To the Women of the Refuge

To the women who risked their lives in order to find refuge...

This is for the woman I met, wearing a child on each arm; trying to shelter them from harm as she got sprayed by tear gas and beaten by wooden sticks in Hungary. Comforting them with soothing words as she braved torture, agony, and pain in order to get her children to refuge. Persistent in her belief in the right to asylum. Resilient in her determination for safety and a new life. Resolute in her decision to cross the border. She was not going to give up. Her children were going to get the chance at a new life. And they did. This is for you.

This is for the woman I met that was jailed by Hungarian police with her two new-born babies. Ridiculed and laughed at by the guards when she asked for milk for her children. Told that they were not worth Hungarian milk because they were savages who did not deserve to step foot on Hungarian soil. Bruised by the cup of water that was thrown in her direction, was this supposed to be sufficient enough to feed her starving children? Lied to by those sworn in to protect, rather than exploit, "if you give us X amount of money, we will let you out- you will still get stopped on the way, but not by us". Spat at by those who thought that she was lesser than them because of the blood in her veins or the colour of her skin or the fabric on her head. To the woman who managed to escape prison after travelling alone with her two children, Noora and Hamada. To the woman who ended up in a refugee camp in Germany.

This is for the woman I met who travelled all the way from Syria, by herself amongst 11 men; and yet, was the strongest of them all. Presenting herself as a true leader. Someone with rationale, resilience, determination, wisdom, and belief. Approaching the ticket counter knowing exactly what she wanted from me, where she wanted to go, and who she wanted to be. Believing that although she was the only girl amongst a plethora of men she did not know, she was brave enough to handle herself. She trusted in her capabilities. She was not shy. She was not hesitant. She was not ready to let her chance at safety slip through her fingers because of her gender. She was not inferior.

This is for the woman I met, fighting for clothes for her sons, daughters and husband as they slept away their trauma. Standing in line with her worn out dishdasha, and ragged hijab. Refusing to rest until she provided for her family. Yelling the sizes, the colours, and the items they needed. Stepping on her pride in order to get what she needed. Refusing to back down until she reached her goals. Not willing to accept lesser than she deserved, "this is too big" she said; "this is not thick enough" she sighed; "please try again" she begged. Not giving up.

This is for the woman I met who was crying. Crying on the bottom of the stair case of Platform 9 refusing to tell me what was wrong- she was strong enough to deal with everything up until this point, why would she choose to rely on someone now? Why trust me to carry her burdens when she carried them herself every second of every day? Why let herself be portrayed as weak and incapable? She was perfectly capable. She could handle herself. She just needed a minute. A break. But she would come back from it. And she would come back stronger than before.

This is for the woman I met who sang. Who sang and sang and sang. And when she was not singing, she was dancing. And she didn't care who saw. She sang about everything, from something as simple as the coffee she made, to the complexities of the country she once called home. She would sing to us about her purple couch and her Persian rugs. She would tell us of her nieces and nephews who loved to listen to her voice. And she would dance traditional Kurdish dances once we played anything with a rhythm on the radio. She would make us laugh. And when we weren't laughing, we were smiling because we knew we would hear her voice again soon.

This is to the women. The strongest women I have ever and will ever meet. The women who braved the most horrifying conditions because they knew what they wanted and were determined to achieve it. This is to the Women of the Refuge. Happy International Women's Day.

"If I Wanted to Get Beaten by Men in Uniforms I Would've Stayed in Syria"

This is a story of one of the refugee families I worked with in Vienna at Train of Hope this summer.

Noor (age 2) and Hamoudi (age 7) are the children of Ahmed and Rana*, a family from Syria. They decided to leave Syria after their families had either fled themselves, or had been killed in the current civil war plaguing the country. The family decided to take the route most Syrians and Iraqis had taken; they were trafficked into Turkey in the back of a cramped truck. Once having arrived in Turkey, they were instructed to dispose of their paper work and passports by traffickers, as this was said to make the asylum process a significant amount easier. They then spent a large percentage of their life savings on the journey. They were put into a small, unstable, plastic boat; the women and children moved towards the center of the boat, while the men surrounded them on the outside. They said that the boat almost capsized multiple times on the journey to Greece. Upon arriving in Greece, they embraced the land as if they had never seen such comfort in their lives. Ahmed told me that he spent about 15 minutes prostrated thanking God that they made it. This, however, was not the end of their journey. They still had to trek through three countries mainly on foot; Macedonia, Serbia and Hungary. Throughout the journey, they had little to no access to any hygiene products or opportunities; their backpacks and supplies had been thrown off the boat by traffickers, and their were no places they could refresh themselves at. They resulted to taking baths in any bodies of water they could find; seas, lakes, rivers. Anything. During the days where they were tired, they spent the day at coffee shops buying just enough to stay there. Eventually they reached Hungary. There, they were jailed and abused by the Hungarian authorities. Ahmed showed me the bruises from where they had beaten him. Rana told me how she would beg the authorities for just a glass of water to give to her children; she told me how they would laugh and spit in her face in response to this. She told me about how they ended up beating her as well, and while this was happening, the only thing she would scream is “Take me back to Syria, even war is better than this! If I wanted to get beaten by men in uniforms I would've stayed in Syria!” They eventually let them out, only after forcing them to register, and this was only because they had no room left in the jail cells. They then proceeded to take a train from the Austro-Hungarian border into Vienna, where I met them. It was a day where we received around 500 refugees at Train of Hope in Hauptbahnhof Wien. Throughout all the chaos, I made eye contact with Rana, who looked distressed, confused, exhuasted and quite frankly, like she was about to burst into tears. In her arms, I saw Noor, and next to them I saw Ahmed and Hamoudi. I felt drawn to them in a way I will never be able to put into words. I immediately dropped what I was doing, and walked towards them. “Kil shy tamam? Tahtajoon shy?” (Is everything ok? Do you need anything?) I asked. At first, they were too shy and prideful to give an answer, but after me pestering them for a while, they finally explained that they were hungry and needed some fresh clothes and medical attention for Noor, who was ill. Upon hearing their requests, I immediately catered to their needs. After getting them all that they needed, and translating for the doctors who took a look at Noor, who was not only ill, but had a diaper rash that made the poor girl insufferable, I was dragged to the playpin by the two children. We played with the stuffed animals while their mother recounted their experiences to me as if she'd known me for her whole life. She told me about her life, about her relationship, and her children. She said she felt like I was her sister. At first, Ahmed was skeptical, but after a couple of hours, he opened up in the same way. I spent two days with the family, translating legal advice, advising, talking to the parents, and playing with the children. This was the first and only family I became truly attached to. On their last night in Vienna, they spent some of their money to invite me for a “thank you” drink. We bonded over that drink, as they asked about my studies, my life, and my family. They talked to me about Syria while Noor sat on my lap and played with her toys and Hamoudi recounted his favorite shows to me in excruciating detail. I still keep in contact with the family, Ahmed texted me just the other day wishing me a happy Eid. He also let me know that him and Hamoudi have made it to Belgium, got their papers processed and are now integrating into society- they now have an apartment, Ahmed is in language courses, and Hamoudi is in school.

*name has been changed for security reasons.