others, we learned everyone had been waiting for their interviews for more than 48 hours. My God, I thought, how can I spend two days in this waiting room on these plastic chairs?

They didn’t serve warm meals, just a bottle of cold milk, an apple, two slices of bread and a piece of cheese. We were not allowed to go outside the compound, so we couldn’t buy our own food. I hate milk products and so does my daughter. When I shared the problem with the guards, they said, “Sorry, we can’t do anything.” So we didn’t eat proper food for more than 48 hours. I felt cold from the inside. By the second day, my daughter was speechless. She was watching me but never said anything, as if she understood the situation. She didn’t mention that she wanted to eat.

On second day, they called us for an interview. The interview was strange. They asked odd questions like: “Why did you leave your country? Couldn’t you live in Pakistan?” I was upset and mad. I said, “Don’t you know what is going on in my country and who is responsible? Haven’t you read Geneva’s agreements for refugees? First you have to read them, and then ask us questions like this. No one will never ever leave their motherland and chose another country. It is like replacing your mother with another. No one will prefer another mother, even if this mother is kinder, nicer and richer than your own mom. Believe me, sir, we are not here because your country is nice, modern and rich. I love my destroyed country more than Europe. You should know, sir, who is responsible for destroying my motherland, who killed our parents, our youngsters.”

The interrogator listened with unfeeling eyes. Then he said, “These questions are part of our investigation. You have to answer them.” So I said, “No, sir, I couldn’t live in Pakistan, it is not safe.”

There were many other odd questions and odd answers. Then they took our fingerprints and gave us ID cards. On the third day, we were in the waiting room when a policeman entered, called our names and said, “Follow me.” God, I wondered, what will be the next step?

By Elay

The Smell of Rice

I can’t forget that day when we didn’t have anything to eat in our house. My father was jobless and my mother was working outside in rich people’s houses to earn money. My mother tried to prevent me from feeling hunger. I know it was difficult for her not to be able to feed her child properly.

In my childhood, I was very sensitive to smells. We had neighbors who were very rich and every night they had a party and cooked delicious food. One night they cooked rice and just the smell made me so hungry. I wanted to eat that rice. I asked my mother why we didn’t cook rice? Why can’t we smell this from our house? My mother tried to ignore me, and she took me away from the room filled with the smell of rice and into bed with her. My mother’s love, her natural smell, was stronger than the smell of rice. She didn’t use any special perfume, but she naturally smelled like a flower which shows up in the Spring. I felt comfortable when she hugged me, and I forgot my hungriness. When I would start crying, only my mother was able to calm me.

Despite our living in one of the poorest areas, my father and mother tried their best to gives us a good life. We had a happy family life and I always wanted to be with my mother.

But sometimes life doesn’t go as we want. My mother got sick she and the doctor said she should sleep alone. I was used to sleeping with my mother. How could I live without her? I cried a lot, believing I should stay away from my mother, but day by day, her illness became worse. We didn’t have enough money to take her to another country for treatment. We just waited to see what Allah wanted, but I really wanted to save my mother. Without her, I thought my life would be finished.

After some months, my mother’s illness became worse, and the doctors said she wouldn’t live anymore. When I heard this, I lost myself. I was just a 13-year-old girl; I just had mother and father in my life, no sister or brother. I had one mother all in the world. I couldn’t convince myself that after a few days my mother would die and I would be alone. This surprise of life shocked me.

My mother didn’t say anything when she dying. She just gave me a little money and then she spoke very slowly and said to me, “Give this money to your father to buy rice, and tell him to cook it for you and say you really want that smell of rice.” I could see that she was taking care of me even at the end of her life.

Eventually my mother died in front of my eyes and I couldn’t do anything; it was very difficult. I didn’t know the difference between day and night. How could I spend days and nights without my mother who fed me and loved me and talked with me? She was a part of my life. When I enter her room and sit on her bed, I feel like I can smell her. She is with me and my heart beats fast. I imagine her when I smell her clothes, the veil that she wore. I know she is not with me, but her soul is with me. I can feel her. Love you, Mum. You’re part of my life.

By Shogofa

I Remember…

I remember January. A memorable night, round moon, stars shining in the clear sky, and all because I met you for the first time.

I remember February. The cold days when my friends and I were making a snowman on the roof of my house and you came to help us.

I remember March. We became good friends in English class during a debate about money and education.

I remember April. We shared family problems and were not allowed to go out during the nights.

I remember May. Over a small joke about Mullah Nasrudin, we laughed so loudly that our giggles echoed along the bare walls of your house.

I remember June. You gave me the most beautiful birthday gift – a white teddy bear holding a red heart with “Best Friends” written on top.

I remember July. It rained hard, and I was soaking wet in my black and white school uniform. You shared your blue umbrella with me.

