Show Me the Way
Through the Eyes of a Refugee Child
Recently, two young brothers from Tanzania arrived at my school and they are very slowly adjusting to their new life. I can’t imagine the terror refugees must feel when thrust into a brand-new world. Over the years, I have welcomed refugees from numerous countries into my classroom. I am in awe of their bravery and ability to walk into a school building, not knowing anyone or understanding any part of what’s happening around them.
Their journey to Iowa has not been easy. They have spent much of their lives living amongst war and violence. They have spent days waiting and traveling to reach their destination. They have walked miles on their little legs and sat in the back of trucks surrounded by strangers. Others have lived in makeshift refugee camps before being sent on airplanes across the sea.
Imagine living in a world where nearly everything is different from your homeland. Strange sounds, unfamiliar faces, weird smells and tastes, and voices sound like nothing you’ve heard before. Even something as simple as riding in the elevator is a scary, new experience for them. Today, a child gripped the railing in fear as we rode from the first to the third floor in the school elevator.
When these students arrive at school, they are both bright-eyed and afraid. Their eyes meet the floor when you say hello. They are scared and it’s part of my job as an English as a Second Language teacher to assure them they are okay. I try to comfort them and reassure them their siblings are still down the hall, and their family is waiting for them at home.
It’s difficult for refugee children to understand why children spend so much time indoors sitting at their desks. They become so overwhelmed during the day that they escape any chance to wander the halls. They go to their lockers to open up their backpacks to eat a few bites of bread packed lovingly by their mother, searching for a taste of home.
Currently, my refugee students hail from Tanzania, Afghanistan, and Thailand. They speak Swahili, Pashto, and Karen. It’s extremely difficult to find interpreters who speak these low-incident languages; often, these languages are unavailable through online translation apps.
The Des Moines area has received many refugees from Afghanistan in the past year. These families must navigate a whole new world including finding housing and employment, learning English, enrolling their children in school, as well as shopping for halal food, permissible under Islam.
The following piece was written by me through the eyes of an Afghan refugee child:
“Show Me the Way”
I am in a new place. People are speaking a language I don’t understand. Everything looks different from my home.
At night, I share a bed with my siblings. I wake up tired and cold. I get dressed and step onto a big, yellow bus. I feel sleepy on the long bus ride. I doze against my older brother’s shoulder.
When we arrive at the school, I feel scared. I don’t want my older brother to leave me. I begin to cry. A grown-up takes my hand and brings me to a classroom. She speaks to me, but I don’t know what she is saying.
She leads me to a desk and I sit down. Students gather around me. They try to talk to me and ask me questions. “My name is Mohammed,” I say. They ask me more questions and I repeat, “My name is Mohammed.” This makes everyone laugh, but I don’t understand why. I practiced very hard to learn to say these words in English.
I sit at my desk and watch the teacher. She reads from a book and writes on a board. I don’t know what to do, so I watch the other students. Soon the students get up from their desks and sit on a large rug near the teacher. They motion for me to come and sit with them. I don’t understand what they are trying to tell me. Is it Prayer time already? I lay my head down on my desk. I am so confused. I don’t move from my chair.
As the morning goes on, students continue to try and talk to me. They bring me books, paper, and pencils. They point at pages in the book. The words on the pages look like scribbles and shapes and the students are turning the pages of their books backwards.
Soon it’s time for lunch. We stand up and walk in a long line. I am handed a tray of unknown food. “What are these brown things?” I wonder. I follow the student in front of me. She uses a large spoon to put some fruit on her tray. I quickly do the same, so I don’t lose sight of her. I follow her to the table and sit down. I am scared to eat. Is this food halal? Is it safe for me to eat? I want my mother. I want her here to tell me what I can and cannot eat. I want her here to serve me rice and talk to me while I eat. I notice children are throwing away so much food in the trash can. I try to stuff my bread in my coat pocket, but a teacher points to the trash and I throw it away.
After lunch, we go outside. It is so cold. My hands are freezing. I see other children wearing gloves on their hands. I stand alone and shiver. A child comes up to me and hands me a ball, but I give the ball back to him. I don’t know how to play his game.
When we go back inside, I don’t take off my coat. I am tired. I don’t want to watch the teacher. I don’t want to listen. I begin to draw on my book and my desk. All the noise around me is too much. I want to take a rest. I walk to the back of the classroom and lie down on a small rug. All the voices fade around me and I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I am awoken by the teacher. She is shaking me. I am startled and pull away. I curl up into a ball and try to shrink away. I see the teacher go to the telephone to make a phone call. In a few minutes, another teacher comes and sits next to me. She uses a soft voice and shows me a book with animals on the pages.
After a while, I am happy to see the students packing up their bookbags. My heart leaps knowing this means I get to leave the school. I have been waiting all day to see my big brother. I can’t wait to see my mother, father, and baby sister too.
My brother finds me, and we walk in a line to the big yellow bus. On my way there, I hear a loud, popping noise. I cover my ears and duck. “A bomb!” I think inside my head. My brother assures me it’s just a motorcycle whizzing past, and we will be home soon. “Home?” I think. This is not my home. I don’t know this place.
As the school bus bumps along, I look out the window. I notice the houses and the cars. Everything is so different, even the trees. I see my apartment building up ahead. I sit up straight in my seat. I spot Mother’s colorful hijab from far away. She is waiting for me. She is waving and holding my baby sister. I wave back at her through the window. The bus doors creak open, and I step down. I run to my mother’s open arms. I feel her soft dress against my cheek. I am home.
Teacher,
Take my hand and guide me,
Care for me,
Show me the way for I am lost.
Such a touching story. Thank you, Jane!