I remember August. The wind blew slowly, and we were in the backyard of my home, sharing dreams about our future and about becoming doctors.

I remember September. We had our first fight over which movie to watch.

I remember October. I didn’t see you for a week. I felt as if part of my body were missing.

I remember November. When the Taliban came, you went to Iran and I went to Pakistan. We didn’t even get the chance to say good bye.

I remember December. Tears flooded my eyes because I missed you dearly. I had no choice. But I will always keep your precious memory, my best friend.

By Ellaha

An Evening at the Palace

It was a huge room, like one in movies about kings and queens. All around the room were a dozen golden couches with a touch of light green. Three red sofas with golden pillows were at the end of the room. The smell of fresh roses was in the air, probably coming from the flowers on the balcony.
Standing there, I felt so small compared to the glory and beauty of the room. I carefully sat in the corner of a big golden couch, which felt too comfortable and too large for my small body. Looking at the ceiling, my heart was beating faster than normal. I was waiting to meet a man I had innocently loved and admired as a child and then grown to hate. Like many Afghan citizens, I lost respect for him because of his policies towards women’s rights, his stance on negotiating with the Taliban, and his alliance with Dostum, a warlord and criminal. For me, the turning point came when he signed the Shia family law which legalized marital rape and lowered the marriage age significantly.

I was still looking at the ceiling, lost in thought, when he entered. He looked the same in reality as he did on TV, the same light face and soft eyes with the same warm smile. His smile used to be a source of energy and hope for millions of Afghans, who on October 4, 2004, went to the polls to cast their votes, not caring about the rain of bombs and explosions. Those millions trusted him with their lives, their children’s lives and their dreams. So lost in thought was I that I did not notice when he got close to me. I was still sitting. I stood and greeted him.

I introduced myself using my full name and added, “It is wonderful to be meeting you, sir.”
He considered my name and said in a friendly tone, “So you are Pashtun as well.”
“My father is,” I answered respectfully. “I am Afghan.”
“Of course. So what do you want to be?”
“I hope to have my own business, insha allah”
“That is great. Let me remember what I wanted to be when I was your age,” he said, and continued to talk about his education in India, his political struggle and his presidency.

Pretending to be all ears, I instead was remembering just after the 2004 elections, how I took my father’s cell phone and called my grandfather to ask if all my uncles and their wives had voted for Mr. Karzai. After hearing the positive response, I was so full with joy. It reminded me of my childhood’s innocence, yet the responsibility I felt on my shoulders towards the people of Afghanistan. The memory brought a smile, but I did a good job hiding it. As a child, missing his speeches was out of question. Ironically, as a young adult, my first reaction while watching him on TV was to change the channel.

The man sitting in front of me was my country’s president, but the only thing I could feel towards him was anger. I wanted to shout at him for the widespread insecurity, the growing corruption, the legalization of marital rape, the exclusion of women from the government and the support for warlords whose hands still smell from the blood of innocent men, women and children. Most importantly, I wanted to shout at him for his last election fraud, for trying to once again take people’s futures from their hands. Yet I said nothing. Power corrupts, and he was long corrupt and deaf.

By Meena

The Scent of Mint

It was Friday evening and as usual I had to spend all my Friday in the house. I was so tired it was even hard to breathe. But I didn’t know what I was tired of: my repetitive office work, my assignments or maybe my life that was losing its meaning. I didn’t want to talk or hear anyone else talk. I even ignored my mother, who was inviting me to drink a cup of tea.

I wanted to go somewhere and think for few moments. I went to the yard; it was raining softly on the roses and sunflowers. I sat on the step and felt a bit chilled. For a moment, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath so that I could easily feel the fresh air.

Suddenly the mint bush my mother had recently planted came to my notice. Involuntarily,
I walked toward it and saw the rain dewed on its green leaves, and then picked some of it. Its scent spread out in the air. The sweet smell reminded me of a picnic I had with my friends the year before in Iran. With a group of 20 girlfriends, I went to a place outside the city of Mashhad, called Shanddiz. It was indescribably beautiful. The abutting hills were covered with apricot and apple trees. The singing of birds among the trees soothed everyone’s ears. The pieces of cloud in the blue sky were like someone had painted them. After some hours of playing and walking around, two of the girls brought some wood to cook a traditional “kabab” for lunch. While they were cooking, I went to get water and noticed some mints growing under the trees. The freshness of the water and the scent of mint left a lovely feeling in me.

While I was pondering those sweet memories, my mother called me again, “Zakia, your tea is getting cold!” I felt refreshed and didn’t have my Friday sadness anymore. I smiled and replied, “Okay, Mom, I am coming,” and I broke off some mint leaves for her.

By Zakia